Killer Calories

reason, Savannah thought of crimson Mr. Lincoln roses and snowy white John F. Kennedy blossoms. “Where is Phoebe?” she said, although she knew the answer.
    “By his bedside, of course. Room 4E.”
    After thanking Dr. Ross and saying a brief good-bye, Savannah hurried toward the elevator, heading for the fourth floor. Of course Phoebe would be by Ford’s side. No matter how old he might be, he was still Phoebe’s little brother.
    And if Savannah knew about anything, it was about the duties of being a big sister.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

    S avannah stood outside Room 4E and allowed the feelings of sympathy to wash over her. The emotions quickly turned to liquid and clouded her vision of Phoebe sitting on the edge of her brother’s hospital bed, stroking his forehead and weeping softly. As in the garden, Phoebe’s hair spilled, unbound, over her shoulders in thick, silver waves. As always, she wore a bright floral-print dress.
    But, unlike die dress, the wearer was far from festive.
    Savannah knew exactly how Phoebe felt. A few years ago, her own younger brother, Macon, had taken a headfirst tumble off his motorcycle and had ended up in the hospital with a ruptured spleen. And, like any good big sister, Savannah had sat on the side of his bed and stroked his forehead... and, of course, she had wept, too. It was part of the Big-Sister job description.
    She knocked softly on the open door. Phoebe jumped, startled, then nodded a curt acknowledgment.
    “May I come in?” Savannah asked.
    “Ah... yes, I suppose so.”
    Taking note of the fact that Phoebe didn’t seem overjoyed to see her, Savannah decided to make her visit short and sweet. Well, at least short. Ford didn’t look so good... certainly not prepared to receive guests.
    He was lying still, eyes open and staring at his sister. The right side of his face drooped like a tragedy mask. The hand Phoebe was holding lay limp and unresponsive in hers.
    Savannah thought of the urbane gentleman she had met in the rose garden and wished there were no such things as debilitating strokes that robbed people of their dignity.
    “I heard you were here,” she said, speaking directly to Ford, though she wasn’t sure he understood her. “I wanted to drop by just for a moment and wish you well.”
    He turned from his sister and fixed his pale blue eyes on her. In spite of the paralytic disfiguration, he seemed moderately alert and aware.
    “He can’t talk,” Phoebe said with a sniff. Savannah reached for a box of tissues on the nightstand and set it on the bed beside her. “And he can’t use his right side at all.”
    “But your condition may well improve,” Savannah said, speaking directly to Ford. If she were ever unfortunate enough to be in a similar situation, she hoped people wouldn’t speak about her as though she weren’t even in the room.
    “But what if it doesn’t? What if he winds up a vegetable for the rest of his life?” Phoebe wailed. Savannah considered the wisdom of reaching over and slapping some sense into her. Didn’t she have any conception of how frightened her brother was already? She didn’t need to add to it by having hysterics.
    “Physical therapy is extremely helpful,” Savannah said. “I’ve seen people recuperate from strokes worse than this.”
    She could have sworn that Ford silently blessed her with his eyes. Yes, he definitely looked grateful.
    He opened his mouth and mumbled a few syllables that were severely garbled and unintelligible.
    “I think you’re upsetting him,” Phoebe said. “Maybe you had better leave.”
    “Do you want me to leave, Mr. Chesterfield?”
    He shook his head “no.” The movement was feeble, but definite.
    “It’s almost as though he wants to speak to me,” Savannah said.
    This time the head nodded vigorously.
    Savannah took a step closer to the bed. “Is there something you need to tell me, Mr. Chesterfield?”
    Again he nodded. This time he lifted his left hand and made scrawling movements in the air.
    “Writing,” Savannah said, thinking aloud. “He wants to write something to me.”
    “You’re getting him all upset,” Phoebe protested. And Savannah had to agree; she was right. Ford Chesterfield was obviously agitated. And for someone who had just suffered a stroke, that couldn’t be a good idea.
    Yet, it seemed so important to him that he communicate with her.
    “Maybe if we get a pen and paper,” she suggested.
    But he shook his head again. No, that wasn’t what he