by Leslie Meier
Dylan shrugged. “We’ll schedule some extra rehearsals,” he said. “Meanwhile, I have an important announcement.”
They all stood in place reluctantly, shuffling their feet and eager to be on their way.
“I know how very frustrating and tiring rehearsals can be,” he began, “but I want to assure you that all your hard work and sacrifice will be rewarded on opening night, when we will have a very special guest.”
He paused, letting them speculate for a few moments.
“I have just received word that Lieutenant Governor Cormac O’Donnell will attend himself, in person.”
Moira clapped her hands together in excitement, but the rest of the cast showed little reaction.
“I thought there’d be more enthusiasm,” said Dylan. “He is the lieutenant governor, after all. And from what I hear, he’s very proud of his Irish heritage.”
“Well, if you want excitement, you’ll have to get Mikey O’Donnell,” said Harry, getting a big laugh.
“Good one, Harry,” said Frank.
“Who’s Mikey?” asked Dylan. “How do we get him?”
“That’s what a lot of people want to know. Cormac’s brother Michael is on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list,” said Frank.
“I don’t believe it,” said Moira, casting a look at her husband. “The lieutenant governor’s brother is a criminal?”
“A gangster,” said Frank. “Every once in a while, you read something about him in the paper, turning up in Italy or London. They never seem to be able to catch him, though.”
“What do they want him for?” asked Moira.
“Racketeering, murder, extortion, you name it,” said Harry.
“So one’s a politician and the other is a criminal?” asked Moira.
“Not really that different, after all,” said Harry, getting another big laugh.
Lucy was laughing along with the rest when her cell phone rang, and she scurried across the room to the chair where she’d left her coat and purse. After a few awkward moments, she found it in her coat pocket and flipped it open.
“Mom?” said Toby, his voice shaky, through the static.
Lucy immediately knew something was the matter. “I’m here,” she said, moving toward the window. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m at the hospital with Molly,” he said.
Lucy did a quick calculation. Molly wasn’t due for another six weeks.
“She started bleeding,” added Toby.
“How’s she doing?”
“I dunno, Mom.” His voice trailed off, his words lost, then came back. “I’m really worried.”
“I’ll be right there,” said Lucy.
Breaking her rule not to talk on the phone while driving, she called Bill as she speeded straight for the Tinker’s Cove Cottage Hospital. There she found Toby sitting on an orange vinyl chair in the emergency-room waiting area. He was a strapping kid, well over six feet tall, but he looked small and frightened sitting there all alone.
“Any news?” she asked, and he stood up, shaking his head. “It will be okay,” she said, giving him a big hug. “She’s in good hands.”
It was at least another hour before Doc Ryder finally came out to talk to them. He was not only the family doctor; he had delivered all four of Lucy’s babies, including Toby.
“Sorry to keep you waiting so long,” he said. “We’re shorthanded tonight.”
“How’s Molly?” asked Toby.
“We’ve got the bleeding stopped, but I don’t like her blood pressure,” said Doc Ryder.
None of this made any sense to Toby. “How’s the baby?” he asked.
“So far, so good,” said Doc Ryder.
“Can I take Molly home?” asked Toby.
“Son,” said the doctor, putting a hand on his shoulder, “I’m afraid not. Not until we get her blood pressure under control.”
“How long will that take?” asked Toby.
“As long as it takes,” said the doctor.
“Can I see her?” Toby asked.
“If you promise not to upset her.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
The doctor nodded. “And make it quick.”
“I will,” replied Toby.
When Toby was gone, the doctor told Lucy to take a seat. He sat down heavily next to her and shook his head. Lucy waited with dread to hear what he had to say.
“It’s not good,” he said. “Even if we manage to get her blood pressure down, she’ll have to stay on bed rest.”
“For how long?”
“The longer the better. Toxemia’s a waiting game. We want to keep her from going into labor as long as we can, get that baby as close to term as we can.”
Lucy didn’t know much about toxemia except that it didn’t sound good. “But if her blood pressure stays up?”
“We’ll have to take the baby, even if it’s early.”
“How big is the baby now?”
“Not as big as I’d like. Maybe four pounds. That’s my best guess.”
Lucy thought of the premies she’d seen in photos and on TV. Little tiny creatures with wizened faces and stick arms and legs, covered with thin, wrinkled red skin. They had the unfinished, prehistoric look of newly hatched birds, before their feathers came out.
“Don’t worry,” he said, patting her knee. “If it’s just a question of the baby being early, we’ve got excellent facilities right here.”
“And if something is wrong?”
“Well, there’s the neonatal unit in Portland. They can do amazing stuff nowadays. They can even repair heart valves, all sorts of stuff, with the baby in utero.”
“This is supposed to reassure me?” asked Lucy.
“I just want you to be prepared, that’s all. Those kids will be looking to you for support,” he said, getting to his feet slowly and stretching. “I guess he’s been in there long enough.”
He walked off stiffly, as if his back was bothering him. A minute or two later, Toby came out of the treatment room and sat beside her. He didn’t look much happier than when he went in.
“How’s she doing?” asked Lucy.
“She’s scared, Mom.” He sat with his elbows resting on his knees and looked down at his hands. “I’m scared, too.”
“It will be okay,” she told him, echoing the doctor’s words. “They have good facilities here and even better in Portland, if they’re needed. Right now the doctor says it’s a waiting game. All we can do is wait.”
And wait they did, all through the night. Molly’s condition was unchanged when Lucy left the hospital at six in the morning. She wanted to make breakfast for Bill and the girls and get their day off to a good start. Then she planned to catch an hour or two of sleep and take a shower before going back to the hospital. She shook her head ruefully, thinking of her flippant assertion the night before that she was going to sleep for ten hours, like Moira.
The house was quiet when she entered. Only Libby, the dog, greeted her, rising from her doggy bed in the kitchen and sticking out her front legs in a stretch, yawning and shaking before beginning her usual tail-wagging, wiggly welcome. Lucy gave her a pat and let her out, then got the coffeemaker started. She called the dog back into the house, filled her bowl with kibble, and then went upstairs to wake the family.
Back downstairs, she poured herself a cup of coffee and sipped at it while she got some bacon cooking and made lunches for Bill and Zoe. Sara insisted on buying the school lunch, but Lucy suspected she skipped it and saved the money. Too much caffeine and worry had made her feel shaky, and since she had more time than usual this morning, she decided to make French toast. She needed a hearty breakfast, and it would be a treat for Bill and the girls.
“Mmm, that sure smells good,” said Bill, the first one to appear. “So how’s Molly?” he asked as Lucy filled a mug with coffee and gave it to him.
“Her blood pressure is dangerously high, and they can’t seem to get it down.”
“What does that mean?” he asked, sitt
ing at the table.
Lucy kept it simple. “Bed rest if they can get it down, an emergency caesarean if not.”
Bill took a swallow of coffee. “When will they know?”
“By noon. Doc Ryder promised a decision by then.” She took a deep breath and let out a qua-very sigh, which caught Bill’s attention. She covered with a yawn. “I’m going to nap for an hour or so, then go back to the hospital.”
“How’s Toby?”
“Really scared.” This time her voice did crack, and she made herself very busy filling a pitcher with maple syrup.
“Poor guy.”
Lucy set a platter full of bacon and French toast on the table and yelled up the stairs, calling the girls. They came clumping down together. Lucy felt like scooping them up in a big hug but restrained herself. They’d think she’d lost her mind.
“Ooh, yummy,” said Zoe, spotting the French toast.
“Just juice for me,” said Sara.
“Do me a favor and have a piece,” said Lucy, seizing on the distraction. Arguing with Sara was better than worrying. “It’s not that many calories if you skip the butter and syrup. Dab some yogurt on instead.”
“Half a piece,” said Sara.
“How’s Molly?” asked Zoe. “Can I go there after school?”
“Sorry, honey. She’s still in the hospital,” said Bill.
“How come?” asked Zoe, her mouth full of French toast.
“She’s sick, and they have to take special care of her and the baby,” he answered.
Sara, Lucy noticed, was reaching for a second piece of French toast. “But everything’s going to be okay, right?” she asked.
“We hope so,” said Lucy, her throat catching again.
The girls caught it and looked at her anxiously, watching as she filled her plate. Her hand shook, and she dropped a piece of bacon on the floor. Libby, who had been waiting for just such an opportunity, gobbled it up.
“Sally Henderson’s mom had a high-risk pregnancy, but everything turned out all right,” said Sara. “She just had to stay in bed at the end.”
“That’s what Molly should do,” said Zoe. “If she stays inside, the wee folk won’t be able to get her baby.”
Lucy dropped her fork, and it clattered to the floor. “It’s not wee folk that are making Molly sick,” she said, through clenched teeth. “I don’t want to hear any more about fairies or selkies or leprechauns, do you understand? Molly is sick, that’s all there is to it, and she’s going to get better and have a healthy baby.”
Zoe said, “But Deirdre told me that the fairies can make mothers sick….”
“Enough!” screamed Lucy, jumping to her feet. “I don’t want to hear any more of this!” She picked up her plate and took it over to the counter, where she began filling the dishwasher.
“Zoe,” said Bill, his voice calm, “we talked about this before. There is no such thing as fairies. People get sick for lots of reasons, but fairies have nothing to do with it. They’re imaginary. Make-believe. And your mother and I don’t want to hear another word about them.”
Zoe’s face closed up, and she got up from the table. “I don’t want to miss the bus,” she said. She put on her coat and packed her lunch in her backpack and went out without kissing her mother good-bye. Lucy stood at the kitchen sink, watching through the window as Zoe walked slowly down the driveway. She looked exactly like someone who’d lost her best friend. Lucy sighed and glanced at the clock.
“You’d better hurry, Sara,” she said.
When they were both gone, she sat down at the table, where Bill was working on a second cup of coffee.
“I shouldn’t have yelled at her,” she said. “She’s grief-stricken.”
He shrugged. “She knows you’re upset about Molly.”
“I’ll apologize when she gets home from school.”
“I bet she’ll have forgotten all about it by then.”
“I doubt it.” Lucy exhaled. “I wish she’d forget about fairies.”
“It’s too bad. She had a nice friendship going with Deirdre.”
“She really misses her.”
“If only Deirdre didn’t come with a whole retinue of wee folk,” said Bill, chuckling.
“Maybe I could talk to Moira mother to mother and get her to tell Zoe that it’s all make-believe.”
“Have Deirdre keep the sprites and elves at home,” said Bill, smiling. “And the girls can only play here, under your supervision.”
“Right,” said Lucy. “We’ll get her hooked on video games and rap music.” She smiled for the first time that morning. “How’s that for revenge?”
Chapter Fourteen
When Lucy got back to the hospital, she found Molly had been moved out of the emergency room and was comfortably settled all by herself in a semiprivate room with a stunning view of the harbor.
“Nice digs,” said Lucy, giving her a peck on the cheek. Today Molly’s face was even more puffy and swollen, which Lucy knew was a symptom of toxemia. She’d looked it up on Google before leaving the house that morning. It hadn’t made for encouraging reading.
“It looks as if I’m going to be here for a while,” said Molly. “Doc Ryder says I’ll probably have to stay here until the baby is born.”
Lucy had expected as much. “How do you feel?”
“Stupid,” said Molly, shaking her head ruefully. “I thought all this swelling was just part of pregnancy. I didn’t know it meant something’s wrong.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” said Lucy. “I’ve had four kids, and I didn’t know about it until I looked it up on the computer this morning.” She paused, looking out the window and watching a seagull circling against the blue sky. “It could have been a lot worse.”
“I know.” Molly stroked her big stomach. “They say the baby’s okay, but I have to stay here so they can monitor my blood pressure. If it goes up again, they’ll do a C-section.” She shrugged. “That’s not so bad. Lots of people actually choose caesareans these days.”
Lucy nodded and squeezed her hand. Apparently, Doc Ryder hadn’t told her the whole story. That the baby was compromised because of the toxemia, and that Molly herself was at risk of convulsions, organ damage, and even coma.
“Everything will be fine,” said Lucy, trying to reassure herself as well as Molly. “You must do exactly what they tell you. Now, what can I bring you? Books? Magazines? Knitting?”
“Nothing right now. Toby promised to go to the library and get me a bunch of books. Meanwhile, I’ve got the TV. And I’ll probably sleep some,” she said, yawning.
Lucy took the hint. “I’d better go, then. I’ll be back tonight.”
Lucy left, intending to get a pretty nightgown for Molly to replace the hospital gown, and stopped at the nurse’s station to check that she could wear them.
“No problem,” said the nurse.
“How’s she doing—really?” asked Lucy.
“I’m not supposed to discuss a patient’s condition,” she said, leaning over the counter, “but, well, she reminds me of my own daughter, and she’s so young. She’s going to need a lot of support.”
Hearing this, Lucy was suddenly ashamed that she had been so critical earlier, fretting over the fact that Molly and Toby weren’t married. Now that didn’t seem so important. “We’ll be here for them, that’s for sure,” promised Lucy.
“This is one of those touch and go situations that can change in an instant.”
“I was afraid of that,” said Lucy.
“We’re keeping a real close eye on her,” said the nurse. “Try not to worry.”
“Sure,” said Lucy.
Leaving the hospital, she knew that worry was going to be a constant companion until Molly was safely delivered of a healthy baby. No matter how often she shoved it aside to think of something else, it would come right back, catching her when she least expected it. No, worry was going to be around for a while.
Lucy had called Ted earlier and knew he wasn’t expecting her to com
e to work until later in the day, if at all, so she decided she might as well pay a visit to the Malones and tackle the fairy issue. She was having enough trouble dealing with real problems; she didn’t need made-up ones.
She’d heard that they had moved out of the inn and taken possession of Old Dan’s bungalow right after the funeral, so she headed for Bumps River Road, on the other side of town. Unlike most of Tinker’s Cove, where the historical commission made sure everyone conformed to strict guidelines of “appropriateness” when it came to paint color, roof shingles, and even light fixtures, and comprehensive zoning regulations restricted new development, Bumps River Road was an uncontrolled mix of small businesses, like auto body shops and landscape out-fits, with a scattering of ramshackle houses, all tucked in around the town dump. The area had actually improved in recent years, ever since the smelly dump had been converted into a transfer station, where trash was collected and shipped to a regional disposal facility. Lucy occasionally missed the old dump, where the rule that one man’s trash was another’s treasure meant that you often took home as much as you left, but she didn’t miss the enormous flock of seagulls that converged as soon as you backed up to the edge of the pit, squabbling over your garbage even before it hit bottom.
Some of the businesses on the road had taken their cue from the neatly landscaped transfer station and had fixed up their places, applying fresh paint, installing fences and security lights, spreading blacktop for parking, and even laying down a few strips of loam and a bush or two. A few of the houses had been rehabbed in recent years, too, but not Old Dan’s bungalow.
It was set apart from the others, down a winding dirt driveway. Pine saplings and scraggly low-bush blueberries were filling in the unkempt yard, where a couple of rusty automobile carcasses were rotting away on cement blocks, the tires having been thriftily removed and probably sold. The house had also been neglected. There the paint peeled from the window frames, the porch sagged, and the roof shingles that hadn’t blown away were cupped and curling. A straggly tree stood in the yard. Limbs broken in winter storms dangled down dangerously, and a few crows called noisily from their precarious perches in the very topmost branches.
