I burst out laughing, but Eleanor shouted a defiant, “No. Not until you’re married. And have your degree.”
“Can I hold Jude then?”
“Sure.” I scooted over to make room for her on the couch.
She sat beside me, and I carefully transferred the baby to her arms.
“Don’t you just love him so much, Aunt Autumn?” she asked, smiling up at me.
I returned her smile. “I do.”
*
That night, Kyle stayed at the hospital since he was on call and had two women in labor. Over the phone, I told him all about my conversation with Eleanor.
“Do you feel better, knowing your mom didn’t lie to you?” he asked.
“I do,” I said, even though it wasn’t entirely true. Seeing that redheaded kid in the movie with my mom had made me tense. I’d wanted to talk to Kyle about it, but he was called into a delivery.
“Sorry, babe. We’ll talk later?”
“Sure.”
We didn’t get a chance to talk later because I fell asleep in Zane’s bed. Around two in the morning, I awoke with my son’s foot jammed in my face. I got out of bed, turned Zane around, and kissed him goodnight. In the kitchen, I checked my phone and saw Kyle had called at ten. I hated to call him now if he was sleeping, but I was wide awake, so I made myself a cup of chamomile tea and looked through my parents’ anniversary album again.
It was interesting that almost every page contained a picture of Ruby. If she was such great friends with my mother, what in the world happened to end their friendship? And where was she now?
I turned to the picture of my parents with Ruby and the redheaded boy in front of the Space Needle. As carefully as I could, I peeled the picture from the scrapbook so I could read the inscription on the back. Nadine, Jude, Ruby, and Tim. Hollywood’s next biggest stars.
Tim?
Was this my mother’s Tim? The “My Darling Nadine” Tim? All my instincts told me yes.
Collecting my laptop from the bedroom, I brought it back to the kitchen. Eleanor said she’d seen a photo in the newspaper of our dad’s car after the accident. Was that something I could find in the online archives?
It took a little effort, but I accessed the Seattle Times for 1985. Because I didn’t know the exact date of the accident, I started with the first of August and worked forward until I came to the headline “Fatal Car Crash Kills Three.”
My hands trembled as I clicked the link to the article. The picture from the newspaper showed a squished pile of metal and a random sandal. Shuddering, I closed my eyes, wanting to erase the image from my mind. Eleanor had been right. Nobody could have survived that accident. Especially not a little baby.
Taking a deep breath, I opened my eyes. Then I scrolled past the devastating picture and read the article.
On Saturday evening, a station wagon driven by local resident, Jude Kingsley, ran a stop sign and crashed into a semi-truck, killing all three occupants in Mr. Kingsley’s car. The driver of the truck sustained only minor injuries.
Victims included Jude Kingsley, age forty-one, his daughter Angela Kingsley, and Eric McCoy, age eight, son of Ruby and Harold McCoy.
Oh, no! My stomach lurched and bile burned my throat. Ruby’s son had been killed in the accident. Was this what destroyed my mother’s relationship with her best friend?
Returning my attention to the article, I continued reading. The police didn’t suspect drugs, alcohol, or even excessive speed were an issue. My father had simply run the stop sign. According to the article, there had been three recent accidents at this intersection, and officials were discussing actions to install a traffic light or at least make the stop sign more visible.
The article went on to talk about my father’s success and involvement in the community. It also mentioned the fact he had no criminal record or prior driving violations.
Jude Kingsley leaves behind a wife and three children. Eric McCoy is survived by his parents, Ruby and Harold McCoy.
Father Tim O’Connor, the family’s priest and longtime friend, stated, “All three victims will be deeply missed. It will take a long time for our community to heal from such a great loss.” Father Tim also stressed the need to address the dangerous intersection.
I wiped my hands on my jeans. Father Tim O’Connor?
My pulse raced as I opened a new window on my internet browser. A search for Father Tim O’Connor took me to a website for a church in Ireland. I clicked on the link to the parish priests, and there he was!
He was several years older than he’d been in the pictures from Angela’s photo album, but it was him all right. Even though his hair was now silver, he had the same thick brow and ruddy complexion. Father Tim O’Connor.
He hadn’t been Ruby’s husband. He was a priest!
So why had he addressed my mother as “My Darling Nadine” and signed his note “all my love, Tim?”
Sitting back in my chair, I allowed my mind to sift through everything. A sick feeling tore at my gut. Was my mother romantically involved with a priest? I couldn’t imagine her doing something so unethical. Maybe the Tim who’d written the letter was an entirely different Tim. It was a common name after all.
I suppose I wouldn’t know until I read the letter myself.
*
In the morning, I drove to my mother’s house, determined to get the letter, but I couldn’t find it. I turned the book on her nightstand upside down and shook out the pages. I looked under and all around the bed.
How in the world could it have disappeared? Had someone taken it? Had the cleaning lady accidentally thrown it away?
I began searching through my mother’s desk, but stopped since it felt too much like violating her privacy. Too much like accepting the fact she might not recover.
Discouraged, I took the boys to visit my mom in the hospital. She’d been there a week and looked awful. Her skin had turned a sickening yellow, and blue veins raced across her hands, making the bright and shiny nail polish look out of place.
I’d been so hopeful the day her finger twitched to the music of Elvis. I’d believed she was going to wake up. Today, however, doubt curled up in my stomach, refusing to budge.
A nurse about my age with blonde hair, blue eyes, and lots of curves checked my mom’s vitals. She wrote something down in her chart and gave me a kind smile. “You just missed your brother. He’s such a good son. He comes every morning and every evening.”
“That sounds like Dan.”
“No, not Dan,” the nurse said. “The other one. The one who likes ice cream? Michael?”
The tenderness in her voice caught me off guard. “Michael? The one with the long hair and beard? And the tattoo of Mickey on his forearm?”
She blushed and quickly turned away to straighten my mom’s bed sheets. “He eats his breakfast at her bedside while watching Wheel of Fortune.”
I stared at the nurse, shocked. Michael hadn’t mentioned any of this to me. Even though there was a huge age gap between us, we were pretty close. After his wife left, Michael and I spent a lot of time talking on the phone. And I’d been the first to learn he was thinking about quitting his job to go back to school.
Logan leaned over to help the nurse straighten my mom’s bed sheets. “Grandma loves Wheel of Fortune.”
The nurse beamed. “I think your uncle does, too. He’s brilliant at guessing the words. I keep telling him he should try out for the show.”
Thoughts of Michael eating breakfast while watching TV with our comatose mother tore me up. Unlike Dan, Eleanor, and me, Michael was no longer married. He didn’t have kids or a serious girlfriend or even a dog. How would he handle it if our mother actually passed? For that matter, how would I?
“Can we go home now?” Zane asked. “This room smells bad.” Although he was dressed identical to his big brother in an oversized sweatshirt, shorts, and black rubber boots, at that moment, he looked incredibly young.
Wrapping my arms around him, I kissed the top of his head. “We�
�ll go in a little bit, okay?”
“But I’m hungry,” he whined.
“Hey, I’m hungry, too,” Logan said.
I exhaled, understanding their desire to leave this depressing room. Some of the flowers my mom’s friends had sent were starting to wilt, and all the cheerful “Get Well” cards mocked her hopeless condition.
“We’ll stay with Grandma a little longer, then we’ll go downstairs and get a snack at the cafeteria,” I said.
The nurse adjusted her stethoscope as she moved toward the door to leave. “Oh, the cafeteria serves fabulous strawberry ice cream.”
Both boys brightened, but I shook my head. “I think it’s a little too early for ice cream. We just finished breakfast.”
She shrugged and held the door open with her hip. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”
The door closed behind her, and Logan swished his mouth to the side. “How long are we going to stay?”
I glanced at my phone. “Ten more minutes.”
He set his digital watch, lest I forget, something I tended to do quite often. “Okay. Ten minutes. I mean nine minutes and fifty-nine seconds. Nine minutes and fifty-eight seconds …”
He continued counting down the seconds until he reached eight minutes fifty-three seconds. “This is so boring. What are we supposed to be doing?”
I nodded at Zane who was standing on one leg in modified tree pose. “What about yoga?”
Logan stomped his foot. “I’m not in the mood for yoga.”
Zane placed both feet on the ground. “Yeah, me neither. Want to play coma?”
Coma was their latest game, which basically involved one of them lying still while the other person talked about their day and the weather. I’d caught them playing it while I was making dinner the other night.
Logan glanced at his watch, then looked out the window without informing us of the time. “I don’t want to play coma. I’m tired of that game.”
“Yeah, me too,” Zane said.
Me, three, I thought.
I beckoned them over with my hand. “Come talk to Grandma. Tell her what you’ve been doing in school.”
Both boys reluctantly came over and rambled off a few interesting tidbits. Logan was excited about his upcoming field trip to the turtle refuge, but Zane complained it wasn’t fair he couldn’t go on the field trip, too.
Then the room grew silent, and I just wanted to leave. I hated the stale stench of my mom’s room. Hated the fluorescent lighting and pale color of the walls. Hated the fact that every day my mother was slipping further and further away from us and the life she’d once enjoyed.
Grasping for something to say, I talked about Eleanor’s baby Jude and his cute little face. I told my mom about Aubrey, and how she was such a good big sister. Then I, too, grew silent.
I wanted to ask about so many things; the letter, Tim, Ruby. But what would be the point? She couldn’t answer me and may never be able to do so again.
Feeling discouraged, I gathered my things and left with the boys. In the elevator, we ran into an enthusiastic Kyle who told us he’d been up all night, delivering his first breech.
Even though his eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, I’d never seen him so excited about work. Maybe delivering babies was his calling in life. Maybe I should stop fighting and let him do the fellowship. It was only one more year.
I winced at the thought and vowed not to think about it until Kyle mentioned it. Maybe on his own, he’d conclude the fellowship wasn’t good for our family.
“Dad,” Logan said, taking Kyle by the hand. “You should come with us to the cafeteria for ice cream, so we can celebrate the beach baby.”
Kyle chuckled. “Isn’t it a little early for ice cream?”
“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” Zane said.
That made Kyle laugh, and he gave me a don’t-we-have-the-cutest-kids-in-the-world smile. He scooped up Zane and ruffled his hair. “Okay, buddy, since you put it that way, how can I refuse? Ice cream it is.”
In the cafeteria, we sat by the window overlooking the hospital’s courtyard playground. When the boys finished eating, they ran outside to play while Kyle and I stayed at the table.
My husband was quiet, passing his coffee cup back and forth between his hands. “I know this isn’t good timing because of your mom and everything … but they want to know my final decision about the fellowship.”
My heart sank. “When do they need to know?”
“Two weeks. But if I can tell them sooner …”
I swallowed hard. “So, you still want to do it?”
He looked at the boys, then back at me. “I do.”
Before his trip to Haiti, we’d discussed all the details that extra year would entail. Knowing how hard it would be just made me want to throw a fit and tell him no. Was it wrong for me to feel this way?
I ran my finger over a crack in the table. “Can we think about it a little longer?”
“Yeah.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. I stared at the muscles in his biceps and forearms, thinking how much I loved those arms around me. I didn’t want to hold Kyle back, but I was tired of missing him all the time. Tired of living so much of my life without him.
Avoiding further discussion of the fellowship, I told him about the newspaper article, Father Tim O’Connor, Eric McCoy, and not being able to find the letter at my mom’s house.
“Wow,” he said. “You’ve been busy. That’s a lot to digest.”
“I know. Do you think the Tim who wrote the letter and Father Tim are one in the same?”
My husband looked out the window and waved at the boys who were on top of the play structure. They waved back before throwing themselves down the slide headfirst.
Kyle turned back to me with a serious expression on his face. “I can’t imagine your mother doing anything as unethical as having an affair with a priest, can you?”
I exhaled and shook my head. “No, I can’t. But I was thinking about calling him and letting him know she’s in the hospital. I’m just afraid of what he’ll tell me.”
Kyle slid his hand across the table and clasped mine. “I never knew your father, but judging by what little your mom has ever said about him, they were in love. Your mother loves the church, too. I can’t imagine her ever violating her beliefs and having an affair with a priest.”
Unexpected tears stung my eyes. “Thanks for saying that.”
Chapter 25
As the boys and I left the hospital, dark angry thunderclouds rumbled overhead. We drove across town for story time at the library where we ran into Darlene and her four boys.
Technically, some of my nephews were too old for story time, but the town’s beloved librarian, Mrs. Foss, often invited speakers that appealed to readers of all ages. Today’s guest was a local falconer and his falcon Horus.
After Logan and Zane settled on the floor next to their cousins, I asked my sister-in-law if she minded watching the boys while I bought a cup of coffee.
“Go for it,” she said.
“What can I bring you?”
“Small vanilla latte.” She reached for her wallet, but I stopped her. “Don’t worry about it. It’s my treat.”
Walking toward the library’s coffee shop, I took out my phone and opened the web page for Father Tim’s church in Ireland. I took a deep breath and punched the phone number under his picture. My pulse pounded as the phone rang. Should I just hang up? Ireland was six hours ahead of us, maybe I’d be interrupting his dinner hour.
“Father Tim,” a man with a slight Irish accent answered.
My mind froze. I hadn’t expected to reach him directly. I thought I’d reach his voice mail or a secretary or someone else. “Hello?” Both my voice and my nerve wavered.
“Yes, dear?”
“Father Tim … I’m Autumn Anderson. Jude Kingsley was my father. I …” My throat constricted. What exactly was I supposed to say?
“Autumn,” he said slowly. “I knew your f
ather quite well. We went to high school together, and he was a good friend of mine.”
I hadn’t expected him to talk about my father. I dug my water bottle out of my purse and took a huge gulp. “My mother was in an accident. She’s in a coma, and we’re not sure if she’s going to make it.”
He inhaled sharply. “Oh, goodness. What happened?”
I told him everything, except my suspicion about his relationship with my mother and the missing letter.
“Give me the name of the hospital,” he demanded.
“Cedar Bridge General. It’s in Turtle Lake, Texas.”
“Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll text you my flight information, but if you can’t pick me up at the airport, I’ll take a cab to the hospital. Hopefully, I won’t be too late.”
*
After story time, I drove to Eleanor’s house without calling first. It may sound strange, but my sister and I didn’t have the kind of relationship where we just showed up at each other’s houses unannounced. Being with her for the birth of Jude had improved things, but I was taking a risk by coming over without calling.
At the front door, Zane rang the bell several times before Eleanor finally answered, looking dreadful. She was dressed in a ratty T-shirt and yoga pants, and her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail. Unless you counted what looked like yesterday’s smudged mascara beneath her eyes, she wore no makeup. Somewhere in the background, Jude was screaming.
Logan kicked off his boots and stepped inside. “Aunt Eleanor, did you know your baby was crying?”
Aubrey came to the door wearing a pink sundress and purple fuzzy earmuffs. “The whole neighborhood knows he’s crying. He’s supposed to take a nap, but he doesn’t want to.”
Eleanor gave me an exasperated look. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He barely slept last night, and he won’t stop crying. I just need him to be quiet before I lose my mind.”
“Did you check his ears?” I asked, trying to be helpful.
Eleanor glared at me.
“What? A lot of babies get ear infections.”
Her glare intensified. “Even though my baby’s screaming is destroying my brain cells, I still have my medical degree. I still know a thing or two about children.”
A Mother's Choice Page 16