“Your mother is a strong woman. None of us doubt that. It wasn’t the physical part of this surgery that scared me. I trusted her doctor, and we’d been told enough about the procedure that we knew what would happen. As soon as the doctor told her she’d need the hip replacement, she plummeted into a funk I haven’t seen for nearly thirty years. She wouldn’t get out of bed the day after the appointment. Telling me how her entire life was about to change because she’d be so dependent on other people.” He finished rolling up the hall runner and set it next to the area rug he’d already moved in the den.
I handed him a water bottle and wondered what long-ago funk he was talking about. Better to ask him later. Or ask my grandmother. “Don’t you think it was the shock of hearing she’d need surgery? It’s not like she was diagnosed with a brain tumor or cancer.”
“Kind of harsh, honey.” He had the expression of someone who couldn’t place where he’d seen me before. “Anytime you have to go under anesthesia, it’s a risk.” He set his water on the fireplace mantel and slid the coffee table against the far wall of the room.
I moved the crystal vase of fresh hydrangeas I’d bought, their star-shaped blooms exploding with shades of blue, to the end table next to my mother’s new chair. They were her favorite flower, and I wanted her to see them waiting for her.
The doorbell rang, and my father welcomed Laura into our home. Stepping out from the kitchen where I’d readied glasses for iced tea, I almost stumbled over myself when she walked over to shake my hand. I’d imagined someone entirely different, some stereotype I’d invented of a woman willing to care for my mother. Laura was not that.
Never had I ever described anyone as willowy; it seemed a word only appropriate for modeling agencies, fashion runways, and trees. Her dark blonde hair was gathered into a messy knot at the nape of her neck, and when she smiled, her white teeth were perfectly even. She stood taller than my father but lacked that self-conscious hunch that some tall people adopted, as if it could make them less conspicuous. Laura was comfortable in her body, and I ashamedly hoped she had a tiny itsy-bitsy flaw that would make me feel better about myself. But she ruined it all by being kind, charming, and unpretentious.
“Olivia, so glad to meet you. Your father told me how relieved he was you’d be here to help him,” she said, looking directly at me, her handshake firm without that monster grasp women tended to use to suggest confidence or authority. “He also mentioned you’d be making him a grandfather soon. Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” I said and glanced at Dad, who grinned at me like I held the answer to a question he’d waited all his life to ask.
“Before you show me around your home, I have a few questions, and I’m sure you have some for me.” Laura took a small notebook out of her purse. “Can we talk in the kitchen? I’m much more comfortable around a kitchen table,” she said. “Guess it’s all those great meals I had at them.”
I wanted to ask whether she’d actually eaten any of them, because if she had, her metabolism was faster than the speed of light. Instead, I offered her tea and coffee and set out a tray of homemade oatmeal raisin cookies and lemon squares, which had to have been dropped off by someone, because the only time baking happened in this house was when we sat in the sun.
Laura set her notebook and pen on the table by her mug of coffee, no cream or sugar, because she preferred to “eat her calories, not drink them.” Then she asked if we had any questions or concerns.
“My father may have mentioned this already, but in the conversations we had before and since I came home, I don’t remember how you came to be hired,” I said.
“Honestly, I probably never even mentioned it. A lot going on—”
My dad walked over and grabbed a cookie before joining us at the table.
“Not a problem, Mr. Kavanaugh. I’ll fill in the blanks for Olivia,” she said, then turned to me. “One of my friends is a long-time client of your dad’s agency. Your dad mentioned needing someone to help in the office and at home, but he wasn’t quite sure of your plans at the time.”
“Right. Jonas had an appointment the day after we were told your mom needed surgery. He said he might know of someone, but he would be back in touch with me after he talked to her.”
Laura picked up the story. “When Jonas told me about the situation, I’d just finished a contract job and was looking for something until school started in the fall.” She paused to dunk her cookie in her coffee before taking a bite, which endeared her to me even more because it was something only someone who felt comfortable with you might do. “I enrolled in school for a degree in hospitality management . . . Better late than never, I figured. Before deciding to go back to college, I worked off and on as a nanny and a caregiver for children and adults, some with developmental disabilities.”
“I’m a little bit confused,” I said. “What’s the connection between hotel management and being a caregiver?”
“So is Gary, my boyfriend.” She laughed. “Confused, I mean. I enjoy being a caregiver when kids or adults are personally referred to me. But I’ve come to realize that aside from getting entrenched with the families, it’s emotionally demanding. And after a lot of soul-searching, I knew it wasn’t something I could do indefinitely. My boyfriend and I met when we were bartending together in a downtown hotel. I loved the energy there and being able to meet people from all over the world. With my degree, I’d have opportunities for traveling. And Gary wants to open a restaurant one day, and I told him I’d gladly manage it for him.”
Laura didn’t see my dad and me look at one another when she mentioned the restaurant, because she’d walked away to pour herself another cup of coffee.
“I guess that was more information than you bargained for?” She brushed a few cookie crumbs from her white lace tank top and sat between us again.
I shook my head. “Not at all.” In fact, I wondered if her boyfriend wanted to open a restaurant because he was already in the food-service industry. In which case, he might have known Wyatt.
Instead, I asked if she knew CPR, which she said she did and offered to provide a copy of her certification.
“Not necessary,” my dad said. “Let’s talk about your schedule and anything else you want to talk about before you look around the house.”
Laura would be with Mom from Monday through Friday, from nine in the morning until four in the afternoon, when my father and I would take turns coming home early. She suggested my dad and I accompany my mother to her first few physical therapy appointments to meet the therapists and to find out what they expected when she was home. After that, Laura said she’d drive her there.
My father showed her the house and told her she was welcome to use the guest room at any time. “I may take you up on that offer when Gary has overnight trips. Hate sleeping alone, even at my age.”
I knew exactly how she felt.
CHAPTER 28
If I had any doubts about Laura being a competent caretaker for my mother, they disappeared faster than good intentions at a Ben & Jerry’s factory after what we’d later call the “walker negotiations.”
That day she came to our house, she’d already impressed me with her conscientious concern about caring for my mother. Then she met my dad and me at the hospital the morning Mom was released so she could hear the discharge instructions firsthand and be able to ask questions.
When my mother saw the aluminum walker, she stared at my father as if he’d told her she had to use the stairs to leave. “No one told me I’d have to use one of those things,” she said, pointing to the walker. “And I’m not.”
My father reached out his arm. “Now, Scarlett—” But the arm never made it to the destination, which we supposed was her shoulder, before she pushed him away. His arm, face, and ego drooped simultaneously.
“Don’t patronize me. Especially in front of all these people.” Her lips were set in that thin line that signaled “I dare you.” She tugged her blouse, smoothed it over her stomach, and glared at the
ceiling. She might have been praying for deliverance from us or processing her next attack.
It was the latter.
“I signed all those release papers. Can we leave now? Where is my nurse? She should be here.” Arms folded, she was in her take-no-prisoners mode.
Laura, who’d been sitting in a visitor’s chair in the hospital room casually flipping through a People magazine, placed it on the bed and looked at my father. “Mr. Kavanaugh, would you mind going to the nurses’ station and asking when someone will be available to take your wife downstairs?”
“Happy to do that,” he said with the relief of a student who’d just been given permission to leave detention early.
When he walked away, Laura scrunched down in front of my mother in her wheelchair so they were at eye level with one another. “You’re a person of your word, right?”
“Of course,” my mother replied, sounding more wary than defensive.
“In the discharge papers you signed, you said you’d follow doctor’s orders. That walker and everything your family and I do for you is to help you get your life back. You’re going to have to trust us, just like we’re going to trust you to cooperate.” Laura extended her hand. “Deal?”
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until my mother nodded and shook Laura’s hand.
My parents and the nurse walked ahead to the car. Laura and I followed, pushing carts jammed with floral arrangements, plants, magazines, clothes, and plastic water bottles imprinted with the hospital’s logo because my mother had said, “For what the hospital probably charged for them, I could’ve bought Waterford crystal. I want them.”
As we were loading my Jeep, Laura said she’d forgotten to mention to my mother that she’d set up a girlie day, and she wanted me to invite my grandmother. “A friend of mine owns a salon, and he’s coming over this weekend with two nail technicians. I thought your mother could use some primping time, and we could do the mani-pedi thing.”
I wanted to hug her, but I wasn’t sure if we’d reached the stage where we hugged without awkwardness. “Just so you’ll know how thrilled I am that you arranged this, the inside me is twirling and hand-clapping.”
“I hoped you would be. Figured we’ll all need pampering next week.” She closed the back door. “Hey, pop open the back, and I’ll load the rest of this in there.”
The door yawned open, and I walked around to help her.
The two baby gifts were still there.
I opened my mouth and hoped a lame excuse would find its way out, but Laura didn’t mention them. She put the magazines and suitcase in the trunk, pressed the button to close it, and said, “Done.”
We survived my mother’s first day home without verbal warfare or threats of violence. My grandmother ran interference with the uninvited visitors, some of whom came bearing casseroles as their guest cards. My father and I took turns answering cell phones, and by the end of the day, we realized we should have had a voicemail message that told callers, “Yes, she’s home. She’s still on medication, so none of us, including her, know how much pain she’s in. No, she’s not ready for visitors. Yes, we’d love for you to drop off a meal. In two weeks. And thank you for praying.”
Laura hovered over my mother, and we stayed out of her way unless she needed one of us. She didn’t leave until Mom had eaten dinner, taken her medicines, and was tucked in bed. I told my father he needed to make sure that the friend who had recommended her was rewarded generously and thanked often.
“I doubt I have the financial resources to express how grateful I am. He’d tell me to ‘pay it forward,’ and that would be the best thanks,” my father said. “Same way I feel about you staying here. You know how thankful I am.” He leaned over and kissed the top of my head. “I would have hugged you, but I don’t think you would have appreciated that.” As evidence, he held up his soapy dishwater hands as I dried and put away another plate.
Ruthie spent the night so my dad and I could leave early before Laura arrived at the house.
The next morning, still bleary-eyed, I followed him into the office as he unlocked the door. He whistled as he flipped on the lights, started a pot of coffee, and listened to the voice messages on the business phone. I watched him as he puttered around, looking more relaxed than I’d seen him in over a week. Maybe longer considering the drama before I’d left for Houston.
I stored my purse in the bottom drawer of the front desk, and he looked up from the notebook he’d been scribbling messages on. “I almost forgot you were here,” he said, a smile breaking across his face. “Let’s get some coffee, and I’ll show you the ropes.”
An hour or so later, I worried that I might hang myself from all those ropes. I’d helped him and Mom in the business on and off throughout high school and even a few college breaks. But the insurance industry had changed, his client list had grown, and my tolerance for making spreadsheets had waned. I sat behind the desk and did what I felt comfortable doing: arranging the paper clips and pens, and crossing out dates on the desk calendar.
Dad patted me on my back. “Just answer the phone, take messages, and we’ll worry about the rest later,” he said. “I’m going to clear the piles waiting on my desk. Let me know if you need anything.”
I felt like I was five again, and he was leaving me at the door of my kindergarten classroom. “No problem.” He’d taken about four steps down the hall when I asked him to come back. “Two things. I have a doctor’s appointment next week. And I’ll be taking a lot of bathroom breaks because, well, the baby insists. Wanted to give you a heads-up if the phone keeps ringing.”
“Got it,” he said and poured himself another coffee. “Oh, and if your mother or Laura calls and I’m on another line, let me know.”
He made his way back to his office, and I putzed around familiarizing myself with the computer and his files, and doing what I did best: educating myself by being nosey.
I managed to stay busy enough, occupying myself between calls by looking at baby furniture and equipment online. One call was Ruthie telling me she was bringing lunch. She stopped by with chicken panini sandwiches and Greek salads.
“As tempting as that looks, I best get myself home to have lunch with Scarlett. Maybe give Laura a break, too,” said my dad.
We agreed. Granny waved to him as he walked out, then opened the bags and said, “Poor man, I didn’t have the heart to tell him I hadn’t planned on him being here.” She handed me a still-warm sandwich, and if that nugget of a baby could cheer, I thought it did at that moment. “Guess we could have shared with him.”
“That would have been nice of you.” I handed her the Coke Zero in the bag. “He might have had to wrestle me for a bite. How can I be so hungry when I’ve been vegetating at a desk for hours?”
We munched in silence for a bit, and while my grandmother picked the black olives out of her salad and dropped them on mine, she asked, “When’s your appointment with that private investigator?”
I leaned back, took a long swallow of water. “I haven’t called him yet.”
She neatly folded the paper that had covered her sandwich. “What’s the holdup?”
Why wasn’t the phone ringing now, when I could use an interruption? “I needed to make an appointment with my OB first.” I couldn’t look at her because we both knew I trotted out a pitiful excuse.
“Did you make the OB appointment?”
As soon as I nodded, she picked up the office phone and handed it to me. “Good. Then you can call him.”
I punched in the number. Hoped I could leave a message, but three rings later, I heard a voice say, “Hello, this is Jim Tarkington, private investigator.”
CHAPTER 29
Long ago and far away when I used to run—on purpose—the most difficult part was getting dressed and lacing my shoes. Once I accomplished that, my whining inner child would shut up because she knew the decision had been made.
Making the phone call to the private investigator was like that. Instead of hating to lace s
hoes, I hated to punch in the phone number. Plus, my grandmother sitting on the other side of the desk meant backing out wasn’t an option. That day after she left, I called her. “Did you have lunch with me today because you suspected I hadn’t contacted the PI?”
“I don’t remember you being such a cynical young woman, but I suppose you’re entitled. Bless your heart. Would I spend over thirty dollars for lunch and more than an hour of my day simply to ask you a question? I could do that for free, in thirty seconds with a text or an email without your even having to hear my voice. Can’t a grandmother just want to spend time with her only granddaughter? I’m not getting any younger. For that matter, neither are you.”
“A simple yes or no would have worked,” I said. “But it’s okay either way. It’s time for me to do something, even if I don’t get the answers I want.”
By the end of the first day, I learned a few unexpected lessons. Sitting on my butt, which I’d dreamed about some days when I was running after Lily, was not the paradise I envisioned it to be. Plus, it revved up my snacking motor, and I’d almost emptied the customers’ candy dish and two boxes of Girl Scout cookies I found stashed in the freezer. As if the box of Thin Mints being frozen would deter me.
My mother, I discovered, still had full use of her cell phone abilities and called every two hours to either check on me and my father or to remind one of us of something we needed to do or should have done.
At one point, Laura called to apologize and said she threatened to place my mother on cell phone probation because she wasn’t resting. “And realize that sometimes she’s calling after one of her pain pills, so she might not always be lucid.”
“That explains the call about keeping track of my hours for the payroll department. The one we don’t have,” I said.
Since You've Been Gone Page 14