I get her to the hospital fifteen minutes later. And within ten more we’re speaking to a cardiologist. “We’ve stabilized him, and we’re waiting for some test results. My guess is that we’re looking at bypass surgery.”
“Oh, my poor boy. I just can’t bear it. First Milt and now our son.” Tears form in the faded gray eyes. I slip my arm around her.
“Are you a family member?” the doctor asks.
“No. I was just there when he collapsed. I notified the family.”
“You’re the one who gave him CPR?”
I nod, keeping my focus on Mrs. Travis, whom I’m afraid might pass out.
“Mrs. Travis,” the doctor says, “if it weren’t for this woman, your son wouldn’t have made it to the hospital. Someone was looking out for him that she was there at the right time.”
“Doctor,” I say, fully aware that Mrs. Travis doesn’t need to feel beholden to me. She has enough to think about. “Why did you want to know if I was a family member?”
“Tim stopped breathing long enough that we’re not sure if there’s any brain damage.”
“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Travis places her hand to her throat.
“Let’s not borrow trouble, Mrs. Travis,” I say. I look at the doctor. “What should the family expect for the next few hours?”
“We’re waiting for test results and will probably operate tonight.”
“Can I see him?” Mrs. Travis asks in a shaky voice.
“For a minute.” The doctor’s smile is kind.
I step back to let Mrs. Travis have her privacy, but she looks up at me like a lost lamb. “Will you come with me? I’m just not feeling very strong.”
I stay with Mrs. Travis for two and a half hours until her other son arrives.
They thank me, take my number, and I leave the hospital, feeling like the hand of destiny has been guiding me. I don’t believe in coincidence in most cases. I believe my steps are ordered by God. And God knew Tim Travis was going to need help in the parking lot of a greasy chicken place.
Wow.
18
The noise in The Board is crazy, with mind-numbing Christian rock music and two hundred people squeezed inside of the building for the competition, all trying to talk loud enough to be heard. I fully expect to have another crippling panic attack. True, I haven’t had one in a few weeks, but we’re closed in, the place is noisy, and my son is going to be doing things on a skateboard that make me want to grab his hand and run home with him.
We’re sitting in the bleachers—Tommy’s fans: Rick and Darcy (who should be home in bed), Shawn, Jake, Ari, and me. And surprise … Mom.
First prize is a thousand-dollar savings bond and a trip to the regionals. Second prize is a five-hundred-dollar savings bond and a trip to the regionals. Third prize is a hundred-dollar savings bond and a trip to the regionals. Tommy could care less about the savings bonds; he’s just hoping to get into the top three and make it to the next round.
My stomach is a ball of nerves. The first two boarders wipe out three times. I think there’s definitely something wrong with my joy over two young teenagers who fall. The third boy gives a performance that—for all I know—is perfect. His score reflects it. Next up is Tommy.
Mom closes her eyes and hollers, “Dadgum, I can’t watch. Tell me when it’s over.” There’s a lot of noise in the place, but her voice must have carried because someone taps her from behind.
“My grandson was the first one up. I know just how you feel.” Mother turns, and so do I, to find an older gentleman smiling warmly, his eyes just about the gentlest I’ve ever seen.
“I’m Eli,” he says, and it’s pretty obvious he’s interested. My mother blushes as she accepts his proffered hand. “Edith.”
Oh, the blush deepens when he covers her hand with his other one. And I wish I had a camera because I know darned well she’s never going to admit to it.
Darcy nudges me and we snicker together. Mom glares and yanks her hand away and jerks around, once more sitting straight as a board. She closes her eyes. “I’m not watching.”
Undaunted, Eli leans forward. “You have to watch, Edith. What if your grandson does something truly exceptional? Do you want to miss it?”
Mom doesn’t answer, but her eyes pop open.
“Okay, he’s up,” I say, forgetting all about the geriatric flirtation going on right under my nose.
Tommy takes my breath away. And not just because of the danger of the sport. He flies through the air. Poetry in motion. Like a work of art. His moves are flawless as far as my untrained eye can tell and from the crowd’s reaction, I think my assessment must be correct.
His score is the highest of the four who have competed so far. He looks into the crowd as he walks to his seat. When our eyes connect, he beams with pride. I give him the victory sign, and he smiles even broader.
We sit impatiently through six more competitors. When all is said and done, Tommy gets third place. He’s ecstatic. Personally, I think he was robbed.
I’m a little let down that Tommy doesn’t want to celebrate with us because Shane, the youth pastor/sponsor, has planned a party for all the kids who participated in tonight’s competition.
We walk into the night air. I can smell the scent of rain. I love summer rains. I look forward to sitting on the covered porch and watching as it comes down around me.
I’m about to kiss Tommy good-bye and take my other kids home to watch a movie when Darcy taps me on the shoulder. “Claire, I think I’m in labor.”
Alarm shoots through me like lightning up a flag pole. “Are you sure?”
“Not positive,” says the new mom-to-be (imminently, it appears), “but I think so.”
“How long have you been having pains?”
“A couple of hours.”
“Darce! Why didn’t you say something?”
“I wanted to see Tommy skate. Besides, I’m almost two weeks past due as it is, what’s a few more hours?”
“What does Rick say?”
“I haven’t told him yet. I wanted to ask you if you think I’m really in labor. It hurts like monthly cramps and tightens my stomach.”
Okay, she’s married to an ob-gyn and she’s asking my opinion? What’s wrong with this picture?
“Rick!” I call. “Stop horsing around with the boys and get over here.”
He jogs over and grins at Darcy. “You going to let her talk to me like that? Tell her you’re my boss now.”
A giggle leaves her and then a grimace slides across her face.
“She thinks she’s in labor,” I say. “Take care of her.”
Darcy grabs my arm. “Wait. Aren’t you coming with us?” Panic shoots from her eyes.
“I need to get the kids home, Darce. Rick will call me when you’re close to delivering, and I’ll come to the hospital then, okay? Isn’t that right, Rick?”
“Huh? Oh, sure. First babies take forever.” Clueless as ever, Rick starts with the doctor routine. “What are your symptoms?”
Darcy tenses immediately, and I don’t think it’s a contraction. “Cramps and stomach tightening,” she grouses.
Still not taking a hint, Rick continues his routine. “How long have you been having contractions and how far apart?”
“Just shut up, Rick!” she explodes. “Stop asking questions. You’re not even my doctor. Just be my husband!”
Rick looks so taken aback I almost feel sorry for him. He slips an arm around her. “All right, sweetheart. Let’s get you to the hospital. I’ll call your doctor on the way.”
“Claire…” Darcy’s eyes plead.
I give Rick a talk-to-her look.
He tries. “Let’s get you all settled into a room and get your labor going good and then we’ll call Claire. Okay? You don’t want her to sit around for hours and hours do you?”
Tears well up. “I need my best friend to be with me.”
Oh, for the love of pete. “All right, Darce. Let me get the kids and Mom home. I’ll be thirty minutes beh
ind you at the most.”
The next morning, a tired and dejected Darcy waddles, still pregnant, into her enormous pillared home and, according to Rick, cries herself to sleep.
False labor.
I fall into bed at eight in the morning, silently cursing Rick, who should have known the contractions were Braxton Hicks in the first place. What kind of obstetrician is he, anyway? I’m just dozing off when the phone rings.
Curses!
My caller ID identifies Stu.
“Hi, Stu.”
“Good morning.”
“What’s up?”
“I have some not-so-great news.”
He’s got my full attention now. “That’s about all you deliver lately.”
“Sorry to be the bearer of more. The publisher decided not to buy the romance proposal.”
I’m stunned, really. Even though I wasn’t crazy about the idea, I figured it was easy money. Money in the bank. Money I am going to need within a couple of months when my savings runs out. Especially since I’m having to use this ten-thousand-dollar check Tom Travis gave me, plus another five thousand from savings, to buy the new/used van.
“Did they say why?”
“It’s a pretty overdone plot. You knew that when you started. I can’t believe you even tried it.”
“Hey, I risked my life to get a research book for that story. And besides, you’re the one who said that’s what they wanted.”
“The time period. Not the same-ol’, same-ol’. But that’s not all.”
Great. What’s he going to tell me now, they’ve finally figured out I’m nothing more than a hack author and have no business being a writer?
Stu forges ahead, oblivious to my inner self-deprecation. “The numbers for Esmeralda’s Heart haven’t been as great as we’d hoped for.”
“What about the other publishers you sent it to?”
“They’ve all rejected. I didn’t want to say anything because of the tornado and house situation.”
Nice of him to wait until I have to buy a new van and I’ve been awake all night to spring the news.
“All right. What do you want me to do?”
As soon as I voice the words I know he’s the wrong person to ask, so I cut him off before he can start the lecture. “Hey, Stu. Mind if I call you in a couple of days? I was up all night with a friend who thought she was in labor, and I’m just about to hit the sack.”
“That’s fine. Let’s think about some career planning to get you over this hump. And we’ll talk in a couple of days.” He says it like it’s his idea. Stu’s arrogance bugs me. He’s always been a little full of himself, but when the publishers were clamoring for me, and he knew I could get any agent I wanted, for the most part, he was all for reining in the bossiness. Now he’ll be unbearable.
I fall asleep to the mental images of me telling Stu off with poetic turns of phrases and a smile.
I wake up at five in the evening to yummy smells coming from Mom’s kitchen. This was her kitchen for many years, after all. Despite my annoyance and the fact that we hardly agree on anything, I love my mother, and quite honestly, I’m happy to have her home.
I push back the covers and pad down the hall. Make a stop at the bathroom then follow my nose to the kitchen. “Mmm. Smells great, Mom.”
She beams under the praise. “Thank you. Tex-Mex chili and cornbread.”
“Yum.” I grab a cup from the cabinet and pour my “morning” coffee. “We’ll turn up the air conditioner and pretend it’s winter.”
Mom gives a chuckle. She finishes mixing the cornbread and pours it into a sizzling pan. “Have a cup of coffee with me, Mom?”
She casts a glance at her watch. “Maybe half a cup. I have to shower and get ready.”
I frown and rack my brain trying to remember what Mom has planned for tonight.
“I’m playing canasta with Eli and a couple he knows.”
Mom has a date? How depressing is that?
“Who the heck is Eli?”
“You remember. The man at the skateboard thing last night.”
“Mom! You can’t go out alone with a man you don’t know. This is the twenty-first century. Dating isn’t the same as it was when you were a young thing.”
Did I really just say “young thing”?
“Don’t worry, I checked him out with Tommy before I agreed to go.”
“Oh, well, that’s good—take the word of a fourteen-year-old boy.”
“My decision. I’m going.”
“Fine. But at least take your cell phone, and don’t forget to turn it on.”
“Yes, Mother.” She grins and so do I.
“Speaking of Tommy, where is he? And the rest of the kids.”
“Shawn is at his lesson with that vile man down the block.”
“John’s a great guy, Mom. Too bad he’s not a Christian, you could—”
“Oh, no. He’s not my type.”
My mom has a type? That’s just wrong. Wrong like Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman being cancelled. Wrong like Cheryl Ladd doing menopause commercials. Wrong like New Coke. Some things just shouldn’t be. And my mind just won’t wrap around the thought of my mother dating.
And kissing. Ew! Go away, thought. Bad, bad mental image.
“Okay, forget John. I guess Ari the Grounded is in her room?”
“Nope. She’s still at that Hope House.”
I bristle. Just when I think Ari is coming around, she pulls a stunt like this? Takes advantage of her Granny while I’m asleep. “Mother, Ari should have been home by noon. Rick finished at eleven thirty.”
“I know. I’m not completely ignorant.” She scowls at me. “Rick called and said he was giving her permission to stay and work on a project there.”
And just like that anger floats away on a cloud of curiosity. “What kind of project?”
She shrugs. “Some kind of fund-raising something or other. I’m sure she’ll be hitting us both up for money soon enough.”
“Not that she’s likely to be getting any out of me.” I sip my coffee and set the cup back on the table. “Stu called this morning. My latest proposal was soundly rejected by all.”
“They’re idiots. Every last one of them.”
I appreciate the support. Really I do. But right now stating the obvious isn’t helping me.
“I’m thinking of parting company with Stu.”
“Good! I never liked him anyway.”
“Really?”
“Really. He’s just a little too big for his britches, if you ask me.”
I laugh at that. I know what she means. But Stu is about five foot five and probably weighs a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet.
“I’m not positive. But I need to find an agent who is on my side and is willing to help me. Stu was so great in the beginning. He went to bat for me. Seemed to really be on board with where I wanted my career to go, but he doesn’t want to pitch anything but romance.”
“Are you working on other things?”
I nod. “I have two different ideas. One a fun, comedy type. The other is about a girl who owns a restaurant and her relationships with the customers and family. They’re both great ideas that I really believe in.”
“Have you asked Stu about pitching them?”
I give a glum nod. “I sent him the proposal for the first one.”
“The comedy?”
“Yeah. He says no one wants that stuff from me. They want romance.”
“Honey, the Bible says there are seasons in our lives. Seasons that God creates for us. Maybe the season for you and Stu to work together is over.”
“Maybe.”
Mom stands, pushing back her chair. She walks around, kisses me on the head, and pats me on the shoulder. “You’ll figure it out. I have to go get ready for my date.”
I can’t help but grin. She says “date” almost like she’s trying the word on for size. Like when a kid gets his first job and keeps saying, “I have to go to work.” Or new writers who say “my editor” or
“my agent.” It’s fun.
Just as she’s about to disappear through the doorway, I remember something. “Hey, you never told me where Jakey is.” He’d better not be playing Nintendo.
“Oh.” Mom peeps back around the corner. “Helen and Sadie came by and asked if he could go over and play at their house. I know I should have asked, but you were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you. I just didn’t have the heart to say no.”
My heart jumps into my throat. “It was just Helen and Sadie?”
Mom’s eyes twinkle. “Yes. But I understand they all three came in for the fourth. Apparently Greg has a few days off to celebrate. And they wanted to come home to do it. Now don’t forget about the cornbread and stir the chili again in a few minutes.” And with those instructions, Mom dashes off to get ready for her date. While I settle in for an evening in front of the television with a bowl of comforting chili.
Ari’s so excited when she comes home that I think I’m going to have to peel her off the wall. “Mom!” she calls as she slams through the door.
I jump up from the table and rush into the living room, my heart in my throat as I picture her with broken bones or blood pouring out of some wound. Instead she’s waving a newspaper around. “I’m published,” she says as soon as she sees me.
Excitement rushes through me. “You are? Let me see. What is it?”
“A letter to the editor about those stained baby clothes at Hope House.”
“You wrote a letter to the editor?” I’m so impressed and proud. “And he printed it?”
“He sure did. In last night’s paper. Only he made it into an article instead of the letter to the editor page. When Dad and I got to Hope House today, there were tons of donations. Nice things, Mom. Some people just went out and bought new stuff.”
“Oh, my goodness. Give it here and let me read it.”
My name is Arianna Everett Frank, and I am sixteen years old. I volunteer at Hope House—our local home for pregnant teens. I hated it at first. I thought I was too good to work at a place like that. But I got into some trouble, and my parents thought volunteering at a home like that would open my eyes.
And guess what? They were right. No, I didn’t learn that I should abstain from sex. My Christian beliefs already taught me that. No, I didn’t learn that pregnancy is difficult. My stepmom is going through that right now and believe me, I’m in no hurry.
Claire Knows Best Page 23
