I rested on my pillows and relaxed to Darla's prattle about their day.
“Merry was late. Traffic sucked, but we still found some great bargains. I bought a pair of boots to die for. Winter white, above-the-knee, with four-inch heels. Merry warned me I'd break my neck in them, but I don't plan to wear them outside. Those babies will never touch rain or snow. Miracle of miracles, they came in my size.”
“Did Merry buy any handbags?” My daughter and I shared a passion for extravagant purses.
“A Prada and a Jimmy Choo. Even at seventy percent off, they were obscenely overpriced. She was lucky there was nothing else she liked. She spent a boatload of money.
“Anyway, we stuffed everything in my car and went off to cry through a chick flick. Then we walked the length of the mall to Charley Brown's for dinner. Just after we settled into our booth, Merry's phone vibrated. Alex asked if he and Em could spend the night with his grandparents. Bette said it was fine, so we didn't have to eat and run.”
“Was Merry tired? Her first trimester was always wicked bad.”
When she carried Alex, she dragged her butt around the first four months, almost too exhausted to move. She called the baby a welcome little parasite that drained her energy.
I realized Darla didn't know Merry lost the baby. Time enough for that later.
“I think so.” Darla walked around my room and twisted the Venetian blinds open.
“The last thing I said was ‘drive carefully.’ She said she was fine and would call me soon. She'd take the back way. The road was dry, so I didn't worry about her crossing the old trestle bridge. I shouldn't have listened. I should have driven her home. It wouldn't have been that big a deal.”
“Well, you didn't. Don't beat yourself up for taking Merry at her word.”
Merry met Darla thirteen years earlier in their obstetrician's waiting room when she was pregnant with Emilie and Darla was carrying Molly. Merry joked they must be related because she was born a Livingston and Darla married one. Though they never established kinship, they became sisters by choice. Later Darla became my second daughter.
“Merry's a big girl. She'd have told you if she was too tired. From what little we know, a pickup hit her where the road turns down from that narrow bridge. Threw her car over the edge of the embankment toward the river. She must not have seen it. No skid marks. It was an accident, pure and simple.”
Darla seemed unconvinced. If anyone could sell tickets for a guilt trip, she could.
CHAPTER SIX
I was trapped in my hospital room, waiting for my doctor to get around to releasing me. I hadn't seen him yet and wondered how he could assess my physical status from afar. If he didn't show up within an hour, I was checking myself out. When my phone rang, I sat up way too fast and paid a terrible price.
“Hello.”
“Max? It's Raney. How's Merry?”
“No change.”
I tried to tuck my cell under my chin, but that made my head hurt worse. I sucked in a deep breath and regretted it. I hated the smell of hospitals. Too much antiseptic, alcohol, and other disinfectants. I sneezed.
“Oh dear.”
“She keeps bleeding into her brain.”
“You don't sound so good yourself. Are you all right?”
“Stupid me. You know how I love the sight of blood.”
“All too well. Eleanor and I've picked you up off the floor more than once.” Raney laughed. “Don't tell me you fainted.”
“That's too genteel. The Colonel said I did a major-league face plant when I saw the X-rays of Merry's face and skull.”
“Are you all right?”
“Do you remember the dancing hippos in Fantasia?”
“Okay, you've lost your mind.”
“Nothing so melodramatic. Six stitches and a headache that feels like those damned hippos in a conga line.”
“That's an image I won't forget, thank you very much. Seriously, do you think Merry's going to be all right?”
I pushed at my pillows and twitched the less-than-attractive hospital gown higher on my shoulders.
“Seriously, I have no flipping clue. Whip's with her and the Colonel's been running himself ragged bringing me news. I went up to ICU to see for myself but got busted back to jail.”
“Good one. You hate people telling you what to do.”
“You've got that right. The doctor's worried she may have brain damage. She was pregnant, too, and lost the baby.”
“Oh dear. Do you need me?” Raney would be on the next flight if I asked.
“Not yet. Every hour she lives gives me hope. We'll cope with what comes next, later.” I wiped tears from my cheeks. “Don't look for me to come home soon, though. I can't leave until Merry's out of danger.”
If she's out of danger. Unbidden, the awful thought ducked out from behind a hippo. Get back there.
“What will Merry say when she wakes up and sees you?”
“She'll accuse me of butting in. As usual.” I willed the pain to stop, but it ignored me.
“Let me know if you need anything.”
We said our goodbyes and hung up. I didn't hear Whip until he sat next to my bed.
“You look like death eating a cracker.”
“Back atcha, Max.”
“Thanks. I resemble that. How's Merry?”
“Back in recovery. Stopped the bleeding. For now.” Whip leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Really glad you're here.”
“What does Dr. Jenkins say?”
“If there are no more major complications, they'll try to wake her up in two days.”
“Oh dear.” I reached out and took Whip's hand. “How're you holding up?”
“Not as good as I look.” Whip knuckled bloodshot eyes. “Gotta stay with Merry until she's conscious, at least. Haven't thought about what happens afterward.”
“So, are your parents going to stay with the kids?”
“Can't ask them. Mom's got her hands full taking care of Pop. You've seen how bad he is.”
I had.
“It's his heart. Keeps postponing an angioplasty. Mom thinks he has a blockage.”
Whip's eyes looked even sadder than they did a few minutes earlier. He stared through the half-closed blinds beyond my bed at yet another gray wintery day. Pages for doctors whispered through the partly-closed door.
“Can't leave Merry,” he said.
In between naps and bouts of fear, I thought about a promise I made to myself when I left Richmond, when I put bad memories behind me. After I married my second husband, I relocated to New York City and settled in. I created my own mantra: I'm never living in the South again, and I'm through raising children. Merry's accident blew that mantra out of the water.
“Send the Colonel and Bette home. I'll take care of Alex and Em for a few days. Okay with you?”
“Thanks.” The relieved look on Whip's haggard face was all the answer I needed.
“Leave the kids to me.” Not the time to talk about the length of my involvement.
There was a tap at the door. A uniformed policeman, belt weighed down with the tools of his trade, beckoned to Whip.
“Come on in, Jerry.” Whip met him halfway. They slapped each other on the back.
“The Colonel told me where to find you.” Jerry rolled bowlegged into my room.
“Max, this is my friend Jerry Skelton. We shoot together at the range. Jerry, meet Merry's mother, Maxine Davies.”
“I've heard a lot about you, Mrs. Davies.” Jerry nodded and shook my hand.
“Unless you have bail bond receipts, it's all lies.” I laughed and winced. Will I ever learn?
“I heard about Merry and wanted to stop by.”
“Thanks.”
“I talked to the cop who found the truck.”
“Let me guess: drunk driver.” It was the only answer that made sense.
“Yes, ma'am. Blood alcohol count three times the legal limit.”
Whip clenched his fists. “Dead?”
“At the scene.”
“Any other details?”
“He was a regular at your neighborhood bar, Buddy's.”
“Buddy's? Go there all the time with Merry. A regular, huh?” Whip frowned. “Wonder if we knew him.”
Jerry pulled out his notebook and flipped pages. “Name's Herbert Griffith.”
“The guy from the GE plant? Never known him to get drunk. Couple of beers, a game of pool or two, some bullshit stories. Nice enough guy. Shit, even shot pool with him a few times.”
What are the odds of Merry being injured by someone she and Whip know?
CHAPTER SEVEN
My doctor released me with orders to take it easy. I signed the forms and went back to the ICU waiting area, steeled against the possibility of bad news. I peeked into Merry's room and saw she was plugged into a wall of devices with beepers and moving lines. I flashed back to the TV series The Bionic Woman. Please don't let this be her future.
Whip held Merry's hand and told her about his trip to Abu Dhabi. I stood in the doorway as if watching a tableau. Whip was in such obvious pain that my heart thudded loudly. I remembered better times just after they met.
Every summer ended with the Battle of the Bands at Riverside Park. The year after she graduated from high school, Merry went to the concert with several girlfriends and was still giddy the next day over this cute drummer she met. I overheard her talking on the phone to a girlfriend who was home sick with a bad cold.
“He's totally gorgeous. No, they didn't win, but I actually went up and introduced myself.”
Merry paused.
“Tall, tanned, dark hair.”
Another pause.
“No, really short hair. I wish it were longer, but it'll grow out.”
Pause.
“He invited me out for a beer.”
A beer? Merry doesn't drink.
“Of course I went. What do you think, I'm stupid? Yes, I even drank part of a beer.”
She did?
“Yes, he asked for my number. We're going out next week before he goes back to college.”
College? How old is this guy anyway?
“His parents live in town, but he goes to the Colorado School of Mines.”
Oh well, this could be a short summer romance.
“He's going to be an engineer.”
Passenger train or freight?
“I'm going to marry him.”
You are?
Whip and Merry lived a cliché. They fell in love that day at the rock concert. Now, seventeen plus years later, Merry and Whip were still happily married, wrapped up in each other and the kids.
Whip stepped out of the room.
“Any response?” I gazed around him at the mummy.
“None.”
The Colonel snorted awake and dry washed his face with his hands.
“Can you take me home, Colonel?”
Home? Home was New York City. Where the hell did that slip come from? Thank you very much, Dr. Freud!
I whispered, “I love you,” kissed Merry's bandaged forehead, and promised to be back soon. I avoided the indignity of being “driven” to the hospital door in a wheelchair by going up to see Merry. Arm in arm with the Colonel, I marched out the same way I entered—on my feet and on my own terms.
The sun had come out, but its brightness did nothing to lighten my mood. I chatted with the Colonel for a few minutes, but my mind whirled with everything I'd have to do to change my life, even for a few weeks.
While my gut knew Merry's recovery would be lengthy, if at all, I could only see myself helping until Whip got his head around raising the kids. I pulled my BlackBerry out and scanned my upcoming meetings, marking those I could move, those I could do by conference call, and those I'd have to go back to New York to attend.
The Colonel and I completed the drive to the suburbs in silence. I stared at the winter-shrouded yards when we turned into Riverbend, long one of the most desirable suburbs near Richmond. Bare limbed specimen trees accented each front yard, as precise as Buckingham Palace guards. Bushes displayed end-of-season haircuts; some were wrapped in burlap to prevent frostbite. This region got frost and snow. Why grow plants not rated for your hardiness zone?
I looked at Merry's street through a different lens. Up until that moment, I'd seen the street for what it was—an upscale suburban enclave on the outskirts of a medium-sized Virginia city. Now I looked at it as a place where I might live for a few weeks. The focus shifted. The view made me uncomfortable.
Whip and Merry lived at the end of a cul-de-sac, the only whitewashed brick in a cluster of redbrick colonials. At least the white showed a modicum of originality. The black shutters and red door were the approved decorating treatment for every two-story house in the neighborhood, no matter the outside color.
Dear God, Merry's raising Alex and Emilie in a Hallmark Hall of Fame suburb. I bet everyone baked the same cookies on the same day. I shuddered. I left this lifestyle behind so long ago. Can I really return to it, even for a short period of time? I'd be happier taking the kids to New York. My apartment had more than enough room.
Bette met us at the door. She appeared worried about the Colonel. Truth be told, so was I. He looked ready to collapse. His heart must be worse than Whip knew. Then she saw my face.
“The Colonel told me you fell. Are you all right?”
“Looks worse than it is. Besides, Alex is going to love teasing me about my black eye.” I looked around the entryway. “Are the kids home yet?”
It was early afternoon.
“Not until four.”
Bette led us into the kitchen and ground coffee for a fresh pot. I inhaled with a sigh of gratitude and turned half an ear toward the Colonel's latest recap. Merry's house was a stark contrast to my formal apartment. I looked around and recoiled from the fake country motif. Everything had a rooster or chicken on it.
Wasn't this cows and sheep at Christmas? When did she switch to chickens? Too much junk on the countertops made them unuseable.
“Maxine? Earth to Maxine. Cups?”
“Sorry.” I searched for and found cups, sugar and cream, and spoons. Bette put some cookies on a plate, and we sat at the round pine table.
“We've talked about taking the kids home with us, but we live too far away to get them to and from school every day.” Bette stirred sugar into her coffee and picked up an Oreo. “It would be different if it were summer vacation.”
“Well, it isn't. It's out of the question. You'd spend all day shuttling the kids around.”
I tried to remember where their house was. I'd been there a time or two, but all I remembered was it was way out on the east side of Richmond, beyond the farm community where I grew up.
“We can take Em and Alex on some weekends. Will that help?”
“Absolutely.”
Keeping control of my emotions was practiced conditioning that started not long after I became a single mother. Perhaps it was a way of protecting myself. Perhaps it was necessary to keep my family moving forward. I never could decide which it was, but it didn't matter. Being in control kicked in whenever there was a crisis.
“Now, Colonel, don't pull that face. No arguing. You both need some rest. We'll work through this together. Okay?”
The Colonel looked at Bette and then smiled.
An hour before the first bus was due, Bette bundled the Colonel into the car and drove away. I used the time to snoop into every room in the house. Emilie's bedroom was neat and organized. Alex's belonged to a ten-year-old boy. The only organized place was his desk. The master bedroom was littered with Whip's dirty clothes and shopping bags of handbags Merry bought the day of the accident. I peeked in the bags and decided I wanted to borrow the yellow Prada.
I moved into the fourth bedroom with its private bath. Even though it was the least decorated room, too many things covered every flat surface. I tucked the clutter out of sight, unpacked, and tried to relax. I propped the battered toy in the middle of the bed. I sent Jack a text wit
h a quick update on Merry's status.
I missed hearing the bus but not the cry from the foyer. “Gramma, Grampop, I'm home.”
Emilie.
“I'm upstairs.”
“Mad Max? Oh my God, is that you?”
“‘Tis indeed.”
Emilie nicknamed me Mad Max following an argument with my daughter years back. Merry wanted the kids to call me “Grandma.” I wanted them to call me “Max.” Merry said it wasn't polite and nixed the idea. I got angry. I said I had the right to choose what my grandkids called me.
“Don't be mad,” Emilie said.
“How about Mad Max?”
Emilie grinned.
I liked the alliteration, plus the mad part fit my rougher edges. I liked the old Thunderdome movies too. Even though Mel Gibson played Mad Max, I thought I might get some mileage out of Tina Turner's role somewhere down the road. I had been Mad Max ever since.
Emilie ran upstairs and into my arms. She squeezed the breath out of me. Not until she released me did she see my black eye and bandage. Before she could get upset, I assured her everything would heal.
“Nothing hurts except for a headache. Don't worry.”
Emilie picked her way around the guest room before pouncing on the toy. “What's this?”
“That, dear child, is Puss ‘n Boots.”
“Where did he come from?”
“My grandmother, your great grandmother, made it for your mom for her first Christmas.”
“I've never seen it before.”
“When Mom outgrew her toys, I tucked it away.”
“May I have it?”
“Not yet. I'm going to hang onto it for a little longer.”
“You're here. Mom must be a lot worse than anyone will tell me. All Alex and I know is she was in an accident.” Emilie perched on the side of the bed and fiddled with the old toy. “I mean, I know it's bad—I feel it—but Gramma and Grampop treat me like a baby. Will you tell me the truth?”
I looked into a very serious, very scared face. I told her what the doctors said, how her mother was bandaged, and what treatments she was getting. Unvarnished truth tempered by the reality of talking to a twelve-year-old.
Mad Max: Unintended Consequences Page 3