The Hurricane Sisters

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Is he okay?” I asked. “Where are they?”

  I could see that the receptionist was struggling to maintain a straight face. The EMS worker just looked at the floor and shook his head. I wanted to slap both of them right across their smug little faces. What had Maisie done now?

  “He’s already in NSICU. Eighth floor. Just ask at the desk.”

  “Thanks,” I said. My face was in flames.

  On the elevator ride upstairs, I braced myself. Never mind the antics of my mother, I knew the situation could be dire. Skipper could be near death. He could be so damaged that he might be unable to speak or see or any number of things. I said another prayer for him. I also knew that if Maisie lost Skipper, it would kill her. For as much as I disapproved of Maisie cavorting around with a man fifteen years younger than her, he made her happy, and I was probably getting old.

  I asked the nurse at the desk and I was directed to his room. When I got there, I opened the door slowly. Poor Skipper was asleep and hooked up to so many machines and monitors it would make your head spin. And he looked so small in the bed, like he had shriveled up to nothing since the last time I saw him. Maisie, who was seated by his bed, looked up at me. Her hair was disheveled. She wore no makeup. Her eyes were puffy and red. In her hands were wet tissues, wadded into golf-ball-size lumps. She’d been weeping. And she seemed like she had aged twenty years overnight. That was when it dawned on me that Maisie really loved Skipper and she was indeed deeply frightened.

  “Hey,” I said quietly and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “How’s he doing?”

  She blew her nose and cleared her throat, putting on the brave face she had earned over the years.

  “Well, he’s getting this special aspirin treatment—tPA, I think it’s called—and it’s supposed to help him recover all his faculties. We’ll see. And they gave him an ultrasound that showed some more blockages. He’s going to have to have carotid artery surgery when he gets stronger.”

  “Good grief,” I said. “What happened? Did he just collapse?”

  “I’ll say he did! I called 911 as fast as I could. Then I threw all his meds in a Ziploc—I saw a tip about doing that on Dr. Oz’s show. Next I threw on some clothes and before I could tie up my sneakers the EMS people were knocking on the door.”

  “What do you mean? You weren’t dressed?”

  “What do you think caused the stroke?”

  “Oh, my God. Maisie Pringle.” Sometimes my mother could be shameless.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Liz. I’m not dead yet,” she said and stood.

  As she stood it was clear to me that in her haste she had neglected to don her foundation garments. Another horrific detail. It was no wonder that the EMS worker was snickering. Most likely, he had probably regaled the receptionist with all the details of how he found my mother’s lover in the sack. I guessed HIPAA laws didn’t apply in this situation. But then, an incident like this would produce more gallows humor over gossip for people like them. The important thing was that Skipper’s life had been saved.

  “Obviously. Would you like me to go to your house and bring you a nice outfit and your makeup?”

  “Oh, Liz! Would you really? That would be so nice if you would. I must look a fright! If he wakes up and sees me like this, he’ll have another stroke.” Maisie’s wit was on the road to recovery.

  “I doubt it.” I smiled and turned to leave. “Is there anyone we should call?”

  “No, I don’t think so. He has a sister in Florida but they’re estranged. I mean, if something terrible happens, I’d try to find her.”

  “Of course. Okay then.”

  “Wait! Do you need a key?”

  “No, I have a key to your house right here.” I held up my key ring and rattled it. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Did you eat?”

  “Are you kidding? I haven’t even had my morning coffee.”

  “Okay, I’ll make you a sandwich and I’ll pick up coffee.”

  “I think there’s egg salad on the second shelf in a little blue-and-white bowl.”

  “Got it.”

  “Liz?”

  “What?”

  “Thank you. Thanks for everything.”

  I smiled at her. This was my eighty-year-old mother before me, a woman filled with conflicts and wacky ideas about so many people and things, but she loved Skipper. He was perhaps the first man she had cared about since my father died.

  I left the room and felt the whoosh of the door behind me. Walking down the hall to the elevator, I told myself then that I needed to look way beyond the unconventional nature of their relationship and focus on the genuine affection they felt for each other. It was hard enough to find somebody to love without worrying about obvious differences. Then my bothersome conscience, that irksome nuisance of a chatterbox in my brain, reminded me that I should apply that nugget of insight to Ivy and James as well.

  As I passed through the lobby I noticed the receptionist was a different person. I was glad for that. I’d endured enough embarrassment for one day, but wasn’t this a great example of precisely why we shouldn’t judge each other? How could one person see inside another person’s heart?

  As soon as I got to Maisie’s house I called Ashley to tell her what had happened. She got very upset.

  “Oh, no! Is he going to die?”

  “I don’t think so. And listen, sweetheart, he’s in a special ICU for stroke victims and head injuries. He couldn’t be in a better place. They have him plugged into so many monitors that they probably know when he hiccups.”

  “Oh, I just hate this! What can I do?”

  “Not much. Say a prayer for him and maybe tonight or tomorrow you might want to pay him a short visit. Don’t bring flowers. Not allowed.”

  “Okay. Gosh, Mom. This is terrible.”

  “Yes, it’s not wonderful but I’m just glad Maisie was there. She called 911 and went to the hospital in the ambulance with him.”

  “How’s she doing? Is she like completely freaking out?”

  “Actually, no. Maisie’s a rock, you know.”

  “She’s so great. Tell her I’ll see her after work, okay?”

  We hung up and I called Ivy, not that he could do anything from the whole way out in San Francisco.

  “Ivy?”

  “Mom? Is everything okay?”

  “Well, not exactly. Skipper has had a stroke. He’s in the ICU at MUSC.”

  “A stroke? How bad?”

  “Well, right now they don’t seem to think it was too bad. They’ve got him on a special aspirin drip and I think he’s expected to recover pretty well, but he’s got to have another surgery.”

  I told him everything I knew and naturally, he was concerned.

  “How’s Maisie holding together?”

  “Just like you’d hope. Stoic. I’m actually at her house now to get her some things. Then I have to go to the office. We’re launching a huge challenge grant with our board. I guess I’ll be running Maisie back and forth to the hospital. Of course, your father’s in New York. I’ve called him twice but does he call me back? No. Sorry, that’s my problem, not yours.”

  “Sounds like a lot. Do you want me to come to Charleston for a few days? I can take care of Maisie. I mean, I’d be glad to help out, you know, take the load off you a little?”

  “Oh, Ivy, that’s so sweet of you, but don’t. Listen, for all I know, Skipper will be home in a few days.”

  “Well, if Dad was there he could help.” He paused for a moment. “Mom? Don’t you ever wonder why he spends so much time in New York?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. Why? Do you think something is going on?”

  “I don’t know but I thought the idea when y’all bought that apartment years ago was that you’d spend more time there too.”

  “Well, I did while Ashley was in college and had her own apartment
. But in the beginning of the summer this year two people at work up and left. Another one retired. I just picked up where they left off because there was no money to hire someone to replace them. So now I’ve got a real job on my hands, one that seems like it will never be finished. And to tell you the truth, son, right now it’s easier for me with your father gone all week. I don’t have to cook and all that.”

  “Still, I wouldn’t leave him alone for too long or too often, Mom. He is a man, you know.”

  “Hmmm. What are you telling me? Do you think your daddy is on the prowl?”

  “I think if I were in your position I’d let him know I was watching.”

  “But you don’t know anything?” He knew something.

  “No. You know I’d tell you if I did.”

  No, he wouldn’t.

  “All right then. I have to go make Maisie a sandwich and take her some clothes. I just thought you’d want to know about Skipper.”

  “I do and listen, if you need me, all you have to do is call.”

  As we hung up I had the thought that as awful as it was that Skipper was so ill there was nothing like an actual near-death experience to pull the family together. Everyone except Clayton. Just what was he doing?

  I went in Maisie’s closet and pulled out a pair of pants I’d seen her wear recently and the blouse she’d worn with it. When I opened her lingerie drawer, I gasped in shock. It took some digging but I finally found a pair of panties and a bra that didn’t look like they belonged to a pole dancer. Didn’t she know I would see all this sleazy stuff? Wait! Of course she did and she didn’t care! I was holding a red garter belt in one hand and a bra that had actual feathers on it in another and I collapsed on the foot of her bed, laughing hysterically.

  “Maisie? Girl? You are too funny!” I said this to the empty room and added, “I think I might need some of what you’re smoking!”

  My cell phone rang in the other room. Hoping it might be Clayton, I hurried to reach it before it went to voice mail. It was him.

  “Hey! What’s going on?” he said as nonchalantly as ever.

  “Don’t you listen to your voice mail?”

  “Liz? I’ve been in back-to-back meetings since eight this morning. Let’s not play games here. I saw you called so I’m calling you back.”

  Did he have to be so brusque? I told him the whole story and he didn’t really seem moved by it.

  “Well, there’s nothing you can do about it, is there?” he said.

  “No, but now I get to be Maisie’s driver and I’ve got a full-time job.”

  “Tell her to take taxis, for God’s sake. That’s what they’re for.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Clayton, this isn’t Manhattan.”

  “Well, then suit yourself. Anyway, keep me in the loop and give him my best, okay? And Maisie.”

  “So I guess this conversation is over then?”

  “Look, Liz, I’ve got a conference call in ten minutes. I’ll call you later, all right?”

  “Sure,” I said and pressed the end call button.

  Something was definitely going on in New York City with Clayton and when I found out what it was, I knew I wasn’t going to like it. God, he was so rude. But I didn’t need to think about him then. I needed to tend to my mother. I folded her clothes, took some cosmetics from her bathroom, made the sandwich she wanted, and put it all in a paper bag from the grocery store with a couple of pieces of fruit and some paper napkins. Driving back to the hospital, I stopped at a drive-through Dunkin’ Donuts and got two cups of coffee and a dozen donuts for the nurses. Whenever I went to see anyone in the hospital I always took donuts or cookies for the nurse’s station. I felt like they were so overworked and underappreciated. And many times they were more knowledgeable than the doctors and therefore more important to the patients than anyone knew. Doctors came and went, but nurses were there, on hand, around the clock. They had their proverbial fingers on the literal pulse of the patients.

  I went straight to the eighth floor, thinking I might come back downstairs and get Maisie something to read from the gift shop. I stopped at the desk. There was a nurse there named Dee Dee.

  “I brought y’all some donuts,” I said to her.

  “You did?” She looked at me like I might be lying and said, “Well, that was awfully nice of you! Claudia? Come over here!”

  Claudia, who was reading a chart with a grimace, put the chart down and wandered over smiling.

  “You got a Boston cream in there?” she said.

  “I think so,” I said. “Well, y’all enjoy them, okay? I’ll just be in Skipper Dempsey’s room.”

  “Okay. We sure will,” Dee Dee said, opening the box. “Thanks!”

  “Here goes my diet, y’all!” Claudia said. “Hello, hips? Look what I’ve got for you.”

  I walked away quietly until I reached Skipper’s room. Maisie was right where I had left her, staring at Skipper with a terrible expression of morbidness and trepidation.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “No change,” she said.

  “Well, here’s coffee and your sandwich, and other things are in this bag.”

  “Thanks,” she said and reached out for the coffee.

  I put the bag on the floor next to her and took the plastic top off my cup.

  “No problem.” I took a deep drink. “I love Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.”

  “I like Folger’s. They have the best ads.”

  “Ashley likes Starbucks and I don’t have a clue what Ivy likes. Probably something exotic like a West African blend of beans I’ve never even heard of in my life.”

  “From a country you’ve never heard of either,” she said. “I guess everyone in this family has to have their own taste buds.”

  “Sometimes I think my children don’t like something only because I do,” I said and I thought about how absolutely true that was. It also included Maisie. “Even Clayton.”

  “Does he know about Skipper?”

  “Oh, yes. He sends his best to you and Skipper. And so do Ashley and Ivy. Ashley will probably come by tonight.”

  “Well, I’m going to stay. I want to be here when the doctors come so I can hear what they’ve got to say.”

  “Okay. Do you want me to stay too?”

  “No, you go on to your job. If anything changes, I’ll call you right away.”

  “Okay. I can pick you up and take you home after work. If you’d like, we can have dinner too.”

  “Liz! Please! How could I possibly eat a meal with Skipper lying up here in this infernal place in a room that looks like Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory with all these machines?”

  I got up to leave. She was going into martyr mode. I was in no mood to spar with her over anything.

  “Right. Well, call me if anything changes, okay? Or if you need anything.”

  “Oh, Liz, I’m sorry. I’m just all out of sorts.”

  “Well, you’ve had an awful shock. Not as bad as Skipper’s but bad enough. I’ll talk to you later.”

  I left and thought, One of these days I was going to tell her I was tired of her not being so nice to me. In fact, I was going to tell Clayton too. And maybe Ivy and Ashley. Why not?

  When I got to my office, Tom wasn’t there. I asked Teesha, our receptionist, where he was.

  “Gone out to All Air,” she said. “He said he’d be back by three.”

  “Okay. Good. I’ll be in my office.”

  I decided to call Annie Malcolm to see if she was free for lunch. I was in need of some cheering up; seeing her would definitely do the trick.

  “I’d love to have lunch with you,” she said. “Do you want to meet somewhere?”

  “I was thinking about a crazy little place I haven’t been to in ages. Ever hear of Martha Lou’s Kitchen?”

  “No, I don’t believe I have,” s
he said. “Where is it?”

  I gave her the address and we agreed to meet there within the hour. Martha Lou’s was one of those places you’d only know about if you were from Charleston or if a local took you there. The location was in, how do we say this diplomatically, a reemerging neighborhood, the building was as pink as a bottle of Pepto-Bismol featuring a sort of fabulous fish mural on the exterior wall, and the interior decor was a little to the left of chic. That said, you’d never put a better piece of fried chicken in your mouth. Martha Lou’s was one of the few places left in the culinary world that didn’t use flambé or coulis on the menu. It was authentic, down-home, southern fare with no highfalutin nonsense. A holy place, where a meal was a transformative experience. Everyone in the know ate at Martha Lou’s, including a visiting food critic from the New York Times. He loved it, and we all know how persnickety critics can be.

  I arrived before Annie and had to wait a few minutes until a table was free. While I waited I read the specials—okra soup, chicken-fried steak, fried medallions of sweet potatoes in maple syrup, black-eyed peas with rice, lima beans, and fried okra. Of course, there was fried chicken, fried fish, pork chops, and sides of red rice, collards, macaroni and cheese, coleslaw, and a choice of hush puppies, biscuits, or corn bread. Couldn’t I just have some of each? I was finally seated, sipping on a tall glass of sweet tea with lemon, and Annie walked into the restaurant. I was already thinking about dessert.

  Debra, Martha Lou’s sweet daughter, brought Annie to my table and handed us menus. I thought then that some of the five-star restaurants in New York could learn a thing or two about hospitality from her. Annie gave me a hug and then slid into the booth opposite me.

  “Where am I?” she said, laughing. “This place reminds me of Pam’s Kitchen in Seattle. Only locals know about it but the food is off-the-wall good?”

  “Yep. You’ll see. Debra’s mother, Martha Lou, is in the kitchen cooking up a storm every day except Sunday.”

  “Well, let’s do this thing. I’m starving,” Annie said.

  “Would you like sweet tea?” Debra asked.

  “I’d love it,” Annie said.

  Minutes later we were buttering hot biscuits and waiting for our entrees to arrive.