“Patient’s name?”
“Am ... Amy Nelson.”
“How long has the patient been bleeding and do you know the reason?”
“I don’t know.... I don’t know.... Where’s the doctor? I want to see the doctor,” Billie demanded.
“The doctor is with her now, but the patient is too ill to answer his questions.”
Billie’s eyes swiveled around the sterile waiting room. She didn’t know what to say: how much should she tell?
“And your name?” the nurse was asking.
“Willa. Willa Ames.” The misinformation came easily to her lips. “I’m a friend.”
“Miss Ames.” The nurse’s eyes darted to Billie’s wedding ring. “Mrs. Ames, we already know that there’s vaginal bleeding. We need to know if Miss Nelson is pregnant. Is she?”
Billie shook her head.
“Has she miscarried, do you know? Has she had an abortion? You must tell me. It could mean your friend’s life.”
“No, she hasn’t miscarried” was all Billie would say. The other was just too horrible to admit. Visions of that chipped enamel dishpan turned revoltingly in her head.
“Then she’s had an abortion. Correct? Do you know her family? Someone we can contact?”
“No! She has no one. Only me.”
The nurse stood, her white uniform rustling stiffly. “Wait here, Mrs. Ames. I’ll speak to the doctor.”
Billie waited and waited and waited, each moment bringing new doubts and anguish. The minutes ticked by and then the hours. Seven o’clock. Daylight was streaming in through the wide glass doors. People milled about, white uniforms rushed from room to room, and there was still no word of Amelia.
At seven-thirty, Billie knew Sunbridge would be stirring. Rand would awaken and look for his mother. Agnes would soon go down to breakfast and wonder where her daughter was. Carlos would go out to the garage and find the car missing. Resolutely, Billie went to the pay phone and dialed the number. Thankfully, it was Agnes who answered. “Billie? Where are you? Aren’t you upstairs?”
“No, Mother, I’m not. Don’t ask any questions. Have Miss Jenkins look after Rand. Tell Carlos that Amelia and I took the car last night and I’ll have it back soon.”
“Amelia? Is Amelia with you? What do you mean you’ll have the car back soon? Isn’t Amelia coming with you? Billie, I demand to know what this is all about!” Something was wrong, terribly wrong; she could hear it in Billie’s voice. “Billie, are you all right? Where are you?”
Billie sighed. There was no avoiding an explanation. “Mother, I’m at the hospital with Amelia. That migrane headache she had last night became worse during the night and she passed out.”
“I don’t believe you. Not for an instant. Billie, have you done something foolish? I know you’re pregnant, Billie. Tell me, are you all right?”
“I’m fine. And so is my baby. Don’t ask questions, Mother.” There was an unmistakable threat in her tone. “As long as you know I’m pregnant then you should also know that Dr. Ward doesn’t think I should go through with this pregnancy.”
“Billy! What are you saying?” There was real fear in Agnes’s voice now.
“What I’m saying, Mother, is that you are to cover for Amelia and me. You’re not to let Seth know where we are or why. Take care of the children. I’ll be back with the car as soon as I can. Don’t let me down, Mother, and I won’t let you down. Do we understand each other?”
Agnes’s mouth gaped open. Could this really be her daughter talking to her this way? Issuing thinly veiled threats? Billie would never do anything to harm her child, would she? Yet something told Agnes this was a new and different Billie.
“Come home as soon as you can, Billie,” she said softly. “I’ll take care of everything here.”
“Good for you, Mother. Good for you.”
At a quarter to nine Billie was pacing the small waiting room on the second floor. Her eyes kept flying to the clock every thirty seconds. What were they doing to Amelia? Why wasn’t anyone telling her anything?
“Mrs. Ames?” a woman’s voice called. “Mrs. Ames?”
“Yes, here.” Billie stood anxiously.
“The doctor would like to speak to you about Miss Nelson. Come this way, please.”
Billie fell into step behind the nurse, her heels clicking on the tiled floor. She was shown into a cubicle. A young man in a white coat spoke. “Are you Mrs. Ames? I’m Dr. Garvey. I’m afraid we’ve had to perform an emergency surgery on your friend.” At Billie’s look of alarm he added quickly, “She’s fine now. Her uterus was perforated, rather badly, and we had to perform a hysterectomy. Do you know what that is, Mrs. Ames? We’ve had to remove her uterus. Whoever performed the abortion was a butcher. You got her here just in time. She was hemorrhaging. Now we’ve got to be on the lookout for infection.”
Billie’s face had whitened during his recital and her lips were pale blue. “Mrs. Ames—here, sit down. I know this has been a shock.”
“Will she be all right?” Billie managed to murmur.
“We expect so. Shame, though, in so young a woman. It would have been her first child, correct?”
“When can I see her?”
“She’s in recovery now. Fortunately, she was conscious and able to sign the permission form; otherwise we’d have lost time attempting to get in touch with a blood relation.”
“She has no one, anyway, only me. When can I see her?”
Dr. Garvey checked his watch. “About forty-five minutes. Why don’t you go up to the third floor and I’ll have someone get you when she wakes up.... Mrs. Ames, is there anything I can do for you?”
Billie raised her hand defensively, staving off the doctor’s attentions. “No, I’m fine. Really. Third floor, you say?”
When Billie was finally admitted to see Amelia she had difficulty swallowing past the lump in her throat. Amelia was whiter than the pillow on which she lay, her lips dry and parched, her eyes lusterless and hollow.
“Billie.” She could speak only in a kind of croaking whisper. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s no less than I deserve. Rand ... please, take care of Rand for me.” Her outstretched hand was cold and pale in Billie’s.
“My God, what have they done to you?” The sympathy and compassion in her overflowed in salty rivulets down her cheeks.
“Don’t cry for me, Billie, please don’t....”
Amelia turned her head away, her bloodless lips moving. “Go home, now,” she said in a choked voice. “Take care of Rand. What’s done is done.... There’s no crying over spilt milk. Didn’t I tell you I never do anything right? Go home.”
There was nothing more Billie could do or say. She would go home and make excuses for Amelia’s absence and look after the children. The children. Her hand went protectively to her stomach and she imagined she could feel the nebulous life of her unborn child beating there. It was safe, secure, and, most important now, wanted. Amelia’s child would have been its crib mate....
Billie’s feet tapped a rapid tattoo on the tiled floor as she headed straight for the pay phone near the elevator. She fished in her pocket for a nickel to call Dr. Ward and tell him her decision.
Back at Sunbridge, Billie was numb to everything, including Seth’s rage. “What does this gal of yours mean, Aggie?” he bellowed. “Where is that daughter of mine? And why did she leave that youngster here with us?” Agnes had no answer for him. “Damn fool troublemaker,” he grumbled. “Never could trust her and never will. Goes off with friends and leaves that boy here. Friends! Miscreants is more the truth!” He glared at Billie. “When the hell is she coming back? I want to know when to wear my boots so I can kick her the hell out of my life!”
Agnes looked worriedly at Billie, who stayed silent. “Seth, Amelia needs a little time to herself right now. The boy is no problem—Billie is looking after him. Amelia won’t be gone more than a week.” She glanced at Billie for confirmation.
“And let me tell you one thing, little gal,” S
eth said, moving heavily on his cane toward Billie, “the next time you help yourself to the car without my say-so you’ll hear it from me. What’s gotten into you since Amelia’s come home? I used to credit you with a little sense!”
“I suppose pregnant women do silly things,” Billie said, hardly able to keep from sneering.
“What’s this? Aggie, what’s she saying?”
“I think she’s telling you she’s pregnant,” Agnes cooed. “Billie, when can we expect our new arrival?”
“Maggie should have a little sister or brother for her birthday present.”
“You mean a brother, don’t you, little gal?” Seth countered sharply, yet he could not suppress a smile. “This one will be a son!”
The. days trickled into weeks, the weeks into months. Billie and Amelia’s friendship strengthened. Amelia’s deft fingers crocheted and knitted little sweaters and baby blankets as she eagerly anticipated the birth of Billie’s child. Her belief that nothing would go amiss, despite Dr. Ward’s warning, was a comfort and pleasure to Billie. Amelia’s concern was almost parental and, in Moss’s absence, even husbandly. When Billie began to hemorrhage in her sixth month and she was confined to bed, it was Amelia who cared for her. She did it with such loving willingness that it brought tears to Billie’s eyes. She was doing it for Billie, but for Moss, too, her adored brother. Little Rand was installed in the nursery with a nanny who catered to his every whim. Maggie thrived and grew like a healthy weed.
Moss’s letters were infrequent and sparse. He was alive; that was about all they knew. Each of them lived in fear of the day a delivery would come by way of Western Union.
Billie lay in her half doze, her drowsy thoughts on her husband. Where was he now? What was he doing? Was he thinking of her?
“Being half-awake is better than being asleep,” Amelia said cheerfully as she poked her head in the doorway to check on her charge. “Time for tea, if you’d like. Rand and Maggie are napping, so it’s just you and me, kid,” she teased, doing her best impression of Humphrey Bogart.
Billie laughed, delighted. “Sounds good to me. I was dozing and thinking of Moss. It helps me to think of him and sometimes I have beautiful dreams! Do you think I’m sleeping too much?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. I know it’s boring for you all alone in this big bed. Three months of complete bedrest is enough to drive anyone nuts. But I think I have a solution for keeping you happy, sane, and busy. Let me get the tea and we’ll talk.”
Tea trays were a creative process with Amelia. She always fixed them so prettily, delighting in the British custom. This afternoon the tray held a slim vase with two budding yellow roses, a white linen napkin embroidered with spring flowers, a simple white plate holding tiny sandwiches of melted cheese, and Jessica’s best English bone china teapot. Fragile porcelain cups and saucers and tiny silver spoons nestled beside blueberry muffins.
As soon as they were settled Amelia came right to the point. “I’ve been thinking, Billie. I’m going to have to go to court when I get back to England and as you know, court appearances are just that: an appearance, almost like being on stage. Judgments are made on the weight of appearances. We’ve talked so much about your design studies and how much you loved them. I’ve seen what you’ve done with some of your maternity clothes and I’ve seen the things you’ve made for Maggie. They’re gorgeous, Billie. Would you consider designing some clothes for me? Proper things, stylish but sedate. Something that conveys my responsibility and worthiness to be Rand’s mother. This is important to me, Billie, very important.”
“Amelia, I’m not a professional. I’m overwhelmed that you should ask. And I admit to being suspicious! Are you just looking for ways to keep me busy so I don’t languish here alone in this room?”
“Hell no, gal!” Amelia did her best impression of Seth and made Billie laugh. “Seriously, I’d like you to do it.”
“Don’t forget I’m fresh out of school and what little I learned from Mrs. Evans back in Philadelphia I’ve probably forgotten. Why me? You could go to the best designers in New York or even have someone come here.”
“I know all about those designers, but you see, Billie, I want something that’s perfectly me, Amelia Coleman Nelson. You know the real me, Billie. You really wouldn’t have to do the actual sewing; there are seamstresses right here in Austin. You thought about pursuing a career in design, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but Mother wanted me to become a teacher. Instead I married Moss and here I am. I can’t even begin to think of a career—I want to be a wife and mother. Maybe later.”
“Billie, later never comes. Something always gets in the way. This is the ideal time for you, while you’re confined to bed. I’ll help. Let’s go back to the time when you hadn’t met Moss. What were you going to do? What did you want to do?”
“I wanted to design fabrics, explore colors and shapes. Mrs. Evans, my home economics teacher, said she saw potential in me and worked with me after class. Before she married and had a family she worked for Oleg Cassini and she promised to head me in the right direction. I was even accepted to the Fashion Institute in New York, but when Mother got wind of it those plans changed. Perhaps Mrs. Evans was just being kind.”
“Kind my foot. Don’t forget, I’ve seen what you can do and from what I hear, acceptance into the Fashion Institute is no mean feat. Why was someone like your Mrs. Evans teaching school?”
“Mr. Evans thought life in New York too glamorous, so they moved to Philadelphia. She wanted her marriage more than a career. I do, too.”
“Billie, it wouldn’t hurt to lay some groundwork. Let me type up a letter to your teacher asking for the names and contacts she promised. You don’t have to use them now, but we’ll start a portfolio for you. When and if the time comes, you’ll have everything at your fingertips. It won’t hurt, Billie. I don’t want to see you end up the way my mother did, wasting away here at Sunbridge, dying for lack of attention.”
Billie didn’t have the heart to tell Amelia those people could very well be dead by the time she got around to thinking about a career. But Amelia was right; it couldn’t hurt, and if it would please her: “Okay.”
“Oh, Billie, I’m so excited! I think it’s wonderful. Moss will be so proud of you.”
Billie’s eyes widened. “Do you think so?”
“I know so. Moss likes interesting, exciting people. Billie, you’re a Coleman now and Colemans always amount to something, or haven’t you heard?” This last was said with an edge of bitterness. “Do you want to spend your life doing charity work and going to club meetings? Just remember my mother and her empty life once we children were gone.”
Billie grinned. “You’re making more sense all the time. Let’s do it!”
Satisfied, Amelia leaned back in the chair and propped her feet on Billie’s bed. “Talk to me. Tell me what you want to do when the time is right,” she encouraged in the big sister voice Billie loved.
“Someday I want to work with silks and satins and brocades, but there’s too much for me to learn before I can go into that. I’d start off with cotton. It’s such a wonderful fabric, simple and clean and comfortable. No other fabric has those qualities. You always have to be aware of texture and weight if you want to combine it with another fabric for contrast. If I were designing something right now in cotton, I’d begin with the natural colors, wheat and ivory and oatmeal, and I’d add white for a catalyst.
“Later, I’ll show you a design I did on cotton in high school. It’s impressionistic bouquets of flowers in lines of black, white, and purple ... sort of like a floating island. That was my first thought when I finished it and when I showed it to Mrs. Evans she said the same thing. She wanted me to do some work with batik, calico, and foulard, but they all seemed to call for stripes and I’m really not that fond of them so I went on to something else. There’s so much more I need to learn.”
“Tell me where to get the books, whatever it is you need. I’ll ask Mrs. Evans to send me a list wh
en I write her. You’ll read them, won’t you?”
“Of course! You’re right, Amelia. It’ll give me something to do and it’s something that interests me.”
“And you’ll design some things for me?”
“I’ll try. Designing a dress isn’t as simple as it sounds. For you, I think it has to be soft yet have the body and substance of good construction and fabric. Nothing heavy, nothing stiff.”
“I love it already.”
“A kind of casual elegance.” Billie narrowed her eyes as she measured Amelia’s slim frame. “Maybe a suit skirt with asymmetrical pleating. A jacket in cotton or twill. Something you can wear with a hat. A dress with pure clean lines, maybe in a wool crepe. What would you think of a full tunic ... ease and width, but we can control it with a belt. It would be different and you could carry it off with your height. I’ll know more when I see and study some of the clothes you have. We can do a few mix-and-match outfits so it will look as though you have more. I like doing that; it’s a challenge. What are your favorite colors?”
“All of them.” Amelia laughed.
“Me too. Someday I want to create my own palette of colors as well as fabric designs. I have them all in my head. I’ve even given them names—the colors, I mean. I want to use them in silk, when I’ve learned more.”
“What kind of colors? What sort of names?”
Billie laughed aloud. “Promise you won’t laugh?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Blink Pink, Choke Cherry, Sherry Flip, Cocktail Fuchsia, Turquoise Icing. I could go on. If I ever do work in silk, I plan to use those names.”
“Billie, I’m so impressed. It seems the Colemans got themselves a heifer with brains. Someday you’ll put them to good use. My prediction, Mrs. Coleman, is that one day you’ll be right up there at the top of the heap and not because you’re Mrs. Moss Coleman but because your Billie Ames Coleman.”
Texas Rich Page 32
