“You’d better hurry, the bacon’s near done.” Heather, now catless, pointed to the waffle iron. “It’s heating.”
“Yes, Ms. Chef. I will indeed hurry. However, you might turn that frying pan on low to give me a bit of time.”
Heather did as suggested and asked what she’d asked for the last week. “Do you think we can decorate the tree today?”
“Yes.” Guilt shortened Jenna’s reply. She brought the ingredients out of the pantry and set them on the counter. “You up to it?”
A nod accompanied the turning of bacon strips. Heather rolled her head around, stretching her neck. “I’ll sit down for a bit.”
Keeping one eye on her daughter, Jenna cracked an egg and poured the yolk from one half-shell to the other, the egg white slipping into the small bowl for the mixer. The yolk went into a second bowl for the batter. She set the two egg whites to beating on high and continued measuring the oil, milk and flour into the hand-beaten egg yolks. Using a mix would be easier, but these were the lightest and crispiest waffles anywhere. She’d bake them all and freeze the leftovers. Like father, like daughter—this had been his favorite breakfast too.
Strange, she would have thought that after eighteen years, the memories would be faded. But she could see him sitting in the chair at the table as if it were yesterday. Only he’d never grown facial lines or slashes of silver in his dark-blond hair.
“Mom?”
“What, sweetie?”
“Did you return Grammie’s call?”
“I talked to her yesterday before work.”
“She called last night and left a message.”
Guilt cut like a scalpel. “No.” Jenna’s sigh came from deep within, where she tried to banish futile things like sighs and guilt. “I forgot to check the machine.”
“We can call her after breakfast. The waffle maker is ready.”
“No, she’s not.”
“I mean the machine.” A chuckle actually brightened her eyes.
“Oh.” Jenna folded the stiffly beaten egg whites into the batter and tossed the wire-whip into the sink. “Here goes.” She poured the right amount of batter onto the grid and closed the lid. “Now we wait.”
“Oh, the bacon.”
“I’ll get it.” Jenna pushed the frying pan to the back of the stove, and taking a mug off the rack, she poured herself a cup of long overdue coffee. “You want some?”
“No thanks. I’d rather have hot chocolate.”
It was the waffle-and-beverage ritual. Same questions, same answers. Only it wouldn’t be the same much longer. Oh, Lord, I cannot do this. I cannot watch my daughter die. She forced energy into her voice. “Coming right up.” Keeping her hands busy usually helped keep her mind at bay, but not anymore. She would have to try harder. She would not let Heather see her fear. Heather needed hope.
After setting a mug of water in the microwave, Jenna took a packet of mix out of the apple canister on the counter and a sip from her coffee. The light still glowed on the waffle maker.
She set the packet and the mug of hot water on the table in front of Heather and grabbed two plates out of the cupboard. Lifting the lid on the machine with a darkened light, she frowned. Stuck. Why hadn’t she sprayed it with Pam? Because it was supposed to be nonstick. Calling herself unprintable names, she grabbed a fork and dug the waffle off the grill. Half responded to her demands and half needed to be encouraged.
“It’s just a waffle, Mom.” A note of pleading made Jenna catch her breath. Her daughter was far too intuitive. They didn’t talk about the end of Heather’s life. They only talked about the transplant list, the others on the transplant list, Elmer, Jenna’s job. Anything but their real issue.
“I know.” Another sigh. “I know.” She fetched the spray and doused the waffle maker before closing the lid to let it heat again. Even with all the oil in the batter, the blasted thing stuck. You should have… She ignored the inner voice and took a swig of her coffee, immediately regretting her action. Now her tongue burned along with her throat. Her nursing years helped her keep her stoic mask in place. “Darn” was not a strong enough word.
Pouring more batter into the machine gave her permission to keep her back to the table, where Heather was stirring her hot chocolate as if lumps on the top were a world-crashing event. After closing the lid with a silent admonition, which included something like “stick again and you’ll see the insides of the trash can,” she poured herself a glass of water and held the coolness in her mouth to cut the scalded sensation. So much for hurrying. As her mother always said, “The hurrieder I go, the behinder I get.”
This time the waffle fell away from the lid as she stuck the fork into the crispy dough. “Perfect.” She poured in more batter, closed the lid and carried her offering to the table. “Did you want a fried egg with this?”
Heather shook her head in the negative. “But thanks, Mom, you’re the best.”
The compliment nearly undid her. Jenna blinked and reached over to pat her daughter’s hand. This was fast becoming a morning for way too much emotion.
With her own waffle on a plate and a reminder to herself to bake and freeze the remaining waffles for later, she pulled the plug on the machine. She sat back down at the table so she and Heather could eat together, something that didn’t happen often enough. When she did take time for breakfast, a bowl of cereal or a bagel was a big deal. Often she came home from her shift too tired to eat and collapsed in bed like she had this morning, and usually noon had come and gone by the time she woke up.
But today was a special day. Tree time. It might be the last… Do not go there. She forced her mind to think on something else.
“So, did you ask Grammie?” Jenna asked.
“Uh-huh. She doesn’t think she can come for Christmas.”
Jenna laid her fork on her plate. “Why not?” Even though she knew better, she had to ask.
“Harold wants to go to Emily’s house.”
Harold was her mother’s second husband. He had a hard time dealing with Heather’s increasing frailness; so, like so many people, he opted to stay away. Harold was not one of her favorite people. Emily was his daughter, and with two small boys, she needed them to help open the mountain of presents.
Jenna had heard this excuse before. And her mother didn’t have the gumption to put her foot down.
A few minutes later, Jenna’s plate was scraped clean; Heather picked at hers. She’d fallen away from keeping up her side of the conversation. Jenna’s instincts picked up. Was her face paler?
“But Uncle Randy is coming.” Her daughter smiled weakly and then let her gaze fall back to her plate. Uncle Randy was Arlen’s younger brother, still single at thirty-seven. Jenna sometimes wondered about his not having a girlfriend, but he always made up for the other missing relatives. That had been another loss this last year, her father-in-law succumbed to the big C. And since Heather had been in the hospital again, she’d not been able to attend or help out with the funeral. Randy and his sister, Jessica, had taken care of everything. Not that Denver was that far away, but she’d not dared to leave. Jessica still held a bit of a grudge, but Randy had reassured her that he understood and caring for a barely living daughter was far more important than a funeral.
“Mom?”
Jenna jerked her mind back from woolgathering, whatever that meant, and smiled at her daughter. “Sorry. How about we leave the cleanup until later and I’ll bring in the tree?”
“Good. I’ll put in a CD of carols.”
“Please.” Jenna stared at her daughter, her assessing inner nurse kicking back into control, the inner and outer mother trying not to think, Here we go again. “How about if you and Elmer stretch out on the couch while I get the boxes?”
“ ’Kay.” Heather pushed back her plate with half a waffle not eaten. She glanced around the room. “You know where he is?”
“I’da thought right here for a handout, but if he’s not snoozing on the back of the chair, I’ll go find him.” Elmer�
�s favorite place, other than on Heather, was the back of the recliner when the morning sun warmed the dark blue fabric.
Jenna watched as her daughter pushed her chair back, stood, paused for the world to stop spinning—like she always had as her heart grew weaker—and, after pushing her chair back in, made her slow way to the living room. Listening to the conversation between girl and cat, Jenna knew Elmer had been found. She dumped the last of her coffee down the drain and grabbed her jacket off the peg by the door. The garage was not heated.
By the time she’d hauled the plastic-covered fake spruce tree in from the garage, along with all the boxes of decorations, Heather was sound asleep on the sofa, covered by Elmer and the red-white-and-green crocheted afghan that waited all year in the interior of the leather ottoman for December 1 when Heather dragged it out. The afghan had definitely seen better days. Carols floated through the house, offering at least a semblance of Christmas cheer.
Why didn’t she let Heather use the afghan all year long if it gave her comfort? Shaking her head at another of those rules for living that she’d grown into, Jenna set the tree in front of the window that looked out onto the narrow front yard and thence the street. The sun was indeed doing its work of melting away the first snow. The ridges left by the snowplow were shrinking into ice lumps as the black asphalt overtook the vanishing white. Once the tree was in place, she pulled the plastic bag off the top and folded it to be used again. Straightening all the flattened branches and making sure the white lights were still wrapped around the branches took more time.
Still Heather slept on. Jenna wrestled with timing: Should they leave now or give the child a few more minutes of building Christmas? When was panic and when was wisdom? Oh, Father, You promised to give wisdom to those who ask. Well, it’s me again.
Jenna plugged in the lights to make sure all the strings were working. Sure enough, right in the middle, one was out. She dug in a box for the tester bulb and started in. Granted, leaving the lights on the tree made for ease in setting it up, still the testing was a pain in the rear. With Bing Crosby singing of a white Christmas, she headed back to the kitchen for another cup of fortifying coffee. On the return, cup in one hand, she laid the back of her other on Heather’s forehead. Sure enough, just as she’d suspected, she was warm, not hot yet, but not normal either.
So, do we wait a bit, take some aspirin and see? Or go in now?
“I’m not going to the hospital.” Heather’s voice caught Jenna by surprise.
“I thought you were sleeping.”
“I was, but I felt your hand. You said we could decorate the tree today.” Heather pushed Elmer off to the side and scooted back against the arm of the sofa, where she could see the tree. “There’s a string of lights in the middle that aren’t working.”
“Thank you, Ms. Supervisor. I was working on that, but I needed a coffee fix.” Jenna held her cup up to prove it. “I will get right back on it.” She knew she should have bought the new lights that didn’t act this way, but re-stringing the entire tree was a monumental task.
“Sorry. Even with part of the lights out, it looks pretty.”
Jenna put her cup down and picked up the tester again. “You watch, it’ll be the one at the end.”
“Then go from that end now.”
“Good idea, why didn’t I think of that?” Jenna did three bulbs and tossed her daughter a raised-eyebrow look. “So even the light wires work to make a liar out of me.” She inserted one more. “Bingo.” All the lights came on. She stepped back to view her handiwork. Lights made all the difference. “You feel up to this?”
Heather nodded. “I’ll choose and you put them on the tree?”
“No fair.” Another indication that Heather was not telling her how cruddy she really felt. Heather loved hanging each ornament on the tree and talking about the story behind it. Jenna pushed the two boxes over to the couch, setting them on the coffee table so Heather could reach them without having to bend over. Bending over made her puff.
A five-foot tree didn’t hold an awful lot of decorations. Jenna set the angel in place and stepped back to sit on the sofa, where Heather sat cross-legged, the cat in her lap. The next Christmas ritual and then they were out the door for another trip to the hospital for Heather.
“I love Christmas trees.” Heather laid her head on her mother’s shoulder.
“You love Christmas period.”
“I know. My dad really loved Christmas too, didn’t he?”
Jenna began the recitation she did each year. “He did, especially after you were born. He said Christmas is for children and he planned on having lots of Christmases with you and whomever else God brought to us.”
This memory time had become a ritual with them. Since Heather had been only a little over two when her father was killed, she didn’t really remember him, but she remembered all the stories they’d shared and Christmas was a good time to bring them up.
Especially if this was to be their last Christmas.
Chapter Five
Nora
Who could it be?
Nora leaned down to calm the dog, which was now barking with authority. “Easy, girl. That’s a good dog.” Keeping her hand on the normally affable dog’s collar, Nora flicked the switch for the front-porch light and turned the dead bolt. They never used the front door unless company was coming. She could hear Gordon scolding her in her head: “Check the peephole, always check the peephole. You never know who could be out there anymore.”
She pulled open the door, saw them and stepped back in shock. A man and a woman, both in black police uniforms, down to the guns, badges and spray cans. Is it Gordon? The thought wiped all sense from her brain. She stared at them for what seemed like an hour.
“Are you Mrs. Gordon Peterson?” the man in front asked, his eyes speaking sadness and compassion.
A wild thought zipped through her mind. If she said she wasn’t, could she hold bad news at bay? “Yes,” she said.
He identified himself and the silent woman as from the Riverbend Police Department. “I’m sorry to inform you, ma’am, but your son, Charles, has been in an accident.”
“Ch-Charlie?” It didn’t register. “But he’s on his way home… he called me and said so.”
The woman spoke. “Please, could you get your coat and we’ll take you to the hospital?” Even as she asked the question, she extended her hand. Instinctively, Nora backed away.
“What is it, Mom?” Christi’s voice. “It’s Charlie, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” The woman’s gaze left Nora and focused on Christi, who’d emerged from deeper in the house. “Would you like to come with your mother? We’ll take you to the hospital.”
Nora turned slowly toward her daughter as if learning a new language of the body. “How did you know?”
“My head, remember my head.” Christi didn’t look at her mother. Only at the two police officers. Her voice didn’t sound like hers. It was breathy, hesitant.
“Miss, could you help your mother here?”
“My coat, yes, my purse.” Think, think. Next step. “Leave a note for Gordon.”
“Ma’am, it is important you come right now.”
“I’ll get our things.” Christi spun away and pulled open the door to the coat closet. Nora watched her daughter grab two coats, dash to the desk, where her mother’s purse sat, and rejoin them. “Here, Mom.” She handed her a jacket and pushed her out the front door, ordering the whimpering dog to back up and stay. In an instant, Christi had taken her role—that of the organized one, the one who made everything work. Nora swallowed. Why couldn’t she think? She made her feet step toward the threshold. Get to Charlie.
As Christi slammed the door behind them, Nora thought she heard the phone ringing. Call my cell. She sent the thought through the air as she was hustled out to the police car waiting in the driveway.
The officer held the door for her. “Watch your head.”
They say that on all the shows, Nora thought, her mind revvin
g from its frozen state to race off to inconsequential things, because it could not deal with what might be. As they backed into the turnaround, she leaned forward. Information. She needed information, like she needed better air than what was closed up in this car. “Can you give me any more information?” Her voice came out higher than normal and she swallowed to overcome the dry flakes cascading down her throat.
The female officer turned and spoke over her shoulder, while her partner drove rapidly down the silent street. “Your son was involved in a head-on collision.” The words sounded professional, dry. Then her voice cracked. “The driver of the other car swerved into the right-hand lane. I’m so sorry.”
“Head-on. Oh, my God, is Charlie dead?”
Christi gripped her mother’s hand. “No, no, he’s not dead. I can feel him. Hang on, Mom. He’s waiting for us.”
“He’s been severely injured, Mrs. Peterson.”
“And the others in his car?”
“One other boy was in the car. He’s at the hospital too.”
A sheet of ice encased Nora’s heart. Head-on. “Was… was… the driver of the other car drunk?” She waited for an answer.
The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry. We can’t give you that information, Mrs. Peterson.”
Nora’s hands ached from being clenched so tightly. “I always told my family not to drink and drive.”
“Charlie didn’t drink, Mom, you know that. He wouldn’t drive drunk even if he did drink. He’s not stupid.”
“Gordon, you should be here,” she murmured under her breath. Christi squeezed her hand harder.
“That’s my dad,” she told the woman in the front seat. “He’s supposed to be coming in on a flight from New York.”
“What time?”
“Ten, I think.”
“Do you know for sure he is on that flight?”
One Perfect Day Page 4