Mother of Prevention

by Lori Copeland

  He paused, peering at me over the rims of his glasses. “How are you doing, girl?”

  Tears smarted in my eyes. When anyone got that tone of voice—the I’m-so-sorry-about-Neil tone—I still lost it. I knew people meant well, but they couldn’t help, so the tone was always there, plunging me back to my black pit.

  “Not so good, Dr. Bates, but friends say it will take time.”

  He patted my shoulder and lifted the foot extension, snapping it into place. “I lost my wife a couple years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, my mind now on what the nurse was doing. This whole process gave me the jitters.

  He paused, squeezing my hand with calm reassurance. Dr. Harry Bates had given me my first high school physical, so I should feel comfortable in his presence, but I was jumpy as a pea on a drum.

  “People lie,” he said. “You never get over losing half of you, Kate. Not entirely, but you manage to go on.”

  I closed my eyes. “What if I don’t want to go on?”

  “Well.” He went about his business and I tried to think of my “happy place.” Sunning on the beach, with plovers and turnstones soaring overhead, rolling surf—ouch!

  The mystery tool.

  “Trust me,” the doctor said. “Given time, the pain will ease and some morning you’ll wake up and decide life’s a pretty good deal after all.”

  “If you say so,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I’m still in the tearful stage—but making progress.”

  Later I sat in his plush leather office chair and waited for results. Demons swarmed my mind. Had he found something? Would he walk through that door with a sober expression and regretfully break the news that I had only scant weeks to live? I shuddered, clasping my arms around my middle. There had been an odd pain recently—near the upper rib cage. What organ would that involve? Did they have treatment for my particular case? No. They wouldn’t if I had scant weeks to live.

  Scant. How many weeks were in “scant,” anyway?

  I had broken out into a cold sweat when Dr. Bates sailed into his office and sat down behind his desk.

  “First the good news—you’re healthy as a horse.”

  I felt faint with relief, although the comparison wasn’t exactly flattering.

  “You’re a little anemic, but nothing unusual for a woman your age. And you could use a few extra pounds. So eat up.” He scribbled on a pad, then tore off the sheet and handed it to me. “Get this filled and take one a day. With food.”

  I scanned the prescription. “Okay.”

  The doctor settled back in his chair, his dark eyes studying me. “Now for the bad news.”

  I glanced up, heart racing. He’d said I was healthy as a horse. I knew it—healthy as a horse can be in my condition.

  “Your right eardrum has a small tear, minute but worrisome. You fly almost every week, if I recall.”

  I nodded. “Twice a week. I teach classes out of state.”

  He shook his head and steepled his forefingers, resting his mouth against them for a prop. “Sorry, Kate, but I’m going to have to ground you. That tear will heal if we’re careful. If not, I’ll want to watch it over a period of time before we consider surgery. You’ll be running the risk of hearing loss in that particular ear if we don’t take care of the problem once and for all. Didn’t we talk about this last year?” He glanced at my chart. “You were complaining of pressure, and you had a sinus infection and drainage.”

  I nodded. He’d touched on the subject, but at the time the eardrum wasn’t perforated.

  “I have considerable discomfort on takeoffs and landings. Even with the antibiotic and allergy medicine you prescribed last year, the pain is intense.”

  “Then you’ve got to stay out of planes for a while.”

  “But my job…” Did I have to remind him I was sole breadwinner now, and my job necessitated flying?

  He shook his head, his expression stern. “That right ear is in jeopardy. You’re grounded—at least until the problem is corrected. Talk to your superiors. I’m sure something can be worked out.”

  I left the sprawling medical complex in a daze. If I couldn’t travel, I couldn’t teach. If I couldn’t teach, La Chic would have to replace me. And who knew for how long or if I’d ever get the position back? Dr. Bates had said the tear might not heal even if I were careful. Surgery loomed like an approaching cold front.

  I took a chance that Maria, my superior, would still be in her office. When I pulled into the salon, I saw her white Lexus parked in back. I used the employees’ entrance.

  Maria glanced up when I tapped on her door. The French-born, attractive brunette always seemed rushed, so I stated my case as quickly as possible.

  She folded her hands on the desk and stared at me, noncommittal for a moment. I could see my career—and paycheck—flying out the window.

  “For how long, chérie?”

  “The doctor doesn’t know—there’s no way to know. Maybe as long as a year.”

  “A year.” She gave a French-sounding tssk. The row of silver arm bracelets tinkled melodiously when she reached up and touched her cheek. “One year. Disturbing.”

  “Maybe sooner,” I offered. I adored my job, and I didn’t want to lose any part of it, though the idea of not flying made me almost giddy. No more angst-filled flights, crowded airports and overbooked airlines. No more cold and impersonal hotel rooms, lugging baggage, cabs in unfamiliar cities. I hadn’t realized it before, but now I was stunningly aware I didn’t really want to fly anymore. In fact, I didn’t care if I never saw another plane.

  “Well, you are much too important for us to lose, ma chérie.” Maria smiled. “I will make a phone call in the morning—perhaps something can be worked out. Your talents are not limited to teaching, Kate. La Chic can work around your condition until you are healed.”

  For the second time that day I felt faint with relief. I could keep my job. If God and I had been on speaking terms, I would have thanked Him.

  “See me tomorrow.” Maria dismissed me with a harried glance. “We’ll talk then.”

  When I climbed back into my car I realized I had survived yet another disaster and not come unglued. Life was getting better.

  Kate, you’re made of Teflon, I told myself.

  But in fact I knew I was made of pudding, and one more catastrophe would send me over the edge.

  What would La Chic do with me? I could always work in the shop, but I knew that without the teaching challenge I would get bored easily, and I didn’t want to dip into the insurance money. I needed something more than cuts and permanents; I needed the adrenaline that came with watching talented students evolve into gifted stylists under my tutelage.

  But then beggars can’t be choosers, so I would take whatever Maria could find, and baby my right ear until I could resume travel.

  No more flights for a while.

  Maybe I’d have Kris and Kelli offer a brief thank-you to God tonight in their prayers.

  Will Rogers World Airport teemed with travelers when the girls and I climbed out of a shuttle Saturday morning. My head was still spinning from the rapid changes gripping my life.

  Maria had called me into her office Thursday morning and broken the news—La Chic’s affiliate San Francisco salon needed a manager. The present one had been involved in a car accident two days before and required a lengthy recuperation period. There was only one hitch. The girls and I had to move to California.

  At first the idea repulsed me. Leave everything I’d ever known—including irreplaceable memories of Neil? I couldn’t do it…yet I couldn’t remain immobile forever. Everywhere I looked, every street I drove, every restaurant we’d shared a meal reminded me of Neil. I couldn’t face memories of my deceased husband day after day and move on with my life. Maria was offering not only a job, but a new start. So I had agreed to move.

  I unloaded backpacks and luggage out of the shuttle and wondered how Dr. Bates would react if he knew I was flying to San Francisco on a house-hunting expedi
tion. I knew what he’d say, and I also knew the risks, but driving to the Bay Area was out of the question, and trains scared me to death. Every time I heard a newscast it seemed some passenger train had been involved in an accident, either here or overseas.

  “Is the plane going to crash, Mommy?” Kelli slipped into her backpack, staring up at me with Neil’s dark eyes.

  “No, honey. The plane isn’t going to crash.” She’d overheard me talking to Mom on the phone last night, and I’d expressed my usual flying hang-ups.

  Kris helped me load bags on a cart and we wheeled our baggage inside the terminal and headed for our airline counter. A long line snaked around the cordoned area. I checked the time and noted that our flight left in a little over an hour; we had plenty of time.

  The line moved slowly. Once or twice a new window opened, but only long enough to check in first class or frequent flyers. The girls waited patiently; their behavior made me proud. Neil had always taken care of baggage and checked in when we traveled. Was it only last year that we’d stood in this exact line, happily anticipating one glorious sun-drenched week at Disneyland? The girls had chattered with excitement, and Neil had teased that I was looking forward to the theme park more than Kelli was.

  I mentally shook off my thoughts. Stay focused, Kate.

  By the time we checked in and the luggage cleared security, we had fifteen minutes. The boarding gate was F12.

  The three of us broke into a trot when we cleared security and headed for the assigned gate. I lugged a heavy shoulder bag and my purse, Kelli had her backpack and Kris pulled a small overnighter behind her. Threading our way through the teeming crowd, we sprinted toward the gate with five minutes to spare.

  Passengers were on their feet studying their boarding passes when we arrived. It looked to be a full flight this morning.

  A woman’s voice came over the PA. “Passengers on flight 224 to San Francisco—there has been a gate change. That flight will now be boarding from gate F3.”

  “F3,” I told the girls. I picked up the heavy shoulder bag, and we set off for the eight-gate jaunt.

  Breathless, we arrived a few minutes before the other passengers. Kelli peeled out of her backpack and let the canvas sink to the tiled floor. I set the shoulder bag down and rubbed my aching shoulder. An old rotator cuff injury had flared up.

  “Mommy, are we going to eat breakfast on the plane?”

  “Kelli, there are no meals on shorter flights. Didn’t you eat a bowl of cereal this morning?”

  My daughter shook her head. “I couldn’t see it.”

  “Couldn’t see it? The bowl? You couldn’t see the bowl?”

  “My eyes wouldn’t open.”

  I grinned. We had left the house around four for the six o’clock flight. I glanced around trying to spot a snack area, but one wasn’t close.

  “Maybe I have a meal-replacement bar in my purse.”

  “Yuck.”

  The loudspeaker blared. “Passengers on flight 224, there has been another gate change. We are sorry for the inconvenience. The flight will now be boarding out of F12.”

  “F12!” I muttered. “Make up your mind.” I swung the heavy bag over my shoulder and helped Kelli into her gear. “Come on, girls. Back to F12.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “We’ll get something before we board.”

  We passed passengers still streaming from the first gate change, on their way to the second gate.

  “Gate change,” I called nicely. “Back to F12.”

  I heard a few grumbles when the word spread through the crowd. The passengers made U-turns and headed back to F12.

  I went straight to the desk to confirm that we had the right gate. The woman didn’t look up. She kept her eyes on the computer terminal. “The San Francisco flight is loading at F3.”

  “We were just at F3, and they said the gate had been changed back to F12.”

  The woman shook her head. “I don’t know why they would say that. The flight is boarding from F3.”

  Taking a deep breath, I turned and faced the girls. “F3.”

  Kelli heaved an exasperated sigh.

  “I know—come on.” We set off for F3. This time I didn’t bother to inform other passengers; I was a coward. Some were getting hostile, and who could blame them? I was feeling a little murderous myself.

  We dropped our bags on the floor at gate three and sank into the nearest chairs, trying to catch our breath. Kelli was famished, and grouchy because of it. I rummaged around in my purse and came up with gum, all I had on me. I noticed the flight was loading, so I picked up the shoulder bag and my purse and glanced at our group number. We were Group Six, so we’d have a few minutes. I searched for a kiosk—anything to buy an apple or doughnut.

  The overhead speaker said that Group Seven could now load.

  What happened to Group Six?

  I stepped to the desk, rereading seating assignments. The clerk looked up. “Group Six has already loaded?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “This is the San Francisco flight.” By this time I wasn’t taking any chances.

  She nodded. Then looked at the monitor. “No, this is the L.A. flight.”

  “L.A.! What happened to San Francisco?”

  She consulted a paper. “I’m sorry—that flight is now boarding out of F12.” She smiled. “Better hurry. The flight leaves in three minutes.”

  Rainy San Francisco. I stared out the windows of the Boeing 727 as the aircraft taxied into the airport. Rain hit the windows in sheets. After we left the plane both girls and I were drenched to the core by the time we hailed a cab and piled into the back seat.

  The cab took us to The Crab Corner—four-star accommodations, according to the travel agent. Somehow The Crab had dropped a couple of stars by the time we got there. I opened the door to the dingy-smelling room and dissolved in tears.

  Kelli and Kris sat me down on the lumpy bed, and then sat next to me. We all had a good cry. Finally Kris got up and plugged in the small coffeepot and made a cup of hot tea. She carried the offering to me, urging me to drink the warm liquid. By now Kelli had fallen over on the awful-looking crab-patterned spread and fallen asleep. One lone piece of gum rattled around in my daughter’s belly.

  I took a sip from the cup, and the liquid was so strong my eyes burned, but I drank it anyway.

  If I’d been speaking to God, I’d have been asking a lot of questions, demanding to know why He’d do this to me and my girls. He was supposed to be a just and loving God, and there was nothing just or loving about my situation.

  The tea brought me around. Kris had located the thermostat and turned off the air-conditioning and turned on the heat. Warmth filled the smoke-drenched room. I started to come back to life.

  “We’d better leave our clothes in the luggage,” I told Kris. I didn’t trust the old chest of drawers to be bug free.

  When Kelli woke, we left the room and the three of us waded deep puddles to a fast-food chain sitting in front of a huge, garish pink crab statue. We ate hamburgers and fries. Later we walked around the hotel pool, the facility looking rather bleak, like an ocean after a hurricane. Leaves floated on brackish water; wind had overturned lounges and chairs. Some kid had left a green beach towel and a pair of white sneakers lying beside the pool.

  I turned a chair upright and sat down, staring at the dreary sight, knowing with every ounce of perception that San Francisco wasn’t going to be the healing oasis I’d hoped it would be.

  Nine o’clock the following morning, Burt Baker of New Homes Realty picked us up. It would have been nice if we could have started yesterday afternoon, but as long as the real estate agent had houses, I had no complaint. Well, not many. The girls climbed into the back seat of Burt’s van, and I took the passenger seat. Burt already knew my budget; it would be hard to find anything in the Bay Area for my price, but he was willing to try, he said, flashing me a three-million-actual-dollar-sales-this-year smile.

  Kelli leaned forward and told hi
m how much Neil’s insurance policy was worth, and I reached back and clapped a hand over her mouth. Was nothing sacred to a child?

  The first house in my price range scared me. We walked through the “roomy fixer upper,” kicking trash out of our path. The occupants had cats. I spotted cat hair hanging off the one overhead fan in the living area. The cat’s litter box was in the bathtub adjacent to the guest bedroom. The litter had not been changed in what I guessed to be aeons. My eyes watered from the stench and I quickly left the room. Kris and Kelli were not so discreet; they held their noses, making noises like gross, eweeee and my personal favorite, pea yew, while we toured the remainder of the house.

  “Needs a little work,” Burt said, “but fresh paint and new wallpaper will make a huge difference. Lot of possibilities,” he added, pausing to admire the pitted oak woodwork.

  The only possibilities I could see were a bulldozer and a dump truck to haul off the rubbish.

  “Well, I have more!” Burt said when he realized I was underwhelmed, to say the least. And indeed Burt did.

  For the next six hours the girls and I tramped through equally nauseating possibilities. Then Burt drove us to the “for just a little more” listings. These were minimal improvement; one or two actually demonstrated potential, but the prices were thirty to forty thousand dollars out of my price range. I’d been warned that Bay property was expensive, but I’d never dreamed that an ordinary house—similar to what Neil and I had bought in Oklahoma eight years ago—would cost close to half a million dollars.

  I didn’t have that kind of money and I couldn’t raise it. My job paid well, but not that well. I’d even gotten a raise with the move—now I knew why.

  When Burt dropped us back at The Crab, the girls and I headed upstairs and fell across the bed. The three of us lay there in the dingy room, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Sticker shocked.

  “What are we going to do, Mommy? We don’t have enough money to buy a house, do we?”

  I shook my head. “Not one of those houses, Kris.”

  I knew the poor thing had more responsibility on her young shoulders than was fair for a seven-year-old. She worried about me, about family finances. It wasn’t reasonable what I was putting her or Kelli through, but I was powerless to pull myself together, too discouraged to show any true grit at the moment. I wasn’t competent enough to raise these children.