The Seeds Of A Daisy: The Lily Lockwood Series: Book One (Women's Fiction)

by Alison Caiola

  I looked at Donna and whisper, “Who the hell is that?” She shrugs. “Sergeant, do you know what hospital he was taken to?”

  “It was either University or St. John’s—the accident was between both. It all depends on the situation at the hospital at the time the paramedics called it in.”

  There’s a knock at the conference room door, and Dr. Niptau and his team pile in.

  “Sergeant, the doctor is here to see us. Can you please fax the report to me, here at University I.C.U., in care of Doris?” I ask.

  “Will do—and Miss Lockwood, hope all goes well for your mother.” He hangs up before I can thank him.

  It looks like the team has increased by four or five white coats. I introduce Auntie D. to Dr. Niptau, and he introduces us to a few of the older doctors. They are heads of one department or another. Auntie D. takes my hand under the table.

  “There has been a significant change in your mother’s condition. About an hour ago she opened her eyes—”

  “Oh my God—that’s great,” I interrupt. Donna is squeezing my hand so hard my fingers feel like they’re being crushed.

  “Please allow me to continue.” Niptau looks uncomfortable. “The state she is in is called Apallic Syndrome, otherwise known as a vegetative state. It is a condition in which patients with severe brain damage, who are in a coma, progress to a state of wakefulness without detectable awareness. Your mother’s eyes are fixed, and she is unresponsive to external stimuli. She does not have a gag reflex, so we will be inserting a feeding tube. We are removing the ventilator, however, because it has been determined that she can breathe independently.”

  Auntie D. is crying. She looks from one doctor to the other. “I don’t understand how that can be. If she opened her eyes…this doesn’t make sense.”

  “Actually, it makes perfect sense,” one of Niptau’s colleagues answers. “There is a fair amount of brain damage to the frontal lobe, which is associated with reasoning, parts of speech, movement, emotions, and problem-solving. There is also damage to the parietal lobe, which is associated with perception, auditory stimuli, recognition, and speech. Her brain stem is intact. The brain stem structure is responsible for basic vital life functions such as breathing, heartbeat, and blood pressure. So we will be monitoring her, and we have several means of evaluation that will give us an accurate assessment of her condition.” His voice softens. “I know Dr. Grippi has asked you about her living will. If she has one, we need it to be on file. Legally, we need to see if there is a physician’s directive.”

  “What is that?” I ask, dreading the answer.

  Dr. Niptau replies, “We are going to be giving her different Pet and MRI scans, testing her with visual stimuli—photos of loved ones, things she may recognize or that have meaning to her. We will do the same with auditory stimuli—with music and sounds—to see if her brain shows any activity or change. If there is no activity or change, within a certain amount of time, we have to determine if the feeding tube goes against her living will. If she has a physician’s directive stating that if she is in a medical state in which life-sustaining procedures would only artificially prolong her death, the living will directives—to remove those life-sustaining procedures—must legally be honored.”

  I faint.

  I suppose if you have to faint, doing it in a hospital with a roomful of doctors is probably the way to go. I come to lying on a nearby couch with an icepack on my forehead. Dr. Niptau and Auntie D. are hovering over me. Now, he is a scary-looking dude when you are eye to eye with him. From my vantage point, looking up into his nostrils and also seeing his comb-over sticking straight up, defying gravity—it’s a bit too much, even for the strong of heart.

  “Lil, sweetie, you passed out and hit your head on the table. Are you feeling okay?” Donna asks. She looks pale and worried.

  Dr. Niptau is shining his little flashlight in my eyes. He asks me to follow his finger up and down.

  “I’m all right, just got a little lightheaded, that’s all.” He’s annoying me. “I want to see my mother.”

  One of the nurses brings me a cup of water. “Please don’t get up for ten or fifteen minutes. I’ll have Dr. Grippi check on you.” Niptau clears his throat. “Miss Lockwood, I have to reiterate that it is imperative you speak with your mother’s lawyer and fax a copy of her living will, if she has one.”

  “Yeah, I heard you the first time. Geez, can you give it a rest?” I try to get up again. The room becomes a roller coaster and I lie back down.

  “Do you need me for anything else?” I snap.

  His face turns red. “No, not right now. We are going to keep your mother in the I.C.U. for at least forty-eight hours. After we get the test results, the team will make a determination about which floor she should be moved to.”

  They leave the room and I tell Auntie D. I want a second opinion.

  “Absolutely. I was just thinking the same thing.”

  When we get back to my mother’s room, we are surprised by what we see. Many of the wires are gone, thankfully her ventilator is out, and she is breathing on her own. Her head is raised, with three pillows supporting it. Her eyes are open. She is staring straight ahead. There is no light or life in her eyes. They’re just flat. She doesn’t blink and she has absolutely no expression on her face. Her mouth is open as well. I’m taken aback, but Auntie D. goes right to her and puts her face close to my mother’s face.

  “Pali, it’s Donzi. Lily and I are here. You’re going to be all right. Don’t be worried, don’t be scared. You are going to come out of this, Pali. We love you very much, darlin’.” She whispers something in my mother’s ear, strokes and kisses her cheek. There is no reaction. I pull my chair closer to her.

  “Mom, it’s Lily. We’re here with you, we’re not going anywhere. I need you to try to follow my words. We’re going to get you the best care, and we will do everything to get you better. I love you, Mom.” I fight back my tears.

  To be in the same room with my mother and not talk or laugh or even argue with her is unthinkable. Before I could even talk, she knew what I was thinking. From the time I was in sixth grade, we could finish each other’s sentences. Most of the time, we are in such sync, such harmony. Now, to sit next to my mother and be so disconnected from her, for her not to recognize me or to react to what I am saying, is unbearable. To see her blank stare, with no Daisy lightness in her eyes, is heartbreaking.

  Two nurses come in, one blonde and one brunette. They both look extremely young. I’d never seen either one before.

  The brunette smiles, “Ladies, can we ask you to step out of the room while we change her?”

  “I don’t need to leave,” I tell them. “My mom and I get changed together all the time.”

  The blonde looks annoyed. “We need to move her so that we can change her diaper and clean her. We’ll be about fifteen minutes.” With that, she pulls the curtain around my mother’s bed for privacy.

  I hear one say, “Grab the sheet and blanket. On my count of three, turn her toward me.” We leave the room.

  In the hallway, I lean against the wall, feeling lightheaded and nauseous. Auntie D.’s face is pasty white and strained. She paces back and forth furiously in front of the room. Her eyes are wide and she holds her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out loud, I’m sure, or maybe to stop herself from screaming. That’s what I feel like doing: screaming. Screaming at Dr. Comb-Over for being so robotic and negative, screaming at the nurses who are talking and laughing across the hallway, screaming at my mother to wake up, and finally screaming at myself for being so horrible to her the last time we spoke.

  Suddenly Auntie D. stops in front of me, grabs my arm, and says, “She can’t live like this—she would hate to live like this, Lily.” We hold each other tight. We both need my mother to tell us what to do.

  Donna pulls herself together and says, “Honey, I’m going to call Tommy and Fernando—first of all to tell them what’s happening, but also to find out who the lawyer is, so we ca
n get the info the doctor is asking for. I’ll ask Fernando to find out who the top neurologist is in the city. I’m sure they’ll want to visit.”

  “Oh shit,” I remember. “Jamie is supposed to be flying in—I don’t know what time—I turned my cell off after I spoke to Sergeant Green, so I don’t even know if he called.”

  “Let’s go down to the coffee shop in the lobby and get something to eat. We’ll make our calls from there,” she suggests.

  “I can’t eat, Auntie D.” My stomach has been in knots all day, and I am still fighting waves of nausea.

  “You have to eat—even just a bite of something. Also, I’ll tell Fernando to start calling your Mom’s closest friends to let them know what’s going on, so you don’t have to.”

  “Just her closest ones—we want to make sure no one speaks to the press,” I tell her.

  On the way to the restaurant, we walk across the lobby and pass the visitors’ waiting area. Within a few minutes, cameras are flashing and I hear voices shouting to me. “Lily—what’s happening to your mother?” “Lily, can you confirm that your mother is in a coma?” “Here, Lily, look over here.” “Lily, is it true your mother was driving drunk?” “Is your mother dying, Lily?”

  I am stunned; I stand there for a second, mouth open, staring. Auntie D. grabs my arm and pushes me through the crowd. She calls behind her, “You are lowlife leeches—you should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  A security guard approaches us.

  “Miss Lockwood, so sorry, we really can’t control them. We’re going to call the town police and see if they can move them out.” I thank him, and we go into the coffee shop.

  I look at Donna and ask, “Do you think they have any empathy whatsoever?” Donna shakes her head and says, “It’s all about the mighty buck, honey.”

  We give our order to the waitress. Donna calls Tommy, and I check my messages. Sgt. Greene has left a voicemail.

  “Miss Lockwood, I’m calling to tell you I did find out that the passenger in your mother’s car, David Rosen, was brought to University Hospital. He’s still there. A patrolman went over today to take a statement. You know my number. Call if you need me.”

  The waitress brings over our chicken salads just as Donna finishes speaking to Tommy on the phone.

  “Tommy said he’s going to track down the lawyer, and Ferny is going to call your mother’s friends. He said everyone wants to come see her, but the guys are holding them back, telling them that no visitors are allowed.”

  I let her know what Sergeant Green said in his message. “So I think we should find out what room this guy David Rosen is in and go see him.” The room takes an unexpected spin. I cross my arms on the table and lay my head down.

  “How’s your head?” she asks.

  “Kills. Do you have an Advil?”

  She digs through her purse, finds two, and hands them to me. “Okay, I think that’s a good idea. Let’s go see this David fella. Then maybe we’ll know what’s what. Who do you think he is?”

  “No clue. If he was someone important she would’ve told us about him, don’t you think?” I ask. She nods.

  I look at Auntie D. and say, “If Mom doesn’t come out of this…” I begin to cry.

  “We have to be strong—we can’t even think those thoughts. Let’s send it out to the universe that she will recover and be back to her old self in no time.” Donna comes around the table and rubs my back.

  “Do you really believe that?” She understands that I need reassurance.

  She looks at me and smiles. “Have to, darlin’. Not ready to lose my oldest and dearest friend. We have too many adventures left in these old bones.”

  My phone buzzes, indicating there’s a text I haven’t picked up. I look at my Blackberry.

  “It’s from Jamie. He sent it about an hour ago. He’s landing around 11:00 p.m. The car service will pick him up and drive him to the farm. He’ll probably get there around 1:00 a.m.” I check the clock on the wall. It is already 8:00 p.m.

  “I’m going to stay with the boys tonight, honey. This way you can have your privacy.” she says.

  “But—”

  “No buts! The boys are staying at the Westhampton house for the weekend, so they’ll be closer to the hospital.”

  “I don’t want you to feel like you’re not welcome.”

  “Oh, please, like I would ever think that,” she replies. “It’s done and no problem. I’ll meet you at the hospital tomorrow. I’m going to go to the front desk and find out what floor this Rosen guy is on and then ask the guard to walk us to the elevator.”

  “Do you think I should I bring some pictures of us, for her room? Do you think it’ll help her remember?” I ask.

  “Couldn’t hurt,” she says, and leaves the coffee shop.

  I remember one time—I must have been about eighteen or so—I was rushed to St. John’s in Santa Monica in really bad pain. They took me in for an emergency appendectomy. I was scared shitless. I was afraid of not waking up. They were wheeling me to the operating room and my Mom was walking beside the gurney, holding my hand.

  “Lily of the Valley, I promise you, you are going to wake up,” she said.

  “What if I don’t—then what—what if …” I asked, feeling the anxiety building.

  “You will wake up, I promise. Have I ever broken a promise to you?” she asked and gave me a kiss on my forehead.

  “No,” I said weakly.

  “Well, I certainly am not going to start now. And I’ll make sure there will be something special to look at when you get back to your room,” she promised.

  The surgery went well, and when I got out of recovery, they wheeled me back into my private room. My mother and Auntie D. were waiting for me. Taped all over the wall across from my bed were about fifty photos of naked men cut from Playgirl Magazine! They situated the photos so they overlapped, one photo over the other, in a collage effect, so that the private parts were discreetly covered. She was right: it was something special to look at. Whenever someone came into the room, they were taken aback. Some blushed, and others took a step in for closer examination. It was the talk of the floor, probably of the entire hospital.

  On the way to the elevator, I turn to Auntie D. and ask, “Do you remember the photos you and Mom put up on the wall in St. John’s that time?”

  “Oh yeah, that was a hoot!” We both smile, remembering.

  We walk by the lobby. The guard must have called the police, because the paparazzi are gone. We get into the elevator, and Donna pushes the button for the fifth floor.

  When the elevator door opens, I am surprised to see such a difference between this floor and the I.C.U. It’s extremely busy and noisy. The hallway seems wider, and the patients are walking around, some holding onto rolling IV’s, others walking by themselves or with their visitors. There are call bells ringing and an operator with an annoying nasally voice paging doctors and nurses to different floors.

  In the rooms, some patients watch TV, some laugh with guests, some moan in their beds. It feels like I’m on set at St. Joe’s again. I want the director to yell CUT, so the nightmare can finally be over and I can resume my life. I wonder if my mother will be on a floor like this in the near future, watching TV or talking to her guests. I can only pray.

  We walk up to the nurses’ station and see a pretty blonde nurse on the phone. She is speaking to someone I figure must be her boyfriend, because she is grilling him about his whereabouts the night before. She looks up and is visibly surprised to see me standing there.

  “Uh…gotta go, Joey.” She abruptly hangs up the phone. He must be thrilled to get a temporary reprieve.

  “You’re Lily Lockwood,” she says. I nod. The other nurses behind the desk move in closer to listen. Shit, all we need is for it to leak to the press that I am on this floor looking for a patient. They’d figure out, right away, that he was somehow involved in the accident.

  Donna must be thinking the same thing, because she says, “We got off at the wrong flo
or, but can you tell us where there’s a ladies room while we’re here?”

  Way to go, Auntie D. The nurse points down the hallway. We take a stroll around the corridor. The hospital rooms are positioned in a large circle around the open nurses’ station. We walk slowly, trying to be inconspicuous while we check out the names on the doors. Halfway around the circle, we see the names Rosen, R. and Flanagan, H. marked clearly on Room 506A. We look around to make sure no one is watching, and slip inside. There is an old, extremely frail looking man in bed, watching television. The room is pretty dark, and the TV is blasting.

  “Mr. Rosen?” I ask.

  “WHAT?? Speak louder, young lady. I can’t hear you,” he shouts.

  “Mr. Rosen,” I say loudly. “We would like to speak to you.”

  “Rosen? No, that’s not me. I’m Flanagan. That fella over there, he’s Rosen,” he shouts even louder, and points to the empty bed.

  “There’s no one there,” I reply.

  He looks annoyed at my obvious stupidity and says, “I know that. What, do you think I’m senile or something? They took him out around six o’clock to do something, I forget what.”

  “A medical procedure?” Donna asks.

  “Well, girlie, this is a hospital. They’re not takin’ him dancing, that’s for sure.” He laughs so hard his eyes tear up.

  “Well, thanks. We’ll be back. Can you tell him Daisy’s daughter came by to see him?”

  He lifts the blanket to show us his legs—what we see is quite a bit more. “I know I got nice legs, but I ain’t his secretary.”

  That is definitely our cue to leave.

  I head back to the farmhouse alone. I am weary to the bone, and my body aches. Even my skin hurts. I remember an audition I had once for the part of a girl whose brother was killed. At one point in the script, the girl felt like her body went into shock. Her grief was so bad that she couldn’t stand to be around loud noises. Mom told me after a close friend of hers died when she was about eighteen, her own body hurt. Even her hair ached when she tried to brush it. That’s exactly how I feel now, as I’m driving home.