Hot Flash Holidays

by Nancy Thayer

  26

  “MRS. D’ANNUCIO?” ALICE GRIPPED THE PHONE SO tightly she thought she’d leave permanent indentations in the plastic. She was on the hospital pay phone. Her cell phone only worked outside, and she didn’t want to be too far away from the operating room.

  Deep breaths, she reminded herself. “This is Alice Murray. I’m fine, thank you. I’m calling about Jennifer. No—she’s—” For a few moments, Alice bit her tongue and tapped her foot, until the other woman stopped spitting out words.

  “I’m calling because Jennifer is in the operating room right now, having a C-section. She—” Again, she listened to the other woman’s shrill voice. “Yes, I know it’s a month early, but you know she has preeclampsia—”

  A barrage of sound hit Alice’s ear. Alice inhaled so hard she was surprised she didn’t suck the phone down her throat. No wonder Jennifer hadn’t told her mother about her health problem. The woman didn’t stop talking long enough for anyone to tell her anything.

  “It’s a medical condition involving high blood pressure and it’s dangerous to the mother and the child—”

  Alice held the phone away from her ear while Jennifer’s mother screamed, “Oh, my God!” thirty or forty times.

  The line was muffled. Alice heard rustling noises and arguing voices. Then a man’s voice came over the phone.

  “This is Jennifer’s father. Where is she now?”

  Alice spoke fast. “She’s in Emerson Hospital in Concord. She’s in the operating room. They’re doing a C-section. Alan’s with her. She was awake when they wheeled her in. I think they’re planning to give a local anesthetic.”

  “We’ll get in the car and come up at once. We’re on the Cape, so it might take about two hours, depending on traffic.”

  “We’ll be here.” Alice doubted that he heard her, because his wife was in the background, screaming.

  “Could you take our cell phone number and phone us if you know anything?” Mr. D’Annucio asked.

  “Of course.” Alice dug around in her shoulder bag, pulled out a pad and pen, and wrote down the information. She was surprised at how it helped, having something to do.

  She returned to the waiting room. Gideon sat on a turquoise vinyl couch, thumbing through an old issue of Newsweek.

  “Her parents are on their way up,” Alice told him.

  “That’s good.” Gideon patted the seat next to him. “Sit down, Alice.”

  “In a minute.” She stayed on her feet, pacing the maternity-ward waiting room like a caged panther.

  “Alice, come on and sit down,” Gideon pleaded. “You’re recovering from a heart attack, for God’s sake. You know you’re not supposed to get agitated.”

  Alice reached the end of the room, wheeled around, strode toward the opposite wall. “I’m supposed to get exercise, too,” she reminded him. “So let’s just call this exercise.” She clenched her fists and opened them nervously. “I just wish I could do something.”

  “It’s not going to help Jennifer if you have another heart attack,” Gideon soberly reminded her.

  “I’m not going to have another heart attack! I’m going to—oh!” Alice slapped herself in the middle of the forehead. “I know what I should do! I should call her best friend, Maya, remember, who came to the party we threw for Alan and Jennifer this summer? And what were the other girls’ names? Two of them were married— Alisa and Morgan—but I think Maya was only engaged. Now, what were their last names?”

  “Why don’t you wait until Jennifer’s out of surgery?” Gideon suggested. “You don’t want everyone rushing down here.”

  “Well, if I were Jennifer, I’d want my friends to know!” Alice argued.

  “But they’re all having their Thanksgiving dinners,” Gideon pointed out.

  Alice stopped pacing, folded her arms, squinted into the distance, and debated Gideon’s line of reasoning. “I understand where you’re coming from,” she told him. “I won’t ask them to come down here, not unless they volunteer. But I want them to know what’s going on.”

  “You want them to worry about something they can’t do anything about?” Gideon asked.

  “But they can do something,” Alice insisted. “They can worry.”

  Gideon exhaled noisily, like a principal with a recalcitrant child. “And their worry is going to help Jennifer?”

  “Yes,” Alice told him decisively. “Worry is a kind of prayer. It helps. Maybe it’s a female thing, but it’s what I feel is true, and it’s what I’m going to act on. If I were Jennifer’s friend, I would want to know.”

  She rushed to the nurses’ station, borrowed a phone book, and made a list of phone numbers. The mental effort it took to remember Jennifer’s friends’ last names provided a moment’s ease from her own anxiety. God, she thought, I hope I’m not relieving my fear by passing it off onto these young women. She stopped, searched her soul, then made the phone calls.

  She was just hanging up for the last time when she saw her son striding down the hall toward the waiting room. For a moment, her legs went so weak, she nearly fell.

  Then she saw his face.

  “Alan?” The word came out in a croak.

  “We have a daughter, Mom,” Alan said. “Five pounds, one ounce.”

  That even one tiny ounce could be measured against the enormity of all their hopes and fears made Alice burst into tears. “How’s Jennifer?”

  “She’s got a headache. She’s going to have to stay in the hospital for a few days. She’s not out of the woods yet, but she’s going to be okay.” Alan wrapped his mother in a tight bear hug. “It’s okay, Mom.”

  “I’m so glad!” Alice dug a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose.

  Gideon came out of the waiting room. Alan told him the good news while Alice pulled herself together.

  “I phoned Jennifer’s parents,” Alice told her son. “And all her friends.”

  “And CNN and all the major networks,” Gideon joked.

  Alice made a face at him. “Her parents are on their way. I’d better phone them and Jennifer’s friends again.”

  “Want to see your granddaughter first?” Alan asked.

  Alice staggered backward, amazed. “Can I?”

  “Sure. Come on.” Alan wrapped a supporting arm around his mother and led her down the hall.

  They passed through a swinging door into a room so bright it seemed like heaven. Jennifer lay on a high table, as white as the sheets covering her. Her eyes were closed. But when Alan and Alice came to her side, she opened them.

  “Look who’s here.” She adjusted herself slightly on her bed, turning so Alice could see the very small person bundled in her arms.

  Alice bent over and gently pulled the blanket back from the baby’s face. Her eyes were swollen nearly shut. Her tea-colored skin was blotchy, and her vulnerable scalp was covered with a few black curls.

  “Oh, my,” Alice breathed. “She’s beautiful. ”

  “We think so,” Jennifer agreed. Reaching out, she took her husband’s hand. “Her name is Alice.”

  CHRISTMAS

  27

  SHIRLEY WAS IN HER OFFICE AT THE HAVEN ON MONDAY afternoon when her phone rang.

  “Shirley? This is Hugh Monroe.”

  “Oh, hi, Hugh, how are you?”

  “I’m well, thank you, but I’m concerned about Polly. Have you spoken with her recently?”

  Shirley thought for a moment. “Not since last Wednesday. Have you—”

  “I’ve tried to phone her for three days now, and her line’s always busy.”

  “How odd!” Polly frowned. “Have you called Carolyn? Polly spent Thanksgiving with her and the Sperrys.”

  Hugh made an ambiguous coughing noise. “Well, I saw Polly—briefly—Thanksgiving night, but that’s a good suggestion. I’ll call Carolyn right now.”

  “I’ll check in with Alice and Marilyn, see if they’ve heard from her,” Shirley told Hugh. “Faye’s out in California with her daughter. Hugh—” She paused. “Is there a
ny reason to worry? I mean, I don’t want to pry, but did you two have a fight or something?”

  Again, the ambiguous cough. “Not a fight, no. More of a . . . something.”

  “I see,” Shirley said, although she didn’t. “I’ll call you back after I talk with Alice and Marilyn.”

  “Alice? It’s Shirley. How are you?”

  “Still in heaven. I’m just leaving for the hospital to visit Jennifer and baby Alice.”

  “Well, listen, just tell me, have you spoken with Polly in the last few days?”

  “Um, no, actually. I tried to call her several times to tell her about the baby, but I’ve always gotten a busy signal. Why? Is something wrong?”

  “I don’t know. Hugh just called. He can’t reach her, either.”

  “Well, damn! That’s weird. Have you talked to her son?”

  Shirley snorted. “Yeah, like he would know.”

  “I think Polly was going there for Thanksgiving . . .”

  “Yeah, and to Carolyn’s after that. Hugh says he saw Polly briefly Thanksgiving night.”

  “Briefly.”

  “Yeah. I’m not sure what that means. I asked if they had a fight, and he said they had a something.”

  “Oh-oh. Sounds worse than a fight.”

  Shirley clutched the phone tight. “But even if they did have a fight, or broke up, or something, Polly wouldn’t do anything rash, would she?”

  “Of course not. Polly’s sensible, optimistic—”

  “But you know how the holidays can make you crazy. I mean, it’s hard to be alone at Christmas, and her son and his wife aren’t exactly loving, and if she and Hugh broke off—”

  “I’m going over to her house.”

  “Wait, Alice. Let me see what Hugh says after he talks with Carolyn.”

  “You can call me on my cell phone. I’m driving over there now.”

  “Shirley?” Hugh’s voice was taut with concern. “I spoke with Carolyn. She said Polly was very emotional on Thanksgiving. Made a bit of a scene and stormed from the house without taking a bite of her Thanksgiving meal, Carolyn said. She’s been trying to phone her without any success.”

  “I spoke with Alice. She hasn’t talked with her, either. She’s driving over to Polly’s house right now. Listen, Hugh, I don’t want to pry, but . . . did you and Polly break up?”

  “No, no, no,” Hugh insisted. “Nothing like that.” He hesitated. “Well, maybe it was something like that. I mean, not on my part. We had . . . a misunderstanding, Shirley. I don’t want to say more without talking to Polly about it first. It’s kind of a sensitive matter.”

  The hair on the back of Shirley’s neck stood on end. “Oh, God! I’m going over there.”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  “She keeps a key hidden in a metal box behind the drainpipe next to the garage.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll check in with Marilyn from my cell phone.”

  “Marilyn? Listen, have you talked with Polly in the last few days?”

  “No . . .” Marilyn’s voice trailed off as she turned her head from the phone. “It’s Shirley, Mother.” Her voice was clear again. “Why? You sound worried.”

  “I am worried. Hugh phoned and he hasn’t been able to get hold of her, and he saw her briefly on Thanksgiving night, and Carolyn said Polly was emotional and Hugh said he and Polly had a something. He wouldn’t give any details.”

  “Oh, dear. That sounds bad. Have you—okay, Mother. Shirley, Mother says hello.”

  “Tell Ruth I say hello.”

  “Mother, Shirley says hello. Have you spoken with anyone else?”

  “I called Alice. She’s been trying to reach her, and so has Carolyn.”

  “I think I’ll drive over there,” Marilyn said.

  “I’m on my way right now. And Hugh is, too.”

  “Yes, but I think I live closer to her than you do. What?” After a pause, Marilyn said, “Mother wants me to tell you it’s always darkest before the silver lining.”

  Heat broke out over Polly’s body, so intense it made her stomach heave as she lay twisted in her disgustingly damp and tangled sheets. With weak arms, she fought to shove the covers away. The movement made her stomach roil—desperately she flung her head over the side of the bed and barfed violently into the lobster pot sitting on the floor. How did that get there?

  Her head was thick with heat and nightmarish blips of sound and color. Orange, purple, worms, swollen masses of—she barfed again. This time only a thin stream of liquid trailed out, burning her mouth as it came.

  Collapsing back among her pillows, she touched her forehead with a shaking hand. She was sick. Really sick. Flu, probably. She’d been wallowing in her bed like an overwrought sow for—how long? She couldn’t figure it out. She remembered coming home from Hugh’s, weeping hysterically and shaking with cold, or with cold and emotion. She’d wept—she’d howled —she’d been so out of control she’d scared herself. She’d drunk some brandy, but vomited it all up immediately.

  She hated vomiting, but it did clear her head momentarily. Her memory flashed vivid bits, out of sequence. She must have pulled herself together enough to get herself to bed, because she could remember morning sunshine streaming in through the windows and Roy Orbison sitting by her on the bed, whining pitifully. Dutifully, she’d risen, wrapped her robe around her (when had she put on her nightgown?), and gone downstairs. The kitchen door had a dog flap, so she didn’t have to worry about putting Roy Orbison out. She’d filled his food bowl to overflowing, grabbed the lobster pot, and staggered back up to bed.

  Now she was cold, so cold her skin was covered in goose bumps. Chills rippled up and down her body like icy fingers on piano keys. She grabbed for the covers, the movement stirring up a rolling ocean in her stomach. She clutched the blanket to her chin.

  “Where’s a damn hot flash when you need one?” she whined.

  Her voice came out in a croak.

  Great, she had laryngitis, too.

  Roy Orbison thought she’d called him. With a giant leap, he landed on the bed. The impact of his weight made the bed rock. Oh, God, she was so dizzy! She needed to get to the bathroom, but she felt too sick to move. Roy licked her arm. She managed a feeble pat on his head. Good old loyal companion.

  Speaking of companions, why had none of her friends called? How much time had gone by? One day? Two? Well, Faye was in California, visiting her daughter. But why hadn’t Marilyn phoned, or Alice or Shirley? Not to mention Hugh. She had been sure he would phone her to apologize, to explain, to—to something! He was a gentleman, after all; he wasn’t a monster. She could understand how he would dump her in order to be with that lovely young woman. Men did it all the time. She hated it that he’d betrayed her, but she was astounded that he hadn’t phoned to somehow attempt to make her feel better about it.

  She was so thirsty! Her throat burned. She could actually feel her esophagus drying out like a sponge left in the sun. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a can of ginger ale on her bedside table. Feebly, she reached out for it, brought it to her parched lips, and discovered it was already empty. When had she drunk it? For that matter, when had she brought it upstairs?

  “Oh, boo hoo,” she cried helplessly, as tears slid down her face. How did her body manage to produce moisture everywhere except where she needed it?

  Next to her, Roy Orbison suddenly sat up. He cocked his head. Then he leapt off the bed and skittered out of the room. She heard his nails clicking busily as he went down the stairs.

  Probably he was going to eat again. All Roy’s best ideas involved eating. Polly sank into her pillows, a blubbery, pathetic mass of nausea and discomfort. In a moment, she’d get herself to the bathroom, and then she’d phone someone . . .

  She heard voices. Several voices, all talking at once. Oh good, now she was hallucinating.

  The voices got louder. Steps sounded on the stairs. Who . . . ? A burglar? Maybe someone was coming to murder her. She felt so sick she almost d
idn’t think she’d mind.

  “Polly!”

  Alice exploded into the room, followed by Shirley, Marilyn, Ruth, and Hugh. Waves of cold air swept in with them, making Polly shiver. They radiated health, energy, and good humor as they gathered around her. She was aware of how she must appear, with her hair clumped with sweat and sticking out all over, her nose red, her eyes puffy, her lips chapped, her breath foul.

  “Polly!” Shirley sank onto the bed, touching her cold hand to Polly’s hot forehead.

  “I’ll empty this.” Marilyn grabbed the lobster pot and disappeared into the bathroom.

  Alice was fixing something on the bedside table. “Polly, you moron, you left the phone off the hook.”

  “Polly.” Hugh peered over Shirley’s shoulder. He was so handsome, his blue eyes so full of concern! “Polly, that woman was my niece.”

  “Oh, honey,” Ruth cried, “you’re sick.”

  “Oh,” Polly sighed, closing her eyes. “I’m so glad.”

  28

  I AM NOT NERVOUS, FAYE ASSURED HERSELF AS SHE waited for her guest to arrive. I’m an independent, intelligent woman, and if necessary, I can be stubborn. Or even rude.

  To remind her guest that she was a professional artist— something Faye had almost forgotten after her husband’s death, something she’d almost lost—she remained in the clothes she’d pulled on this morning: jeans with an elastic waist, a white cotton tank top, and a long, loose blue denim shirt, everything spotted here and there with ruby and celadon oils from painting Ruth’s portrait. Her long hair was pulled back in a clip. Her nails, which she’d grown long during the past year when she wasn’t painting, were clipped short again, the way she liked them when she was working. She wore no makeup. Now, at the last moment, Faye rushed upstairs and put on a touch of blusher and lipstick.

  As always, a pause in front of a mirror led to a confrontation with her inner nag, who sounded very much like Joan Rivers. For God’s sake, look at you! You’ve gained back the weight you lost! Your skin is blotchy! Haven’t you ever heard of exfoliation? And why are your eyes so puffy?