“I’ll see if I can get in touch with Derrick,” Brian says. “But for reasons I’m not yet ready to explain, Jazz is better off here with you.”
Opal’s fingers brush against my arm. “And you’re not going to break her, sweetheart. She adores you. It might do her good to be away from her mama for a while.”
“Are you aware Naomi has a drinking problem?” I watch closely for their response. Surprise and confusion cross their faces.
“She’s certainly never missed work because of it,” Brian says. “Perhaps this is a recent development. She’s had a difficult few years.”
“I’ve never seen any evidence of it,” Opal says. “Good for her for getting help.”
“If she’s actually getting help,” I say. “I wouldn’t put it past Naomi to be in the Caribbean sipping a pina colada right now. How long do you think she’ll be gone? And what will happen to Jazz if she never comes back?”
“Why don’t we take it one day at a time,” Brian says.
Shoulders slumped, I stare at the ground. “Being without a driver’s license will present some challenges.”
“I will help you in any way,” Opal says.
“Same goes for me,” Brian adds. “All you have to do is ask.”
Jazz is overjoyed when I inform her that her mother has gone out of town, and she’ll be staying with me for a while. Opal helps us move Jazz’s things to the cottage. She has only a few articles of clothing, most of which need laundering.
“Mommy only let me bring what would fit in my suitcase,” Jazz explains.
Opal takes us to run errands. At Target, I send Jazz into the dressing room with an armful of dresses, shorts, and tops. She looks cute in everything, so I buy most of it. We locate flip-flops and tennis shoes in her size, and she picks out a tie-dyed bikini in shades of blues and reds and yellows. As an afterthought, we stop by the sporting goods department for inflatable floats and two pairs of goggles. We pile a second basket high with healthy options from the grocery section.
Opal is visibly exhausted by the time we unpack our purchases at the cottage. “You’ve outdone yourself, Opal. Go home and rest.”
She doesn’t argue. “I can come back in the morning to help with Jazz.”
“That would be great. I have a staff meeting at nine and the decorators from Richmond will be here at ten. Jazz will be much happier outside with you than stuck in the office with adults talking business.”
“We’ll have a jolly old time.” She pats Jazz’s head. “I’ll be here at eight.”
I discover a gas grill in the attached toolshed behind the cottage and grill chicken breasts for sandwiches for lunch. Afterward, we put on our bathing suits, blow up our floats, and take them down to the lake. Positioning her goggles over her eyes, Jazz jumps off the pier and swims around in circles like a little tadpole. While she dives for fish, I stretch out on one of the floats with my face tilted to the warm sun. When she exhausts herself, Jazz climbs onto her raft and bobs in the water alongside me.
After a few minutes, she says, “You know what the farm needs?”
“What does the farm need, Jazzy?”
“A swimming pool.”
“Hmm.” I pretend to consider her idea, although I’ve long since decided to incorporate an outdoor pool into the spa facility. “You know, you’re right. We do need a pool. I’ll get to work on it right away.” I manage to roll over onto my stomach without falling off. “Tell me about your daddy, Jazz. What’s he like?”
Jazz scrunches up her face. “He’s boring. All he does is watch football and fight with Mommy.”
“The fighting must have been scary for you.”
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” she says, looking away from me.
“I understand, sweetheart.” I finger a tear off her cheek. “But, if you ever do feel like talking about it, you can come to me.”
She nods, her chin quivering.
We swim for nearly two hours. Then, changing into dry clothes, we go for a trail walk in the farm’s wooded area.
Our evening is uneventful. I make pasta with red sauce for dinner, and after tucking Jazz in around eight, I stay up late doing laundry. Exhausted, I finally climb into bed a few minutes before midnight. If Jazz kicks me in my sleep, I’m not aware of it.
The ringing of my phone wakes me the following morning. I answer, my voice groggy from sleep. It’s Opal, calling to say she’s sick and won’t be able to watch Jazz after all. “I’m so sorry, Stella. I know you were counting on me, but I think I may have the flu.”
“But it’s not flu season.” I don’t say what I’m thinking—that a more serious medical condition is causing her fatigue and achiness. “I think you should go see your doctor.”
“I’ll be fine,” she says, but even Opal sounds unconvinced.
The bedside table clock catches my attention. I forgot to set my alarm, and it’s already ten minutes past eight.
“I’ll check on you this afternoon,” I say to Opal. “In the meantime, get some rest.”
I shake Jazz awake. “We overslept, sweetie. I have a meeting at nine. We need to hurry.”
I’m frazzled by the time I get both of us dressed and fed and over to the carriage house. My team has already started our meeting when we arrive ten minutes late. I settle Jazz in the corner of the room with a coloring book and crayons and join the others at the table.
I don’t think Jazz is listening, but I lower my voice just in case. “I’m so sorry. Who knew that taking care of a kid was such hard work.”
“Where’s Naomi?” Cecily asks.
“She had to go out of town unexpectedly. Jazz is staying with me for a while. I feel sorry for the poor kid. I have back-to-back meetings all week long. How am I supposed to keep her entertained? Naomi didn’t think to leave us her iPad.”
“I may have a solution for you.” Katherine pulls out a pink flyer and pushes it toward me. “I ran into my across-the-street neighbor on my way to the farm this morning. She’s an adorable sixteen-year-old with a ton of energy. She’s hosting a backyard camp for little girls this week. She still has a couple of openings and asked if I knew anyone who might be interested.”
I scan the flyer. The camp runs every day this week from nine until two. Lunch is included, and the cost is a hundred dollars. “This sounds perfect, but how do we know this girl is responsible?”
Katherine points to a list of names at the bottom of the flyer. “There are three counselors, actually. Leigh is my neighbor I mentioned. I don’t know her all that well, but I’ve met her parents. They seem nice enough. Why don’t you give her a call? You can put her through the inquisition.”
“I’ll do that. Continue the meeting without me. I’ll be right back.” Rising from the table, I take my phone and the flyer into the kitchen.
Leigh answers on the first ring. I explain who I am, and she tells me a little about the camp. “We have ten other little girls ranging in age from five to eight,” she says, and I can hear the children squealing in the background. “We’ve planned crafts and games and other outdoor activities. She’ll have a blast. I promise. This is my second year doing this camp. If it makes you feel better, my mother is on standby if we need an adult. I’m a certified lifeguard and one of the other counselors is a volunteer EMT.”
“That seals the deal,” I say. “I’ll bring Jazz over right away.”
“Awesome. We have plenty of sunscreen but be sure she brings her bathing suit.”
I return to the lounge. “I owe you one for this, Katherine. Your neighbor knows more about kids than I do. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to leave now in order to walk her over and be back before the decorators arrive.”
“You stay here,” Katherine says, already on her feet. “I’ll take Jazz in my truck. I don’t have much to report today anyway. I’m working on a comprehensive landscape plan. I’ll have it ready for you next week.”
“You’re a lifesaver.”
Jazz is ecstatic when I tell her about the camp, and she practically dra
gs Katherine out the door. “Don’t forget to stop by the cottage for your bathing suit,” I call after them.
Cecily waits for them to leave before asking, “What are you not telling us about Naomi’s impromptu trip?”
I debate how much to say. But I’m likely to need their support and understanding in the weeks ahead if Naomi stays gone a long time. “Naomi got pass-out drunk on Saturday, and Jazz spent the night with me. On Sunday morning, I found Jazz’s car seat and a note from Naomi on my front porch. She claims she’s getting help for emotional problems. I have no idea when’s she’s coming back.”
I risk a glance at Jack, who hasn’t said a word since I arrived. Is that sympathy I see in his expression? I open a file folder in front of me. “Anyway, let’s move on with business.”
The week flies by. I meet with all our major vendors, but as the various components of the project begin to take shape, I’m faced with making an overwhelming number of decisions. I come to the conclusion that I am not a detail-oriented person and look to the professionals to provide input.
Jazz adores camp. She has girl crushes on her counselors and talks nonstop about her new friends. Based on a tip from one of the other moms, I sign Jazz up for a bible school and day camp at the local YMCA for later in the summer. For the coming weeks, I schedule private lessons with Jazz’s ballet instructor and sessions with Ellen, the reading tutor Candice from the library told me about.
We receive no word from Naomi. When Powers calls me Wednesday afternoon, he says, “According to his coworker, Derrick will be out on vacation for the next two weeks. No one in the office seems to know where he’s gone. At least they’re not saying. They know who I am and understand my association with Derrick’s estranged wife.”
“Thanks for the update.”
Jazz is tired in the afternoons when she comes home from camp. She’s content to chill out in the cottage, watching a movie in the living room while I work at the kitchen table. Late Friday afternoon, we’re in our respective places when we have our first disagreement.
Jazz calls to me from the sofa, “Can we go out to dinner, Stella?”
“Not tonight, kiddo. I’m exhausted.”
I hear a thud, followed by the pitter-patter of little feet on the floor. She appears in the doorway. “What’re we gonna eat, then?”
I glance at the stove clock. It’s almost six o’clock. Time to think about dinner even though I’m not the slightest bit hungry. What is it with growing kids? They’re in constant need of food—frequent snacks and three square meals a day. I don’t need to check the refrigerator. There’s nothing meal-worthy in there. I should’ve asked Cecily or Katherine to drive me to the store. Life is so much easier in New York, where you can get anywhere either on foot or by subway, bus, or Uber.
“Why don’t we order a pizza?” I suggest.
She stomps her foot. “I don’t like pizza!”
I smile at her, even though she’s trying my patience. “Of course you do. Everyone loves pizza.”
She folds her arms and pouts. “Not me! I hate pizza! I want to go out to dinner.”
Her petulance pushes me over the edge. What an ungrateful brat. I’ve been catering to her every whim all week, and she’s not even my kid. I raise an eyebrow at her. “We don’t use the word hate in this house. And since you dislike pizza so much, I’ll eat a bowl of cereal and you can fix your own dinner.”
Jazz storms out of the room, and seconds later, I hear the bedroom door slam.
I work for another hour, and when I go check on her, she’s sound asleep. I plan to fix grilled cheeses for dinner, and I debate whether to wake her to eat, but I decide she needs her rest. When I lean down to kiss her cheek, I see that her pillow is wet with tears. Guilt hits me like a ton of bricks, and I punish myself by skipping dinner altogether. I wake up with a rumbling belly on Saturday morning. Jazz wakes up with a fever.
Nineteen
Jazz’s skin is hot to the touch, even though she’s shivering from chills. I wrap the comforter tight around her. “Where does it hurt, Jazzy?”
Through chattering teeth, she says, “Everywhere. I want my mommy.”
“I know you do, sweetheart. But I’m going to take good care of you.”
I force a smile to hide my concern. I have no clue what to do. Google will tell me. Grabbing my laptop, I search for treating a child with a fever. One prominent medical website says medication isn’t needed for an otherwise healthy child, which I have to assume Jazz is since I don’t know her medical history. Another website says, for a fever below 102, to make sure the child gets lots of rest and drinks plenty of fluids. I don’t have a thermometer, and no way to get one without walking to the store. Surely there’s something I can do right now. I read on. If the child is uncomfortable, give her Tylenol or Advil. Yes! I have Advil.
I retrieve my bottle from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. My heart sinks when I read the label. It says for ages twelve and younger to call a doctor. What to do? I can’t call Opal. She’s still sick. I text Cecily and Katherine, to see if either of them is available to run to the store. Both respond immediately that they are out of town for the weekend. I consider calling Jack and Brian, but I’m not that desperate yet. I cut an Advil tablet in half, nearly severing my finger in the process. When Jazz refuses to swallow it, I pound it with my hardback library book, breaking it into pieces and mixing the pieces with a tablespoon of peanut butter. The kid who loves peanut butter turns up her nose, but at my insistence, she gives the spoon a lick. Thirty minutes later, she’s back to normal, begging me to take her swimming in the lake.
“No way, kiddo. You’re sick. Just because your fever is gone, it doesn’t mean you’re completely recovered.”
“Yes, it does,” she says, planting a hand on her hip. “I get fevers all the time.”
So, she’s not an otherwise healthy child. “What does your mommy do when you get sick?”
“She gives me medicine. Please! If we can’t go swimming, can we at least go for a bike ride?”
I think about my nearly empty refrigerator. What am I going to feed this kid? She skipped dinner last night. Isn’t she hungry? Why isn’t she asking for food?
“I’ll make a deal with you, Jazzy. If you’ll walk with me to the market, we’ll pack a picnic and go for a short bike ride.”
“Deal,” she says and gives her fanny a sassy shake.
Jazz and I stroll to the store. To avoid contaminating the other customers, we purchase only the bare necessities, including a bottle of children’s Advil and a digital thermometer. At home, after putting away the other groceries, I throw together a simple picnic of ham sandwiches, apple slices, and chocolate chip cookies.
When I ordered forty bikes from Allen—twenty for adults and twenty for kids—he gave Jazz and me our two favorites for free. We ride our bikes down to the lake and set up our picnic in the shade of Opal’s tree. Even though she insists that she feels fine, Jazz hardly touches her lunch, and instead of dancing or tumbling across the grass, she lies beside me on the blanket while I read to her.
Sprinkles drive us back to the cottage, and a heavier rain sets in for the afternoon. Jazz and I camp out on the sofa with a bowl of popcorn for a movie marathon.
Her fever returns around dinnertime—a thermometer reading of 102—and she chokes down the grape-flavored Advil liquid.
I reheat the homemade chicken soup I bought at the market, but she refuses to eat it. “Let’s put your pajamas on and get you into bed.”
“No! I want to stay with you.” And so we cuddle under my comforter on the sofa, watching yet another movie.
When Jazz drifts off, I carry her to bed. She still feels warm to the touch, but according to the dosage instruction, I can’t give her more medicine for at least another four hours. I change into my pajamas and crawl into bed beside her with my library book. I doze off around nine. Jazz wakes me two hours later when she projectile vomits all over the bed. She’s crying hysterically, and I don’t need a thermometer t
o tell me she’s burning up with fever. I lift her off the bed and carry her into the bathroom, setting her down on the marble floor in front of the toilet.
Rocking back and forth on her knees, her hands pressed against her head, she wails, “It hurts so bad.”
“What hurts, sweetheart?”
“My head.”
“Hang on. We’re gonna get you some help,” I say as I clean her face and hands with a washcloth. My mind races. What to do? But there is only one thing I can do. I need to take her to the hospital. “Stay right here by the toilet, Jazzy, in case you get sick again. I’ll be right back.”
Jazz’s pajamas were spared, but mine are covered in puke. Changing into jeans and a clean T-shirt, I strip the bed linens and take the bundle to the laundry closet in the kitchen. Not bothering with the car seat, which is sitting in the middle of the living room floor from when Katherine brought Jazz home from camp on Friday, I wrap her in a fleece blanket, grab my purse, and carry her out to Billy’s Jeep. Buckling Jazz into the back seat, I climb behind the wheel and speed off, careening around the corner of the main building.
Although I’ve never driven on public roads before, I’ve ridden in plenty of cars, and I’m on autopilot as I cruise down Main Street. I ask Siri to direct me to the nearest hospital, but Jazz is sobbing too loud for me to hear.
“I need you to stop crying, Jazz,” I say in a stern voice. “I can’t hear the directions.”
She lowers the volume a decibel. When we arrive at the hospital five minutes later, as I’m getting her out of the car, she pukes all down my back. I can feel the warm dampness from my saturated T-shirt against my skin.
The emergency room is packed with people of all ages in varying degrees of Saturday night drunkenness seeking medical attention. Fortunately, there is no one waiting at the check-in desk.
“I have a sick child,” I say to the receptionist. “She needs to see a doctor.”
The young woman’s beautiful face is distorted with meanness. “Is she your child?” I interpret the insinuation in her tone to mean she has a problem with mixed race couples.
Dream Big, Stella! Page 14