Tides of Truth [02] Higher Hope

by Robert Whitlow

  “Christine!” Mrs. Fairmont called out when I stepped into the foyer. “What time are Ken and the boys getting here?”

  “It’s Tami,” I replied.

  I heard the TV and went into the den. Mrs. Fairmont was watching a well-known televangelist. I’d never seen her turn to a religious program.

  “Are Mrs. Bartlett and her family coming by?”

  “Who knows? She’ll come when she’s good and ready.”

  “May I get you something to drink?” I asked gently.

  “A cup of tea would be nice,” Mrs. Fairmont said, closing her eyes. “It’s cold in this house.”

  I went into the kitchen. It was the middle of the summer, and the air conditioner was working overtime to keep the old house tolerable. Neither the windows nor the walls provided an efficient amount of insulation. I prepared a tepid cup of tea the way Mrs. Fairmont liked it.

  “Here you are,” I said, handing it carefully to her.

  She took a sip and placed the cup on a small table beside her. “It’s good. I need something to warm my bones. Did you sleep well last night?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but it’s about five thirty in the afternoon. I just got home from work.”

  Mrs. Fairmont sat up with a look of alarm on her face. “Where’s Flip?”

  “Right at your feet.”

  I leaned over and patted the dog’s head. He was curled up out of sight close to the base of the chair. Mrs. Fairmont leaned forward to check, then sat back. A choir in elaborate robes was singing on the TV show. I watched as they swayed back and forth. Mrs. Fairmont stared at the screen. She began to move her head slightly back and forth.

  “What do you think of the choir?” I asked.

  Mrs. Fairmont grew still and stared intently at them. “They look like a bank of spring flowers that used to grow near the fountain in Forsyth Park when I was a little girl. Have you seen them?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “On a hot day, the water from the drinking fountain at Forsyth Park was the best in the world.”

  A young minister, every hair in place, stood behind the pulpit. The camera left him and scanned an expectant crowd. The preacher read a familiar passage from the first chapter of Isaiah. He had a resonant, baritone voice. “‘Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool. If ye be willing and obedient, ye shall eat the good of the land: but if ye refuse and rebel, ye shall be devoured with the sword: for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.’”

  I kept still, watching Mrs. Fairmont and hoping she had the capacity to understand the message. Twice I’d been with older people whose resistance to the gospel diminished as their mental capacity waned, and they became more childlike. I silently prayed this might be such a moment.

  Mrs. Fairmont seemed to be listening. The minister gave a simple explanation that a child could understand. It was Christianity 101. I focused all my concentration on Mrs. Fairmont, trying to will her into comprehension of the truth. Her eyes stayed open. At least she wasn’t asleep. We sat together until the minister finished his sermon and extended the invitation for salvation. This was the moment of opportunity. I leaned close to Mrs. Fairmont’s ear.

  “Jesus loves you and died for your sins. Would you like to pray the prayer?”

  Mrs. Fairmont didn’t respond. I repeated the question. Her head fell forward on her chest and she slumped sideways in the chair. I jumped up in alarm and grabbed her arm.

  “Mrs. Fairmont! Are you all right?”

  She groggily raised her head. The choir on the TV was singing as the preacher extended the invitation. Mrs. Fairmont’s eyes fluttered open. They didn’t seem to focus.

  “Speak to me!” I said.

  She uttered a few words of gibberish. I looked around the room in panic. Flip was on his feet. He ran around the room and barked.

  I rushed into the kitchen and grabbed the cordless phone. Mrs. Bartlett’s number was programmed on the speed dial. I hit the number and anxiously waited while it rang. Mrs. Bartlett answered the phone.

  “This is Tami! I’m afraid your mother might be having a stroke! I tried to get her to talk, but all she says is nonsense and—”

  “Where is she?” Mrs. Bartlett interrupted.

  “In her chair in the den. We were watching TV when she slumped over.”

  “Call 911. It could be a ministroke, but the doctor told us not to try to diagnose them. It will take me thirty minutes to get to the hospital from the beach. Call me on your cell and let me know what they tell you.”

  “I don’t have a cell phone.”

  Mrs. Bartlett swore so loudly it hurt my ear. “Take Mother’s phone! She keeps it on the bureau beside her bed. I’m on my way to town. Get an ambulance! Now!”

  The phone clicked off. I dialed 911. The operator told me an ambulance would be dispatched immediately. When I returned to the den, Mrs. Fairmont was leaning to the side with her eyes closed.

  I could see her chest rising and falling in rhythm. At least she was breathing.

  “Can you hear me?” I asked, patting her hand. “I’ve called an ambulance. They should be here in a few minutes. Christine is going to meet us at the hospital.”

  She mumbled something incomprehensible.

  “You’re going to be all right,” I reassured her.

  But even as I said the words, I wasn’t convinced. My faith was weak and panic hit me. I desperately wanted to call Mama and ask her to pray. Mrs. Fairmont made a gurgling sound in her throat. The possibility that the elderly lady might slip away into hell while I watched loomed before me.

  “No!” I cried out. “Not now!”

  As I watched, the rising and falling of her chest stopped. I leaned over and put my ear against her chest. I couldn’t hear a heartbeat. I moved my ear from place to place. No sounds came from her chest. Hot tears stung my eyes. I raised my head.

  “No! Please don’t die!”

  I rubbed my eyes, then grabbed Mrs. Fairmont’s head and held it straight to keep it from flopping to the side. She made another gurgling sound in her throat and gave a slight cough. Never had I been so glad to hear a cough. I propped her up with pillows. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of the televangelist holding up a copy of a book he’d written. I grabbed the remote and turned off the TV. The minister had spoken the simple truth in his sermon, but Mrs. Fairmont needed an immediate miracle, not a book to read. I began praying out loud at the top of my voice.

  Although Mrs. Fairmont’s face was pale, it didn’t have the ashen appearance I’d seen in the hospital room when my great-grandmother died. A glimmer of hope returned. I continued praying as I hovered around her.

  I heard the sound of an ambulance coming down the street and ran to the front door. The flashing red lights came into view along the curb. Two medics, one male, one female, came jogging up the steps to the house.

  “She’s in here,” I said, leading the way into the den.

  Flip launched himself at the ankles of the male medic. I scooped up the wiggling dog in my arms. It was impossible to calm him with strangers in the house surrounding his mistress.

  I carried him to my apartment, set him down on the living room floor, and closed the door. I could hear him scratching and clawing as I climbed the stairs. By the time I returned to the den, the medics had brought in a stretcher and were lifting Mrs. Fairmont onto it.

  “How is she?” I asked anxiously.

  “Her vital signs are stable, except for her respiration, which is shallow,” the woman medic answered. “What happened?”

  As I talked, the medic jotted a few notes.

  “And she has multi-infarct dementia,” I added.

  “Who are her cardiologist and neurologist?” the woman asked.

  I ran into the kitchen, grabbed the cards from the refrigerator, and handed them to the woman. The two medics picked up the stretcher and began to carry Mrs. Fairmont from the house.


  “Where are you taking her?”

  “St. Joseph’s/Candler.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Derenne Avenue,” the male medic replied over his shoulder as they reached the foyer.

  The door shut. I was alone in the quiet house. I looked out one of the windows in the green parlor. Mrs. Fairmont was in the ambulance, and the male medic was closing the rear doors. The siren began to wail, and the ambulance sped down the street. I stood in the parlor, not sure what to do next. Then I remembered Mrs. Bartlett’s order to get the cell phone.

  I ran upstairs, taking two steps at a time. I grabbed the phone. When I opened it, a picture of Flip appeared. I hit the Menu button and found the listing for “Christine’s Cell.” I hit the Send button and sighed with relief as I heard it ring. Mrs. Bartlett answered.

  “Are you at the hospital?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am. I’m still at the house. I found the cell phone.”

  “Where’s Mother!” Mrs. Bartlett screamed. “What’s wrong with you? I told you to call 911!”

  “I did,” I managed in a shaky voice. “The ambulance is taking her to St. Joseph’s/Candler. Her vital signs were stable except for shallow breathing. Do you want me to stay at the house or come to the hospital?”

  “I thought you would be with her! I don’t care what you do!”

  “I didn’t think to ask if I could—”

  The phone clicked off. I slowly left the bedroom and walked down-stairs. Partway down the stairs, I stopped, ran my fingers through my hair, and looked up at the ceiling.

  I could have called Mrs. Bartlett from the phone in the kitchen. There was no need to panic over locating the cell phone. When Mrs. Bartlett calmed down enough to think straight, she would conclude I was an idiot, totally incapable of caring for her mother. I released Flip from confinement. He raced up the stairs and began searching the house for Mrs. Fairmont. In a few minutes, he returned to the den.

  “She’ll be back,” I said with more confidence in my voice than I felt in my heart.

  I held the little dog in my lap to comfort him but realized I needed it more than he did. After a few minutes, he jumped down and curled up in his dog bed. I knew I could pray for Mrs. Fairmont at her house as well as I could at the hospital, but I wanted to be closer to her. Calling Mrs. Bartlett to obtain permission to drive Mrs. Fairmont’s car wasn’t an option.

  But I could ask Zach to take me.

  Everything that happened in Mr. Callahan’s kitchen flooded my mind. Zach could ask God to touch Mrs. Fairmont, and we’d watch her get up and walk out of the hospital. I grabbed the phone in the kitchen, then realized I didn’t know Zach’s number. I opened the Savannah phone book, but there wasn’t a Zach Mays listed. Maybe Julie knew it. I ran downstairs and got my address book where I’d written Julie’s cell number and called her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said when I told her about Mrs. Fairmont. “Do you want me to take you to the hospital?”

  “Thanks, but I was trying to get in touch with Zach and don’t have his number.”

  “It’s on the law firm contact sheet Gerry Patrick gave us the first day of work.”

  My usually reliable memory had deserted me when Mrs. Fairmont left on the stretcher. I was acting like the person with multi-infarct dementia.

  “Of course.”

  “Will you be at work tomorrow?”

  “It depends. If she doesn’t make it—” It was such a horrible thought that I didn’t want to let my mind go there. “I’ll let you know.”

  I called the number listed as Zach’s residence. I didn’t want to face this crisis alone, especially if Mrs. Bartlett was hysterical. The phone rang until Zach’s answering message came on.

  “It’s Tami,” I said quickly. “Mrs. Fairmont has gone to the hospital. Please call me as soon as possible.”

  Beneath his residence number was his cell-phone number. I called it and nervously tapped my foot while it rang five times before the away message played. I left the same message. After I hung up, I paced back and forth across the kitchen. The second hand of the old-fashioned clock on the wall crawled across the face of the dial. I didn’t know where Zach might be or when he might receive my messages. I picked up the sheet and looked at the names. There were a lot of people who worked at Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter I didn’t know. Then I stopped at Vince’s name. He answered on the second ring.

  “It’s Tami,” I said.

  “Hey, how are you?”

  “In a panic. Mrs. Fairmont went to the hospital in an ambulance a few minutes ago, and I was hoping you could take me there. Her daughter is driving in from her house on the marsh.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Vince lived a few minutes away from the office. While I waited, I sat in the blue parlor with Flip in my arms and scratched the little dog in the places he loved behind his pointed ears. Flip growled before the doorbell chimed. Vince was on the front step.

  “Thanks,” I said when I opened the door.

  While we walked hurriedly down the steps to Vince’s car, I ex-plained what had happened.

  “Do you know how to get to the hospital?” I asked as I sat in the car.

  “Yes. I went there with Mr. Braddock to meet a client who was recovering from surgery.”

  We parked near the emergency room. The ER was crowded with the poor and the rich. Sickness has a way of equalizing people. I didn’t see Mrs. Bartlett. There were two staff members at the admission desk.

  “Have you admitted a Mrs. Margaret Fairmont?” I asked. “She would have come in by ambulance within the past hour.”

  The woman checked a computer screen.

  “Are you a family member?”

  “No, I’m her in-home caregiver.”

  The phone beside the woman rang. She picked it up and started talking. It was a personal conversation about where she was going after getting off work. I had a sudden impulse to grab the phone from her hand and slam it down on the receiver. I looked at Vince, who shrugged his shoulders. Finally she hung up.

  “Let’s see, did you say Fairchild?” she asked.

  “No, Fairmont,” I said through clenched teeth.

  She moved her computer mouse across a pad with the hospital’s logo on it.

  “I don’t see her in the system,” she said.

  My heart sank. “Does that mean she’s dead?”

  18

  “NOT NECESSARILY,” THE WOMAN REPLIED, GIVING ME A STRANGE look. “It means she hasn’t been admitted. She may be with one of the triage nurses.”

  “How can I find out?”

  The woman continued searching.

  “Here she is. It just popped up on the screen. She’s being processed into ICU.”

  “Which floor?”

  She told me and pointed down a hallway that led to the elevators. I took several steps before looking back to see if Vince was following.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I feel responsible.”

  “Responsible for what?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just that it happened while I was at the house.”

  “Which is why you’re there. At least you know she’s alive. What would have happened if you hadn’t been there to call 911?”

  Vince’s words always had a calming effect on me. We found the waiting room for the ICU. The atmosphere of the room was a sharp contrast to the frantic activity in the ER. About ten people were doing what the sign over the door declared—waiting. Mrs. Bartlett wasn’t among them.

  “Her daughter should have been here by now,” I said.

  As soon as the words left my lips, Mrs. Bartlett and her husband, Ken, came into the room from the patient area. I barely recognized her without her makeup. She saw me and slightly raised her hand. I came over to her.

  “How is she?” I asked anxiously.

  “Stable for the moment,” Mrs. Bartlett replied. “They’ll have to run tests to determine the extent of the damage.”

  I introduced them to Vince.
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  “Mother mentioned you the other day,” Mrs. Bartlett said to Vince. “Are you the one who brought by the flowers she put in the blue parlor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mother loves fresh flowers.”

  “I’m sorry I was so disorganized when I talked to you on the phone,” I said.

  “I was disappointed,” Mrs. Bartlett replied, staring directly into my eyes. “I thought you had more experience dealing with medical emergencies.”

  I couldn’t remember ever telling her that I had emergency medical experience.

  “She called 911,” her husband said.

  “After I told her to do it,” Mrs. Bartlett answered crisply. “You can spend the night at the house, but I’ll review the situation tomorrow. If Mother has an extended stay in the hospital or goes to a nursing home, there won’t be any need for you to be there.”

  My head jerked back. I thought about myself, but also Mrs. Fairmont’s Chihuahua.

  “Uh, what about Flip?”

  “That dog has controlled Mother’s life. He won’t do the same to mine.”

  I didn’t get a chance to ask about me. Mrs. Bartlett walked past and left the room. Her husband trailed after her.

  “Wow,” Vince said. “Did she just kick you out?”

  “I think so.”

  “Why is she so upset with you?”

  I slumped down in the nearest chair and told him. I left out some of the specific words Mrs. Bartlett used when yelling at me over the phone.

  “What am I going to do?”

  Vince’s answer was as focused as one of his legal memos at work.

  “Find another place to live,” he said. “There’s a vacancy in my complex. Yesterday I saw a sign on the bulletin board in the laundry room that a student at the college wants to sublease his apartment for the rest of the summer. It’s the one directly below mine.”

  The thought of leaving Mrs. Fairmont’s beautiful home and moving into a male college student’s apartment for the next few weeks was depressing. I could imagine the way it was furnished.

  “Do they allow pets?”

  “With a five-hundred-dollar nonrefundable deposit.”

  That was about a hundred dollars per pound for Flip. Then I remembered Mrs. Fairmont.