by Hope Tarr
Standing on her folks’ front porch, Macie was struck by how old her mother seemed. The shrunken woman stepping out onto the stoop didn’t much resemble the fire-and-brimstone-breathing dragon of her childhood or even of her last visit. Then Macie had shown up wearing a corset, black leather pants, and Goth boots, an overboard attempt to shock her parents. It had worked and yet, looking back, it seemed like a lot of wasted energy and effort.
The house, a single-story rambler with a croquet set and clothesline pitched on the front lawn looked pretty much the same as always, but the place no longer struck her as a prison. For the first time in more than a decade, happy memories returned to balance the bad. A truly horrible thing had happened to her here in her hometown, but a lot of pretty nice things had happened here, too—riding her bike for the first time without the training wheels; spending long, lazy summers planted on the front porch, playing flashlight tag and catching fireflies; picking out Pam from the sea of red-faced, squishy-headed newborns in this very hospital’s neonatal nursery and proclaiming her to be “the prettiest baby ever.”
On landing, Macie had gotten her mother’s voice message that Pam had been discharged from the hospital. Grateful for the good news, if somewhat embarrassed at how quick she’d been to assume the worst, Macie had picked up the rental car and driven there directly from the airport. She bent to give her mother a quick kiss on the cheek.
Stepping back, she said, “I told you I was on my way.”
Her mother nodded. “I know you did. I just can’t believe it’s…you.” She held Macie at arm’s length, surveying her with starved eyes. “You look so nice. You look so like…you.”
Beyond pulling her hair into a ponytail and throwing on the first clothes she could find—a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans—and shoving her feet into flat strappy sandals, Macie hadn’t given her appearance much thought. No costume, no subterfuge, no manipulating her face and body to make any sort of statement.
Her mother ushered her inside the small living room. Taking stock of the pea green painted walls, sagging sofa, and faux oak entertainment console, Macie confirmed that not so much as a picture had been moved since her last visit. The observation struck her as strangely comforting. Then again, not everything about home had been bad. Memories of sacking out on that lumpy couch and watching Saturday morning cartoons on the TV’s beveled glass screen came back to her, wrapped up with the aroma of pancakes frying on the griddle. As a kid, Sunday had been the Lord’s Day, but Saturday had been focused on family—and fun.
Turning back to her mother, she asked, “Where’s Dad?”
“He went to the pharmacy to pick up Pam’s prescription. He’ll be back in a bit.”
“Is Pam in her room?”
Her mother nodded. “She’s resting, but when I last looked in, she was awake. By the time the hospital doctor discharged her, you must have already boarded. You came all this way for nothing.”
Tearing up, Macie shook her head. “Not for nothing,”
Her mother scoured a roughened hand across her own damp eyes. “I think knowing you were on your way helped with your sister’s healing. It certainly lifted my heart.” Her face crumpled. “Oh, Martha Jane, I know your father and I didn’t do right by you all those years back, I know that now, but believe me, we love you to the bare bone. And we don’t want to lose you again. Coming so close to losing Pam has made me see how bull-headed and blind I’ve been.”
Tears trickled down Macie’s cheeks. She didn’t bother wiping them. Reminded of how Ross had hugged his daughter after she’d confessed to tampering with his computer, she hesitated and then opened her arms.
“Don’t cry anymore, Momma.” She enfolded her mother in a hug. Intending only to give comfort, she was taken aback by how good having her mother’s arms around her felt after all these years. Drawing back, she said, “We’ll talk more later. Right now, I’d really like to see Pam.”
Her mother nodded. “You go on. I’ll fetch you when Daddy’s back.”
Wiping her eyes, Macie headed to the back of the house where her sister’s bedroom was. The door stood partway open. Before entering, she bolstered herself with a deep breath.
Pausing on the threshold, she called out, “Pammy?”
Pam lay propped up on pillows, her gaze glued to the small TV set atop the dresser, along with several stuffed animal toys. Her wan face was thinner than Macie remembered; the once silky blond hair twisted into snarled dreadlocks and tipped in fuchsia.
Pam shifted her gaze to the door. Her eyes lit. “MJ, you came!”
Macie walked up to the bed. “Of course I came.”
“Momma said you would but I didn’t believe her. You know her and her prayers.” She rolled her eyes.
Just a few weeks ago, Macie likely would have joined her. Instead she said, “Maybe they worked.” Pam scooted over to make room on the mattress, and Macie sat down on the edge.
Reaching out, she touched Pam’s forehead, which felt fever free. “How are you feeling?”
Her sister shrugged. “Not so bad. My throat’s pretty sore from the tubes and stuff and my stomach still hurts, but I’ll live.”
“Yes, you will. You were lucky. The next time you might not be.”
Pam’s smile dimmed. “Who says there’s gonna be a next time?”
“I don’t know, you tell me. Is there?”
Pam shook her head. “Nope.”
“Why’d you do it, Pammy? You weren’t a dumb kid when I left. You’re not dumb now. But what you did, sneaking out like that, was dumb and dumber.”
Pam bit her cracked bottom lip. “Yeah, I know. It’s just so…boring here.”
If Macie had lived closer, if she’d bothered to call more or visit once in a while, she might have steered Pam clear of some of the more serious adolescent pitfalls, warned her off making even one of the many mistakes Macie had. Instead she’d been too hell-bent on pursuing her Big City dreams to take the time, which made her a walking example of the kind of insular, postmodern selfishness Ross railed about on his show. Not for the first time she considered he might have a point.
“Maybe you could come and visit me in New York sometime.”
Pam’s eyes popped. “Could I? Do you think Momma and Daddy would let me?”
Not so very long ago, Macie would have replied no, never in a million years, but having spoken with her mother, she was no longer so certain. Her mother had said she was sorry. If that could happen, almost anything was possible.
“They might. No promises, but I can talk to them about it—provided you absolutely one hundred percent promise me you’ll never pull a stupid stunt like this again.”
Pam’s face lit. She stuck out her hand, the nails bitten to the quick, and grabbed hold of Macie’s. “I promise.”
…
MJ had been gone for a full week—and counting. Beyond a brief phone message letting him know she’d landed and a text message telling him that her sister had been discharged and was taking things easy at home, Ross hadn’t heard from her. When would she be coming back? Would she be coming back? He’d picked up and then set down the fancy red shoe he’d had fixed more times than he cared to count.
An emergency meeting at the station was called, more backlash from the On Top blog post come to bite him in the butt. A rival media outlet of southern Christian conservatives had picked up on the story and was exploiting it to steal sponsors. Caught up in coping with the crisis, Ross lost track of time and blew past lunch, but at least being buried kept him from brooding non-stop about MJ, which was a good thing. The next time he looked up, it was almost seven p.m.
Holy cow, Sam! He was supposed to pick her up from play practice—two hours ago. He grabbed for his cell phone. During the meeting, he’d turned the sound setting to silent, then, like lunch, he’d forgotten about it. Four voice mail messages waited, and he’d bet all of them were from Sam.
4:45 p.m.: “Daddy, it’s me. Practice ended early. You can come and pick me up anytime. ’Bye.”
> 5:15 p.m.: “Dad, not sure where you are but a couple of kids are going for pizza. Since you’re not here yet, I said I’d go. Hope that’s cool with you.”
5:55 p.m.: “Okay, so I’m back from getting pizza, and I still don’t see you anywhere. Sarah Johnson said she’d give me a ride. Guess I’ll see you at home.”
6:56 p.m.: “This is George Washington University Hospital. There’s been a car accident. Your daughter, Samantha Mannon, was transported here by ambulance. She’s regained consciousness, and they’re working on her in the ER now. Please call as soon as you get this message.”
Ross’s breath rushed from his body. Shaking, he punched redial but the nurse or doctor or whoever it was who’d called must have done so from an internal line because the call wouldn’t connect. Shit!
Get a grip, Mannon, and think! He scraped a hand through his hair and for a few seconds focused on simply breathing. The hospital was in the heart of the city in Foggy Bottom. By the time he found the ER direct number and finally got someone on the line, he could be there. That settled it. Grabbing his coat and keys, he raced out.
.
The scenario was one too often repeated among teenagers. Someone from the play practice had gotten hold of some beers, and the cluster of kids parked at the back of the Pizza Hut lot had thrown themselves quite a party. The classmate from whom Sam had accepted the ride was among them. The accident had happened on Rock Creek Parkway at rush hour, the worst possible time. The girl, Sarah, must have nodded off and the car had drifted into the oncoming traffic lane. Sam had reached over to grab the wheel, but it was too late. Fortunately the driver of the other car had seen them and swerved, avoiding a head-on hit. Still, the car was totaled—not that Ross gave a rat’s ass about that.
Sarah had been sent home with minor cuts and bruises and a scary lecture from the police officer assigned to the case. Her license had been confiscated and a court hearing was pending. If Ross were her daddy, the next vehicle she drove would be a donkey cart.
For now, though, all he cared about was Sam. Her injuries were all fixable—a concussion, a broken femur that was going to require surgery, and some pretty dramatic cuts and bruises. Looking up at him from the hospital gurney on which they’d parked her en route to the O.R., she swore, “I didn’t drink, Daddy. I didn’t even know about the beer. By the time I got there, everybody was inside ordering food. Sarah just seemed giggly and sleepy, but I figured it was because she’d pulled an all-nighter for the history paper we had due. You believe me, right?”
Tears dampened his eyes, tears of self-recrimination and reproach, thanksgiving and gratitude. Not bothering to wipe them away, he reached down to stroke her hair, careful to avoid the gash on her forehead the plastic surgeon had just finished stitching.
“Yes, baby, I do. And I only hope you can forgive me, because I sure won’t be forgiving myself anytime soon. Forgetting to pick you up is inexcusable. But that’s not for you to fret about. I want you to focus one hundred percent on getting well.”
An orderly dressed in scrubs and a see-through plastic cap stepped up to them. “Sir, we have to take her now.”
Ross stepped back. “I love you, honey, and I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“I love you too, Daddy.”
Watching them wheel her toward the operating room, he plastered on a smile and waved while his eyes filled with tears. The last time he’d looked on to a similar scene, she’d been about to have her tonsils taken out. Sinking into the plastic waiting room seat, he took a moment to offer up a silent prayer of thanks. It could have gone so very much worse. God, he might have lost her! And just what the hell kind of parent was he? Could there possibly be a bigger hypocrite in all of God’s green earth than Ross Mannon? Publicly he preached the importance of putting family first, but in his private life, he’d fallen sadly short of practicing that ideal. What Sam needed was stability, a real home, and maybe, just maybe, that’s what Ross needed too. More and more of late, he’d come to associate home with MJ.
Sam’s surgery and recovery took just about two hours. They delivered her back to the room, out like a light. Ross held back as the orderlies lifted her from the gurney and laid her on the railed bed.
I’ll never let you down again, baby girl. Never!
Minutes melted into hours. Mulling over the future and slugging down black coffee, Ross lost track. At some point the orthopedic surgeon dropped by to run down the surgery—he’d re-aligned the femur bone and inserted a metal plate and screws—and the post-operative treatment plan.
Around 11 p.m., Sam cracked open an eye. “Daddy?”
Ross rushed to her side. “I’m here, baby girl. How’re you feeling?”
Her groggy gaze settled briefly on his face. “Pretty…okay. Tired. Thirsty.”
He gave her some ice chips, all that she was allowed to have until morning, and she slipped back to sleep.
A night nurse came in to check on her vitals and change out her IV bag, but for the most part they were left alone. A throat being cleared alerted him that their relative peace was about to be broken.
Assuming it must be the nurse again, Ross called out in a high whisper, “She’s so peaceful. Can’t you let her be a little longer?”
From the doorway, a woman’s low voice answered, “I won’t wake her, promise.”
Ross whipped around. MJ stood on the threshold, a wilted version of the woman he’d dropped off at the airport more than a week ago and yet a sight for sore eyes nonetheless. Even sleep-deprived and makeup free, she was beyond beautiful. Feeling as if he’d wished her there, fearing she might fade away at any minute, he bolted to his feet, nearly spilling the contents of the Styrofoam cup down his shirt.
She shifted her gaze to the bed and whispered, “How’s our girl?” He gave the thumb-up sign, and she crept toward the bed. Reaching over the rail, she gently drew up the covers Sam’s good leg had kicked off. Looking on, Ross felt his heart turn over and the last of his resistance chip away.
He’d known he had feelings for MJ, strong feelings, but feelings of any degree suddenly seemed far too tepid a descriptor. What he had for MJ was love, honest to goodness love, and as inconvenient as that was and might yet prove to be, he was finally ready to stop fighting it and simply surrender.
She backed up from the bed and turned to him, her gaze still not quite meeting his. Foreboding descended, fisting him in the gut. He set the cup down on the faux wood grain tabletop and signed for her to follow him out into the hallway.
Stepping away from the open door, he filled her in on the details. “Her left leg’s pretty busted up—complex fracture of the ankle and a broken femur—but the surgery went great. Once the cast comes off, she’ll need some physical therapy, but the orthopedist feels she should heal just fine. Right now the plan is to keep her here for another forty-eight hours and then discharge her.”
“That’s great news.” MJ blew out a breath. “When the doorman told me what had happened, I imagined the worst.”
“It almost was worse, a lot worse.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “If that other car hadn’t seen them in time to swerve, if the passenger side airbag hadn’t inflated, she probably wouldn’t be here right now.”
MJ reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t torture yourself. The other driver did see them, the airbag did inflate, and she’s here and she’s going to be fine.”
He nodded. “No thanks to me.” He hadn’t meant to burden MJ but before he knew it, he was confessing everything, from the silenced cell phone and missed messages to being a no-show at the school pickup. “No wonder she doesn’t trust a damn thing I say,” he ended miserably.
“That’s not true,” MJ said firmly.
Switching the subject, he asked, “How’s your sister?”
“She’s still taking things easy at home and swearing she’ll never sneak out again. Here’s hoping.”
“How are you?” Not for the first time since she’d turned up, he noted the dark hollows beneath
her eyes. For someone who’d ultimately gotten good news, she still seemed pretty stressed out.
Her gaze shuttered. “I’m okay, happy not to be sitting on a plane for sure. Despite the circumstances, visiting my folks was…cathartic.”
Wondering what she meant by that, he said, “You should go get some sleep. You can visit Sam tomorrow when you’re both awake.”
That she didn’t argue further demonstrated that she was dragging on her feet. “Okay, if you’re sure.” She turned to go.
He started after her. “Hold up, I’m driving you.”
Looking back, she waved him off. “Thanks, but I’m a big girl and a New Yorker. I take cabs all the time. In fact, I took one here.”
That might be, but Ross wasn’t budging. “It’s almost one in the morning and this isn’t New York. My car’s right here in the hospital garage. You’ll be doing me a favor. I could stand getting out of here for a while.”
She hesitated for a few seconds before giving way. “Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I am.”
Walking with him to the elevator bank, she remarked, “You look like you could use some sleep yourself.”
He snorted. “Other than feeling like the worst parent on the planet, I’m raring to go.”
She reached over and laid a hand on his forearm, the shirtsleeve rolled up to his elbow. Now that his parental panic had subsided, her fingers on his flesh set off a trail of tingling.
“Ross, how many times must I say this? It wasn’t your fault.”
“Bull crap, it was entirely my fault. The whole reason she was in that car was because I missed picking her up. I left my own kid stranded and at the mercy of a drunk driver. Father of the Year, I’m not.”
The elevator doors opened. He held back for her to enter, and then stepped inside, hesitating over which garage floor to push. When he’d parked, he’d been half crazed, not knowing how badly Sam was hurt. Digging into his pants pocket, he found his parking stub and pulled it out. The second level, he remembered now. He punched the button for two and the elevator began its descent.
The doors opened again, and they stepped out. The garage, which had been filled almost to capacity when he’d arrived, was nearly deserted, making his Ford Explorer easy to find. He pulled out his keys, clicked the unlock button, and opened the passenger’s side door.