I pulled the phone away from Moms and walked out of her reach with it. I pointed to the tube and made a mean face in hopes of threatening her to stop moving around. The tube looked stretched enough to come out, and God knew I would pass out if that happened. “Tiffany, I’ll call you back in a minute. You better answer, you hear me?” I closed the phone and walked back over to the bed.
Moms fussed like Tiffany was standing right in front of her. “Think I worked two jobs, working my tail to the bone so you could have everything you needed and go to college and have a good life, so you could end up being an old drunk? I didn’t raise you like that—”
“Moms.” I held up the phone. “She’s gone. I hung up. Calm your nerves.”
“Calm my nerves? Did you hear her? She sounded high as a kite.”
I picked up the nurse’s call button. “Either calm down, or I’m calling the nurse to bring you some happy drugs. I mean it.” I held the button in front of her, threatening to push it.
She was still for half a second, then got herself in a flurry again. “You knew about this, didn’t you? That’s what you two got into a fight about, wasn’t it? Why you keeping things from me, Tree? You not supposed to keep things from me.”
“I’m not supposed to keep things from you?” Now I was the one almost screaming. “You get diagnosed with lung cancer and start chemotherapy and you got me over there in Africa, having a wonderful time, falling in love, thinking everything’s okay. Don’t you tell me nothing about keeping things from people.”
We were both quiet, staring each other down. She finally burst into tears. “What’s wrong with my baby, Tree? Why she getting drunk?”
I sat on the side of her bed and held both of her hands in mine. I reached up and rubbed her arm until she stopped crying. “Moms, I think we both have to face the fact that anything that’s wrong with Tiffany is both our fault. We spoiled her, gave her everything she wanted, overprotected her—just ruined her. We never gave her a chance to be strong because we were too busy being strong for her. So like you said earlier, she’s dealing with it the best way she knows how.”
“My baby.” Moms shook her head. “God, help my baby.”
“Was that a prayer, Moms?” I chuckled. “Just like black folks. Ain’t got no use for God until you need something. Then you want to call His name.”
She pulled her hand away from mine to smack my arm. “You need to stop playing so much, Tree.” She stared out the window for a second. “You get God to help my baby, and I’ll believe.”
I looked at her. “That’s a promise. If God saves and fixes Tiffany, you’ll believe and accept Him for real, and not just to make me happy?”
“If He can help my baby, He’d be worth believing.”
“Okay, deal.” We shook on it.
Tiffany just moved up to number two on my intercessory list—right up under Moms. I needed to pray hard and fast for Tiffany’s life to turn around quick, fast, and in a hurry. I looked at the tube leading to the suction canister which was already half full.
Seemed like I didn’t have much time.
Twenty
I couldn’t reach Tiffany for the rest of the night. I said a silent prayer, hoping she wasn’t dead by the side of the road somewhere and trusted God that she was at Stacy’s sleeping it off.
I was prepared to bunk in the foam chair bed in my mother’s hospital room, but she insisted I go to her house to get a good night’s rest. She said she wouldn’t be able to rest if I weren’t in a bed getting some good rest. I didn’t bother to tell her I was still sleeping on the floor most nights. The thought of sleeping on the cold, hospital floor was what made me finally give in.
When I got to the house, I pulled on one of Moms’s nightgowns and climbed into her bed, snuggling under her sheets and comforter. Everything smelled like her. The baby powder she drowned her body in to keep herself from sweating. The cheap, flowery perfume she insisted on wearing, no matter how much expensive stuff me and Tiffany bought her. And cigarettes. The tobacco odor infiltrated the woven fibers of her mattress and was probably embedded in the peeling wallpaper.
I pressed my face into her pillow and started to cry. The thought of losing my mother was unthinkable. Unbearable. I slid off the bed and stretched out prostrate on the floor, crying out to God to save my mother’s life. I prayed for Tiffany, for Monica, and for all the violated boys of Love and Faith Christian Center. I cried out to the miraculous God I came to know in Africa, letting Him know I needed to see His hands move. Swiftly.
I awoke early the next morning to my phone ringing. The caller ID indicated the call was from the hospital. I sat up, praying nothing had happened to Moms.
“Hello?” My heart was almost beating out of my chest.
“Tree, you need to bring me some breakfast. These pancakes and sausage they done brought me taste like hockey pucks and rubber.”
I laughed and picked myself up off the floor to get to the hospital. I stopped at the cafeteria to get her some pancakes, fried potatoes, bacon, sausage, and eggs, and we shared the feast together. Well, she made me eat while she only took little bites herself.
She fussed the entire meal about how many times the nurses had come in during the night to check her vital signs and the amount of fluid in the canister on the wall. “I think they thought I was gon’ die or something. Kept asking me if I were resting well. How am I supposed to rest if you keep coming in here with that durn beeping machine and squeezing the life out of my arm? I tried to make a deal with her that if anything happened, I’d call her, but she wasn’t buying it. Some mess about hospital policy.”
After she ate a little and fussed a lot, she laid back in the bed and almost instantly fell asleep. I watched her breathing for a while, treasuring the sight of her chest rising and falling and praying that it would last forever. I thought of Hezekiah turning to the wall and petitioning God for fifteen more years. I know forever is too much to ask, God, but can I have my mom for at least fifteen more years? I counted in my head for a few seconds. Well, actually twenty, God. I need her for at least twenty more years.
After begging and pleading for my mother’s life for a while, I pulled out my laptop to get some work done. It helped to get my mind off the canister on the wall, which seemed to be slowly filling up again with that awful bloody fluid.
In a few hours, I completed several press releases for some of my non-profit clients, prepared a speech for a foundation fundraiser, and made some phone calls to invite some media to an upcoming charity auction. I kept the television on mute, glancing up at it every once in awhile to make sure nothing new broke about the Love and Faith saga.
I e-mailed everything to Blanche so she would know I was working. She finally sent me an e-mail back.
This isn’t PR kindergarten where I need to check all your work. Stop bugging me. I haven’t been able to get any info on the supposed conviction evidence.The DA’s office is locked tight. You heard anything? I typed back a quick response.
Nothing yet, but making calls all day. Will continue to try to find out something.
A few minutes later, there was a new message from her in my inbox.
Sounds good. How’s your mother?
I glanced over at Moms, sleeping peacefully, breathing at a slow rhythmic pace. I typed back.
Better. Thanks for asking.
Not too much later, she responded.
No problem. Keep me updated. Sorry about last night. Take care.
After finishing a few more things, then leaving yet another message for Tiffany, I dozed off in the chair next to Moms. I woke up to the nurse who had introduced herself to me that morning as Anita shaking me. “Ms. Michaels? Wake up. Ms. Michaels! Your mother . . .”
I bolted up in the chair and looked over at Moms’s bed. Someone had pulled the little curtain around her. Was she . . .
I jumped out of the chair, slung back the curtain, and immediately rushed to Moms’s bedside.
She stared at me and shook her head. “I ain’t d
ead, Tree. Lord, chile, you need to work on your faith.” She rolled her eyes. “Now can you close that curtain so I can get off this bedpan? A woman can’t even handle her business in private.”
“Oops, sorry.” I closed the curtain and chuckled at the thought of her telling me I needed to work on my faith. I turned to the nurse to see what it was that she had been trying to tell me about Moms.
Anita pointed to the canister on the wall. “As you may have noticed, it’s been emptied a few times since your mother came up from the ER last night. Because of all the fluid that keeps gathering on your mother’s lungs, the doctor wants to do a procedure where he puts a chemical in the small tissue space the lungs sit in to make it scar so they’ll stop filling up with fluid. Then we can take the tube out.”
Moms pulled the curtain back so she could see the both of us. “Then I can go home? Let’s do it.”
“Wait a minute, Moms.” I glared at her. I turned back to Anita. “Is it dangerous? What kind of chemical? Isn’t it bad to scar her lungs? Will she have problems breathing again?”
Anita smiled. “How about I have the doctor come in and answer your questions?”
I nodded, but Moms said, “The only question the doctor needs to answer is when I can go home.”
About half an hour later, a fresh-faced man in scrubs entered the room and introduced himself to me and Moms as Dr. Wilkes. With his short stature, chubby cheeks and spiky hair, he looked like he was about thirteen years old. He explained the procedure in detail, but I don’t think either one of us heard a word he said.
“Boy, you still got milk on your breath. You ain’t injecting no chemicals in my lungs.”
“Moms!” I shushed her, but had to admit that she’d said out loud what I had just thought.
He laughed. “Ma’am, I’m thirty-nine years old, and I’ve been a surgeon for fourteen years now. I promise you, I can do this procedure in my sleep.”
“Humph,” Moms grunted. “How ’bout you do this one with your eyes open?”
After they wheeled her away, I sat down to call Monica again. I couldn’t imagine why she wouldn’t have called me back by now. Unless she hadn’t bothered to listen to my message. Could she be that mad?
When the phone beeped, I left another message explaining what was going on and begging her to call me. I tried Tiffany again, but she still didn’t answer. Since Moms was so much better, I decided to call Gabe and tell him I didn’t need him to come. No one answered at the mission, but I left a message for Zembala to get to him.
Moms’s procedure went well, and she spent most of the rest of the day asleep. Later that evening, they were able to take her off the oxygen and said if she remained stable, they could plan to release her in the next couple of days.
I hung out with her in the hospital the next day, and we enjoyed her favorite foods from the cafeteria. At least I enjoyed them. I was going to have to do a better job of getting her to eat. If I stayed around Baltimore much longer, I was gonna put on a good deal of weight. A couple of times, Moms grabbed my hips and pinched my butt to make sure she was fattening me up enough for Gabe.
I continued to work by laptop and telephone, getting more done than I probably would have had I been in the office. Blanche and I continued to trade e-mails. There was still no leak on the evidence against Deacon Barnes. I left messages with all my media contacts that I knew were working as hard as I was to get the information. I knew one of them would call me back, expecting me to return the favor by letting them know as soon as Bishop Walker was prepared to open his mouth and make a statement.
Moms slept as I worked. When I shut down my laptop for the evening, I sat watching her breathing again. She lay flat on her back with her arms crossed over her stomach. It creeped me out so bad to see her in a coffin pose, I had to get up to move her arms. I leaned over to kiss her forehead, and she stirred. She smiled when she saw me standing over her. She reached up, stroked my cheek and said, “Tree, baby, I love you. Please go to the house and get some rest.”
I kissed her forehead again and collected my stuff to leave.
Later that evening as I was settling into Moms’s bed again, my phone rang. I looked at my caller ID, and my heart leapt.
“Monnie!”
“Trina, I’m so sorry I didn’t call you back. How’s your mother? Is she . . . is she okay?”
“Girl, Moms is fine. I’ll probably be bringing her home from the hospital tomorrow.” I explained everything that happened over the past few days as best as I understood it.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, Trina.”
“It’s okay. I figured you were still mad at me.”
“Dag, Trina. I wouldn’t get that mad if your mother was sick, I’d ignore your phone calls.”
“What happened then?” I pulled up Moms’s blankets around my neck and was comforted by the scent of baby powder, flowers, and stale cigarette smoke.
She hesitated for a second, then said, “I just got out of the hospital myself.”
“Oh my goodness. What happened?”
“I did a little too much this weekend. Me and Kevin drove down to the beach for our friends’ double wedding. Remember the ones I told you about? Khalil and Alaysia and David and Nakia had a small joint ceremony down at Tybee Island, the beach where Alaysia and Kevin got baptized and I got pregnant. With the stress of everything that’s been going on with Love and Faith and maybe my trip up there, then the activities of the weddings this weekend, I think it was all too much. Then me and Kevin . . . you know . . . had a little session reliving our memories at the beach if you know what I mean . . . and I started having preterm contractions.”
“Oh no.” I sat up in bed. “Is the baby okay?”
“I’m fine, and the baby’s fine. They gave me some medicine to stop the contractions and put me on strict bed rest.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Kevin has been super overprotective. He had my phone and saw when you called, but . . .” Monica let out a deep breath. “He heard me screaming on the phone with you last week and thought you were calling with more about what’s going on up there. He didn’t want me getting upset, so he didn’t tell me you called. Don’t worry, I fussed him out.”
“I hope not too much. He’s just being a good husband and daddy. I don’t blame him. So you’re fine now?”
“Yeah. Just have to be still and keep myself calm the doctor says.”
“Monnie, I’m so sorry about all this. You should have never come up here and I—”
“Shush, Trina. Me and the baby are fine. And I wanted to see you. And all that stuff with Bishop Walker and Love and Faith . . . let’s just not talk about it. Okay?”
“Yeah, girl. I love you, Monnie. Please take care of yourself and my nephew.”
“I will. Love you too, Trina. And keep me updated on your mother. I’ll be praying. Let me get off this phone before Daddy Kevin comes to check on me.”
Early the next morning the phone rang. Moms was calling on her cell phone this time. “Tree, come get me. The doctor said I can go home.”
“You sure?”
“’Course I’m sure. Come get me out of this place. I don’t want to be here a minute longer than I have to.”
When I got to the hospital, Moms and the doctor she had introduced to me as her oncologist were in her room having what looked like a serious discussion.
I walked in, and they both suddenly went silent. “Morning, everybody. What’s going on?”
Moms gave me a guilty look.
The oncologist, Dr. Miller, spoke up. “I was having a discussion with your mother about how her care should proceed from now on. As I’m sure she’s told you, the cancer has spread to several places in her body. The effusions are probably the first of a number of complications we’ll start to see in the coming weeks.”
I sat on the edge of Moms’s bed and took her hand. Dr. Miller continued, “I’m sure she’s also told you that the chemotherapy at this point is what we call palliative,
or just a measure to stave off the inevitable. We don’t expect it to cure your mother’s condition. That being said, we’ve had a long discussion and have decided not to proceed any further with the chemo.”
My eyes widened, and I glared at Moms.
Dr. Miller held up a hand. “It’s a perfectly reasonable decision. At this point, we focus on enjoyment of her last days rather than lengthening them. She’d rather be happy, feeling halfway good and eating what she wants to at home, than being sick from the chemo and spending time at the hospital. If I didn’t agree and think your mother was making a rational decision, I’d go ten rounds with her. We’ve had plenty of fights since this all started, and she hasn’t won all of them. Just most of them.” He folded his arms. “And for the record, not calling you in Africa to tell you about your mother’s diagnosis was a fight I lost.”
Moms scowled at the doctor and pointed a threatening finger at him.
He laughed. “Anyway, your mother has also decided, and I can’t disagree, that this is her last hospitalization. When it’s time to go, she’d like to do so peacefully at home.
I knew my eyes had a panicky look in them because Dr. Miller said, “We can arrange for hospice care for her so you wouldn’t have to handle all this by yourself. I know this can be difficult and frightening. But as I said, I think your mother is making the right decision.”
Moms nodded at Dr. Miller. He reached out to shake my hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, albeit under such difficult circumstances. Your mother has been a blast to take care of.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “She’s definitely one of my favorites.” Dr. Miller pressed his lips together like he was getting emotional and left the room.
I didn’t see why anyone would choose a profession where their days were filled with death and dying. What kind of person was he?
“You okay, Tree?”
I nodded without saying anything.
Selling My Soul Page 15