The inside of the house is beautiful. Mom has done an incredible job redecorating and, while the furniture is new, she’s maintained the feel and integrity of our home’s age and ambience. The living room is warm and inviting; the new couch is oversized shabby chic covered in white damask and adorned with different sizes of peach and green antique pillows. Opposite the couch is a large green damask chair-and-a half with a matching ottoman. Woven into the material are very subtle flecks of peach, yellow, and white. I put my bag down, sink into the overstuffed chair, and doze off.
The house phone rings and wakes me up. I look at the clock on the wall and am surprised to see that an hour and a half has passed. I pick up the phone.
“Hello?” I mumble.
“Miss Lockwood, it’s Dr. Grippi.”
“Hi, Doctor.” I force myself awake, so I can fully comprehend what she is about to tell me. I grab a pen and paper from the side table in case I need to take notes.
“Your mother is the same, no significant change. Dr. Niptau feels that she will be stable enough to proceed with the angiogram in a few hours.”
“That’s good, right?” I beg for some sort of encouragement from her. I wait—nothing. I continue, “You know, I forgot to ask what it entails—the angiogram, I mean.” I get ready to write.
“The procedure basically involves inserting a very fine tube through a needle placed in the femoral artery in her groin and threading it up through the aorta to the blood vessels that supply her brain. At that point a dye will be injected and X-rays will be taken. The dye fills the vessel and we will see the outline on the X-ray. We will then be able to assess the damaged vessel and see if there are other vessels that could possibly cause concern.”
“Will the doctor operate right away?”
“Most likely not. Once the procedure is finished, your mother will be given a period of time to recover. We have to make sure that she is once again stable. During this period, Dr. Niptau and the team will view the film and determine the next step. Because of her precarious situation, he is being extremely cautious.”
“Should I come back to the hospital now?” I ask.
“It is certainly your choice; however, she will not be taken to the O.R. for a few hours and the procedure may take between one to two hours. So if you want to get some rest, please feel comfortable doing so.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” I hang up the phone and stretch. I am beyond tired. Every inch of my body is aching for sleep. I walk upstairs to my mother’s bedroom and open the door. A wave of loss almost knocks me down. Her four-poster bed is flawlessly made with round and square decorative pillows, placed against the cherry-wood headboard
Her favorite lavender sweater looks conspicuously out of place, carelessly flung over the arm of her reading chair. Did she mean to take it with her for the long ride into the city? I look around. All her things are here, just where she left them, waiting for her return: her brush on the bureau, her perfume bottles lined up on the long dresser, and her fuzzy slippers on the floor close to her bed. She could never have guessed that instead of coming back to this room to sleep, she would spend the night unconscious in a hospital bed in Intensive Care. And that a surgeon would be pumping dye through her body to see the extent of the damage to her brain.
I climb into her soft bed, grab one of her perfectly placed pillows, put it over my mouth, and scream as loud as I can. I want to shout out all the shock and intense fear and guilt I am holding on to. Even with the pillow, my voice echoes throughout the empty farmhouse.
I’ve been in the same clothes for what seems like days, so I force myself out of bed and open the closet. After Grams died, Mom converted her sewing room, located next to the master bedroom, into a huge cedar closet. It’s certainly a dream closet; the whole back of it is devoted just to shoes. I choose a black turtleneck and jeans. These clothes remind me of a time, when I was a teenager, when Mom called to me from her room and I could tell from the tone in her voice that I was in trouble.
“Lily Rose? Lily Rose, get in here, now!” she shouted.
“I’m coming, Mom.” I got to the room within a few minutes and saw her standing, arms folded, in front of her closet.
“What’s up?” I asked fearfully.
“I can’t find my black jeans or my red cashmere sweater. Have you seen them?” she asked, knowing full well the answer.
I was busted. The only thing I could do was confess and beg for mercy.
“I took them, Mom. I’m sorry,” I said.
“Please give them back to me,” she replied curtly.
“That’s the thing, Mom. I wore them to Rachael’s house when I went for my sleepover last week and I forgot to pack them. They’re still there.” I waited.
“Lily, call Rachael and tell her that you’re coming to pick them up. Then let me know if she’s home,” she said. She didn’t sound angry at all.
“Okay.” I raced out of there, so sure that I’d dodged a major bullet. I came back into her room, cheerful because Rachael was home and because she was getting the clothes ready for me to pick up.
“If you drive me there now, I can be back in time for Stacey’s mom to pick me up to go riding.” Stacey and I were taking horseback riding lessons at a nearby horse farm.
“Call Stacey’s mom and tell her that you’re very sorry, but you cannot ride today,” she said quietly.
“But, Mom, I have to go, I have to ride today, Stacey’s counting on me. Please!” I pleaded.
“Not today, Lily Rose. Today you are going to walk over to Rachael’s house, pick up my clothes, and walk home again.”
“Whaaat? Are you serious?” I cried. “Rachael lives three miles away—that’s six miles. That’ll take me all day.”
“You’re absolutely right. Better get walking. And Lily, next time you wish to borrow my clothes or anything else that isn’t yours, be considerate and ask first. And if you borrow something, from me or from anyone else, make sure it arrives back where it belongs, safe and sound. Do you understand?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be back this afternoon.”
I smile; remembering how hot it was that day, and how thoroughly pissed I was that she made me walk all that way and back. But she was right; it really taught me a lesson. From that day on, I never took anything that didn’t belong to me without asking. And if I did borrow something, I returned it in perfect condition.
I get undressed and jump into the shower and turned the water on full force. It feels good to scrub off the grime from traveling and from the hospital. I stand, without moving, under the showerhead and let the stream of warm water flow over me. I stay like that for a good ten minutes. Feeling water logged, I turn off the faucets and grab a thirsty bath sheet and wrap it around me. Mom always has the softest, finest Egyptian-cotton linens and towels. I walk back into the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed. I think about everything that has happened since I got the call the day before from Franny.
This is by far the most traumatic thing I have ever gone through. And it is the only time in my life that I don’t have Mom to guide me along each step of the way. I am alone and I need my mother! It is time for me to ask another source for help.
I get down on my knees at the side of Mom’s bed and I pray harder and longer then I have ever prayed in my life. I beg God to save my mother and to guide me. I plead with Him, I negotiate with Him. Tears stream down my face as I finish praying. For the first time since this nightmare began, I feel a little better. Clearly the situation is out of my control. I give it up to God. I ask Him to take the lead and promise to do my best to follow.
I sit on the floor for a few moments, feeling the release and relief flow through me. I start to get up, but sit back down when something catches my eye. It is three piles of small old books, with an off-white satin ribbon around each stack. There are photo albums piled next to them. I take one pile and untie the ribbon.
I wonder if they’re antiques my mother found in some obscure old bookstore during one of
her tours. I open the first book and realize it’s a diary—my mother’s diary. On the inside cover, in a frilly version of my mother’s handwriting, is written:
This diary belongs to Daisy Rose Edwards. Do not touch or read it!
It is dated May 1969—June 1971. I smile. I look at the other books—they too are diaries, all from different eras of my mother’s life. I look at the first entry, dated May 12, 1969. I do some quick math and calculate that on that date, Mom had just turned thirteen.
I flip through, page after page after page. All the lines on each page are filled with the same frilly handwriting. I return to the first page and read:
May 12, 1969
Dear Diary,
I have never written in a diary, but since I got this diary for my birthday last month, I figured maybe I should start. Since my life’s goal is to be a very famous (and don’t forget very rich) writer when I grow up, I guess this will be a good start.
Last night, before I went to sleep, I prayed to God to help change my father’s mind and let me go with my friend Donna and her parents to spend two weeks with them at their summer home in Martha’s Vineyard. Donna is my very closest friend. We call each other Pali because we are best, best pals. Mama said she would certainly agree to the trip if my father said it was okay. She promised me she would ask him again after dinner. She told me that she would even make him his favorite dessert to put him in a good mood. So now I have to wait for my father to come in from the field for dinner. I made sure to do all my chores, so he’ll be in a good mood. So Diary, let’s both cross our fingers and hope that it will happen. I’ll write later.
Daisy xoxoxo
She sounds so adorable. I love the little kiss and hug symbols she puts next to her name. She still does that when sending emails to me or her friends. I continue reading.
May 12, 1969 bedtime
Dear Diary,
I am the saddest girl in all Long Island! My father didn’t give me permission to go. He said if I’m not around to work the farm stand then it will be a big problem for us. Diary, I feel like my heart’s going to break. I’m pretty sure that Donna will ask Marjorie Potter to go instead. By the time the summer ends they will be best friends, I’m so sure of it. I’m going to pray extra hard this Sunday in church to ask God for all his goodness and his power to change my father’s mind. Like they tell us in Sunday school, God is all-powerful. He better be, ‘cause it’s going to take a major miracle to change my stubborn father’s mind. I can’t stop crying, but I’m so glad I have you, Diary, to tell all my secrets to. It beats what happened last week when I told Diane Farrell that I thought Jeff Sandberg was cute and she told half the school. Now every time I pass him in school, I want to die! I guess that’s what Mama calls life lessons.
Goodnight, Diary.
Daisy xoxoxo
I close the diary and put it into my purse to read later. It makes me feel good to be able to go back in time and “hear” my mother’s words. I am sure when she recovers, she won’t mind that I’ve been peeking into her past.
I stretch out in my mother’s bed and fall asleep. I wake up two hours later and look around. For a few moments I forget where I am. Then, I remember that I’m in the eye of a tornado, the worst nightmare imaginable. I don’t want to get out of bed. What I do want to do is raid my mother’s medicine cabinet to see if she has any Ambien. It would be pure heaven to sleep the rest of the day and night away.
I lay awake staring at the ceiling. I know I have to get out of bed. I don’t have the luxury of shutting out the world. I dread the phone calls I have to return. People are frantic; I have to get back to them.
I drag myself out of my bed and go downstairs to boil a pot of water for tea.
I never drink tea in L.A., only when I come back to Southold. I guess it’s part of being on the farm. I look through the cabinets for something to eat. I find instant brown rice in a bag and some fresh peas in the fridge. I put on a pot of water to boil for the rice, dial Franny’s number. Amy answers.
“Amy, it’s Lily. Can you put Franny through?”
“Oh, Lily, gosh, we’ve been so worried about you. How are you? I mean, how is your Mom?”
I don’t have the patience or strength to go through it with her and then again with Franny.
“My mother’s unconscious, Amy. I’m a little tired. How about I tell Franny everything and she’ll tell you?”
“Oh—I’ll get her. I’m sure she’ll share with me, if she gets the chance… or feels the need,” she says sarcastically, and puts me on hold.
Almost immediately, Franny gets on the phone. “Honey, thank God. I’ve been so worried. What’s going on?”
“Franny, the long and the short of it is that my mother is in a coma. There is blood in an area where there is supposed to be spinal fluid. They have to give her an angiogram to see where they need to operate. That’s it.”
“Shit, that’s enough. Who’s with you?” she asks.
“No one.”
“No one?” She sounds stunned.
“Why is everyone so surprised that I’m by myself ?”
“Oh, no reason.” She quickly changes the subject. “Anyway, how can I help you?”
“Please call the show and tell them I’ll be in touch soon. I really don’t know how long I’m going to be away. I’ll call when I know more.”
“Done. What else?” Franny was much better with a task list than with anything emotional. Warm and fuzzy isn’t in her DNA.
“Oh shit—I almost forgot,” I say. “There’s a Mr. Martinez, some Public Affairs guy in the hospital, who wants to speak to the press, officially. It seems that they’re all over the place there.”
“Also done. I’ll give Bette a call and she’ll give him a ring. Can you think of anything else?”
“Yes,” I say quietly.
“Shoot.”
“Pray for my mother.”
“Already am, honey. She’s strong. She’ll come through this nightmare. Let me go take care of the press thing. I’ll call you later. Love you.” She hangs up.
My next call is to my Mom’s editor and friend, Tommy, and his partner, Fernando. I dial the phone hoping they won’t be home and that the call will go to voicemail. I love them both dearly, but sometimes they can be a bit overly dramatic—especially Fernando.
“Hello?” Tommy answers.
“Hi, it’s Lily.”
“Oh my God, we’ve been dying here, absolutely dying, waiting to hear what’s going on. We called the hospital three times and they refused to give out any information!” I hear Fernando in the background asking who it is.
“It’s Lily. Sweetie, do you mind if I put you on speaker so Ferny can hear what you’re saying? We’re both distraught.”
“Of course.”
“Hi, Lily, my love.” It’s Fernando.
“Hi, Fernando.” I get them up to speed. As I’m talking, I hear them both start to cry.
“So we’ll know more after the test,” I conclude.
“Who’s there with you?” Tommy asks.
There we go with that question again.
“No one,” I reply.
I swear I hear them both gasp. “No one?” they ask in unison.
“No, why?”
“Well, let’s just say that you don’t like being alone when times are good,” Tommy explains.
I think about that for a moment and realize he’s right. I really don’t like being alone… ever. Not in bad times—not even in good times. I don’t do alone very well.
“Lily, we’re coming to the hospital tonight to be with you. What time are you going to be back there?” Tommy asks.
“Let me call you later. They probably won’t let you in to see her; they’re only letting in immediate family.”
“Well, I’ll say I’m her brother,” Fernando said.
“Me too. We’ll both say we’re her brothers. I’m the younger one,” Tommy chimes in. We all laugh because Tommy is—and looks—ten years older than Fernando. It makes
me feel good to talk to them, because they really do love my mother as if she were a sister.
“Well, if you’re going to say you’re both her brothers, I better not catch you holding hands or kissing. That’s not how we roll in my family!” They laugh.
Then I remember what the doctor asked me to find out. “Tommy, do you know who my mother’s attorney is?”
“Well, the lawyer she uses for all her book contracts is Albert Wadell. Why?”
“The hospital wants a copy of her living will. They want it faxed to the I.C.U. at University Hospital.”
There is silence.
“And they need to know who her…shit…I forgot what the word is. What is it called… it’s the person who will make decisions for her, if she can’t make them for herself,” I explain.
More silence.
I don’t hear anything on the line. Did we get disconnected?
“Tommy, hello, can you hear me—are you there?”
“Her proxy. It’s called a proxy,” he finally says. He sniffles, “I’ll call Albert and see if he knows anything. If he has it, I’ll tell him to fax it.” He takes a deep breath. “Don’t forget to call us when you’re going to the hospital.”
Then Fernando says, “Oh, love—I almost forgot, I got a call from Donna. She’s on standby. She’ll be there either late tonight or early tomorrow. She said she’d text us right before she gets on a flight.”
“Thank you guys. I love you both,” I say it and mean it from the bottom of my heart.
“We love you, too. We know Mom’s going to pull through this with flying colors,” Tommy says.
“She has to,” I say before I hang up.
I go through my list of calls. It’s tedious but I know it’s necessary. I try to keep each call to less than ten minutes, so I can get through the list. After eight calls, I’m ready to throw my phone and then myself off the nearest and highest cliff. I can’t do this anymore! I decide that since God created email, (well, He didn’t actually create email, but he had the forethought to create the people who created it.), it’s a totally acceptable mode of communication. I know Mom would disagree, but truthfully, I’m beyond caring. I’ll finish up the list with a well-written email that contains a full explanation. This way, I avoid—at least for a while—the two reactions I’ve encountered so far:
The Seeds Of A Daisy: The Lily Lockwood Series: Book One (Women's Fiction) Page 8