Meg and Jo
Page 28
“Bethie, I came home because . . . Well, because I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
“What are you talking about? You have your cooking. Your writing. Your blog.”
“Cooking was never more than a side gig to pay the bills. And I’m having trouble with the blog.”
“Oh no.” Her sympathy was warm and immediate, flowing over the connection. “I love your blog. I feel so much closer, reading your posts. Sometimes it’s like I’m right there with you in New York.”
My sisters were the best. I’d always thought of my writing as separate from my family, something I did in isolation. And all along they’d been right there with me, reading and supporting me. “Thanks, Mouse.”
“And I’m not your only fan,” Beth said. “Look at all the comments you got on your last post.”
“Not me,” I said. “Chef.”
“Is that your boss?”
I nodded, forgetting she couldn’t see. “Eric. Yeah.”
“He has amazing arms.”
“You should see the rest of him.”
Beth giggled, sounding about six years old. I grinned in triumph. “So, what’s the problem?” she asked.
My smile faded. “He’s not such a fan.”
“Of your blog? What doesn’t he like about it?”
“I think he felt I . . .” “Took something that was personal, private, and put it on your fucking blog without telling me.” “Should have talked to him about it first.”
“Please. You have a gift, Jo. You need to share it.”
“So do you,” I said. “Seriously, Beth, this show could be your big break. When you get a chance at doing something—something you love—you have to grab and hold on with both hands. Don’t let go.”
“You sound like Colt,” she said.
Colt Henderson, the show’s star. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Not bad. Just not me.”
Something in her voice triggered my protective instincts. Beth had always been our little homebody. Not ambitious like me or discontent like Amy or eager for a family of her own like Meg. Meg’s worries that Beth was starstruck, that she was in over her head relationship-wise, came back to me. “Is everything all right?” I asked. “With the show and everything?”
“Everything’s fine,” Beth said. “I just miss you all. It doesn’t feel like Christmas without you.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “You’re an angel in a Christmas show,” I pointed out. “It doesn’t get more Christmassy than that. This is your shot, Mouse. Don’t throw it away.”
“Are you quoting Hamilton to me now?” The smile was back in her voice.
“Whatever works,” I said.
“I don’t know.” Beth sighed. “What if I’m not—”
“Scrappy?” I suggested. “Hungry?”
“—good enough?”
I swallowed. “Oh, Beth. You’re so good. You’re so talented. We all think so. You know Momma would want you to stay.”
“No fair using Mom,” Beth protested.
“It’s true,” I said, comfortable now that we were back in our familiar roles. “Promise me you won’t quit the show.”
“Only if you promise to write me a special blog post for Christmas,” Beth said.
So I promised.
But when I opened my laptop, my brain and fingers stalled. A Christmas blog brought up too many memories. Of writing to Dad all those years he was away. Of New York. Of Eric.
A week ago, before our fight, I’d thought we could go together to Bryant Park to sip hot chocolate and watch the ice-skaters. Or search out the few remaining chestnut vendors on Sixth Avenue. But what did I have to write about now? Who wanted to read about my life in Bunyan?
I scrolled through past posts, hoping for a spark. The speculation from strangers had died down, but there were plenty of new comments from regular readers who felt they knew me, followers who liked me, their comments ranging from teasing to concern.
Did you really work at Gusto? Not anymore, I thought.
Is Eric Bhaer your boyfriend? In another universe, maybe.
What are you doing for Christmas? Nothing. Nada. Zip.
A sense of what I’d had, of what we’d lost, of what could have been, choked me. When you get a chance at something, don’t let go.
I went downstairs to my sisters’ old bedroom. Beth’s teddy was still there among the pillows. Hugging it tight, I climbed back to my attic and crawled into bed. Then I opened another tab on my laptop and typed “osteomyelitis” into the search bar.
CHAPTER 20
Meg
You really don’t have to stay home from work today,” I told John early Friday morning.
He leveled a patient look at me. “Your mom’s having surgery. Her family should be there.”
But we wouldn’t be there. Not all of us. I’d told Beth and Amy not to come in two long, agonizing telephone conversations. Amy had argued, I remembered, and Beth had cried.
I swallowed. “I’m meeting Dad and Jo at the hospital. And I already asked Sallie to watch the kids. She’ll be here in”—I glanced at the big kitchen clock—“an hour.”
“Good.” My gaze flew to his. He smiled. “That way I can go to the hospital with you,” he explained.
The tight band of pressure holding me together relaxed. “Oh, John, that would be wonderful. I know she’ll be happy to see you.”
“I want to see her, too. I love your mom. But I’m going for you, Meg.” He held my gaze. “I want to be there for you.”
I moved into his arms, resting my forehead against his chest. “Thanks.”
John cleared his throat. “Anytime.”
I closed my eyes as he stroked my hair. I wanted to stay like that forever.
But of course I couldn’t. Daisy was missing a barrette and DJ, a sock. I needed to load their breakfast dishes into the dishwasher and write down last-minute instructions for Sallie. The twins were surprisingly okay with being left with their new playground friend.
John dropped me at the hospital entrance while he parked the car. Even so, by the time I found the surgery unit, Jo was alone in the waiting room.
The main lobby had been decked with artificial trees and plastic poinsettias, the fake cheer of the Christmas season. But the surgical waiting area was beige and bare and quiet, as cold and sterile as I imagined the operating room must be. I shivered. Our mother had already been admitted behind the painted metal doors.
“Dad’s with her,” Jo said.
“I want to see her.”
Jo scowled. “She can only have one person, the nurse said.”
John strode in, putting his hand on the small of my back. Straightening my spine, I approached the nurse’s desk. “I’m Meg Brooke. Abigail March’s daughter. How is she?”
“She just went back.”
“I know. Could you let her know I’m here? Please?”
The woman in purple scrubs referred to her computer screen. “I’ll go check.”
I shivered. A flat-screen TV in one corner droned with a morning news program. The other big screen displayed strings of numbers highlighted in glowing yellow, red, and green.
“Patient numbers,” Jo said. “Red for waiting, green for surgery, yellow for recovery.”
“Which one is Momma?”
She shrugged.
The nurse reappeared, smiling, and beckoned. “You can come back for a minute.”
We all stood.
“Just you,” she said to me.
“And my sister,” I said.
Her gaze went from me to Jo. “I guess . . . Just for a minute.”
“Go,” John said.
“You’re lucky we’re not that crowded today,” the nurse said, leading the way back.
“Why not?” Jo asked as we followed her down a brigh
t, narrow aisle of curtained cubicles.
“It’s the holidays. Nobody wants to spend Christmas in the hospital. We don’t have any elective procedures at all scheduled for tomorrow. Here we go.” She grasped the edge of a striped curtain. “Abby, your daughters are here.”
Our mother lay flat, attached by tubes and cords to an IV drip and an array of flashing, beeping machines. The partitioned space barely held her gurney and a chair for our father.
I edged past his knees to kiss my mother, her pale face framed by a blue paper shower cap. “Hey, Momma.”
She smiled with parched lips. “Hey, baby.” Her voice was thick, her words slurred.
“Jo’s here, too.” I squeezed back to let my sister through.
“Mom.” Jo stooped, her curtain of hair falling to hide her face.
Our mother stroked her head. “Iss fine, sweethear’. I’ll be fine.”
The curtain rattled. “Okay, we’re ready for you, Abby,” a different nurse announced cheerfully. “You all can have a seat in the waiting room,” she told us. “Or get yourselves some breakfast. Cafeteria’s open.”
We kissed our mother again before she was wheeled away. It felt horribly like good-bye.
The nurse gave our father a card with our mother’s surgery number. Carrying the plastic bag full of her things, we returned to the waiting room. A family crouched forward in their chairs, looking up anxiously as we came through the door. A man worked on his laptop. A woman in a pink tracksuit turned the pages of a magazine while a teenager played with his phone.
Our father walked to the window and stared out at the rain, hands clasped behind his back.
“How’s your mom?” John asked.
“Fine,” I said. The alternative—that she was not fine, that she wasn’t going to be fine—was unbearable.
Jo looked fierce, a sure sign she was trying not to cry. “What if she’s not?” she asked in a low voice. “She could have nerve damage. She might need another surgery. There could be complications.”
“You’ve been reading Dr. Google,” John said.
“How did you know?” Jo demanded.
“Meg does the same thing every time the kids get sick. Sit down. You want coffee?”
While John fetched coffee, we sat. Jo had brought a book and her laptop. I had my phone, fully charged. But my eyes, my brain, could not focus on my newsfeed, my friends’ adorable kid pictures and cat videos. I watched the numbers on the big screen in the corner, waiting for the color to change from red to green.
“March family?”
My father turned from the window.
“Dr. Chatworth just started the surgery,” the nurse liaison said. “Everything looks good. He was able to go in with a minimally invasive technique. Abby is doing well.”
“What do you mean, started surgery?” Jo said. “We’ve been out here an hour already.”
“It takes a while to get your mother prepped,” the nurse explained. “If you want to get something to eat, now’s a good time, so you don’t miss the surgeon when he comes out. I’ll update you again in two hours.”
“Thank you,” our father said.
Two more hours. “I should call Sallie,” I said.
“After you eat,” John said.
I shook my head, watching the nurse move from family to family. Observing their reactions—relief, resignation, tears. “I’m not hungry.”
“He’s right,” Jo said. “You should eat something.”
“You go. You’ve been waiting longer than me. I’ll stay with Dad,” I added as she looked at our father.
Not that he was paying attention to us.
“Can I get you anything, Dad?” Jo asked.
“No, thank you.”
Hospital time is measured in moments, weighted with worry. The count of my contractions, the catch of my breath, the day the twins were born. And then a nurse whisked DJ away, and time stopped altogether, along with my heart. We could only wait, for news, for reassurance, while the experts did something just out of our sight. I’d felt anxious. Helpless. Powerless. Just like today.
Jo came back with another foam cup of coffee and dropped gracelessly into a chair. “I wish the girls were here.”
I nodded. “Don’t come,” I’d told them. “Momma will be fine.”
“I talked to Beth,” Jo said. “Meg . . . What if something goes wrong?”
Our eyes met. Amy, I thought, would cope somehow. Tenderhearted Beth would forgive me. But I’d never forgive myself.
I reached across and squeezed Jo’s hand.
At least I had John to keep me company. Poor Jo didn’t have anybody but me. And our father. I glanced at him, sitting in the gray light from the window, silently reading a book with disciplined attention.
Time crawled. John kept checking his phone. He’d taken off work to spend the day—all day—with me. Of course he’d want to keep in touch with the dealership. All those end-of-year sales.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
He nodded. “Just texting Trey.”
Jo jumped up to pace, unable to sit still. “How is he?”
“Haven’t you seen him?” I asked.
“Not since I got back.”
John started to say something and stopped. I threw him a grateful look. Now was not the time to offer my sister relationship advice.
Infected by Jo’s restlessness, I called Sallie. The twins were fine. I texted Beth and Amy, typing reassurances in place of actual news.
Eventually, the nurse emerged with another update. My father closed his book to listen, one finger between the pages to keep his place. “Not finished . . . vital signs still stable . . . another few hours . . .”
Jo yanked on her ponytail. “Why is it taking so long?”
“I really can’t say,” the nurse said.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
Her eyes were sympathetic. “The doctor will be out to talk with you as soon as he’s finished.”
“When?” Jo demanded.
The nurse looked regretful. “I really . . .”
“Can’t say,” Jo finished grimly.
“Yes. Please let us know if you leave the waiting area.”
The nurse continued her rounds of waiting families. I heard a gasp. A whisper. A whimper. Bad news. My heart constricted in sympathy. I met Jo’s gaze, my own shame-faced relief reflected in her eyes. At least our mother was all right. Vital signs stable. She had to be all right.
My father got up and approached the family hunched on the chairs. I couldn’t hear what he said to them, only the low murmur of his voice before he sat down. After that he hardly spoke at all. He sat with his elbows on his knees, his head cocked, listening.
“What’s he doing?” Jo muttered.
I swallowed. “I guess . . . being there.” Being present. He was good at that, with strangers.
When the other family got up to leave, the older woman hugged my father, tears in her eyes. “God bless you, Captain,” she said. “Are these your daughters?”
“Yes.” He turned, courteous as always, to introduce us. “Margaret and Josephine. My son-in-law, John.”
“Meg.” I held out my hand. “I hope your . . .” Mother? Father? Child? “I hope everything turns out.”
She hugged me, too. “Thank you, darling. Your father has been such a comfort. A real angel of the Lord.”
“I’m glad,” I said.
Wistfully, I watched as he walked with them to the elevator. There were more hugs, more murmurs, one of my father’s rare smiles. Hot pressure burned behind my eyes. I didn’t need him to be a saint or an angel. I just wanted him to act like a dad. What was missing in us, or in him, that made him go away? That made him available to everybody but us.
He resumed his post staring out the window at the dreary parking lot.
I nodded against his arm. “We’ll be right back,” I told Jo.
The hospital gift shop smelled like a fake, cold Christmas, like peppermint gum and pine cleaner. Small, chilled bouquets jostled for refrigerator space next to bottled drinks and waxy-looking fruit.
“What do you think?” I asked John, holding up a bud vase: four white rosebuds tied with red ribbon.
“I think you should wait until her surgery’s over before you buy her flowers.” He looked at my face. “Or we could get them now and they’ll be waiting for her when she’s admitted to a room.”
I held on to them like hope. “I want her to see them when she opens her eyes.”
“Sure. You want to get anything else? A book? Magazines?”
I shook my head. “Sometimes flowers are enough,” I said. Trying to tell him that I loved him. Thinking of the red roses on our kitchen island, waiting for me when I got home.
His warm, brown eyes met mine. “I can do better.”
My chest ached. He was trying so hard. I never wanted him to think our life together wasn’t enough for me.
Maybe I was afraid to hear it wasn’t enough for him.
“You don’t need to do better,” I assured him. “You don’t need to do anything.”
He frowned. “Meg . . .” His phone buzzed with another text. He fished it from his pocket and glanced at the screen. “We should get back.”
“What is it?” I asked, instantly anxious. “Is it Jo? Mom . . .”
“No word yet.” He paid for the flowers and a candy bar before taking my arm and steering me out of the gift shop.
“Who was the text from?” I asked.
“Trey.”
I forced a smile. “He must be swamped with people buying new cars for Christmas.”
We reached the waiting room. My father had returned to his book. Jo was prowling the narrow aisle between the chairs.
“He wasn’t texting from work,” John said.