The Same Stuff as Stars

“She never fastens her seat belt or Bernie’s. I told her and told her!”

“Calm down. Yelling ain’t gonna help nothing.” She started for her chair. “I guess you need to sweet-talk little Miss Perfect into getting us a ride.”

***

It was several frantic hours before Miss Liza could locate her nephew. Still more time passed before Eric was able to get off work to drive over and collect them. “Do you want me to come along?” Miss Liza asked.

What should she say? Of course she wanted Miss Liza to come, but Angel was afraid that if she did, Grandma was liable not to go at all. “She’s really grateful about the social worker, about you giving her such a great recommendation and all. I don’t know. It’s just seems hard for her to—”

“Angel?”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe I shouldn’t. Right?”

“I’m sorry. She really is grateful to you—she just has a hard time showing it.”

“No, no. I understand. You mustn’t worry. Eric will be there within a half hour. Give Bernie my love.”

Both Angel and Grandma rode in the backseat of Eric’s old Buick as though they were strangers riding in a taxi, not speaking to each other, much less to Eric. Are they going to be all right? Oh, God, why wouldn’t she listen to me? You never ride with someone’s been drinking. You always buckle your seat belt. When they finally got to the hospital, Eric said, “I’ll just park and wait for you in the lobby, okay?”

“Thanks,” Angel said. Grandma had yet to say a word.

She was the one who had to talk to the man volunteering on the Information Desk. He had a gray fringe of hair and a little toothbrush mustache, which kept wiggling as he screwed his mouth to punch information into the computer. He stopped and stared at the screen. “I got two Morgans listed,” the man said, as though that were a real puzzle.

“That’s right. Bernie and Verna,” said Angel.

“Are you close relatives?” He eyed them suspiciously.

“I’m Verna’s daughter, and Bernie’s my brother. This is our grandma.”

He kept staring at the computer as though it might call her a liar.

“You heard the girl,” Grandma snapped. “What rooms they in?”

The man sniffed. “Bernie Morgan is in Children’s, but Mrs. Verna Morgan is in the ICU. That’s immediate family members only.” Angel’s body went cold. The star man had been in the ICU. That’s where they put you if you were going to die. Her mouth was too dry to speak.

“Well,” said Grandma. “We’re ’bout as ’mediate as you can get. We’ll go see the boy first. Where’s he at?”

Going up in the elevator Grandma went quiet again, fiddling with the broken clasp of her pocketbook. Angel stuck her index finger in her mouth and chewed on the nail. Oh, Bernie, Bernie, please be all right. When they got to the floor, they both hesitated so long that the door began to close before they moved. Angel grabbed the rubber edge and held on to it until they could both get off.

Dread was weighing down her chest like an iron bar as she searched above the doors for the number the volunteer had given them. “This is it,” she said, more to herself than to Grandma. She took a

deep, shuddering breath and stepped into the room.

Bernie was propped up in the bed nearest the window, watching television. His right leg was dangling from the ceiling in a kind of pulley. Intent on the screen mounted on the wall, he didn’t see Angel until she was right next to his bed.

“Hi, Bernie.”

His head whipped around. “I thought you wasn’t ever going to come. I waited and waited and waited.”

“We came as soon as we could, Bernie. We had to get a ride, you know.”

“I bet you don’t know how I got Grandma’s number.”

“No, I was wondering about that.”

“I called nine-one-one.”