It was still a little scary to drive the highways by herself, but she had somewhere to go. She had to go see Emma Foley. She had a feeling about Emma Foley. She could be the turning point in Turner’s search.
19
She’s Not You
Paris’s fax machine made some beeping noises and dumped out a pile of papers. Paris caught them and read for a few minutes.
“Yippee! We did it.”
Millie looked up as Paris waved a bundle of papers in the air.
“We got it, Millie. The offer was accepted, our agent drew up the papers, they got their big fat check, and we can move in as soon as we can get our asses over there. It’s the Desert Rose, remember? I loved it, you loved it. Look—look, here’s the floor plan. It’s got a bonus room on the first floor, just steps away from the kitchen. That will be great for Turner. And look here, there’s an office over here. He can set up shop for counseling clients and work right from home.” Paris was obviously excited.
Millie set down a puzzle piece on the small table beside her and got up from her chair to grab the paper from Paris. “Yup, I remember this one. Wow, you bought it. You bought it without showing Turner. Hmm, aren’t we sort of reordering his life? I know we are brilliant and all females know best, but maybe we should have asked him about that?”
“I did show him. This was one of three I showed him, and he turned green and said it was terrific, but blah blah blah and something about money. I stopped paying attention after ‘this is terrific.’” Paris groaned as she shifted herself around in the bed. “Augh. Could these two get any bigger? What did they do, invite a few friends in?”
“They’re having a baby convention. They told me all about it.”
“They talked to you through the walls of my body?”
“Sure they did. I talk to them all the time. Hey, wow, I did like this one too. Oh, look, this is the one with the granny suite with its own bathroom and closet and wet bar. Now that’s a great plan. A wet bar in my bedroom.”
“I think they intend that to be a breakfast station, not a get-drunk-on-your-ass-before-noon station,” Paris smirked at her.
“Speak for yourself. Spring Valley. Sounds very pretty.”
“This is the neighborhood with the nice school district and a park built right into the development.”
“It’s swell.”
“I can’t believe how much house you can get around here for a measly mil. It’s a freakin’ palace. There’s a golf course across the road too. Maybe Turner can golf. We should get in there as soon as possible. Jenifer Shipley is dropping the keys by tomorrow. It’s amazing what a little money can do. We’ll hire a couple of cute moving guys to cart all our stuff over there and set up house. Would you be willing to oversee things until these two decide to come out and play?”
“It’s a very nice neighborhood. I’m going to love lunching at the clubhouse with all my gal pals and showing off the twins. I’d have thought a New Yorker like yourself would do the downtown condo thing, not the old suburban two-cats in the yard deal.”
“It’s not for me. It’s for them,” Paris said quietly.
Millie watched Paris’s face carefully for signs of getting a grip. Millie had been doing hunky stars jigsaw puzzles and watching soaps with Paris for months now, and she knew that Paris had made a whole lot of progress in the decent human being department. Why, the woman just asked if she was willing to take charge instead of ordering her to.
But not much progress had been made in the stick around and be a mom department. Millie just couldn’t understand how Paris could get this far, with babies kicking around in her, and not have an about-face. From everything Millie had seen—and that was a whole lot—Paris would never be able to make the break once she gave birth to those precious babies. So why couldn’t she just say so?
Just take the buckets she’d cried over some soap opera scene where the woman gave up her baby to the father. Paris could say all she wanted; and she still said she was giving them to Turner, but that was her head talking, not her heart.
Sometimes Millie just wanted to slap her. Like about twice a day.
But the house thing. That was hopeful. They’d scoured all the new developments in a wide radius from the Graceland Chapel and found some pretty good houses. They’d almost made an offer on one, but Paris had decided that wasn’t good enough.
This must be the hundredth floor plan Millie had looked at, and she had to give it to Paris, this one was perfect. She’d thought of everything. This house had room for Sarah, for Turner, for old Millie and her Siamese cat collection, room for twin babies to grow and play, room for everyone but Paris. Millie stared at the plan for a long time.
She looked up and watched Paris staring at her own copy of the floor plan and exterior picture. Millie could see that Paris was imagining her life in that house. She had a faraway look as she studied the paper.
She’d seen her do this before. First the look, then Paris would get mad. She’d find something—lunch or the television or the computer—to yell at. And sometimes Millie had seen a few hot tears roll down Paris’s cheeks.
Millie knew Turner had a plan, and he’d been working on it for a long time now. She’d listened at the door to him talking to Paris about what their babies’ lives were going to be like. He’d decided to only do private counseling and a few weddings at the chapel before the children were old enough for school. He’d told Paris that he was preparing for that with his associate, Reverend Danny Vernon, so everything was ready to go. Of course since he owned the chapel, he’d bring in an income from all events there.
But Millie knew Turner had something up his sleeve, and she knew Sarah did too. She just wasn’t sure whether Sarah’s sleeve was a good one or a bad one.
Well, they better get into the house fast. Millie had been shifting Paris’s baby purchases around for months now, all still in their boxes and wraps. She was getting a little tired of winding her way around boxes of fancy baby baskets and imported strollers—from Sweden yet. Paris had told her these Emmaljunga ones were the best. Then her friends Marla and Anton had been sending scads of boxes of tiny baby clothes. Girl clothes. They knew now it was two girls.
She and Paris had really had a blast opening things. Marla had a bent toward frilly, impractical bonnets and dresses. Anton was pretty darned creative—he kept sending bright-colored light knit outfits that those babies could really use here in Las Vegas. And they had all sent the cutest baby shoes she’d ever laid eyes on. Italian shoes for babies. Paris had ordered two of each style in each size that would last till the little darlings were at least age three.
Obviously Paris was overcompensating for the impending desertion of her two children.
Millie had never had children, but her sister had, and she’d held her sister’s babies and watched them, and there was no way Paris was going to be able to leave. Sometimes it was right for a woman to let her child go to a better life. But this time wasn’t one of them.
Okay, here it comes, Millie thought. Time to duck and run.
Paris threw the paper on the floor beside the bed with an angry movement. “Millie, this tea is like rancid, and it’s freezing cold in here. Can’t you crank up the heat? It’s winter, you know.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Millie curtseyed.
“I’m not royal.”
“You are acting like a tyrant queen.”
“Am not,” Paris said. She crossed her arms and sat against the pillow like a crazy redheaded queen.
Millie half expected her to shout Off with her head!
Come to think of it, Millie was feeling a whole lot like that white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. We’re late, we’re late, for Paris’s due date! Well they weren’t late, but Paris was huge. Millie couldn’t believe she’d made it past week thirty-five. Neither could the doctor, who visited once a week now. He’d wanted to put Paris in the hospital for the last week, but she’d stubbornly refused. She’d said an aide car could make it there in thirty seconds, and the
re was no reason to waste the money in that stinking, horrid hospital. She’d said her babies were better off at home.
The doctor had to agree. Paris had done such a great job of staying off her feet and taking care of herself that all of the danger had passed. But the doctor had said he didn’t want to take any chances. After all, we were on the home stretch now.
Millie yawned loudly to express her opinion and picked up Paris’s iced tea glass. “I’ll bring you water. It’s late. You should go to sleep now.”
She left the room quietly while Paris undoubtedly had the remainder of her fit about not living in the beautiful house she’d finally chosen to raise her children in.
Millie had left her own copy of the house plans on the bed where Paris could reach it, just in case she wanted to have her stupid circular thoughts all over again. Millie figured that after the thousandth time of convincing herself she would only make her children’s life miserable, Paris might get tired of it.
Of course the whole show they’d watched on Oprah about postpartum psychosis hadn’t helped at all. It was tragic and horrible, and as far as Millie was concerned the doctors should be horse-whipped for not paying attention to their patients and checking up on every single mother they delivered. Doctors were all idiots as far as she was concerned.
Even the books that Turner had gotten from the baby doc had said there were ways to fix this if people paid attention—if doctors paid attention.
And Paris seemed to be oblivious to the fact that Millie was planning on being there for every single moment of those babies’ birth and life after birth. If anything was going to stir up in Paris, Millie would be there to make sure she got help. Paris was so stuck in her own head that she just couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. Turner better get her fixed fast. This big ol’ white rabbit was getting very scared.
Turner closed the door quietly and headed toward his former room to check on his very pregnant house guest. He twisted himself sideways through a pile of boxes containing baby equipment—two of everything. He better start putting some of this stuff together. Monday was his day off, so tomorrow he would round up some tools and put all these swings, high chairs, bassinet, playpens, car seats, and bath things together. It was damn scary to think two babies needed all this stuff.
It was hard to believe the amount of trouble one woman could get into from her bed. Well, his bed. Well, it used to be his bed. Now it was transformed into Paris central. She had a swing-over desk with the laptop Marla had sent her. She had files on a standing rack, and some sort of mini-office contraption. She had a remote pocket, which Millie had designed to hold all the VCR, music, and television remotes beside the bed.
He turned the knob of the bedroom and cracked the door open enough to see if Paris was sleeping. A sliver of light illuminated the room.
She was. She looked like Sleeping Beauty. Her red hair was tangled in curls all over the pillow. She had on some sort of pale green silk nightgown that looked beautiful on her. She must have fallen asleep with some stapled-together papers in her hand, and they were about to fall off the bed.
Turner slipped inside the shadowy room and gently removed the papers from her hand. As he looked down at her face, he was amazed at the peacefulness he saw there. He hoped her dreams were good. He leaned over and kissed her forehead softly.
He was in love with his wife. He loved her spirit, wounded as it was. He imagined that if she could heal enough to let in the joy and love he had to offer her, she would turn that intensity to devotion. He could see that she would be a fierce and amazing mother. She had so much to share—her energy sparkled like a sky full of fireworks when she was happy. He’d seen it before. When they were young, she had filled his life with magic. Now it was a deeper, more amazing magic.
Over the last few months they’d had conversations about how she saw her children’s lives evolving. Her imagination and her positive nature had bubbled to the top, overshadowing the fear and anger that sometimes posessed her. He loved to see her like that.
She stirred, and Turner stepped back from her bedside, into the shadows. He didn’t want to disturb her, with the small amounts of sleep she was getting lately.
He wished he had something to tell her. He was almost ready. But he had to be sure it was the right thing to do.
Goodnight, Paris. He slipped out the door. Everyone must be sleeping. But he wasn’t sure whether Sarah was in or out.
He wove between the boxes to the kitchen table. Millie had made a sheet cake that was sitting in the pan, one square removed. It looked like carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. Millie baked when she was riled about something. Probably Paris.
The papers he’d taken from Paris were still in his hand. He sat down at the table and looked them over. It was the floor plan and exterior elevation of a house. A very grand house, grander than anything he could afford. Six thousand square feet. Wow. He pressed his hand to his forehead.
He was going to have to have a long talk with her about this. He knew it was for her children, but they were married, so she should discuss it with him.
Except they weren’t really married. She had no idea about his finances, he had no idea about hers. They operated independently. He paid the chapel bills, and some groceries, but lately Paris had taken to having loads of groceries delivered on her own credit card. He paid the rent, he found out she’d already paid it. Then she buys a million-dollar house on a golf course…with a park…near schools. He read all the amenities on page two while he ranted in his head about his manhood.
After the floor plan and elevation was a letter from that real estate lady who’d visited Paris about twenty times in the last months. From what he read in the letter, it looked to him as if Paris had put escrow money down on the house and that it had been accepted.
He remembered that this house had been on her final three list, which he’d actually been shown and had commented on but tried to avoid talking about since he was unable to face the fact that his wife might buy him a house. Correction. She was buying it for her children, in reality.
The sound of a key in the front door made Turner shift his gaze. Sarah came in and closed and locked the door behind her. She set down her bag and took off her coat.
“Hey, Turner. I thought you might be up,” she said.
“Millie has been baking again. Want a piece of cake?” Turner put the papers he’d been reading down on the table.
“Actually, I’d love one. With a glass of milk.” She walked into the kitchen and poured two glasses of milk, then came over to the table and sat down next to him. There were paper plates, napkins, and forks already on the table, as if Millie had been expecting them. Sarah cut a piece of cake for each of them and handed one over to Turner. “This baking of hers is going to catch up with us one of these days.”
“I know this is so, yet I keep hoping that day doesn’t come.” Turner took a bite of the carrot cake. “Mmmm.”
“I’m glad you’re up. I wanted to talk to you.”
“How was your shift? Did you get to do anything fun, or are you still on bedpan duty?”
“I was filing in the basement archives. I guess when I finish my second year I can move up to taking temperatures and sticking poor unsuspecting children with immunizations.” Sarah took a bite of her cake and drank her milk.
“You’ll have your LPN pretty soon, won’t you?”
“One more semester. It’s good I started in the summer, and that I had my college requirements out of the way. All that cyber college learning came in handy.”
“Then what?”
“Slightly less than three years to complete my RN degree.”
“That’s not bad.” Turner pushed his empty plate away. He must have been hungry. The burger he’d wolfed down before chapel services hadn’t done much for him except remind him that it would be nice to get one of Millie’s home-cooked meals again.
Sarah pushed her empty cake plate aside as well. “Turner, I have something to tell you. I know y
ou’re going to be mad, but I think I found a way to help you with Paris.”
“Why am I going to be mad?” Turner looked at Sarah’s slightly pink face.
“Because I read the file you have on Paris’s family.” Sarah lowered her voice to a whisper. “I know you are trying to find her mother. That she might not be dead.”
It took quite a bit to shock Turner, but he felt a rush of surprise to think that Sarah had unlocked his desk and gone into his papers. He was surprised to find out she even possessed a devious side. He didn’t know what to say.
“I know, I know. Bad me for going through your papers. I’d explain it all to you, but right now I think it’s more important that we work together. I know you want Paris to heal some of those old wounds. I know that would make you happy.”
“Sarah, I’m so surprised at you I can’t even think. That was private.”
“Well, I guess I cracked.”
“I guess.” Turner leaned over to speak quietly. “I hope you haven’t discussed this with anyone else. I can’t even tell you how private a person Paris is.”
“No, I haven’t. Now listen. I found something. I took the search on a different angle than you did.” Sarah rose from her chair and walked to the front door. Turner saw her take something out of her tote bag and come back to the table.
“Look at this. I’ve heard so many stories from all the old nurses, I thought maybe if we could find one that worked in Harmond while Lucille Jamison was there, we could get some information. I tracked down five nurses. Some have died, or moved, one just wasn’t too keen on talking. That leaves this lady—Emma Foley. I thought we could call her tomorrow and maybe go see her.”
Turner read through the information Sarah had compiled. “Where did you get this?”
“I went to Harmond and got the records clerk to give me a list of names of nurses that worked there during that time. I’ve been tracking them down since then. The address was old, but I found her in the hospital visiting nurse records. I have a good feeling about her. Can you go tomorrow?”
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