“Who in the world is that guy?” Emma asked.
“Tyler.” I shrugged. “That’s all I know.”
“Maybe your summer won’t be so bad, after all.”
“I’m not holding my breath.”
“Girl, he’s totally into you.”
The last thing on my mind was a boy. “I’ll never see him again,” I said.
“Fifty bucks says you’re wrong.”
I smirked. “I could use fifty bucks.”
For the next six hours, we rotated from the cafeteria to the surgery waiting room, to the bathroom, and back. By six o’clock, Emma went home to finishing packing for Florida. I gave her a hug goodbye, dreading the rest of the summer alone. Woodrow read about the latest gossip in the Hardin County newspaper, as Mom’s spirit dwindled with every passing minute.
At seven-thirty, Dr. Wood walked into the waiting room. Anxious to hear his news, Mom and I hurried across the room to talk to him.
“Hello, Mrs. Richardson.”
“How is he?”
“He made it through surgery. He’ll be in recovery for a few hours.”
We both let out a sigh of relief. Woodrow stepped up behind us.
“We did our best to remove as much of the mass as we could. But... if you think of the tumor like it’s an octopus, the tendrils had twisted their way through the crevasses of the brain, making it impossible for us to reach all of it.” He pursed his lips as if he’d failed somehow. “The nurse will let you know when he’s settled in the ICU. You can see him then.”
“Thank you,” Mom said.
Dr. Wood’s defeated manner left me feeling unsettled and even more skeptical.
After the doctor walked out, Mom said, “I need to call Mark.”
“Does he know what happened?”
“I talked to him earlier. He’s driving here tomorrow.”
I hadn’t seen my big brother for almost a year, and we weren’t exactly on good terms when he left. Mark hated Tennessee as much as I loved it. So, in his typical way of making Mom’s life hell, he’d started drinking and partying until she finally had to ask my grandparents for help.
“Sure hope that boy has his head on straight, now,” Woodrow said.
“Me, too,” Mom agreed.
An hour later, a slender brunette in Scooby-Doo scrubs stepped inside the waiting room.
“Are you Claire Richardson?” she asked Mom.
“Yes.”
“You can see Brandon now. He’s in room 311.”
“Thank you.”
I followed Mom into the low lit hallway of the ICU. The first room I saw had a neon yellow sign on the door, warning outsiders: Do Not Enter If Pregnant. I bristled. Why?
I scanned the rest of the hall. All the rooms had glass outer walls with curtains – some stood wide open, others were shut. Beeps and low voices haunted the sunless corridor.
I glanced to my right. A middle-aged man lay in bed with tubes attached to his face. A plump woman sat next to him. As she raised her tired, heavy eyes to mine, a lump tightened my throat. Her hopeless expression deeply disturbed me and I quickly looked to my left.
A woman paced back and forth, holding a rosary in her hand as she murmured prayers. She stopped beside the bed. A small child hooked to tubes and machines lay motionless in front of her. The little one was no older than six, bald and pale, genderless under the veil of disease.
I stopped in the middle of the hallway. A child? My stomach dropped.
Mom touched my shoulder. “Elsie, come on, sweetie.”
“Oh my gosh,” I said, looking at the woman consumed with worry. “I can’t imagine.”
“Me, either. Just don’t look.”
I fixed my eyes on the back of Mom’s head. A few doors later, she stopped in front of a glass wall with Dad’s name and a chart written in erasable marker. A young, dark-haired man wearing blue scrubs sat at a computer station by the entrance.
He stood. “Mrs. Richardson?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Aaron.” He shook Mom’s hand, then smiled at me. “Brandon’s been resting quite peacefully. Y’all need to put on a gown and gloves before you go inside.” He pointed at a plastic rack behind us.
I thought that once inside Dad’s room, I’d feel better. But as we followed Aaron’s instructions, all I wanted to do was run away from the place. I slid into the gown, then smoothed out the folds of the awkward, yellow paper. Mom handed me a pair of purple gloves. I pulled the soft rubber over my right hand, trembling with anxiety. As I put on the other glove, I looked into Mom’s eyes.
“I don’t think I can do this.”
“Yes, you can,” she said.
“I’m scared.”
“In other words, you wanna run.”
I lowered my head and looked at the white-tiled floor.
My family used to joke and call me “The Runner,” but after my last attempt to flee from my fears, the joke wasn’t funny anymore.
“Get it reeled in,” she said in a firm tone. “You need to be with your dad.”
I nodded. Easier said than done.
She stood taller and headed into the room.
I held my breath, about to burst from the pressure inside. The only man I’d ever loved was lying in bed, fighting for his life behind the curtained glass. I wanted to be there for him, but the thought of escaping was just as attractive. I wanted to hold his hand and tell him how much I loved him, but the last thing I wanted was to accept that he’d been classified to sleep next to the dying.
Aaron stepped beside me and placed his hand on my shoulder.
“It’s not as scary as you think. If you need someone to talk to, I’m here all night.”
“Thanks.”
Tucking my chin, I moved past the curtain.
Mom sat beside the bed, holding Dad’s hand, tears streaming down her cheeks. A clear tube ran to his mouth, each breath being pushed into his lungs by a machine beside the bed. His chest rising and falling in sync with the harsh clicking sound. Beeps and hisses filled the air, like a Willie Wonka invention, minus the chocolate. More tubes ran up Dad’s arms, disappearing under the sheets, while another came from the back of his head, funneling fluid into some mysterious place.
Mom stood up and held out her arms. She hadn’t been harsh to hurt me. She knew that if I ran, I’d never forgive myself, and she was the only one who could convince me not to.
For the next two hours, we listened to the symphony of machines without saying a word. We weren’t there just for Dad... Mom needed to be there, too. She stroked his cheek and held his hand. I didn’t really know what to do with myself, until I spotted a pen and paper next to the telephone. Instead of staring at my parents, I stayed busy by drawing caricatures of the space-age machines hovering above Dad. He would’ve loved my silly cartoons, influenced by years of watching Bugs Bunny together. Even in the worst of moods, Dad would roll with laughter when that silly rabbit did something clever.
One more time... all I wanted was one more time to laugh together, to talk. A tear rolled down my cheek, landing on the notepad. Relent, God, please relent.
The glass door opened with a gust of cooler air and Dr. Wood stepped inside. He smiled at Mom and then me. Gentleness had replaced his matter-of-fact approach after surgery.
I relaxed in the chair, relieved a human being had operated on Dad, and not some cold robot posing as one.
“Hello again, Mrs. Richardson.”
“Please, call me Claire.”
“Of course.” He sat in the chair beside her. “Brandon’s going to be here for a while. He’s stable, but his brain is already starting to swell. The staff will monitor him overnight, but if the swelling continues, I’ll induce a coma to help him heal with less stress. Do you have any questions?”
“Um, yes. What are we supposed to do?”
“Well, after the damage from the seizure, on top of the stress from the surgery... we’re going to have to wait and see.” He gave her a sympathetic smile. “Claire, I s
uggest you start preparing for the worst. I’m sorry to say this, but his chances of a full recovery are slim.” She closed her eyes and shook her head, like she didn’t want to accept the words. He patted her hand. “We never know, though. He’s a strong man. I’ll keep you updated, okay?”
“Thank you.”
He acknowledged me with a kind smile and walked out.
A deafening silence filled the room. There were no words to ease the moment. Mom covered her face with both hands and cried. I bowed my head, begging for God’s help.
After sitting that way for close to an hour, she let out a sigh. “Go ahead and go home, sweetie. Woodrow said he’d wait for you. I’m gonna stay here tonight.”
“Are you sure? I can stay.”
“No. Go home and get a good night’s sleep. I’m going to need your help tomorrow at the Vaughns’ house. She wants me to do a bunch of extra work while she’s in Houston. If you help, I can get back here sooner.”
“Okay.” I gave her a hug. “Call me if anything changes.”
“I will. Love you.”
“I love you.”
Chapter 3
I woke the next morning, gasping from a nightmare about Dad’s seizure. Pulling the covers over my head, I cried until I heard Mom’s footsteps. She was home. I jumped out of bed.
When I stepped into the kitchen, she was sitting at the dining room table, talking on the phone. I poured a cup of coffee, fighting off the dread of spending the day at the Vaughns’. I admired Mom for how hard she worked, cleaning the estate and several other homes in Savannah. But the job felt demeaning to me... like I wasn’t worthy of a better life.
As I went back to my room to change, Mom dialed another number. I left the door open a crack so I could listen to her conversation.
“Hi, Daddy, how’s everything going?” she said. “Has Mark left yet?... Oh, okay. I don’t know if Brandon’s going to be able to fight it this time... I know. I just talked to his sister. His vitals crashed in the middle of the night.”
Hearing that bit of news, I burst out of my room.
“Okay, love you, too.” She hung the phone on the wall.
“Is Mark on his way?”
“He left a few hours ago.”
“What about Dad?”
“It’s not good. They induced a coma this morning.”
Determined not to cry, I walked away without a word. The disappointing news didn’t surprise me anymore. I was expecting it.
Ten minutes later, Mom hollered that it was time to leave.
As we drove across the Harrison-McGarity Bridge into Savannah, the air shifted to the smell of burnt broccoli and sulfur. The stench preceded every storm moving toward the Tennessee River Valley. A wonderful byproduct of Pickwick Paper Mill—it complemented my stinky mood. Nevertheless, I actually loved the Vaughn estate. Built in the early 1800s, it was what one would imagine when the word “plantation” was mentioned. But, I despised Mrs. Vaughn. The first and only time I met her, she had sized me up and pointed at a stain on my shirt.
Mom parked the truck on the asphalt driveway and climbed out. She looked exhausted, as we walked up the steps to the front porch. She unlocked the mahogany door and pushed it open.
A grand staircase divided the second level into separate wings, like Beast’s Castle in Beauty and The Beast. I stepped on the red-and-black Oriental rug, in complete awe of the pristine, white-walled foyer.
Mom rounded the staircase, eager to get to work.
I slowly climbed the stairs. The glossy, walnut handrail felt cool and smooth under my touch. Tiny rainbows sparkled off the walls from the chandelier above and plush carpeting cushioned each of my unworthy steps. Mom passed me, running on pure adrenaline. I worried about her almost as much as Dad. If she didn’t chill and get some rest, she’d end up in the hospital, too.
When I caught up with her in the hallway, I said under my breath, “This house.”
“What about it?”
“It’s so beautiful, and perfect.”
“Yeah, well.” She pushed Mrs. Vaughn’s bedroom door open. “Everything isn’t perfect just because it’s beautiful.”
Whatever. I would’ve killed to wake up every morning in such luxury. Soft gray walls outlined in white crown molding, a king-sized, cherry poster-bed covered in spotless white linens and plush pillows. Even the blooms on the mimosa tree outside danced in the breeze, like little pink fairies curiously peeking through the full-length windows.
“Pull out the bedside table,” Mom said. “We have to wipe the walls.”
“Why?”
I’ve never had to wipe walls at our house before.
“Because she’s paying me to do it,” she said, deadpan. “Now, come on. I wanna get this done. I hate not being at the hospital.”
After ten minutes of wrestling with the cumbersome furniture, I flopped on the mattress.
Mom didn’t slow down a beat. Heading straight to the navy drapes, she pulled one side shut. The room darkened, and muted shadows fell across the white carpeting.
“We have to steam clean these.” She yanked the fabric again. “There’s a steamer down in the basement. It stands upright, kind of looks like a vacuum. Think you can find it?”
“Sure.”
Anything to get out of wiping walls.
I headed downstairs and took a right toward the kitchen. Thinking nothing of it, I detoured to the polished stainless-steel refrigerator, yanked the double doors open, and scoffed out loud. An array of fresh fruits was stocked in the drawers, while milk, power drinks, and bottled water filled the shelves next to stacks of packaged fresh meat. Why would the woman need so much food? Leaning forward, I buried my head inside.
“Anything good in there?” a guy’s voice resonated from my right.
I jumped back and slammed the doors. Staring at the floor, I quickly blurted, “I’m sorry. I didn’t take anything.” Then, I looked up and gasped. “Tyler?”
“Elsie.” He smiled. “What a nice surprise.”
He stood at the doorway, wearing black Adidas warm-ups and a white tank top, his tan skin glistening with sweat. My heart pounded. Absolutely breathtaking.
“Are you related to the Vaughns?” I asked.
He bit his bottom lip for a brief moment, then said, “I am a Vaughn. I apologize. I should’ve told you that yesterday. How’s your dad doing?”
Well, that made more sense, considering his speedy phone call to Mom.
“He’s stable. Thanks for asking.”
I stared at his Nikes, unsure of what to say. Tyler scratched the side of his head, as if he was struggling with the same thing. Then, he took a step closer.
“Why don’t we start over?” He held out his right hand. “I’m Tyler Vaughn. It’s a pleasure to meet you again.”
“Nice to meet you, Tyler Vaughn.” When I took his warm hand, goosebumps tingled up my arm. “Elsie Richardson.”
“And Elsie’s short for?”
“Elizabeth.”
“Nice. I wondered if it was a nickname.”
“It is, but I prefer Elsie.”
“Elsie it is, then.” He released my hand. “I never had the chance to tell you why I came into your booth. I really love your work. You certainly are talented.”
I’d forgotten all about that part of the horrible day.
“Thank you. It was the first time I’d tried to sell anything.”
“I’m sure that under different circumstances, you would’ve done well.”
I took a step back. The last thing I wanted was the subject to shift to Dad’s seizure.
“I need to go to the basement. Mom wants me to get some steamer thingy. Could you maybe send me in the right direction? I have no idea where it is.”
“The door’s in the foyer.” He motioned over his shoulder. “It blends in with the wall.”
“Cool. Thanks.”
Moments later, I stood in the entry, staring at the thirty-foot walls. Tyler stepped beside me, looking amused.
“Whe
re the heck is it?” I asked.
He pointed at the wall to my left. “It’s there.”
I still didn’t see it. His muscular arm moved past my face, then he pressed the panel right in front of me. Click. The secret door cracked open, disguised behind the white, molded trim.
“Nana had these walls resurfaced years ago. Did you know... ” he started, exaggerating his Southern drawl, “it isn’t lady-like to have a basement? One must cover such atrocities with something more appealing.”
I laughed. “Thank you. I never would’ve found that.”
He stepped backward, pulling the door open with him. “You’ve never been down there?”
I shook my head. The hesitant look in his eyes made me nervous.
“Why don’t I help you find it, then?”
“Okay.”
I followed him down the narrow stairwell – a far cry from the staircase in the foyer – and the pungent smell of red-clay dirt punched me in the nose, exposing the true age of the mansion.
He flipped on the light at the bottom of the stairs. A soft yellow glow from bulbs hanging off the rafters illuminated the brick floors. Across the room, he opened a door and flipped another switch. The fluorescent lights flickered, before a full-service laundry room appeared. The workroom had a center folding table and two sets of washers and dryers.
“So, what’s this thingy you’re looking for?” Tyler asked.
“It’s a steamer for the drapes. Mom said it looks like a vacuum.”
We both spotted the appliances at the same time. Five different machines resembling vacuums were lined up against the wall.
“Which one is it?” I asked.
Tyler turned to me with a baffled look. “You’re talkin’ to the wrong guy. I don’t use steamer thingies.”
“I don’t either.” I laughed, then I looked closer at the brand names on the labels. “Okay, this one’s definitely a vacuum. I don’t know what that one does... This one’s a steamer, but for hardwood floors. And—”
“Ooh, it’s the one on the end,” he said, like he’d found a golden egg.
“How do you know?”
He pointed at the bulkiest hunk of metal in the group and smiled. “It says ‘Steam Cleaner,’ right there.”
Life Happens on the Stairs Page 2
