With her left hand, she motioned for me to come to the other side of her bed. I quickly obeyed and she took my hand in hers, squeezing tightly. I stood there next to her for a good ten minutes, listening to various family members and friends fill me in on Aunt Dottie’s condition. Good news, for the most part. Someone said she needed a lot of speech therapy, to which Aunt Dottie flailed her bad arm as if to say “I’m not worried about that.”
Dr. Patel, a deeply gray man with a strong Indian accent, came later to give us the results of the most recent test. “The results are virry, virry good so far. You can go home soon, Ms. Lester. Undergo therapy, and you must take better care of yourself. Take your blood pressure pills every day, as we discussed. I tell you, keeping the blood pressure under control may help to prevent future strokes.”
Aunt Dottie nodded dutifully.
“No more skipping pills.”
She gave him a thumbs-up.
“No more fasting through breakfast—you must take your pills with food.”
She gave him a sideways thumb, which sent a slight chuckle throughout the room. Aunt Dottie was the queen of fasting and praying.
The doctor tried one more avenue. “Last thing. Anything that brings stress to you, my friend, try virry hard to let it go.”
Another thumbs-up.
“Doctor, when can she go home?” I asked. Aunt Dottie pumped my hand and winked to let me know she’d been wondering the same thing.
“In another day or so. I just want to be sure her blood pressure is regulated and there is no more bleeding at the site where the stroke occurred. Most people who have stroke at her age remain in the hospital for several days.”
Joenetta shifted her weight. “Y’all didn’t keep Big Daddy in here that long.”
Dr. Patel scrunched his face. “Big Daddy?”
Aunt Dottie pointed a warning finger at Joenetta, ending the conversation. Joenetta could only cross her arms and roll her eyes.
Dr. Patel focused his attentions on Aunt Dottie again. “Your therapy will be hard, Ms. Lester. Virry hard. I do not know if you wish to do therapy while staying at your home or if you wish to go to nursing home.”
I knew even before Aunt Dottie began vehemently shaking her head that a nursing home was out of the question. She’d sooner live on the streets of Bayford than a nursing home.
“If you go home, you will need much, much help.” He looked around at us all. “You have many people here now. This is virry good. But if you go to nursing home, people help you there. The nurse will talk to you more later when I discharge you. Think about it. Talk to your family about it. Right now, we will take you for last X-ray, okay?”
On cue, a nurse came in and wheeled Aunt Dottie away, leaving the rest of us to deal with this huge elephant Dr. Patel had plopped in the middle of the room.
“Well, can we get a calendar going?” I suggested. Seven days a week, six people in the room, not counting myself. “Everybody can sign up for certain days of the week maybe?”
“I work every day but Tuesday, and that’s the only day I got off.” Uncle Billy quickly opted out.
Joenetta gave her lame excuse about why she couldn’t be depended upon. “I’ll help when I can, but my car has been acting up lately.” Joenetta’s son, Brandon, seconded her excuse and added that he couldn’t help because he didn’t “do all that good” with helping people.
Sister Meecham, one of Aunt Dottie’s fellow church members, said she would have a hard time committing to Aunt Dottie’s care because she herself was on dialysis three times a week. She did, however, agree to at least make sure Aunt Dottie had something to eat every night.
Another rap on the door. I recognized the face. “Cassandra?”
“Yes.”
“Hey, girl.” I pushed passed Joenetta to hug Cassandra. “Oh, thanks for getting Aunt Dottie to come to the hospital before things got out of control. How have you been?”
“Good, good.” Cassandra had been one of the few girls in Bayford to befriend me while I was pregnant. The rest of the young ladies mostly stayed away from me for fear that pregnancy was contagious or because their parents told them I was a “fast girl.” Cassandra’s parents might have told her that same thing, but she didn’t heed their warnings. She said she’d done “it,” too, already, and the only difference between me and her was I got caught but she didn’t. I guess that made us bad girls together. Funny how people bond sometimes.
Cassandra and I lingered in an embrace for a moment. “You look great, Tori. Got your hair all kinked up. I see plenty of people on TV with their hair all kee-kee-kee.” She created a sound that, apparently, represented the ring of natural hair. “Like what’s her name, Whoopi Goldberg?”
“Kinda.” I smiled as she took the liberty of tousling my twist-out. “These aren’t dreadlocks, though.”
“I haven’t been able to wrap my mind around the new thinking yet,” she said, laughing. “Perms and flatirons are my best friends.”
“I heard that,” Joenetta added her two cents. “‘Specially if you got a bad grade of hair and a way-back hairline, right?”
Always could count on my other aunt to share her unwarranted opinion.
Cassandra waved off Joenetta. “I didn’t mean no harm by it. I’m just sayin’, it’ll take some getting used to. It’s cute-rootie though, Tori. Don’t worry about it. You go on and do you, girl.”
A spark of harmless jealousy peppered Cassandra’s tone. She and I were the same age and had gone down such different paths. I’d moved out of Bayford when I got the partial college scholarship. I could only assume she had stayed in this town and was making a living working at Aunt Dottie’s store. Couldn’t be much of a living, I knew. She had predicted I would go off to college and get rich while she, hopefully, married Baron Williams, the boy she’d been crushing on since middle school. When she and I met, we were entering tenth grade and Baron hadn’t noticed her. He still hadn’t seen the light by graduation day.
Cassandra and I stood side by side now and exchanged a bit more small talk, then she asked, “So, when are we going to bust Aunt Dottie up out of here?”
“Well, right now we’re trying to figure out who’s going to care for her when she gets dismissed.”
Cassandra raised her hand as though in a classroom. “I can check on her in the evenings, when I’m not watching my nephews.”
“That would be great,” I sighed, linking arms with Cassandra instinctively. Right about then, I was ready to link up with anyone willing to prove their love for my Aunt Dottie.
I waited a moment for other volunteers to step forward and pledge to Aunt Dottie’s care. “So, is there anyone else who can help out?” Everyone present was just as quiet as Kevin when I initated one of those state-of-the-relationship talks. Dead silence.
My brain scrambled for a solution. “Okay, how about hiring a nurse? Does anybody know someone we could trust to help Aunt Dottie around the house?”
“I could do it, like, part-time,” spurted out of Joenetta.
I fired back, “You just said you couldn’t help.”
“Well, if you gon’ pay somebody, might as well pay family.”
“How much you thinkin’ ’bout payin’?” from Uncle Billy.
Okay, how is it that the Lesters were interested in money while the church folk and an employee were willing to give of themselves freely? I could have bopped myself on the head for thinking I had missed out on something in Bayford. The Lesters were still triflin’. As I stood there watching their gazes hit the floor, I recalled the few times they’d called out of the blue, shortly after I finished college. They’d ask how I was, if I was still in school; Joenetta even asked once if I had gotten myself pregnant again. They’d eventually gotten around to a sob story ending in an urgent financial request.
Back then, Aunt Dottie had told me that family and money don’t mix. “Tori, don’t play this game with them. Some folks don’t know how to handle money. Don’t matter what you give ’em Monday, they’ll be
broke by Friday. Best thing you can do is pray for God to teach them how to steward what He’s already given ’em.”
“But Uncle Pete said his lights were going to get cut off tomorrow,” I pleaded on his behalf. This man was Aunt Dottie’s own brother, for goodness sake.
“So what?” she’d asked.
“And then he won’t have lights,” I’d reasoned.
She’d prompted, “Okay, and then what?”
“And then he’ll be . . . inconvenienced.”
She finished the scenario. “And then he’ll go stay with his girlfriend until he gets his next check, and then he’ll pay to get his lights turned back on, and then he’ll think twice about buying all those Lotto tickets next time, or maybe not. Either way, he’ll be all right.”
Against my sense of compassion, I refused Uncle Pete’s request. He had a few choice words for me and hung up in my face.
Aunt Dottie knew her family well. She must have known none of them would step up to the plate to help with her recovery, yet she probably wouldn’t say anything to them about their lack of assistance. Somebody had to speak up.
“I think it’s a shame that so few people in this room have agreed to help. I remember when she was the only store on our side of the tracks. Aunt Dottie wouldn’t let any family in Bayford starve, least of all her own. She’s always been there for us.”
“She’s always been there for you,” Joenetta piped up. “She took you in when you got pregnant and she put you through college. She even sent you money to get you started after you finished college. All that for you, but she wouldn’t even bail her blood nephew out of jail!”
Cassandra tagged into the rink. “So why are you here now, Miss Joenetta?”
“’Cause she’s my sister.”
I laughed. “Yeah, right. The sister you won’t take care of for free.”
“Don’t talk to my sister that way.” Uncle Billy’s body struggled to a standing position. “All she sayin’ is, if you want to throw some money at the problem, might as well let it land on us.”
“Aunt Dottie is not a problem. She’s . . . she’s Aunt Dottie,” I clarified. “Don’t y’all care about her? She’s raising your grandson anyway, Joenetta.”
Joenetta came toward me with her index finger swaying side to side. “Now ain’t that the pot calling the kettle black?”
“Shhhh!” Sister Meecham caught our attention, signaling Aunt Dottie’s return to the room.
Aunt Dottie must have been fully aware of the tension because she maneuvered her bed to an upright position when the nurse left. She blinked a few times, looking everyone in the eyes as though trying to read the jury before a verdict. She signaled with her left hand that she’d heard us yapping.
My heart sank for her. Again, I stood by her side and grabbed her left hand. “Aunt Dottie, we’re just trying to work out the details, that’s all. Don’t worry. Everything will be all right.”
She nodded and sweetly kissed my hand, then drifted off to sleep.
Slowly, the room cleared of visitors. Cassandra was the first to go. She said she had to get back home before her sister dropped off the nephews. Joenetta and Uncle Billy followed. Sister Meecham lagged behind to comfort me. “What you told Aunt Dottie was right, you know? Everything will indeed work out.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I want you to know, no matter what your family says, Aunt Dottie has always been so proud of you. And don’t worry ’bout Joenetta ’nem. They might act ugly, but they love you, too. Every last one of ’em still brags about their cousin who got a degree and moved to Houston. You’re the one they hold up as an example for the kids in the family.”
I chuckled. “Could have fooled me.”
“Don’t be fooled. They do love you in their own funny way, hear?” Sister Meecham gave me one last hug and excused herself.
I sat alone, watching Aunt Dottie’s chest rise and fall while thinking about Sister Meecham’s words. How could they love me and yet be so mean? For that matter, did anyone really love me? My mom’s love allowed her to leave me with another caregiver. Kevin loved me enough to live with me, barring commitment. How is it that everyone had this “funny” way of showing love toward me?
Everyone except Aunt Dottie. If I left her to fend for herself in Bayford, she wouldn’t get the care she deserved. Between Cassandra, Sister Meecham, and probably a few more church members, they’d do the best they could. Still wouldn’t be good enough. Somebody had to return Aunt Dottie’s love with the same consistency she’d always doled it out.
Apparently, that someone would have to be me.
Chapter 8
The task of calling Preston to tell him I would be in Bayford longer than I’d planned proved my first major hurdle. My cell phone wouldn’t keep a steady signal while I was driving through town, forcing me to scramble all over the city looking for the hot spot. My first thought was to find a Starbucks and hop on the Internet since my phone was nearly useless. Hello! You’re in Bayford. I hadn’t seen a Starbucks sign on the road for miles or leading into town.
I pulled into a gas station to ask for directions to the nearest . . . tower? Weird question, but I’d learned from previous Bayford experience that gas stop attendants and hairdressers knew everything about the town and its inhabitants.
“Excuse me, do you know where I can go to get a cell phone signal?”
The frizzy-haired brunette wearing bright red lipstick squinted her eyes and squawked, “A what, honey?”
I wielded my cell phone and shook my head to demonstrate the inquiry. “I can’t get this phone to work, and I was wondering—”
“Oh, you want your phone to work,” the attendant repeated with a gentle smirk. “You must be new in town.”
“Something like that.”
“Where are you from? What brings you to Bayford?”
I was at her mercy. “I live in Houston, but I spent some time here in Bayford several years ago. My aunt just had a stroke. I’ve come to check on her.”
“Aunt Dottie, you mean?”
I nodded.
“She’s your real auntie?”
“Yes.”
This, of course, led to a five-minute adulation about how Aunt Dottie had helped this woman and her children get settled again after Hurricane Katrina. “If it hadn’t been for Aunt Dottie, I don’t know what we would have done. She put in a good word for me and the manager hired me on the spot, paid me in cash until I got copies of all my documents to prove I was legal and everything.”
“That’s wonderful. Really wonderful. Now, can you tell me—”
“Tell her I’m praying for her.”
“Sure will.” This woman’s testimony warmed my heart, but I still needed to get a line out of Bayford. I read her name tag. “So, Virgie, how about that phone signal?”
Virgie pointed west. “The only place you can get a good signal is up at the church on the hill. You can talk to God or talk to somebody else, either one, but I think talking to God’s a whole lot better.” She laughed at her own advice. I wondered if she told everyone that, or if a HEATHEN sign was plastered across my forehead.
Not sure how to respond, I grinned and thanked her. I’d almost forgotten how freely people in small towns discuss God and religion, both off-limits for me in the corporate world, which was where I spent most of my waking hours.
You’re in Bayford for real now, Tori.
I drove westward, following a steep incline to higher ground. A big yellow house with a white picket fence on a corner lot suddenly jogged my memory. Virgie was sending me straight to Aunt Dottie’s house of worship, Mount Pisgah Missionary Baptist Church. The road’s sharp turns sparked flashbacks of long-winded preachers and long-skirted saints.
Before moving to Bayford, I’d only attended church sporadically. Mr. James had said it was important to belong to church, so we showed our faces to maintain his political facade. I liked church and wished we could go more often. Mr. James said regular attendance wasn’t necessary—ju
st membership.
Aunt Dottie’s dedication to her Mount Pisgah congregation, however, placed me in service at least twice a week. I enjoyed being there, except when they talked about sin. The big ball of baby sitting on my lap screamed, “I’m a sinner! I did it!” Even if no one else heard the condemnation, I perceived it.
The hallowed building lay just up ahead, its steeple soaring high above all Bayford. The church campus was somewhat isolated. Only a few cars littered the grass-covered parking lot. Growth overtook the wheels of one vehicle, a testament to the car’s prolonged idleness. Another car, a late model Camry, gleamed in the midday sunlight and assured me that someone else was in the vicinity.
I shifted my gear to P and held my phone up toward the windshield. Three bars and a well-lit Internet icon. Good enough to make calls, send texts, retrieve voice mail, and check e-mail. Already, I had missed three calls and seven messages populated my in-box.
After responding to less pressing matters—dry cleaner issues and an unsolicited ad for an MLM—I tackled NetMarketing. Jacquelyn answered the phone in our department and seemed pleasantly surprised to hear my voice. We exchanged routine chitchat, then I asked, “So tell me, Jacquelyn, how are things really going around the office?” Jacquelyn was not one of those blabbermouth administrative assistants, but she had been known to spill the beans when prompted privately.
I’d hoped she would convey a tale of woe, how the office was falling apart at the seams without me—botched publicity campaigns, clients threatening to take their business elsewhere. What she actually said was, “Things are just fine here. No problems, work as usual. How’s it going with you?”
How could everything be fine when I wasn’t there? People had to be complaining about the extra work incurred due to my absence. Surely Preston had been forced to meet with my coworkers and assure them the inconvenience would only be temporary.
Someone to Watch Over Me Page 6
