Fish Dreams

“I can walk!” I yell at the nurse who just insist I ride out of here in this damn wheelchair. I know the rules. I been through this before. But, hell, some rules was made to be broken.

“I’m sure you can, Mrs. Price, but you know hospital regulations: we have to assist you out in a wheelchair regardless if you’re able to walk or not. Is that your son over there?”

Lewis is sitting in one of those lookalike chairs with his hands clasped together like he’s praying hard for something he know he don’t deserve. His face is shiny in a dull kinda way from perspiring and look like he need a hot shower. Why do he have to come out in public looking like he homeless or something? “Yeah, that’s my son,” I mumble, and Lewis looks at me like he’s apologizing for it. Sometimes I wish God had made me a witch, or at least given me some magic powers. I’d start by rewiring my son, give him a clean start, put him on a wholesome path: one that lead somewhere.

“Is he going to drive you home?”

I look at him, hard. He ain’t got no driver’s license, but I let him drive my Sentra down here to bring me my dentures since Loretta’s been a little under the weather herself these past few days and ain’t been able to get up here. I asked him to bring me some clean underwear and something decent to wear home—anything hanging in my closet that stretch, and please: no zippers, or buttons, or hooks and eyes. I told Lewis I better not smell a drop of liquor on his breath either, even though it’ll probably be oozing out his pores, and if he even thought about driving my car anywhere but here, he best forget all about the whole idea. I’d know it, ’cause I keep track of my mileage, and if I found out he had, I’d make him walk his ass all the way down to the Strip to find his daddy. He could stay with Cecil and his young girlfriend and her kids in the luxurious projects till he wore out his welcome. Lewis promised he’d be up here by twelve even though they wasn’t releasing me till one. Two of the nurses told me he been here since ten-thirty.

I get on in the wheelchair and nod yes to the nurse. Lewis gets up and follows us to the counter, where they hand me a plastic bag with my personal things in it. I put it in my lap. The nurse hands me a stack of papers—a million instructions on how to keep breathing, and then a pile of tiny ones. I know what they are.

“You have seven prescriptions that need to be filled as soon as possible. Can your son do that for you?”

“Yes, I can,” Lewis says.

“Okay, okay. Get me outta here. I wanna go home.”