First Aid
Ambrose was hooked up to an IV and sleeping peacefully. Philip eyed the small cot one of the night nurses brought into the private hospital room and wondered how he’d manage to squeeze his almost six foot frame into a sleeping position for the remainder of the night. Mother relaxed as best she could in a La-Z-Boy recliner. Two nurses with “Marta” on their nametags, a Hispanic with striking dark eyes and hair, and Constance, an African American, a bit on the heavy side, slipped almost soundlessly into their room, each carrying a tray of assorted first aid medicines and bandages.
Mother asked about Ambrose. Constance said he was pretty dehydrated this time.
“This time?” Mother said.
Constance was working on his mother’s facial cuts, dabbing on an ointment with a cotton swab. Sh
