About two weeks later, Fernando got a call from the line producer of my movie, offering him the job as my personal makeup artist. He was ecstatic and grateful to Daisy for making his dream come true. We were thrilled to have him with us.
Tommy visited us when we had time off from shooting, and the four of us spent long, lazy days on the island’s many stunning beaches. One of our very favorites was Agios Ioannis, on the Southwest span of Mykonos. It had soft sand and crystalline blue waters and we’d lie there on the blue lounge chairs and talk or sleep. When the sun was at its hottest, we’d move under the palm-leaf umbrellas and run back and forth into the Aegean to cool ourselves off. By late afternoon, we’d go to our favorite tavernas, eat fresh fish, drink Retsina, and take in the gorgeous sunsets. At night we’d shop at Matogianni, the main shopping area of the island, browsing through the jewelry and designer boutiques, the souvenir shops, and the art galleries. Some evenings we’d stop in at one of the clubs to hear music, and would always end with a late supper at one of the many fantastic outdoor restaurants on the island.
Later, Tommy told Mom that away from their hectic everyday life, Fernando had realized how much he truly cared about Tommy—and Tommy fell even more deeply in love with Fernando. They’ve been inseparable ever since.
I glance at Fernando as he and Tommy rush over to me in the chapel. Fernando figured that the most appropriate outfit to wear to visit his loved one in a coma was an incredibly loose and flowing silk lavender shirt with black Swarovski crystals on the collar, black (very) skinny jeans, and the most gorgeous black Lucchese Classics tooled white wingtip Western boots. (When my mother fully recovers, I must find out if Luchese makes a similar woman’s boot.)
Within a second of their entrance, I find myself in the middle of a group hug.
“We’re so happy to see you, honey. Any word from the doctor?” Tommy asks.
“Not yet. I’m waiting. The nurse is supposed to call me on my cell when she’s out of surgery.”
I’m relieved that the guys are here with me.
Fernando steps back, looks me up and down, and asks disapprovingly, “What’s this?” He points his right forefinger at me and moves it up and down to take in my entire body.
“What’s what?” I ask, confused.
“How do you think your poor mother’s going to feel when she finally wakes up from her coma and sees you looking like this? It’ll be too much of a shock for the poor sweetheart!”
“Well, to tell you the truth, Ferny, I’ve been a bit busy,” I say sarcastically, “what with flying across the country in the middle of the night, and sitting scared shitless by my mother’s bedside, praying that she doesn’t have irreparable brain damage. It’s hard to keep up with my beauty routine.
When I finish, I start crying. Even though I know Ferny is trying to distract me, the gravity of the situation is overwhelming.
Tommy shoots Fernando a “now see what you’ve done” look.
Fernando hugs me. “Young lady, Daisy Lockwood will be fine, that I can guarantee. She’s a fighter, that one, and she will come out of this on top. You, on the other hand, are a disaster.” We laugh, and I hug both of my mother’s dear friends and thank them for coming.
“Nonsense, don’t thank us,” Ferny says. “We’re family; this is where we belong—with you, at a time like this. Now, your makeup, please!” he commands. I try to protest, telling him that makeup is the last thing that I need right now. But I know that fussing is the way Fernando copes with stress. He puts out his hand and I open my purse, pull out my makeup bag, and obediently hand it over.
“Excellent. Hairbrush too, please,” he says. Within a few minutes, he has me looking like myself again.
“Did I tell you Donna’s in the air right now and will be here late tonight, early tomorrow?” he asks me.
“Good,” I say. “I’m glad she got a flight.”
My telephone rings; I answer it as soon as I see that it’s the hospital.
“Lily, Gilda here. Your Mom is being wheeled into recovery now. Dr. Niptau is here waiting to speak to you.”
We take the elevator up to the I.C.U., and find Dr. Niptau in the conference room. I introduce him to my “uncles” and he doesn’t even blink at the obvious lack of family resemblance. Dr. Niptau looks exhausted and even more disheveled than usual.
“The surgery was successful. We were able to operate on the blood vessel that caused the bleeding and take care of the damage. We also found two others that we did not see on the CT scan that had smaller tears. We repaired those as well.”
I now understand what it means when people say their heart soars.
Niptau continues, “We will monitor her closely, especially during the next 24 hours, which are crucial. We’ll be keeping a close eye on her vitals and intra-cranial pressure.”
“When is she going to wake up?” I ask.
“Comas generally last a few days to a few weeks. They rarely last more than two to five weeks, but some comas have lasted as long as several years.”
“So you don’t have any idea when she may come out of it?” Tommy asks.
“We cannot possibly know. And when she does, we cannot predict the state she’ll be in—as far as brain activity.”
My heart goes from soaring to plummeting.
He continues, “I’m not saying that this will be the case, but there is certainly a chance that she may be in a vegetative state. We don’t know. All we can do is wait and see.”
What kind of answer is that? I want a guarantee that my mother is going to come out of this still being the same wonderful, caring, crazy mother that she always has been. But the doctor isn’t giving any guarantees.
“Your mother should be back from recovery in an hour or so.”
Tommy thanks him. Niptau looks relieved as he walks out of the room.
We sit there in silence and shock, each trying to imagine Daisy as anything but vivacious, active, and in control.
We walk back to the I.C.U. waiting room and wait for my mother to be wheeled up from recovery. The television is turned on in the corner and we have the place to ourselves, except for an occasional nurse or maintenance person who enters and exits. We get black coffees from the coffee machine and raid the snack machine.
“They should have a Starbucks in the hospital,” Fernando says.
Tommy rolls his eyes. “Why are you rolling your eyes?” Fernando asks. “There are Starbucks everywhere—why not here? People need to have their mocha lattes with whipped cream in times of great stress—not this shitty black coffee.”
“The boy’s got a point,” I say.
“Also, they could desperately use a decorator here.” Fernando gestures dramatically. “Do they think just because people are sick with worry about their loved ones in the I.C.U. that they have to look at such dismal decor?”
“Best-selling author Daisy Lockwood is in critical condition at University Hospital, Long Island, New York, after a near-fatal car accident.” We all look up at the television. The show Hollywood Scoop is on.
“Her daughter, Lily Lockwood, Emmy-nominated actress and star of the popular television show St. Joe’s, flew in from LA late last night to be at her mother’s side.” The cameras show me walking into the hospital, my head down, looking really awful.
“Ouch. I look like shit,” I say.
“Told you so!” Fernando replies, shaking his head.
“Meanwhile,” the announcer continued, “while Lily is at her mother’s bedside, we caught this footage of her significant other, movie actor Jamie Fleming, on a night out.”
The cameras cut to Jamie in a bar getting off a mechanical bull. Everyone is shouting and clapping.
“There goes the poor man’s John Travolta,” Fernando jokes. “They should call his movie Suburban Cowboy.” Tommy and I shush him.
Someone off-camera hands Jamie a drink, which he proceeds to down in one shot.
Everyone is laughing and looking pretty wasted. Jamie turns around and hugs a woman. He
r back is to the camera, but I can see she is a blonde in a skimpy midriff t-shirt and Daisy Dukes. When she turns around, it is none other than good old Nasty Natty. (Her boobs, by the way, look about ten pounds heavier on camera.)
“Fuck me. Can this day get any worse?” I ask. I throw my empty cup down.
“This insider is certain this footage validates those breakup rumors that have been circulating the last few days.”
“It just got worse,” Fernando says.
“Now on to our sighting of the Brangelina bunch in Maui,” the announcer continues.
“Turn it off, please.” I say. “Enough of that crap!”
“Listen, honey, you don’t know the circumstances, or when this was shot.” Tommy puts his arm around me and continues. “You know those bloodsuckers—you’ve been there—they shoot something and totally edit it to make it look different than it actually was.”
“They should’ve edited more clothes onto her,” I reply. I know Tommy’s probably right, but there it was, in color, on the small screen—for me and the rest of the world to see. How can he look so happy and be having such a blast when my whole world is falling apart?
At that moment, Gilda walks into the waiting room.
“Lily, your mother is back in her room. You can go see her now.”
We all walk in, me first, Tommy and Fernando behind me. We are not ready for what we see. My mother’s hair has been shaved off; part of her head is wrapped in thick bandages. My first thought is that she is going to be pissed—she loves her hair. Her long dark wavy hair is so Daisy.
There are now tubes and wires coming out of the top of her head, her chest, and her arms, all leading to different monitors and to the IV. She is still on a ventilator. What have they done to my poor beautiful mother?”
The sides of the bed are up. I kneel down and put my hand through the opening in the slats closest to the mattress, and lightly stroke her left arm.
“Mama, I love you. You’re going to be fine—you have to be,” I whisper. For some reason, I don’t know why, I remember a song that my mother used to sing to me. I must have been about five or six years old. We were watching Sesame Street together and saw Helen Reddy sing the song to Kermit when he needed cheering up. After that, Mom sang it to me whenever I was hurt or had a bad day in school, or when someone had been mean to me.
I sing it to her very softly.
“You and me against the world, sometimes it feels like you and me against the world. When all the others turn their backs and walk away, you can count on me to stay…”
Fernando and Tommy are crying in the doorway.
Tommy and Fernando leave early in the evening. I tell them I’ll be fine and that I want to stay with my mother until I hear from Auntie D. They are hesitant about leaving me, but I’m kind of relieved they’re going. It’s hard enough dealing with my own anguish, much less taking on theirs too.
I have no idea when Donna will arrive, but I know she’ll text me when she lands.
I have not heard back from Jamie. I think about him and Natalie and feel sick to my stomach again. I consciously decide not to think about them. Instead, I look at my mother, wishing she could hear me and talk to me.
Can a person in a coma hear what is being said to her? Gilda told me that no one can really say for sure, but that in her experience, the people who come out of comas faster are the ones whose families have been talking to them and taking care of them.
So I talk to my mother nonstop for hours. I tell her about the show and about all the people who have either called, texted, or left messages for her. I tell her what the nurses told me—that flowers and plants are pouring in for her. They said they’ve never seen so many flowers and such big arrangements all at the same time. Since they don’t allow flowers or plants in the I.C.U., They agree to hold them for her in the nurse’s lounge until Mom is better and is moved to a different part of the hospital.
I walk over to the lounge to check out the flowers and to collect the cards that accompany the arrangements. I tell my mother I will make sure that when Jodi gets back from Hawaii, she will contact each and every person to thank them for their kindness. I know Mom would like that—she’s very into thank-you notes. She taught me early on to write thank-you notes for every present or good deed I received immediately after receiving it. That I shouldn’t let too much time go by, or it would seem that the gift or deed wasn’t appreciated.
I talk to her about the dresses we should consider for the Emmys. This feels comfortable and familiar to me. This is what we would be talking about if she hadn’t had the accident. She was planning to fly out a few weeks before the Emmys to work with our favorite stylist, Rachel Zimmerman, to pick out the most fabulous outfit for me, and of course for herself. I tell her that Rachel left a message a couple of days ago that it is time for us to start looking at her choices. She sent photos of her two faves.
The first is a gorgeous red duchess satin draped gown, with a large bow motif on the bust. It is stunning. I tell my mother that my very favorite is a strapless Altelier Versace antique rose gown in silk tulle and georgette. I explain to her as best I can that the micro draping forms the bodice, while boned piping retains the shape, before falling to create a sort of cage effect. It’s embroidered entirely in crystal in a “degrade” effect. It is gorgeous and is my very favorite. But I tell her that I absolutely cannot and will not agree to it until she gives me the okay. I half expect her to open her eyes and weigh in on my dress choices.
Gilda comes into the room to say goodbye. Her twelve-hour shift will be over in about fifteen minutes, and she wants me to know that she will see me tomorrow at 9:00 a.m. She informs me that she’ll be around for a little longer, sharing patient information with the next shift of nurses and lets me know that Tina will be my mother’s night nurse.
That’s how patients must mark the passage of the days—with every shift that leaves and every new one that comes on—day in, day out. It feels really strange to be in a hospital room, seeing the inner workings of the place for so many hours, and not be ill.
I need to clear my head a little and get something to eat. I check the time. It is 9:15 p.m. and the only thing I’ve eaten is the snacks from the vending machine. I go up to the nurses’ station and ask if there is a restaurant in the hospital.
“There’s one in the lobby, but it closes at 8:30 p.m. as visiting hours end. But you can go to our cafeteria, the one for hospital employees, on the third floor. It’s open all night,” Doris tells me.
I grab my purse and head down to the third-floor cafeteria. They don’t have much in the way of hot food, so I pick up a PB&J on whole wheat, and some bottled water. When I sit down, I notice most of the people are looking at me. I squirm. I need something to read so I won’t have to watch them watching me. I get out my Mom’s diary.
The next entry is dated almost one month later:
June 14, 1969 Saturday
Dear Diary,
I am really, really, really sorry that I haven’t written in a few weeks. But things are very hectic here. I’m getting ready to graduate from junior high school and the busy season is starting at the farm. I can’t believe that I am going to be a HIGH SCHOOL STUDENT next year. I am so excited, I can hardly breathe. Mama always tells me to take deep breaths so I don’t hyperventilate when I’m excited. So that’s what I’m doing, taking plenty of deep breaths.
The end of this week, they are going to announce the winners of the Fifth Annual Poetry Contest in Newsday. I’m in the thirteen to sixteen category. The prize for the winner is seventy-five whole dollars. It would take me weeks to figure out how to spend it all! Papa said I shouldn’t get my hopes up too much, because there are going to be so many kids who are older than me also competing. He said that my poem was probably not that good anyway.
Why would he say such a hurtful thing? It really made me feel sad. When I asked him to read my poem before I sent it in, he said he didn’t have time for such nonsense. I went to my room. It made me cry and
I got nervous and almost didn’t send it in. I am making a promise, Diary. If I ever get married and have children, I will do everything I can to help them be what they want to be.
Mama came into my room later on and said that I should certainly send it in anyway, that Papa can sometimes be a grouch and don’t worry. She hugged me and I told her all the things I want to do in my future. I just know, in the deepest corners of my heart, that I will be a great writer! Mama agreed with me. She said she felt it too, in the deepest corners of her heart.
Well, it’s time for me to go to sleep. I will promise to try to write more often.
Daisy xoxoxo
PS. Here is the poem that I submitted, hope you like it.
A New Day
By
Miss Daisy Edwards
In the morning I can’t wait to meet the brand-new day,
But is the day waiting for me to join it today?
How many towns have so many girls like me?
How different can so many girls in so many towns be?
Will this new day ever know how happy I feel inside?
Or how I hurt sometimes or am filled with pride?
Or know that I hope to be someone special in my own way?
Or does the new morn bring hope to all people, every day?
The poem touches my heart. It captures the essence of my mother—an eternal optimist with a beautiful spirit. I continue to read the next excerpt:
June 21, 1969 Saturday
Dear Diary,
So much has happened since I wrote last week. Even though I want to write every day, by the time I’m ready to go to sleep I’m too pooped to pop! Well, there’s some good news and some bad news. First bad news is that the winners were announced for the Newsday Poetry Contest. I didn’t win first place. Now the good news, I was third honorable mention!
Donna said that is extraordinary since all the other kids who won were much older than me! And she said that must mean I am super talented. I have to agree with her.
Now the bad news is that the honorable mention doesn’t have any money awards. Now the good news, I get a trophy that says Daisy Edwards, Third Place Honorable Mention, 1969 Fifth Annual Newsday Poetry Competition. Now the really bad news and it’s really bad, believe me!
The Seeds Of A Daisy: The Lily Lockwood Series: Book One (Women's Fiction) Page 10
