“Thank you. Do you know if your mother has a living will?” she asks.
“A what?”
“A living will—instructions given by individuals specifying what actions should be taken for their health in the event that they are no longer able to make decisions due to illness or incapacity.”
“I have no clue. My mother and I never spoke about anything like that. I guess I can call her lawyer.”
“That’s a good idea,” she says. “And we need to find out who her health-care proxy is as well. You can have her lawyer fax all the information to us.” She takes out a small piece of paper and writes down the fax number.
“Okay,” I reply. “And Dr. Grippi, I hope you understand—I really am way too tired to talk to the Public Affairs guy right now. I’m going to my mother’s room for a bit. I’m going to order a car service to take me to her house for an hour or two, so that I can shower and clean up.”
“Well, Martinez says the press is out in full force. He is adamant about wanting to meet with you.” Dr. Grippi seems nervous, as if she doesn’t want to cross this Martinez guy. I don’t answer her.
“Well, I suppose I can tell him that you’ll speak to him later.” She looks miffed. “Also, please leave me your cell-phone number. I can put it on the chart and call to let you know when your mother is stable enough for the angiography.”
I give her the number and thank her.
“You know, Dr. Nipatu is a wonderful surgeon. You’re lucky he was on call last night.” She walks out of the room.
Lucky? Are you freakin’ kidding me—did she really say “lucky?”
I go back into my mother’s room. Gilda is there, changing the IV. My mother is in the same position—nothing has changed.
“Did you speak to Dr. Niptau?” Gilda asks.
I’m sure she knows the answer.
“Yes, he told me about the bleeding in her brain and the surgery. It sounded pretty scary.”
She walks over to me and says, “Look, this is a serious situation, that’s certainly true, but I’ve seen people pull through in cases like this and worse. You can never underestimate the power of the Spirit. In my job, I’ve surely seen miracles.”
“Thanks, Gilda, that gives me hope.”
She smiles. “Lily, there’s a chapel on the main floor, if you feel the need.”
“Thanks. Right now, I want to head over to my mother’s house. Can you have someone arrange a car for me? And can you also ask someone to take me out of the hospital through a back door? I hear there are tons of reporters swarming around the lobby and outside.”
“Sure. I’ll ask Linda at the front desk to call the car service and to alert security. I’ll keep a good eye on your mother, don’t you worry. I’ll also say a prayer for her.” She smiles.
Her kindness touches me and I start crying again. Gilda gives me a mama-bear hug and pats me on the back. I pull myself together and she leaves the room. I stand next to the bed and gently stroke my mother’s hand.
“Mom,” I say softly. “I love you so much. Please, please don’t leave me.” It’s the first time in my life that I’ve cried in front of my mother and that she hasn’t rushed over to console me.
I whisper, “Mom, please remember you’re Daisy Lockwood. You’re a strong woman. If you can hear me, Mom, you have to fight to wake up. You have to do this. We have the Emmys to attend. We still have so many great things to do together. Please fight, Mom.”
I kiss her hand and leave the room.
Thirty minutes later, I’m in a town car heading east on the Long Island Expressway to the North Fork of the island. I lie down in the back seat to get some rest.
Mom had just finished making repairs to the farmhouse and I wonder how they turned out. I’m curious to know if I’ll feel strange being there alone, without my grandparents or my mother.
Our home is a waterfront farmhouse on the beautiful Long Island Sound, a 110-mile-long estuary of the Atlantic Ocean. Only twenty-one miles of its waters separate Long Island on the south and Connecticut to the north. The farmhouse was built in 1897 in the boxy American Foursquare style. My grandparents, Samuel and Rose Edwards, took great pride in knowing everything about the home and its history. My grandpa taught me all about this type of home, and said you can find similar ones across the United States. The house is pale yellow, with forest-green trim, and stands two-and-a-half stories high, with a large wraparound porch.
When I was little, we would sit on the porch in our rocking chairs, look out on the water, and watch the boats go by. Grams tried to teach me how to knit and crochet and Grandpa spent hours telling me about the history of Long Island, the North Fork, and Southold. I learned all about the Corchaug Indians who had inhabited the area, and the English settlers who arrived in the 17th century. Grandpa had founded the East End Historical Society back in the late 1950s, so that generations to come would be able to enjoy the rich history of the area. He adored talking about Southold and the surrounding towns, like Greenport, which in the mid-1800s was a bustling whaling town.
But what truly transformed the town of Southold was the coming of the railroad. The Foursquare home was common in neighborhoods near rail lines because—and Grandpa loved this part of his story; his eyes lit up every time he told it—you could order these houses from the Sears catalogue. They came in boxcars with a book of directions and all the parts pre-cut and numbered for self-assembly.
“Lily Rose, imagine that! You could look through a catalogue, pick out a suit, a dress, some shoes and, oh yes—your house!” He slapped his knee and laughed each time he told this story.
My grandfather was discharged from the service in 1947 and married my Grams two years later. She had grown up not far from Southold in a town called Cutchogue, where her parents owned a potato farm. At that time, most of the many miles of farmland in the area were either potato farms or duck farms. In 1950, with the help of the GI Bill and a small loan from Gram’s father, my grandparents bought the farm, which then consisted of the farmhouse, a barn, and thirty acres of land. Little by little, over the years, Grandpa sold off all the acreage to land developers—except for three acres of beautiful waterfront property. Even though most of the original farmland no longer belongs to the family, everyone calls the house “the farm.”
Years later, many of the surrounding farms were turned into successful vineyards, and the North Fork really began to prosper. It gets extremely busy with tourists three seasons a year: spring, summer, and fall.
There are still thriving farms left. In the summer, tourists are drawn to the miles of scenic, unspoiled beaches, and to the vineyards. On Sundays, in the late afternoon, people line up at the farm stands to buy fresh fruits, vegetables, and home-baked goods to take back to the city. Mom told me that when she was growing up, she worked at her family’s farm stand in the summers.
In autumn, the foliage blazes with bright oranges, reds, and rich shades of gold. Carloads of families come out to the North Fork to pick pumpkins, ride hay wagons, and get lost in the many corn mazes. The apple orchards thrive, and everyone gives the area one last hurrah before the desolation of winter sets in.
Mom loves the farmhouse now, but when she was young she couldn’t wait to leave home. She never talked much about her younger years, but I do know that she left home three days after graduating from high school. She took off for Manhattan to become a journalist, leaving the folks on the farm in her rearview mirror.
She was always happy that I had a good, solid relationship with her parents. She was their only child and I was their only grandchild.
After a day of visiting with her parents, she would sometimes have the strangest expression on her face and would say, “The grandpa you love is different from the father I grew up with.”
I would ask her what she meant by that and she would blow it off. “Oh, nothing, really. People just get mellower as they get older.” Then she would move on to a different subject.
When I think of home, I think of Southold. I spent th
e beginning of my life in New York City, but I always went out to my grandparents’ farm for weekends and holidays. When I got older, my mother and I spent a lot of time in LA, but we kept the city apartment and visited the farm whenever we could.
We love LA, and over the years we’ve lived in different condos and houses in Santa Monica and Malibu. But Mom and I come back to get our New York City “fix” four times a year, at least. We hit all the museums, art galleries, and restaurants. We make believe we are tourists and take all the walking tours, bus tours, and even the Circle Line boat tour. We snap photos and sometimes take our game a little too far and speak in thick French accents.
We got busted once on a boat trip to Ellis Island when a family from Paris heard our accents and spoke to us in French, as if we were long-lost cousins. I don’t think either of us had laughed so hard in our lives. Mom makes life a constant adventure, a never-ending party.
Whenever we went back to New York, we visited Grams and Grandpa and spent lazy days lying out on the beach or helping Grams with her flower or vegetable gardens. Grandpa died three years ago, leaving Grams alone on the farm. I was on St. Joe’s by then, and Mom and I were living in the Malibu house. I wasn’t a baby—I was 25 at the time—but Mom and I had never been separated, so she felt conflicted about leaving me to go back East to take care of Grams. But Grams was in poor health and needed her there full time, so she went.
Within a couple of months, I met Jamie and he moved in with me. Oh boy, that was a rough time between Mom and me. We had many, many loud long-distance phone marathons around that issue. But eventually it was resolved.
Grams declined fast and Mom stayed with her, day and night. Mom didn’t want to hire a nurse. She said she knew best how to take care of her mother. She was right.
She and her Mom were extremely close, kind of like Mom and me. But from what I gather, it wasn’t always that way. Mom never really told me much about her life growing up, except that she and her folks never saw eye to eye. And their relationship didn’t get better until years after Mom moved out—after I was born. When Grams passed away last September, Mom stayed and spent time there, fixing up the farmhouse, making sure necessary repairs were made.
The constant thump, thump of the tires on the road makes me queasy. I open the car window to get some fresh air.
The driver looks at me in the rearview mirror and asks, “Do I make the next left, Miss? I’m not really familiar with this area.”
“Oh, sorry,” I say. I look around to see where we are. “Okay—make the next left and go all the way down the road.”
We are deep into the North Fork, not far from the farm. I look around. We pass the houses where so many of my friends used to live. I wonder how they’re doing. Through the years, I’ve lost touch with all of them.
Since it is Thursday morning, there are hardly any cars around. Fulltime residents are at work, and in autumn, tourists and part-time residents usually come out only on weekends.
During the spring, summer, and fall, Mom spends most of her time on the farm. When she has meetings with her publishers or literary agents, she stays at our NYC apartment, on 69th between Lexington and Third. Lots of her friends from the city and even LA have summer homes on the South Fork, in the Hamptons.
“The Hamptons are a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there,” she always tells people when they ask her why she doesn’t spend more time there. “The North Fork has more heart. It’s less trendy, and the people are made of more earthy stock.”
She often jumps on the ferry to Shelter Island, takes another short ferry to Sag Harbor and drives to the nearby Hamptons for charity events, parties, and openings. She’s always happy to get back to the farm.
“It’s good to be home. I’m glad to be rid of all the folks trying to look past me to see which celebrity just walked in,” she tells me, after she’s been to one fabulous event or another.
When I was younger, I made her tell me everything, every detail of the event. Who was wearing what designer—who showed up with whom? She said the best part of those evenings was coming back to Southold, to the farm, and sharing the details of the night with me.
I loved watching her get dressed for an event. Mom always had a great figure; she’s been a size 4 since high school. She isn’t stick thin; she has fabulous curves and looks great in everything she wears, whether it’s a pair of jeans and a white tee, an Yves St. Laurent tailored suit, or her very favorite Oscar de la Renta cocktail dress. She taught me about designers and told me to buy quality pieces that last. She also taught me to be a shrewd shopper, advice that serves me well to this day.
When she would get ready to go out for the evening, I would sit mesmerized on the bathroom counter, watching her brush out that long, light-brown, wavy hair, and put on her makeup. I thought she was a goddess! Her eyes were crystal blue, and she knew the exact shade of eye shadow to apply to make them pop. She always had freckles, and even if she tried to cover them with foundation, a few always fought their way through, to be noticed. She hated them, but I always thought they added to her youthful appearance.
While I sat at the counter watching her, we would talk nonstop about everything under the sun—boys I liked in school, or which girls had been snubbing me, or whether there was ever going to be a female president in my lifetime.
Even though we now live three thousand miles away from each other, I still call her when she’s getting ready to go out, and ask her what she’s wearing.
The last time I did that was a few weeks before the accident, when she was getting ready for her very favorite event of the season: The Hampton Classic in Bridgehampton, NY, an annual gathering that takes place during the last week of August. It’s a Grand Prix jumping horse show, one of the biggest contests of its kind in the United States. Mom has been riding since she was a kid, so she’s always loved this event. It’s also one of the biggest social bashes in the Hamptons scene and signals the grand finale of the summer season.
Mom and Auntie D. went together this year. I made my mother promise they would call me in Malibu to tell me everything as soon as they left. As promised, they called from the car on their way back to the ferry.
“Hi, Lily,” they said in unison.
“Hello, my two favorite and lovely ladies! Okay, now tell me everything. Hold on, I’m by the pool, let me get to where I can hear you.” Jamie and a couple of his buddies were clowning around in the pool acting like twelve-year-olds, so there was a lot of noise and I needed to hear every single detail. I lived for this stuff. I walked into the living room, kicked off my sandals, and flopped down on the couch.
“Okay, dish. First of all, how is the weather?” I said.
“Gorgeous, not a cloud in the sky,” Auntie D. said.
“Okay, begin. First of all, set the scene. What did you guys wear?” I asked.
“Lily, honestly, why didn’t you just get on a plane and come with us?” my mother asked.
“It would have been too much to fly there and back for the weekend. I have an early call tomorrow. And Jamie invited some guys over to go swimming, so I’m playing hostess.”
“Well, make sure they don’t break anything in the house!” she said.
“C’mon, Mom, they’re not kids!” I ran to the sliding glass door to close it, so she wouldn’t hear the noise from the pool area. Just in time—Jamie’s friend Jack let out a bloodcurdling scream as he cannonballed into the deep end.
“Mom, can you stop being a Mom for a minute and tell me all about your day?” I said. “First of all, what did you two wear? You first, Auntie D.,” I commanded.
“Oh, okay, I guess I get to go first,” she said. They both giggled.
“Why are you laughing?” I asked.
“Well, honey, truthfully, you’re a bit on the bossy side,” she replied. They laughed again.
“The acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree, now does it, Mother?” I said. This time we all laughed.
“Auntie D., will you be kind enough to d
escribe your ensemble?” I asked sarcastically.
“But of course, my darling, now that you asked so nicely!” More laughter. “Okay, black and white, sleeveless long Roberto Cavalli silk dress, halter top, plunging neckline—”
“A little too plunging, if you ask me,” my mother interrupted her. More laughter.
“And a thin black leather belt. And a fabulous picture hat, vintage 1940s,” Auntie D. continued.
“Okay, hair?” I asked.
“Long, loose, and lovely—just like me.” More laughter.
“Shoes?”
“Christian Louboutin Rodita zip sandals—white,” she replied.
“Sounds beautiful.” The reality was that anything Auntie D. wore looked great. She could give style to a potato sack—she has that knack for knowing what goes together. And of course, it doesn’t hurt that she’s totally beautiful. Even at forty-seven, Auntie D. turns heads wherever she goes. She’s 5’9”, legs for miles, with shoulder-length carmel-colored wavy hair. She’s also got a great sense of humor. She and my Mom have been like sisters ever since they were kids.
“Okay, Mom—you’re on,” I ordered.
“Mine’s easy,” she said. “I’m wearing a white sleeveless Oscar de la Renta ivory silk crepe shirt dress. V-neck, very appropriate.” I heard Auntie D. howl with laughter in the background. “Oscar’s light-gold brush patent leather sandals and an Anna Sui white calico fedora,” she said.
“Niiiice,” I approved.
“Excuse me, Miss Lockwood, is this the house?” the driver asks. I look outside and realize the crunching sound under the tires are the pebbles in the driveway leading to the farmhouse.
“Oh, yes—thanks—this is it.” He pulls up in front of the house. I grab my small duffle bag. He opens the door for me, I pay him, and he takes off.
I walk around the side of the house and find the extra set of keys that are always hidden behind the big rock next to the hydrangea bush. The cream colored hydrangeas are in full bloom and I make a mental note to cut some later and put them in the crystal vases that Mom strategically places throughout the house. I climb the three uneven steps up to the porch and get a good first look at the beautiful view of the Sound. The water is a teal-blue expanse with a long painted stroke of dark indigo that, like an arrow, points the way to the horizon. Large puffy white clouds adorn the sky and a noisy flock of seagulls soars overhead in a perfect vee formation.
The Seeds Of A Daisy: The Lily Lockwood Series: Book One (Women's Fiction) Page 7