by Pamela Morsi
Finally Dr. Reberdi showed up. He listened to Wilma’s heart and lungs both seated and standing.
“I can really help you if you’re willing to quit smoking,” he told her. “We put you on a cessation medication two weeks before you stop. You pick a date to go smoke free and you commit to taking the medication for six months. Since you don’t have any allergies or other health problems, you really are a very good candidate for this, Mrs. Post.”
“I’ll think about it,” Wilma answered quickly. Quickly enough to sound completely dismissive.
Dr. Reberdi nodded, resigned.
He shook Wilma’s hand and then Ellen’s.
Hurrying ahead to get the car from the parking lot, Ellen pulled into the covered loading zone to meet Wilma and the nurse’s aide. She was only a couple of minutes ahead of them. But as soon as Ellen turned into the drive she saw Wilma in the wheelchair, her oxygen turned off and a cigarette in her hand.
Angrily, she got out and walked around the car.
“Did you give these to her?” she asked the nurse’s aide accusingly.
“No, ma’am,” the woman responded, offended. “She was carrying them in her pocket. I would never allow anyone to smoke this close to an oxygen tank, even if it is turned off.”
Ellen looked at her mother. “Who gave you that pack?” she asked.
Wilma shrugged. “A hospital is just like prison,” she said. “Cigarettes are a tradable commodity.”
It wasn’t a real answer, but Ellen let it go. There was not much else she could do. She and the nurse helped Wilma into the passenger seat. Ellen rolled down the window. Normally, she didn’t allow smoking in her car. But she knew if she said that now, she’d just be stuck waiting here at the curb while Wilma finished her cigarette.
After her mother was buckled in with her oxygen at the ready, Ellen thanked the nurse and walked around to open the driver’s door, sliding behind the wheel.
Ellen didn’t say another word about it. Wilma would do what she had always done. Ellen was hardly in charge of her own destiny, so she wasn’t likely to be able to take over her mother’s.
They drove through town, Wilma watching the sights go by with such obvious pleasure it was as if she, indeed, had been in prison.
When she finished her cigarette she crushed the butt in the ashtray. Wilma leaned back in the seat and sighed, pleasurably.
“I tell you, Ellen, it’s better than sex,” she said.
“What?”
“That first cigarette,” Wilma answered. “It’s better than sex.”
She ignored that comment.
When they arrived home, Brent’s Tahoe was parked in front of the house. If he and Amber were having some kind of disagreement, it was impossible to tell by the young man’s manner.
He was right there by Wilma’s door by the time the car stopped, and appeared perfectly willing to carry her into the house if need be. Fortunately, she made the trip on her own two feet, leaning heavily against him.
When she got inside and settled in her chair, Jet, who hadn’t seen her since they’d taken her to the hospital climbed eagerly into her lap and wrapped her little arms around the older woman’s waist.
“I’m so glad you’re home, Wil-ma,” she said. “I haven’t been to the grocery story in a really long time.”
Wilma laughed and hugged the little girl tightly.
“I had to come home,” she told Jet. “I wanted to be here for your birthday party.”
Ellen insisted that the occasion be postponed until after lunch. She cooked pork chops, spinach, macaroni with cheese and applesauce. Jet’s favorite menu.
She took charge of the cooking and allowed Jet to entertain her birthday guests, and vice versa. The kitchen was as hot as Hades. With the price of electricity, Ellen couldn’t bear to turn the air-conditioning to a more livable level. Instead she got Brent to help her move the kitchen table out under a tree in the backyard. They ran a long orange extension cord out to the area and set up the fan. It wouldn’t be perfect, but they could live with it. A picnic atmosphere was far more party friendly than a hot kitchen.
At Ellen’s direction, Brent set up a folding table a few feet away. She covered it with a bright pink sheet and a crocheted tablecloth. And they put the cake and the birthday gifts upon it. Along with the wrapped and tied packages that she and Amber had bought was a larger gift wrapped in the Sunday comics. It had yellow twine for a ribbon and a big red sticker that read To Jet From Mr. Brent.
The contributor of that gift was currently employed blowing up colorful balloons and tying them to the limbs of the trees.
“Those look great,” Ellen told him. “It really makes it seem like a party.”
Brent stepped back to observe his work and nodded in agreement.
“Anything else I can do?” he asked.
“No, I think I’ve got it,” Ellen told him. “But I did want to tell you how glad I am that you came to her party.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” Brent assured her. “And I wanted to see Wilma, too. She’s looking so much better than the day I took her to the hospital.”
Ellen was philosophical. “The doctor says that it’s just a temporary respite. If she doesn’t quit smoking, she won’t get better.”
Brent sighed heavily. “Any evidence that she might give it a try?” he asked.
Ellen shook her head.
“Dang, I’m sorry,” he said.
“Me, too,” she answered.
She went back into the kitchen. The pork chops were simmering in a light sauce. The macaroni was bubbling nicely. There was a sink full of spinach to be washed and she got busy at it.
To her surprise, Brent came to stand beside her. Ellen had thought that they’d finished their conversation. Obviously he had something more to say.
“I…I wanted to tell you…” he hesitated.
Ellen had known the young man for years. He had been one of Amber’s friends since childhood. There was not a shy or hesitant bone in the fellow’s body, but something was obviously troubling him.
“What is it?” she asked him.
“Well, Wilma asked me to check up on her house eviction. She wanted me to look up the papers, ask a few questions, stuff like that,” he said.
Ellen was surprised, both that Wilma would ask him and that he would take his time to do it.
“Oh, Brent,” she said, rubbing his back in a comforting, motherly fashion. “That is so sweet of you. You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugged off her praise.
“I talked with this guy who’s the paralegal for the lawyer representing Mr. Post’s family. I told him how sick Wilma was,” he said. “I asked if there was a way to get them to back off, give an extension or something.”
“What did he say?” Ellen asked.
Brent shook his head. “He said if Wilma’s sick then it’s even more imperative to get the matter settled. If she were…if she were to die, it would make everything even more complicated. The lawyers are pushing to clear it up as quickly as possible.”
Ellen let those words sink in thoroughly. With everything that had happened: Wilma’s illness, Amber’s decision to move out and leave Jet, the crisis of losing the house had somehow found its way to the back burner of Ellen’s worries. She hadn’t heard from Marvin Dix in several days. Hopefully it was because he was coming up with some tremendous winning strategy that couldn’t miss.
“With the mediation hearing already on the schedule,” he continued. “The paralegal seems to think that the whole thing will be completely resolved and you will be moved within the next two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” A knot tightened in Ellen’s stomach. “I hope he’s wrong about that,” she said.
“One more thing I think I ought to tell you,” Brent said, again showing some reticence.
“What’s that?”
“This guy told me something, maybe he didn’t intend for you to know, but he didn’t ask me to keep it in confidence.”
“If you think you shouldn’t tell me, then don’t,” Ellen said.
“I think I have to tell you,” Brent said.
His expression was very concerned.
“What is it?”
“He said something about your lawyer, Dix,” Brent told her. “He told me that the man was a real lowlife and not much better than a crook.”
Ellen shrugged off his words. “In a legal battle it’s rather typical to vilify the representation of the opposition,” she said.
Brent nodded. “I’m sure that’s true,” he said. “But that wasn’t what this guy was talking about. Apparently Dix is pushing hard for a financial settlement. He’s made it clear that Wilma is willing to let go of the house—she’s just waiting for the price to get high enough.”
Ellen was stunned.
“That’s not true,” she said.
“I told the guy I was pretty sure that money was not what you wanted,” Brent said. “I told him you just want to live in the house.”
“That’s right.” Ellen was genuinely puzzled. “Dix knows that, too,” she said. “Why would he be trying to negotiate us out of it?”
“Well, according to this paralegal, Dix can have some pretty nasty fine print in his contractual agreements. He gets his fee that you agreed to, plus forty percent of any money he collects for you in a settlement. If you get the house, he gets nothing but his fee. But if he makes the cash deal he’s pushing—in which Wilma vacates the house and they pay her thirty thousand dollars—you’re out on the street with only three years’ worth of rent and he’s $12,000 richer.”
Ellen was appalled. “You don’t think the paralegal could be making this up?” she asked.
Brent shrugged. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Why would he? Who recommended this Dix guy to you?”
She groaned aloud. “Nobody recommended him,” she said. “No one else was willing to take my case,” Ellen said. “I thought he would be better than nothing.”
“You could have been wrong about that,” he said. “What do you know about what he’s doing for you? Have you seen any of the papers he’s filed?”
“No, I don’t know a thing. The man ducks my calls constantly.”
“Well, it may not be true,” Brent said. “But I wanted you to be aware that it’s a possibility.”
“Thanks, Brent,” she said. “I appreciate your help and I really will check into it.”
He poured the cold applesauce in a bowl and helped Ellen put the hot food on the table.
Ellen felt as if the walls were closing in on her. The knot in her stomach continued to worsen. She needed to go off somewhere and think everything through. But for Jet’s sake she pasted a smile on her face and walked into the living room.
The little girl and Wilma were playing grocery store. Amber was their slightly preoccupied checkout person.
“Come to birthday dinner,” she called out to them. “We’re going to have to eat it so that we can have cake.”
“I want to eat it,” Jet assured her, jumping to her feet.
“Go on outside and Brent will show you the place of honor,” Ellen said.
The little pair of four-year-old feet went running through the house and out the back door. Amber and Wilma came a little more slowly. Wilma looked great and was able to ambulate the distance under her own steam. Ellen followed her out.
They all found a place at the table. With their mismatched schedules, it was rare for them to eat together as a family. It was even more unusual to have a guest. There weren’t enough chairs and Ellen ended up sitting on the vanity stool from her mother’s bedroom.
Wilma folded a paperboy’s cap for Jet from a brightly colored newspaper insert. She wore it proudly, calling it her party hat. She gazed around her, excited and pleased, as if a cake, a few balloons and a late lunch out under a tree were a magical experience.
Amber picked up the pork chops, put one on her plate and was passing the platter to Wilma when Ellen asked Jet to say grace. The food stopped abruptly, but her daughter looked more annoyed than guilty.
The little girl dutifully bowed her head and recited a prayer that Ellen had taught her.
Who will teach Jet to pray if I don’t? Ellen asked God. If you want Amber to be her mother, then I’m going to have to trust you to make her worthy of the job.
“Amen,” Jet finished proudly. Immediately she was lauded with glowing compliments on her excellent abilities.
And the pork chops began their circuit once more.
The meal was filled with laughter and exuberance. Amber and Brent were pretty much ignoring each other, but there was plenty of conversation elsewhere to take up the slack.
When it was time for dessert, Ellen brought out the Blue’s Clues cake. She lit the four candles, their glow barely visible in the afternoon shadows.
“Happy Birthday to you…” Ellen began and everybody joined in.
Jet blew out the candles and got every one in the first try. She applauded herself.
The cake was doled out in huge slices with much laughing, especially when it was discovered that the icing made everyone’s lips and tongue blue.
Finally it was time for presents. Ellen cleared the table while Amber laid the bounty before the young princess. Jet picked up the first one and started to tear into it.
Ellen tutted. “You must read the card first,” she told her. “And then thank whoever gave it to you, before you open it.”
Amber made a whiny, disapproving sound. “I never understood why you have to say ‘thank you’ before you even open the box,” she complained.
“To show that you are grateful to get a gift, no matter what it is,” Ellen told her.
“I’m grapefull,” the four-year-old insisted.
Nobody doubted her.
Jet opened the card. It had a little girl and a big pink four. She had Amber read it to her. The verse was a sappy childhood sentiment, but Ellen liked it.
“It’s signed Gramma,” Amber said finally.
Jet looked up at Ellen. “Thank you, Gramma,” she said politely. “Can I open it now?”
Ellen nodded.
Jet tore at the paper revealing a container with doll figures.
“What does it say? What does it say?” she asked her mother eagerly.
Amber read the box. “Harriet Tubman Playset— An innovative approach to teaching the richness of the African-American heritage. Includes five-inch articulated Harriet, Runaway Slave Girl and Baby, Donkey Cart, Bloodhound, Miniature Freedom Quilt and Campfire.”
Amber rolled her eyes and gave her mother a long-suffering look.
“Oh, brother,” she said.
Jet had no such negative reaction.
“I want to play,” she said. “Can we play it now?”
Ellen was gratified by the child’s response, but urged Jet to set Harriet aside for the moment and open the rest of the presents.
The next card was from Amber and featured a little round bear in a ballet suit. Jet thanked her and opened the gift. It was a cool, little-girls fashion doll called Groovy Girl. She was dressed in a soccer uniform, but she also had a lavender party dress with a tiny fake fur stole.
“At least she’s not a blonde,” Ellen said.
Amber shrugged. “I tried to get a blond one, but they were all out.”
“I like this one,” Jet said, wrapping the fur around the doll’s soccer uniform.
Brent’s gift had no card, so Amber just read the to and from names on the sticker.
Jet thanked him and opened it up. On the top was a Blue’s Clues CD.
“We don’t have a CD player,” Amber said snidely. “We’ll have to take it back and get a tape.”
“It’s not music,” Brent told her. “Open the rest of it, Jet.”
“It’s heavy,” she said.
He got up to help her.
They tore away the paper. A black laptop computer was revealed.
“You got her a computer?” Ellen was stunned.
“It’s not new,
” Brent explained quickly. “It’s my old one. It’s outdated for my schoolwork, but I think it will work well for Jet to do games and stuff.”
“Wow,” Ellen said.
“Isn’t that something!” Wilma agreed.
“Jet doesn’t know anything about computers,” Amber said. “She’s only four, she won’t be able to work that thing.”
“Jet knows a lot about computers,” Brent argued. He turned to Jet. “This CD works just like those ones we got with your kiddie meals,” he said.
“Ohhhhhhhh,” she said nodding. “I can do that.” Her words were spoken with complete confidence.
“She’s been playing on my computer, so I thought I’d get her one of her own,” he said. “There’s lots of great stuff out there. You can even get educational games at the library. You don’t have to buy anything.”
The last was said without any hint of condescension.
“I think it might really help her if she’s familiar by the time she gets to kindergarten,” Brent concluded.
Ellen was very pleased. It was a very sweet, thoughtful gift. And because it was a castoff, it didn’t even feel inappropriate or too expensive.
“I guess you’re right,” she said. “Jet is growing up in a digital age. I hadn’t even thought of her needing a computer.”
“Me neither,” Wilma chimed in. “I suppose I thought she’d be able to parlay her knowledge of ribald beer tunes and vegetable buying into a useful elementary school education.”
That comment brought laughter from Brent and Ellen.
Amber didn’t appear to share their delight.
“What a stupid thing to buy a four-year-old,” she said.
“She can operate it. I’ve seen her,” Brent said.
“You’ve been helping her,” Amber pointed out. “She’ll never be able to do it by herself.”
“She’ll do just fine,” Brent said. “She’s a natural. And she feels comfortable with computers.”
“Somebody will have to help her,” Amber said. “And neither Ellen nor Wilma know anything about them.”
“I think I can manage,” Ellen contradicted. “The world of accounting has been digital for a couple of decades now.”
