Copyright © 2012 Alison Caiola
All rights reserved.
Cover artwork by Eric Hutchison
Cover design by Inbeon Studios
Author photo by Jennifer Rozenbaum
This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perception and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred
ISBN: 10: 1481159623
ISBN 13: 978-1481159623
Library of Congress Control Number: TXu 1-701-711
The Seeds of a Daisy: New York City, New York
For my mother, Florence, whose love, support, and friendship I will forever miss and for which I will be forever grateful.
To my son, JD: Thank you for your patience when I read chapter after chapter to you, during the whole creation process. I am awed by your talent and your bravery and I love you.
To my agent John Campbell: It was a lucky day, and certainly no coincidence, when I contacted you. Thank you for your sound advice and all your support.
To my posse of cheerleaders—Joyce, Donna, Alissa, Lita, Jeanne N, Jeanne H, Elyn, Anita, Kristin, Barbara and Deb—thank you for your feedback and guidance. I appreciate and value your support and love.
To my brother Steven: I can only hope to live up to the person you think I am. You have always been my safe place and I love you.
To Chuck Adams: Thank you for your effort, time, and generosity.
To Kelli: Your medical information was immensely helpful.
—Those flowers were planted by the long-since departed.
Let us not forget to sow seeds for the ones yet to come.
—Alison Caiola
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
“It’s Lily. I’m here now. Open your eyes. Please, Mom, please—you have to do this for me!” I plead, praying that somewhere deep in her unconscious darkness, she’ll hear me, and, like the wonderful, overly protective, overly involved mother she has been my entire life, realize I need her, and open her eyes, ready to spring into action.
The I.C.U. nurses at the station across from my mother’s hospital room are loud—really loud. Their laughter—explosive bursts of it—reaches us like shards of glass that viciously slice the dense shadows encasing the tiny bed. The only other sounds are the irritating beep … beep … beep … of the heart monitor, and the chilling Darth Vadar-like gasps from the ventilator that’s breathing for my mother. She hasn’t opened her eyes or uttered a word since she was medevaced to the hospital twelve hours ago.
A machine-gun blast of laughter erupts from the hallway.
Here it is, 3:30 in the damn morning, and they’re acting like it’s the middle of the day.
I take a deep breath. I’m cranky, exhausted, and in desperate need of a shower. I stare at my mother, usually so chic and sophisticated and in control, lying in the bed, looking small and helpless. Her petite, pretty features are swollen, cut, and seriously bruised. Her long, dark, wavy hair, her shining glory, is hidden under a thick bandage that is tightly wrapped around her head. The stray pieces of hair that have managed to break free from the snug, white dressing are knotted and bloody.
I lean over the bed rail, this time closer to her face, and beg, “Mom, it’s Lily. I’m here. I’m with you now, Mama. Please, open your eyes.” As I’m saying it, part of me is thinking that this is way too trite.
If my mother and I were seated in one of our favorite movie theaters (Ziegfeld in NYC or AMC Loews in Santa Monica) watching this scene play out on screen, we’d look at each other and roll our eyes at how cheesy and unoriginal the writing was. The heroine, with tears streaming down her beautiful face, totally distraught and halfway out of her mind, screams for her beloved, unconscious mother to wake up out of her coma.
But this is not a scene from a bad movie. This is happening up close and personal, in heart-pounding, gut-wrenching living color. I call my mother’s name again, more loudly this time. Laughter continues to erupt from the nurses’ station. My head is going to burst. Abruptly, the laughter subsides and one of the nurses enters the room. She is extremely short, exceptionally round, very blonde, and looks to be about my age—late twenties or so.
She smiles nervously, walks to the other side of my mother’s bed, adjusts the I.V, presses a few buttons on its monitor, and says, “Excuse me, Miss Lockwood… well, first of all, I want you to know I’m a big fan—St. Joe’s is my favorite show on TV. When I work on Wednesday nights, I always TIVO it. And I love you. I mean I really love your character, Stacey. I can totally relate to her. St. Joe’s reminds me of University Hospital. I go through a lot of the same things here. Well … except for all that sex they have in the nap rooms. That doesn’t happen here.”
She hesitates for a second, and her chubby cheeks turn three shades of pink. “Well, at least not to me it doesn’t. Anyway, you’re awesome on the show!”
“Thanks. And Tina, please call me Lily.” This seems to fluster her even more.
She giggles and then catches herself, realizing where she is. She lowers her voice. “Lily, I’m so sorry about your mother. If there’s anything I—any of us—can do, just ask. I’m totally serious.” I thank her again, and she hastily leaves. Moments later, she stumbles back into the room lugging a large leather recliner that she pushes next to my mother’s bed.
“There you go. This is all we have right now.” She’s out of breath. “Doris, our head nurse, said as soon as there’s a bed or cot available, we can wheel it in here so you can sleep next to your mother.”
“Thanks.” I collapse into the chair. “What time do the doctors make rounds in the morning?”
I’d arrived at the hospital an hour earlier. Since it is the middle of the night, my mother’s doctor is not yet on duty. No matter how hard I press the nurses to give me more details about her condition, they are unyielding in their, “We’re sorry, we can’t tell you anything, the doctor will be able to tell you everything during his morning rounds” mantra.
“Rounds are usually around 7:30 a.m. Doris said she left the doctor a message that you were here and anxious to talk to him,” Tina replies.
“Okay, thanks.” Tina walks toward the door. “Oh, and Tina, can you ask the nurses to be a little quieter? I’m sure they don’t want to wake the patients.”
Tina turns around and stammers, “Well…of course, but, you know, all of the patients on this side of the I.C.U. are coma patients.” She smiles and walks out.
My mother is a coma patient. I look at the tube coming from the top of her head and follow it up to a screen on the side of the bed. There is a second screen on the wall. The nurse had told me that it monitors my mother’s heart rate, blood pressure, and oxygen. Multiple wires run from the screen to different parts of my mo
ther’s body, parts that are hidden under the stiff, grey blanket that is stringently tucked into the wafer-thin mattress.
If my mother were conscious, she would absolutely not tolerate her blanket tucked in that tightly. She despises anything that stops her from moving around freely.
“Poor Daisy,” I say out loud. Her situation is much worse than anything I could’ve imagined during the long plane ride. It seems like a lifetime ago when I got the phone call, but barely nine hours have passed. I guess your whole world and everything you know—really know to be true—can crumble in a matter of seconds.
I was on set and had just finished a scene with Dr. Jack Parker, my lover on the show. It was an angst-ridden exchange in which he told me that, even as he had professed his undying love to me for the past three seasons, he’d been having a steamy affair with one of the hot new interns. I have to admit the scene went great—better than great, actually. When the director yelled “CUT,” the cast and crew who were still on set actually clapped—which, I might add, hardly ever happens now that we’re headed into our fourth season.
Most of the cast and especially the crew are jaded; they sport an extremely blasé “been there, done that” attitude. So a reaction that actually evokes a physical response is certainly the highest compliment, one they don’t give lightly. I wonder if they would be surprised to find out that for that scene, I didn’t have to do much acting.
When the scene was finished, I gave my best grander-than-thou Shakespearean-actor bow and walked back to my dressing room. It was then that I felt the sharp burning pain in my belly—my solar plexus, actually. It was the same pain that had been with me at all times since Jamie and I had had that terrible fight Sunday night. He left for the airport on Monday at 6:00 a.m. to begin shooting a Western in New Mexico, and we haven’t spoken since. That was two days ago. This pain, this solar plexus pain, is larger than life and has its own name. I call it JamieYouAreSuchAnAsshole Pain, or Jamie Pain for short. It disappears briefly when I am on set shooting. As soon as I finish—BANG, it’s back, like a red-hot kick in the gut. Jamie Pain is my constant companion all day, and keeps me up most of the night.
I unlocked my dressing-room door and entered. Before I could close the door behind me, Stan, the production manager, rushed over to me. “Lily, I don’t know what’s going on, but Maddy says your manager has been trying to get you on your cell for an hour. She called the office looking for you three times already, saying it’s pretty important.”
“Thanks, Stan. Franny probably wants to talk to me about a project I auditioned for.”
Stan raised his thick, black, wiry unibrow and said, “You’re leaving the show?”
I kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry, Stan. I could never leave you or St. Joe’s. Well, I could never leave you.” We both laughed.
“Flattery will get you everywhere!” He rubbed his cheek.
“It’s a hiatus project,” I explained. I have to be extremely careful, because our contracts are up for renewal, and I don’t want to feed the rumor mill and muddy up the negotiations.
Stan smiled. “Gotta get back on set. I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.”
After he left, I threw myself on the couch, took another deep breath to try to alleviate the Jamie Pain, and picked up my Blackberry.
Eight missed calls, six from Franny and two from a New York number I didn’t recognize. I dialed Franny first and got her assistant, Amy.
“Hi, Amy, it’s Lily, Fra—”
Amy cut me off. “Oh, Lily, thank God, Fran really needs to talk to you. I’ll get her.”
That was beyond strange. Amy is known to be the number-one chatterbox west of La Cienega Boulevard. I often dread calling because I end up hearing her gush about her latest love or complain about how hard her job is or what a shit Franny can be at times.
I got off lucky that day—so I knew something earth- shaking must be happening. Was it that role? Did I get the job? Was she calling about a screen test? The Jamie Pain was temporarily replaced by a shitload of butterflies, flapping viciously against one another.
“Lily, oh honey.” Franny’s raspy, smoker’s voice sounded more breathless than usual.
“Franny, what the—”
“Lily, listen! It’s your mother. She’s been in a really bad car accident.”
At that moment, everything in the room got very far away, and that was the moment I entered into what I can only now describe as a big, blurry bubble.
Something about my mother driving westbound on the Long Island Expressway… it was raining…hit the divider…car flipped over…
My mind was racing. I’d the words but couldn’t fully comprehend what Franny was telling me. I finally willed myself out of the bubble and managed to pull myself together.
“What happened to her? Where is she?”
“She was airlifted to University Hospital.”
“Airlifted??” I screamed. Chills traveled up my spine and I started to sweat. “What’s the number to the hospital? I have to speak to her now.”
“Lily, listen to me! I have a car waiting outside to take you to LAX. The driver has all the information. You must leave now to get on the 4:30 p.m. flight to JFK.”
“But…but I have two scenes left today. I don’t have any clothes. I have my toothbrush.” I bent over and held my stomach. “I feel sick.”
“Take a few deep breaths.” She was trying hard to sound calm, probably so I wouldn’t dive head first into the deep end— which I was warming up to do.
“Everything’s being taken care of. Amy’s on the phone with the production office right now, telling them what’s going on. All you have to do is grab a couple of things from your dressing room and leave. Call me from the car.”
I couldn’t move or speak. I stared at a painting on the opposite wall.
“Lily, hang up the phone. The driver is right outside the stage door—Go!” Franny commanded.
I hung up, ran to the sink, grabbed my toothbrush and my makeup, and then started circling the room. What the hell did I need? Then it hit me! My mother, my wonderful mother—my crazy lunatic of a mother—my staunchest supporter and sometimes my harshest critic—had been airlifted to a hospital!
I’d forgotten to ask Franny how badly hurt my mother was. I was still in wardrobe, so I took off the dress, kicked off my shoes, and practically ripped off my pantyhose. Someone knocked on the dressing room door.
“Lily, it’s Bob.”
“One minute, I’m just getting changed.” I threw on my jeans and a tee and opened the door. Bob Goldsmith, the show’s director, walked in and gave me a bear hug.
“Oh, baby, I just heard—this is terrible, Lil. Are you okay?” I shook my head and started crying.
“Christ, this is some shock.” He looked into my eyes. “But you and I both know Daisy is one tough lady—she’ll pull through okay. And while she’s on the mend, she’ll totally restructure the hospital so that it runs more efficiently. And she’ll be her charming, wonderful self so they won’t know what hit ‘em. Take it from me, I know firsthand!”
We both smiled, thinking of all the hours of negotiations to which Mom had subjected the producers and Bob, until finally my contract was acceptable to her. In the end, she managed to get them all to respect and even adore her.
“Put your shoes on, I’ll walk you out,” he said. He accompanied me to the town car and kissed me on the cheek. “Tell Daisy we send our love. Our prayers are with you and your mother, honey.” Bob stood there as we pulled away, wiping tears from his eyes, just as I had suspected he would.
Our prayers are with you and your mother. No one had ever said those words to me or to my mother—and certainly not about my mother.
Oh God, I wished Jamie were there. Just to hold me, so I could lean into him and let him take over and get me where I needed to be. The phone rang.
“Lily.” It was Franny. “How’re you doing, honey? Are you in the car?”
“Uh-huh.” I looked out the window. We were leaving
Warner Brothers Studio and passing the security gate. Vinnie, the guard, waved at me.
“Franny, tell me again what happened.”
“Well, I don’t know much,” she replied. “I got a call from your mother’s doctor in the hospital. She wasn’t conscious when they brought her in.”
“Oh God.” I felt another rush of nausea.
“They went through her wallet and you were listed as an emergency contact. I was listed as a backup, in case they couldn’t get through to you. They left you a few messages while you were on set. From what he said, I gathered that she was driving west on the Long Island Expressway and—”
“She must’ve been going from Southold to the apartment in the city,” I interrupted.
“Could be, I don’t know.” I heard Amy in the background. Franny held her hand over the receiver and I heard her say, “Tell him I can’t talk now. I’ll call him back. Sorry, so they said she had a bad accident, hit a stanchion or something, and the car flipped over. They had to cut her out.” I started crying.
“Honey, please listen. A Mrs. White from American Airlines will meet you at the airport; ask for her in the First- Class check-in area. She’ll take you to the VIP section of the Admiral’s Club and will stay with you until you board. Please call me when you get on the plane—before you take off. Lily, do you hear me?”
“Yes.” I looked out the car window and wasn’t surprised to see that U.S. Route 101 was back-to-back traffic.
“Shit, the 101’s a parking lot,” I said.
“You’ll get there in time, don’t worry,” she assured me. “Now, Lily, what’s the name of the woman you’re going to ask for?”
“Mrs. White.”
“That’s right, honey. Put your sunglasses on. Do you have a baseball cap or something?”
“A cap… why?” I asked, amazed. Why would she give a shit about what I was wearing at a time like this?
“In case there are paparazzi at the airport,” she explained. “Remember to call me. Don’t forget your sunglasses. We’ll be praying, honey.”
We’ll be praying. Damn, there it was again. Never had anyone ever said that to me before. Now, I’d heard it twice in thirty minutes. I was exhausted. I looked out the car window, glad we were moving again.
The Seeds Of A Daisy: The Lily Lockwood Series: Book One (Women's Fiction) Page 1
