“Well at least that’s what the sign on the counter says. And don’t pronounce the ‘j’ like that.”
In the elevator Bridgy cautioned me not to expect much from Miguel. When she visited yesterday, he was loopy on pain meds, extremely sleepy and didn’t make much sense. We tiptoed into his hospital room only to find Miguel, left leg propped up and in a cast from hip to ankle, spinning around in a wheelchair. A harried-looking middle-aged woman dressed in yellow scrubs was trying desperately to stop him.
“You will get hurt, I promise you, with all this spinning and fooling around. Now pay attention to what you’re doing,” she demanded, but Miguel wasn’t having any.
On the next spin, he saw us in the doorway and came to such an abrupt stop that he nearly fell out of the chair. He grabbed the edge of the bed rail to steady himself and ignored the therapist’s triumphant “I told you so.”
“Hola, chicas. ¿Qué pasa?”
He wasn’t at all the sleepy patient Bridgy described, although loopy might still apply. I felt compelled to screech, “Miguel, careful!”
His grin was mischievous. “I conquered the chair no problem. The crutches are the real torture. And Esther runs the torture chamber.”
Rather than be offended, the lady in yellow smiled and extended her hand. “Esther Johnson. I run the physical therapy section, and believe me, I’ve had worse patients. Miguel will be fine on his own when the doctor sends him home. Well, I’ll leave you to visit. Please don’t let him spin.”
And with a shake of her finger toward Miguel, she was gone.
“Lucky I moved from my old second-floor apartment near Times Square to the bungalow. Only two steps. I can manage sin mucho problema. Say, what are you doing here so early in the day? Who’s running the café? Is Ophie in my kitchen? I warn you, she’s very sloppy.”
I laughed out loud. Sloppy doesn’t begin to describe Ophie’s methods. Still, I wasn’t ready to tell Miguel about Delia, so instead of answering, I thrust the balloons and chocolate at him.
Bridgy held up the vase and set it on the windowsill. While he was opening the box of candy, Miguel asked us to tie the Spanish language balloon to the handle of his wheelchair and the other two to the foot rail of his bed.
“Tie the red balloon a little lower. Now can you raise the orange and yellow one to the same height? Gracias.”
As soon as we had all three balloons anchored to his exact specifications, Miguel handed me the chocolates, shouted, “Balloon fight!” and rolled into the narrow space at the foot of the bed. The ¡Qué te mejores! balloon bounced against each of the balloons tied to the bed rail. Then he spun and lined the chair up, preparing for another run.
Miguel totally ignored our protests. He cheered when the wheelchair balloon knocked the first bed rail balloon smack into the second. Waving his arms in victory, he asked for another chocolate to celebrate his righteous win.
“So nice you came to see me. My sister Elena and my aunt are at the Edison Mall looking for men’s big and tall clothing. While I am neither, my cast takes up a lot of room. I am going to need pajamas, shorts and, you know, other clothes that are wide in the leg so I can take them on and off.”
The stray though that a leg cast would make skirts come in handy passed through my mind. I subconsciously smoothed my olive green skirt, and the motion caught Miguel’s eye.
“You two look fancy for an ordinary day. What’s going on? You looking for a bank loan? We moving to a bigger place? I warn you, too many customers at one time and I will need an assistant chef. Figure that into your calculations.”
That caught me off guard. First Ophie, then Bridgy and now Miguel talking about a larger space. Was I the last to know? For the moment I set it aside.