by Lori Leger
“Caleb …” Cathryn spoke, barely over a whisper. “Caleb Paul Ferguson.”
Without looking up, J.D. nodded and smiled. “Paul, after your father. I’m glad to hear that. He adjusted his hold on the child. “Caleb Paul Ferguson,” he repeated. “A fine name for my first great-grandson.”
John cleared his throat loudly. He lifted the baby girl from the bed, gently cradling her in his arms. His gaze ricocheted from his granddaughter, to his daughter-in-law several times. He nodded, smiling at Cat. “Yep, she’s got her beautiful mother’s features written all over her.” He walked over to the chair next to where his father sat, holding Caleb, and seated himself. “What’s this little beauty’s name?”
Zach approached, spoke reverently, as though he were about to reveal some great truth. “Her name is Cassandra, Pop—Cassandra Beth Ferguson.”
John’s heart skipped a beat when he heard the name. He turned to Cat, who sat sniffing, tears running down her pretty cheeks—obviously emotional at the scene. “Beth…” His voice broke as he cleared it and continued. “Bethie would approve.” He met his daughter-in-law’s gaze. “Thank you, Cat.”
Cathryn nodded, accepted the tissue Zach handed her, and then latched onto his hand as he sat beside her on the bed.
John scanned the room—his father, himself, his son, and two grandchildren—four generations of Fergusons here in this room. As much of a thrill as it gave him to be a part of it, he was keenly aware of the missing presence. He knew if his wife could speak to him from the grave she’d say it was her biggest regret—not being a part of her grandchildren’s lives. He gave Cat an encouraging smile. He suspected she was thinking the same thing about her father not being around to see his daughter’s babies.
Beth and Paul would have both loved this.
John checked the time, realized their visit was nearly over. “Before we go, Paw Paw Johnny would like to hold them both at the same time. May I?” He grunted in satisfaction as Zach placed Caleb in the crook of his free arm. He gazed from one to the other, noticing the various differences and similarities of facial features between his two grandchildren. “Look at ‘em, would you?”
His dad walked up and chuckled. “Yep, that’s an armload of pooters, right there.”
John laughed in agreement. He heard a soft knock at the door, but didn’t bother to look up. Another in the continual flow of nurses or techs, he supposed, who’d attended Cat’s every need. He blocked out all conversation as he concentrated all his attention on his two beautiful grandchildren.
“Don’t you look good holding those two?”
The pleasant female voice broke into his silent reverence of the two infants. “Probably not as good as I feel, but thanks anyway.” He looked up, grinning, and did a double-take at the woman standing before him. “Cynthia?” He squinted, to make sure he was seeing correctly.
Hands resting on her trim hips, the woman smiled and nodded. “I would have known you anywhere, John Michael. I swear, other than that distinguished looking salt and pepper hair of yours, you look exactly the same.” She crossed her arms. “You suck for that, you know.”
“Cynthia Anne Robicheaux …”
The pretty redhead’s green eyes sparkled with laughter. “Nobody’s called me Robicheaux in a long time.” She touched the name tag clipped to her lab coat’s lapel. “It’s Ellender now. I married a man from Oklahoma.”
He frowned, trying to recall having seen her in the past thirty-five years since graduating high school. “You’ve been an Okie all this time?”
She nodded. “Two weeks after graduation, I took a bus to Oklahoma to spend a month with my grandparents. I met Gene my fourth week there and never returned.”
“Until …”
“Six months ago. I lost my husband a year earlier and our three kids have scattered to different areas. I decided it was time to come on back to Louisiana. I want to spend time with mom while she’s still here.”
“I’m sorry about your husband.” He smiled as he remembered a particular incident. “Your mom baked the best red velvet cakes. Oh man, the pudding-like filling and cream cheese icing. Damn, that was good eating.”
Cynthia nodded exuberantly. “She still does.”
The elder John cleared his throat and spoke up. “Robicheaux? Are you Ham and Bess’s daughter?”
“Yes sir, do you remember me?”
He slapped his thigh and laughed. “Now I do. I remember you tagging along with your dad everywhere he went.”
“I bugged you mercilessly to see those new chicks every time you got in a new batch.” She went over to give him a hug. “How are you, Mr. John?”
He nodded. “I’m good. And Johnny’s right about your mother’s red velvet cakes. That’s when people baked ‘em from scratch. Not these crappy mixes with no taste.” He shook his head. “It broke my heart not to make your dad’s funeral a few years back. I was with my wife at Lourdes Hospital in Lafayette. She was fighting her own battle with the big ’C’ at the time.”
Cynthia’s face fell. “Oh. Did she …”
“No, she beat the cancer. Sometimes I wonder if …” He stopped, wiped his mouth with his hand.
John Michael met Cynthia’s curious gaze. “Mom has Alzheimer’s Disease. She’s in a continuous care facility now.”
“I’m so sorry.” She reached out to his father, touched his arm gently. “Have you looked into the support groups here for the families of those afflicted with the disease? Sometimes it helps to talk about it with others in the same situation.”
He cleared his throat with a loud harrumph. “Thanks, maybe I’ll look into those.”
John Michael and Zach exchanged looks equal in their levels of skepticism. Both implying, Yeah, old man, sure you will.
“So—” Cynthia swiveled and pointed to Zachary. “You’re the father, obviously. You look too much like John Michael not to be his son.”
“I am and extremely proud of it.”
“Well, I need to speak to both you and your wife about a particular procedure for,” she checked at her paperwork, “Caleb.”
“What procedure? Is something wrong?” Zach’s voice registered panic.
John Michael groaned. “I think she’s asking about a circumcision, Son.”
Cynthia gave him a quick nod. “You are correct. I’m the pediatrician and I’m here to answer any questions the two of you may have on the procedure, or to help you decide, one way or another.”
John David stood quickly, adjusting his belt buckle. “Holy crap. I don’t need to be here for this conversation. Are you about ready to go, Johnny?”
“Sure am, Pop. Doesn’t sound like anything I want to hear about, either.” John stood carefully, handed his granddaughter to Zach, and placed his grandson carefully in his designated bassinet.
He leaned over him. “Poor little booger.” He gently tucked his grandson’s blanket around the tiny figure. “I hope she does a good job, for your sake. Sometimes, they botch those things, you know.” He looked up to find a host of eyes upon him. “Well, not me—and I’m sure you’ll do a good job, Cynthia. I’m just sayin’.”
His dad snorted. “Well, looks to me like your sayin’ ain’t helpin’ much. Let’s go, boy. It might be best to make our exit before they start tossing stuff at us.”
John grabbed his hat and nodded at everyone. “I’ll be back tomorrow, probably without the old guy, since he finds my driving so appalling and all.” He found Cynthia’s eyes pinned to him. “Cyn,” he said, slipping in the nickname he’d called her in high school. “It was good to see you.”
“You too, John Michael.” She smiled again. “Maybe I’ll see you again before they leave the hospital.”
“I hope so.” He nodded at her and ducked out of the room, grateful his old man had exited the room without witnessing the wink she’d sent his direction. The old fart would jump to foregone conclusions in a heartbeat. He pulled the door quietly closed, and turned, only to have his father in his face, wearing a smug expression
.
“I gotta hit the can again, Johnny.”
“Of course you do.” He shook his head as his dad disappeared into the men’s restroom. He stood there in the corridor, twirling his truck keys in his hands for several seconds, thinking about Cynthia’s wink. What exactly, if anything, had she meant?
“You’re still here.”
He spun on his heel to see her approach, wearing the same captivating smile she’d possessed all through high school. “Waiting on Pop, as usual.” He used his thumb to point at the restroom door. “His second home, lately.”
“Enlarged prostate, huh?”
“Yeah, but don’t let him hear you say that. He’s in denial.” He smoothed the rim of his hat trying to come up with a better topic of conversation.
“Those are two beautiful grandchildren you have in there. Are they your first?”
He nodded. “If Zach has anything to say about, they’ll be my last. He almost lost that sweet girl in there.”
“I heard about it when I came back from my day off. It got serious during delivery but she’s fine now. It’s remarkable how well the twins have adjusted to the environment outside the womb, though. Not a single sign of respiratory distress, none of the usual complications to babies of premature birth. Mother and babies are perfectly fine. There’s no reason to believe her next pregnancy will be troublesome. Each one is different.”
He waved his finger between the two of them. “You and I know that, but who’s going to convince my son?” He shrugged. “Of course, if Cat wants more children, I have a feeling they’ll have another go round at it. So, what did they decide about the procedure?”
She grinned. “Helmet head.”
John winced. “Poor little guy. When?”
“Since they were a month early, I’ve advised them to wait a couple of weeks. They’ll decide whether to bring him back here, or use their own pediatrician, or even use a specialist.”
He cocked his head at her answer. “I didn’t realize the medical profession had circumcision specialists.”
Her laughter rang out between them. “Not specifically for circumcision but a pediatric urologist. Whomever they choose, your grandson will be fine.” She grabbed her buzzing phone and read the text. “I need to be somewhere.” She slipped it back into her pocket and grinned at him. “You know, some of my best memories from home involve your dad’s feed store.”
He nodded. “The shipments of chicks, I know.”
She lifted one shoulder. “Yes—and those hay bales.” Lifting her hand, she wiggled her fingers in a wave. “See you around, John Michael.”
She spun on her heel and walked away from him at a brisk pace. She’d been a pretty little thing in high school, and she still was. No denying he’d always had feelings for this particular redhead.
John turned, paced an impatient trail in front of the restroom door, waiting for his father.
He froze in his tracks. Hay bales. Suddenly, a memory flooded his mind, as vividly as if it had happened yesterday, instead of forty years ago.
He’d spent all afternoon unloading a trailer full of hay bales. Cynthia had shown up with her dad and offered to help, nothing less than an insult for a young man of thirteen. She’d hung around to watch him nearly bust a gut trying to impress her with his speed and strength. He couldn’t remember the details, but he’d ended up kissing Cyn that day.
Somehow he’d forgotten all about the late summer event responsible for providing him with enough fantasizing to last all through junior high and most of high school.
John swiveled in the direction she’d headed, in time to see her turn back for a second look at him. Still within earshot, he caught her lighthearted laughter as she sent him a final wave and turned a corridor to disappear from view.
How in the hell had he forgotten Cynthia Anne Robicheaux?
Cynthia rounded the corner and headed to the nurses station. Bee Tate stopped what she was doing, rested her pudgy fists on ample hips and raised one curious brow.
“What’s got you grinning like the Cheshire Cat? You see the Mad Hatter down there or something?”
Cynthia froze in her tracks. “Les Miles is here? Really? Where?”
Bee’s chocolate brown face twisted in confusion. She cocked her head, causing her silver wig to skew the slightest bit. “Who the hell is Les Miles? Is he a character in Alice in Wonderland, too?”
“Les Miles. You know, head coach for LSU? Tiger football?”
Bee gave her head a violent shake, further skewing the mound of unnatural silver curls atop her head. “Girl, you’re giving me a headache with all this nonsense. I don’t watch college football. And what the hell does that have to do with a story about a trip down a rabbit hole?”
Cynthia thought about trying to explain how the press had come to label Coach Miles the Mad Hatter after particularly entertaining interviews and because he always wears a white hat. It required far too much effort for someone who wasn’t a fan. “Forget I said anything.”
Bee pointed one stubby brown finger at Cynthia’s face. “A diversionary tactic if ever I saw one. What did you see down there?” She waddled to the end of the corridor.
“Bee—what are you doing?” Cynthia’s comment came out in a low hiss.
Bee stuck her silver topped head around the corner. She turned back to Cynthia, wearing an ear to ear grin. “Lawd! I know why you were grinning, now. That’s a mighty fine looking man over there. Do you know him?”
“He’s the grandfather of the Ferguson twins.”
Bee’s mouth twisted in a grin. “My, my, my—I had four of my grandfather’s alive at the same time. Not a one of ‘em looked as good as he does. Nuh-uh. Nope. I’d have remembered that, fa sho.”
“He’s an old friend from my home town.”
“Ah—now we’re getting to the crux of the situation. You know Mr. TDSH.” She explained the acronym when Cynthia directed a clueless stare in her direction. “Talk, Dark, and Sexy as Hell.”
Cynthia shrugged one shoulder and walked around the desk. “I knew him a long, long time ago. This is the first I’ve seen of him since our high school graduation.” She pulled up a file on her tablet, entered some information on Caleb Ferguson. “They opted for the circumcision, in case you were interested.”
“Poor little baby boy.”
“I know.”
“Are you doing the procedure?”
“I suggested they wait a couple of weeks but I will if they ask me to. They may decide to bring him to their own pediatrician though.”
“Maybe they can get the good looking Paw Paw to bring him in so you can strike up a conversation with him.”
Cynthia rolled her eyes. “I doubt it.”
“Maybe he’ll come along for the ride.”
Cynthia cringed, remembering having to sit through the procedure for her own sons. “It’s not exactly the kind of thing men want to witness.”
Kevin, the vertically challenged, highly obnoxious X-ray technician who seemed to thrive on her rejection of him, approached from her right. “What don’t we want to witness?”
“Circumcisions.”
She didn’t have to see his face to know he cringed.
“Oh, hell no. I’d rather be beaten bloody and thrown into a pool of sharks. A barbaric religious practice.”
Cynthia shrugged one shoulder. “These days it’s done for hygienic reasons and to prevent complications.”
He shivered. “I don’t care, and if you gals can’t find a more pleasant topic of conversation, I’m leaving.”
Bee turned on him. “Don’t let the door hit you where the good Lord split you, Kevin. Buh-bye.”
He sent a glare Bee’s direction before pivoting slowly toward Cynthia. “I have tickets—”
“No.”
“But they’re—”
“Kevin! You’ve asked me out no less than a hundred times. My answer has been no. It’s always going to be no.”
“They’re great seats.”
She turned on
him, her hands splayed. “How many times do I have to tell you I don’t date in the work place? I’ve seen too many people end up in more drama than it’s worth.”
Kevin cocked his head sideways in what his co-workers called his giant cockatiel move. “Ridiculous!”
Bee approached, and gave him a light shove on the shoulder. “She’s right, Kev. Heck, even dogs know not to poop where they eat. It surely seems like you’d have realized that by now. Besides …” She stopped to send Cynthia an exaggerated wink. “There’s a new bull in the pasture.”
“Good grief.” Cynthia gathered her things and headed for her office. “It’s suddenly come to my attention that you people know too damn much about my life.”
Bee’s laughter followed her out of the room. “And you’re just now realizing this? Welcome to the fishbowl, honey.”
Cynthia pushed open the door, her arms loaded down with groceries. She kicked it shut, staggering to the snack bar to dump the bags.
“You know you can make two trips, don’t you?”
She scrunched her face, annoyed her mother caught her at this again. “I know. I don’t want to.”
Bess Robicheaux gave her daughter a one armed hug then focused her blue-eyed gaze on her. “Stop being hard-headed like your father. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“Can I quote you next time I hear you’ve been climbing a ladder to pick figs out of that old tree out back?”
Her mother placed her fists on ample hips and cocked her head, before giving her short, snowy-white waves a gentle shake. “Well, I wasn’t raised to see good fruit rot on the ground, by dang it! Besides, a lot of people get too much enjoyment out of my baked goods to let those delicious figs go to waste.”
Cynthia brought a bag of canned goods to the pantry, glanced up at the shelves full of fig preserves, along with pears, blackberry and muscadine jellies, and multiples of others of which she couldn’t quite read the labels. Her mother spent lots of time picking and canning fruits and berries. She spent even more time baking it up into delicious pies, fold over tarts, and other delicacies. Most of which she brought to the local nursing homes or food banks for distribution to the destitute. Sometimes, she put together baskets for people she’d heard were having difficulty making ends meet. Sometimes, she brought them to people just to see them smile.
