I feel stupid, stupid, stupid. But like Grams used to say, if you recognize your mistakes, you can always do better. And Jamie Fleming was indeed the biggest mistake of my life.
I bring the boat back and tie it to the dock at 4:30 p.m. Fifteen minutes later, I text Jamie:
Good luck to you and Natalie. Have fun at the spa. Tell her that now not only will her arms and her bed be full—but that she’ll also have her hands full with you. Don’t call me anymore. I will have all your things put in storage and I’ll send you the key. Thanks for the visit. You did me a huge favor!
I am alone in the hospital room with my mother. They just brought her back from taking the scans. The nurse tells me that they hope to get the results early the next day. I place the photos of all of us around the room for her. But her fixed stare has not changed.
I tape the photo of her on the wall behind her bed, so that the doctors and nurses taking care of her will see who she really is, what she really looks like.
I put some lip balm on her chapped lips and rub some skin cream on her arms and legs, all the while talking to her and telling her about my day with Jamie. I want her to know that she was absolutely right about him and that I had been blind to the real Jamie—that in the false Hollywood spotlight and California sun he had appeared to be someone he was not. I add that in the stark light of reality and in the glare of trauma and despair, I had finally seen him for what he truly is: a shallow guy looking for his reflection in everyone else’s eyes.
After I got back from sailing earlier that afternoon, I went online and saw that Jamie had been practically mobbed at the airport coming into JFK the night before. How the hell did all those paparazzi know to be hanging out at JFK when he landed? The answer was glaringly obvious: He had had his publicist spread the word. He turned the visit to be by my side, in my hour of need, into a publicity stunt.
The phone rings. It’s Franny. “Hi, Lily, how’s it going?”
“Hold on, Franny, let me move to a place where I can talk.”
I walk down the hall and into the waiting room. Thankfully, it is empty.
“She’s the same, Franny. Her eyes are staring straight ahead, she’s not moving, not talking. We’ll know more when the scans come back. We have a top neurologist at New York Hospital awaiting the results. Then maybe we can figure out the next steps.”
“I see.” She hesitates. “Listen, I hate to do this to you, but the show wants to know when you’re coming back. They need you for the last two episodes.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I wish I was. You know they do have a schedule and a script. In light of the Emmy nomination, you know they beefed up your part and made you an integral part of the storyline.”
“Franny, I can’t leave now. I’ll know more, probably tomorrow. Can you tell them that?” I ask.
“Of course, sweetie, whatever you need,” she says. She sounds relieved. “You know, you sound different—more calm. Are you on something?”
I laugh. “No, Franny I’m not on anything but a huge dose of reality. I do feel different, maybe more in touch with things than I ever have. I can’t put my finger on it.”
I tell her all about Jamie and the publicity stunt he pulled at the airport.
“He is such a piece of shit,” she says emphatically. Then she laughs. “Bet he was surprised when he got your text.”
“I don’t know, I haven’t heard anything, so I’m assuming that either he didn’t get it yet or he doesn’t know what to say. I told him not to call me anymore. We’ll see…anyway, truthfully, he’s really not important to me. Listen, Franny, I gotta get back to my Mom. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
When I return to my mother’s room, the nurses are in with her and have the curtain pulled around her bed for privacy.
“Can I come in? It’s Lily,” I ask.
“Can you wait, Lily? We’re just turning your mother,” the nurse answers.
I start to walk out of the room, but then I think about what Daisy would do. If it were me lying helpless on that bed, would she walk out the door, or would she want to know everything that was going on? The answer is simple: She’d be right in there, up-close and personal. And she would mow anyone down who stood in her way.
I pull the curtain open just enough to step inside. The two nurses look surprised to see me there. “I said, we’ll be done in a moment,” the dark-haired nurse says, clearly annoyed.
I read their nametags. “Trish and Eden, please get used to me being involved with my mother’s care.”
The nurses have my mother in mid-turn, using the blankets and sheets as a way of lifting and turning her on her side. I look down and gasp. There is a huge, horrible sore on her back.
“What the hell is that?” I point to the open wound.
“When patients are immobile and in bed, their skin starts breaking down and they get bedsores. We’re doing all we can to treat it.”
I calm down. It isn’t going to do my mother any good to antagonize her nurses. I excuse myself, go into the waiting room, and call Tommy. I ask him to go online and look up bedsores: What causes them and what can be done to heal them. I wait. He tells me that on the Mayo Clinic website it says that one of the ways to avoid bedsores is to turn a patient every fifteen minutes, trying not to stretch their skin. I realize that even though there is one nurse to every two patients in the I.C.U., we need extra help.
“Tommy, do me a favor?” I ask. “Please get me round-the-clock nurses for Mom. Can you please find nurses who’ve worked with people in comas before? I want them to start as soon as possible.”
“Wow,” Tommy says.
“Wow, what?”
“You sound exactly like Daisy,” he says.
On the way back to my mother’s room, I stop by the nurses’ station to inform Doris that there will be private nurses coming in to help care for my mother. I make sure to tell say that I don’t want to ruffle anyone’s feathers. I also ask her to look into getting my mother a low-pressure or alternating-pressure air mattress bed. Tommy told me that these mattresses allow blood to flow to all areas on the body to heal bed sores. They circulate airflow to keep the patient dry, preventing moisture buildup and skin breakdown.
“Well, I’m certain I won’t be able to get her one of those. They are few and far between in the hospital,” she says condescendingly.
I give her my best smile, even though I feel like reaching over and smacking that look off her face. “Doris, I have faith in your abilities to be resourceful. I’ve heard amazing things about what you’ve done for your patients,” I tell her convincingly.
She is pleased with the compliment. “Well, I’ll do my best.” I thank her and return to my mother’s room. She is lying on her right side, now that the nurses have arranged pillows on her left side to prop her up. I move my chair as close to her bed as I can and tell her that I’m getting private nurses and a comfortable mattress for her. I open her diary and read aloud:
July 19, 1971 Monday evening
Dear Diary,
Things have been going really well with Steve and me. Even though it’s only been one month since we started going out, I can truly say I love him with my whole heart. Now I understand what people mean when they say their hearts are filled with love. Mine feels that way, it really does. When I’m around Steve that’s how I feel. He and I see each other every day. He’s usually finished with landscaping every day by four o’clock. They start at seven to get most of their work done before it gets too hot. After he’s done, he comes to the stand and helps me with the customers and then helps me close up. Papa likes him now, thank God! I guess because he sees that he really pitches in to help.
Donna will be home in just a few short weeks. I wrote to her all about Steve and she called me and asked me to tell her everything. I told her that when she came home she’d meet him and some of his friends. Some of them are really cute, so who knows? It would be super cool if she fell in love with one of them. Then we could double date all the
time. Life is good. Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.
Daisy xoxoxo
August 1, 1971 Sunday night
Dear Diary,
There’s so much to write about. Unfortunately, between work and seeing Steve, I don’t have much time. But I will tell you something totally embarrassing happened last night.
Steve and I went back to the beach in Hampton Bays. We go there a lot now, it’s our favorite spot. We sometimes walk on the beach and talk and talk and talk. And make out, lots of making out!
Tonight it was pouring, like Mama says, cats and dogs. So we sat in his car with the top up (of course) and the windows closed. We were in the back seat and the sound of the rain on the top of the car made us feel comfy and cozy and away from the rest of the whole wide world. We were making out. I told Steve a while back that I didn’t want to go all the way, but that we could fool around a little.
So we were in the back seat, Steve was on top of me (with his clothes on, of course), my shirt and bra were off and we were making out and things were getting steamy, just like the windows were. All of a sudden someone knocked on the window, hard! Whoever it was shined a flashlight into the back seat. We were all tangled up and I couldn’t find my bra and my shirt. Then the person knocked louder and I found my shirt and threw it on without my bra.
Steve opened the window. Standing there with his raingear was a police officer. Thank God, I didn’t know him.
He looked at us and said, “You kids better be moving on. You can’t park here at night.”
Steve said, “Sure thing, officer.” He jumped in the driver’s seat and we took off. We were laughing so hard, I had to pee. We stopped at The Hampton Grill to use the bathroom and get something to eat. Whew, that was close!
Daisy xoxox
PS. Don’t worry, I found my bra!
“Wow, Mom, this is pretty hot stuff,” I say. I get a déjà vu feeling, and smile. I turn to my mother and say, “Mom, I seem to remember an incident when I was shooting the sitcom New to Jersey. I think I was sixteen or seventeen at the time. Do you remember, I was head over heels in love with that actor who played my brother—Benjamin something. Shit. I forget his name. Anyway, do you remember, Mom? You must’ve been looking for me for an hour. Well, you found me, in Benjamin’s trailer. You knocked on the door and demanded we open it up. We were fully dressed, but you were PISSED.” I laugh. “Boy do I wish I’d had this diary back then. Talk about double standards!” I kiss her on the cheek and put more balm on her lips.
“Okay, Mom,” I say. “I’ll read one more entry and then I’m going to hit the cafeteria for a bite to eat.”
I get a text from Donna telling me she has a last-minute singing gig. She says that even though she won’t be able to get to the hospital, Fernando and Tommy will come by. I continue to read:
August 14, 1971 Saturday
Dear Diary,
Something so awful has happened. The worst thing in the world, as a matter of fact. On Thursday. August 5, the papers carried the lottery for the boys who are going to be drafted for the Vietnam War. The numbers go from one to like three hundred and sixty something. Steve’s birthday is May 24th and it was number sixty! And because he wasn’t able to start college in the fall and had to wait for the winter semester, he is eligible! We found out yesterday that everyone with numbers under ninety five is eligible for the draft!!!! We were both devastated. He has to go into Brooklyn to take the physical, but since he is in perfect condition, I’m sure he’ll be drafted.
We sat at the diner all night tonight, discussing his options. I told him that he should go to Canada and avoid the draft. That I would run away with him. That I didn’t care; I just wanted him to be safe. I cried so much I felt like my heart was going to break.
At this point I stopped reading out loud, in case Mom could understand. This was certainly not what she needed to hear. But I continued to read to myself:
Steve said his father would never forgive him if he left for Canada. That he would label Steve a coward, and that he couldn’t do that to his father. Later on, we sat in his car and held on to each other. I cried so hard that I got his shirt all wet. I will write more when I know what is happening. Tonight I am praying with all my might that Steve can stay home with me.
Daisy xoxoxo
Wow, that was some pretty heavy stuff for a sixteen-year-old. I wonder whatever happened to Steve.
I look at the clock; it’s getting late. I want to grab a bite to eat. I’ll probably be better off in the employee cafeteria on the third floor than in the restaurant in the lobby.
“Mom, I’m going to get something to eat. I’ll be back soon. I love you!” I say, and kiss her.
I stop in at the nurses’ station and ask Trisha if she and Eden could please reposition my mother as soon as possible.
Doris looks up from the chart she’s writing in and says, “Oh Lily, I just heard from housekeeping. They’ll be bringing up your mother’s air mattress bed in about thirty minutes.”
I thank her and tell her that everything good I’d heard about her was right. She absolutely beams at the compliment. I feel good, thinking I handled that exactly the way my mother would have.
As I make my way to the elevator, I remember David Rosen. It would probably be a good idea to see if he’s in his room. Maybe he can shed some light on what happened in the accident.
I get off on the fifth floor and walk straight to his room. It is dark and quiet. The old man isn’t in his bed, but I do see a figure in the other bed, the one next to the window. I walk over quietly and see a guy who is maybe in his early thirties. His face is badly bruised and swollen. It is hard to tell exactly what he looks like normally. Half his face and head are covered in gauze, and both his arms are in casts. He looks pretty messed up.
I approach him and see that he is sleeping, so I stand by his bed for a minute, just watching him. Who the hell is he? I turn around, and start to walk out.
“Who are you?” The voice is very weak. I turn around and walk back to the bed.
“I’m so sorry to bother you—I didn’t mean to wake you up—I’m Lily Lockwood—Daisy’s daughter.”
“Now I can see your face. I recognize you.” He grimaces in pain. It looks like it hurts him to talk. He pushes a button on a wire that I’m sure regulates his morphine. And within a couple of seconds, his eyes glaze over and the tension in his face relaxes.
“I certainly don’t want to bother you; I want to know what happened in the accident, that’s all,” I say.
“How is she? No one will tell me anything,” he asks.
“Well, not too good,” I reply. “She’s in a coma, but she finally opened her eyes yesterday. There’s been brain damage, and they did a bunch of scans today.”
I see his blue eyes fill with tears.
“How do you know Daisy?” I ask softly.
He takes a few seconds and sighs. The morphine must be kicking in, because his eyes roll back and he falls asleep.
I’m awakened on Sunday morning by the sound of gardeners mowing the lawn. The smell of fresh-cut grass permeates the room, and I inhale deeply. I don’t want to get out of bed, not just yet. I put the pillow over my eyes to block out the strong morning sun that floods my mother’s bedroom. I think about everything that happened yesterday: Jamie’s visit; seeing Natalie’s text. It was such a weird coincidence that his cell phone was right there, in front of me, when Nasty Natty’s fateful message came through. Jamie must have gotten my text when he landed in New Mexico, because he’s left me four voicemails denying the whole thing and claiming he has no idea what the text was about—that the text he saw was from the production company telling him they needed him to come back. He even told me to call them to verify his story. Yeah, right! From now on, I plan to delete all his texts and voicemails without reading or listening to them.
Before I left the hospital last night, the first shift of private nurses had already come on duty. I left them detailed instructions about moving my mother
, caring for the bedsores, and creaming her skin. It feels good to know there will be another set of eyes on her at all times.
On my drive home last night, I saw a twenty-four-hour drugstore in Riverhead, and figured it would be a good idea to pick up body lotion for my mother. The brand they had at the hospital smells so medicinal and feels slimy. My mother would hate it. At the drugstore, I was able to buy an all-natural lotion with plenty of vitamin E, aloe, and a great scent.
While I was there, I passed the aisle that had pregnancy tests. I figured what the hell; I might as well buy one. I was sure Auntie D. was right, that going through a shock or trauma can deter your period or cause you to skip the month altogether. I’m sure that’s why I’m late.
I get out of bed, go into the bathroom, take out the home pregnancy test box, and read the instructions. Seems easy enough. All I have to do is pee on the little white wand thingy, and then put it on a flat surface and wait two to three minutes. I took the test once before, last year when I was a few days late. Jamie and I sat there staring at the wand the whole three minutes, waiting to see if it came up with a plus or negative symbol. Thankfully the negative symbol appeared. We were ecstatic and proceeded to celebrate by having a quickie, without a condom, right there on the bathroom floor.
I decide that instead of staring at the wand, I’d use the next three minutes to call my mother’s private nurse. I walk out of the bathroom, making sure to keep my eyes straight ahead to avoid looking at the wand. If the nurse reports that everything is going well, I’ll use the rest of the morning to try to locate the documents Dr. Comb-Over insists upon seeing.
I dial the cell number the agency has given me for the first private nurse.
“Hello?” A voice with a thick Jamaican accent answers.
“Hi, this is Lily. You’re taking care of my mother. I’m just checking to see how she’s doing.”
The Seeds Of A Daisy: The Lily Lockwood Series: Book One (Women's Fiction) Page 16