that some women, Andrea, in particular, did not have the luxury of spending their days doing volunteer work. Not when they had to earn a living. “It’s after two. I’m showing the Campbell house at three. Call me later, and we’ll work out the calendar for my appointments,” she suggested.
Madge’s eyes widened. “I forgot! We were supposed to go over your chemo schedule so I could put it on my calendar.”
“I’ve got to run,” Andrea said, taking some bills from her wallet to pick up the lunch tab.
Madge snatched the check away. “This is my treat. Go ahead.”
“Love you. Thanks!” Andrea was in a rush to get back to her office for a file she needed. If she was lucky, Madge would be so involved with her latest volunteer activity, she’d forget to call, and Andrea could drive herself to her chemotherapy appointments but that was probably too much to hope for. Standing at the curb, waiting for the light to change, Andrea mulled over the idea of the Shawl Ministry, and an image flashed through her mind of the bags and bags of yarn and knitting needles she’d seen yesterday piled next to Jane Huxbaugh’s rocker. Andrea was far too busy and too preoccupied with her health to even think about getting involved with the Shawl Ministry, but getting Jane involved was another matter…although perhaps a little like thinking you could lead a horse to water and make it drink. Getting other people to welcome Jane Huxbaugh into a ministry presented another problem, and inspired such a clear image of horses stampeding in the other direction that Andrea dismissed the idea completely.
Green light. She stepped off the curb. For one moment, she was fully upright. In the next, she felt a thud and was airborne. Then she hit the street. Hard.
Chapter Eight
T he ambulance ride was a blur. The stay in the emergency room at Tipton Medical Center lasted until nearly eleven o’clock that night. The final diagnosis of Andrea’s injuries was a relief: no broken bones. Still, a bruised left shoulder and a badly sprained left ankle were proof enough that the left side of her body had borne the brunt of her fall.
Exhausted but comfortable, thanks to pain medication, Andrea was propped in bed with a pillow behind her as yet another emergency-room physician arrived to review her chart and her test results one last time before releasing her. He was young enough to be her son, too, just like all the other professionals she had encountered at the hospital during her visit. Didn’t anyone over the age of fifty work in hospitals anymore?
The young doctor stopped reading her chart for a moment, lifted a brow and shook his head. “A skateboard accident? Next time you’d be better off wearing protective gear,” he admonished.
She sighed. “I was hit by a skateboarder. I was simply trying to cross the avenue on foot. I wasn’t skateboarding.”
He had the decency to blush. “Sorry. That makes more sense.”
She tightened her jaw. She was annoyed that the skater had actually struck her, but she was more annoyed she had not seen or heard him approaching. “I’m just grateful I didn’t break any bones,” she admitted.
“You might not be,” he warned. “Your ankle is severely strained. You’re lucky you didn’t tear a ligament. It’s going to be a good six to eight weeks before you’ll be able to put any pressure on that ankle and try walking again. If you’d broken it, you’d have been able to get a walking cast and had an easier time of it.”
He wrote out a prescription, handed it to her with a set of preprinted instructions and signed her release. “Make sure you take the pain medication with food and follow those directions. Have you got any questions before I turn you over to your family?”
She swallowed hard. “How long before I can drive? I have to work, and I’m a real estate agent. I need to be able to drive. My car is an automatic,” she offered as an afterthought.
He paused. “Rest up for a week. By then your shoulder won’t give you any trouble, and you’ll be able to maneuver about on crutches. You can try driving then, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”
She clenched her jaw. “Crutches. For six or eight weeks?”
He shrugged. “That’s the best I can do. Don’t forget to keep that ankle elevated. It’s important. I’ll send your sisters back again now. They’ve got a pair of crutches for you to take home, but it won’t be easy going for a few days.” He shook her hand. “Good luck. And watch out for skateboarders,” he cautioned before he left.
Andrea tapped her fingers on the mattress. A week at home. Six to eight weeks on crutches. Five weekly chemo treatments. And no driving. How in glory could she manage all that and still run a business?
She closed her eyes and tilted back her head. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful, Lord, and I truly am thankful that my injuries aren’t very serious, but wasn’t having my cancer come back again enough of a cross? Aren’t I worried enough, wondering if I’ll be able to keep working as usual throughout my treatments? Did I really need this, too?” she whispered.
All the fears and frustrations of the past few weeks rose up within her. And today’s harrowing accident added enough pressure to overwhelm her. Suddenly, tears streamed down Andrea’s cheeks. She brushed them away quickly, only moments before Madge and Jenny entered the cubicle.
Madge was carrying a pair of old wooden crutches, with some sort of stuffed gray critter on top of each armrest. Fortunately, the critters were not purple. “I had my neighbor bring these down for you. She broke her foot a few years back. Look!” Madge tugged on one of the critters. “They’re squirrels. Aren’t they cute? They’ll help pad the crutches so your underarms don’t get sore.”
Andrea managed a smile while Jenny steered a wheel-chair next to Andrea’s bed and helped her from the bed to the chair. “Michael’s waiting outside with your car to take you home. Madge and I will follow behind in her car. Ready to get out of here?”
Andrea gripped the arms of the chair. Despite being well bandaged, her ankle throbbed unmercifully, until Jenny raised the footrest and elevated Andrea’s leg. She let out a sigh. “More than ready.”
It did not take very long to reach the car, get strapped in and situated, but Andrea did not relish the prospect of reversing the process when she got home.
Michael eased her car forward. “I’ll take it slow,” he promised. “How are you doing so far?”
She grimaced. “Great. I’m sorry to be such a bother. Who’s minding the girls?”
He hesitated. “Cindy Martin.”
“But she’s only eleven or twelve.”
“She’s twelve. Katy and Hannah have been asleep for hours, and Cindy’s mom is right next door, in case there’s a problem. They both wanted to do something to help. They’re pretty shook up.”
As they rounded a corner, Andrea braced herself by holding on to the dashboard with her right hand. “I suppose I made for quite a lot of gossip today, but I don’t really know the Martins all that well. At least not well enough to think they would be that upset,” she said.
Michael glanced at her quickly, then turned his attention back to the road. “You don’t remember?”
“Remember what?”
“The
