Waking Up in Dixie by Haywood Smith Page A

lot, at first, but it’s only sleep. I just wanted you to know. I love you, sweetie.”
    “You, too, Mama-lama.” The line went dead.
    “Lizzie,” Howe pleaded louder, swiping at the IVs in his left arm with his right hand.
    Temporary, she told herself. Once he was fully awake, he’d quit using that wretched nickname. It was almost as bad as the “Bessie Mae” she’d been before moving to Whittington at fourteen.
    Nearing his bedside, Elizabeth glanced at the covers over his abdomen to make sure the coast was clear before getting within grabbing distance. Fortunately, he’d settled back into even breathing, his covers smooth.
    She’d prayed for him to wake up, and God had granted her petition. But what was with the
Lizzie
? And his horniness?
    “Lizzie, where are you?” Howe’s brows drew together over an anxious frown, eyes still closed.
    “I’m here,” she murmured, bending over him, but still wary in case he grabbed her again. “I’m here, Howe.”
    He opened his eyes, blinking as if things were out of focus, his expression confused. Then he touched the tube running up his nostril and scowled, then coughed. “What happened?” he rasped. “My throat hurts, and I feel like my blood’s molasses.” He groped for her hand. “Everything’s so bright. And the smells . . .”
    It had been so long since they’d exchanged even simple touches that she felt dishonest taking his hand, but he grabbed hold for dear life and curled hers to his chest. “Lizzie,” he croaked. “Lizard-breath. I need you.”
    Elizabeth couldn’t have said which shocked her more: the fact that he’d said he needed her, or his calling her “Lizard-breath,” a nickname from her favorite comic strip.
    Howell had never, ever said he needed her. And if anybody had told her he read the funny papers, she’d have sworn it was a lie. The financial section, yes. But not the funnies. He’d long since become the most humorless man she knew.
    “You had a stroke,” she soothed, “but you’re going to be fine.”
    How much should she tell him? She should have asked the doctor. “It will take some time. Just rest. You’re weak.”
    Features clearing as his lids closed, he nodded but held on as if she were his one lifeline to consciousness.
    Elizabeth stood there for several minutes before she tried to extract herself, but when she did, he roused again enough to resist. Maybe if she distracted him. “Are you hungry?” she asked,pulling free. “The doctor said if you’re hungry, they could take out the tube and start giving you some clear liquids.”
    His blue eyes flew open. “God, yes. Get this tube out of me,” he said, suddenly alert. “But forget the fluids.” He grabbed the NG tube and started pulling it out, gagging in the process.
    “Howell, stop that!” Elizabeth buzzed frantically for the nurse, then tried to stop him, but he swatted her away.
    “Yes, Mrs. Whittington?” came over the intercom.
    “He’s pulling out his NG tube!” By the time she’d said it, he’d gotten the thing out completely and lapsed into a fit of coughing.
    Fortunately, the tube seemed to have come out clean. There wasn’t any blood. Elizabeth held his water close enough to sip. “Drink. Sip it slow.”
    Howe gasped, then did as she instructed. “Ah.” He took another sip, followed by a hoarse, “Better.”
    His two swing-shift nurses appeared—Rachel and Mavis. “Mr. Whittington,” the shorter, older Mavis challenged rhetorically, “what do you think you’re doin’? Do not, and I mean do
not,
remove anything else from your body. Do I make myself clear?” She snatched the NG tube and shook it at him. “This could have gone very badly. Your family and your insurance company are paying through the nose for us to do those things for you.” Pun intended? Mavis scowled. “If you want something, call us. Understand? Or do we need to put you into restraints?” She glared at him with her fists planted on her ample hips.
    Howe