On the other end of the line, someone finally picked up. Hortensia cleared her throat. ‘Hello? … Yes. I’d like to order a nurse. About five-foot four-inches, 52 kilograms or thereabouts. Age between forty and fifty. Preferably unmarried. No children. I don’t want someone who ta—Hello?’
Her physiotherapist was a tall woman with short yellow hair that curled back off her forehead and around her ears. She had large feet clad in the plastic Crocs Hortensia abhorred. She – her name was Carole with an e – had a rough manner which Hortensia was grateful for. The woman, who looked to Hortensia like she was pushing fifty, had no sympathy for her patient’s condition. Rather she seemed annoyed that a stupid old woman had broken her leg – all this suited Hortensia.
‘I see we can’t seem to find you a nurse,’ Carole said.
Hortensia smiled to indicate her innocence in the matter.
The physio had been visiting three times a week, although she’d explained that these visits would wane as the fracture healed. Hortensia relaxed with Carole, allowed her to conduct her work of taking her body through a series of exercises. She especially obliged with the exercises, eager to be strong again and capable of doing things for herself.
The only hazard she had to endure with Carole was her insistence on explaining everything to Hortensia as if she were a child. It wasn’t as much what she said as how she said it, her tone dragging – all the easier for the dim-witted Hortensia to grasp.
‘We need to get to weight-bearing strength,’ was Carole’s mantra through all and any exercise regimen.
There was a set order to Carole’s visits. She arrived and, after no pleasantries but several questions as to the state of Hortensia’s leg muscles, they started the bed exercises. Usually, after the bed exercises, Carole would struggle along and manage to get her patient into a chair, but on the third visit she relented.
Carole hefted Hortensia into a sitting position on the bed, then after a few minutes she asked if the big black man who’d let her in could help get Hortensia into the armchair.
‘His name is Bassey,’ Hortensia said, with a tightness in her jaw as she pressed the button she’d had installed.
Bassey arrived and obliged.
Carole assembled the commode. Later she leaned against the wall in the hallway as Hortensia walked its length, manoeuvring the walker – a new addition to her routine. She hated it, found it offensive. A metal thing with no class.
‘See,’ Hortensia said as she walked along with great difficulty and little grace. ‘I don’t need a nurse.’
‘We can’t just leave you, Mrs James. It’s been bad enough that so many days have passed with little supervision. What about the night hours?’
‘What about the night hours?’
‘What if something happens? You fall, you need something. I asked, and the big … Bassey doesn’t live on the premises.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
Carole rolled her eyes. ‘We will be contacting you, Mrs James. Another thing: next week I won’t be here.’
‘Oh dear,’ Hortensia said and meant it.
Carole made a face. An attempt, Hortensia felt, at a smile.
‘It’s all rather sudden, but I’m getting married this weekend. I’m going on my honeymoon.’
‘How nice,’ Hortensia said, not meaning it. ‘So, what? I’ll hear from the hospital?’
‘Uhm, they should call, yes. All the best, Mrs James.’
The hospital did not call. Instead, Hortensia could hear the voice of … Dr Mama? She listened to the sound of two people walking down the generous passageway.
‘The doctor is here,’ Bassey announced and closed the door behind him.
‘Dr Mama!’ She was genuinely surprised.
He’d been Peter’s GP. She hadn’t seen him in almost two years.
‘Mrs James, what terrible circumstances, but … still it’s good to see you.’
He was bifocals-wearing, grey-hair-having. Hortensia put a smile on her face. She’d learned, especially in Cape Town, that a smiling black woman was a dangerous weapon in its apparent innocuousness. It was what she thought of as a decoy, something to distract people with, while she worked out where their weak points were.
‘What a surprise!’
‘Well, news gets around – I had to come.’
‘Nonsense. How kind.’ Right then she remembered his voice. Explaining her husband’s disease, warning and preparing her.
‘You look too happy for someone with a broken leg.’ He came to stand close to the bed.
And the next surprise was that she found him handsome. Where had that come from? She hadn’t thought that two years ago.
‘I’m always happy,’ Hortensia lied and was pleased to hear her own laughter follow the preposterous claim.
Dr Mama laughed too. He had one dimple on his left cheek. His eyes were clear. His skin was dark and smooth and reminded Hortensia to add 85-per-cent Lindt to Bassey’s shopping list.
‘How’s the pain? Is this the medication you’ve been taking?’ He perused the medicines on the bedside table – a collection of Celebrex, the anti-inflammatory, paracetamol and an analgesic.
‘What pain?’ Hortensia said, laughed again. She was enjoying the laughing; there was seldom a reason, but Dr Mama seemed a good enough one.
‘You know what they say,’ he continued. ‘At our age, if you awake with no pain you’re probably dead.’