Stay Tuned (21 page)

“She been talkin’ ’bout you,” Sharice mentioned casually. She counted medicine into little white paper cups as I walked up to the nurses’ station. One blue pill, plop. Two pink pills. Plop. Plop. One orange pill, plop.

I had survived two shows and was totally exhausted. At eleven o’clock at night, I wasn’t sure I had the energy to handle Mother, too.

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” I joked, despite the nervous jitter I always felt with a message that summoned me to call or visit the nursing home.

We shared a smile. All resident complaints were documented. I think Mother was in the running for the longest list:
 
The food, the weather, the air conditioning, the church service on Sunday morning. Name anything. Mother grumbled about it.

“Three times tonight she asked ’bout you,” Sharice rolled her big brown eyes to the ceiling. “Then she carry on to the other folks. She plum worn them out with her talking. I have trouble enough keeping up with my Darius. Your mother, she another story.”

“What’s happening with Darius?” I asked. “Is he all right?”

Sharice shook her head. “We been to the doctor. Darius had all kinds of tests. Don’t know yet.”

“Let me know, okay?” I asked. “When you find out something?”

She pursed her lips. “I will.”

I leaned my elbows on the counter top and watched her sort the tablets. “So, what’s going on tonight with Mother? Someone called me.” I pulled the blue Post-it out of my pocket and held it up.

Sharice looked puzzled. “I didn’ call. Not ’bout tonight anyway.”

I squinted down at the ink again, trying to decipher the scrawled words.

“Jes’ let me check Miz Ruth Anne’s chart.” Sharice stepped behind the desk, paused, and then pulled out a file three inches thick. She hummed to herself as she bent down, flipped open the cover and searched inside.

I tried to peek over the desk.

Sharice stood up straight and raised her eyebrows. “Best I can tell—someone was jest lettin’ you know ’bout the doctor’s office wantin’ to change Miz Bailey’s appointment. Wednesday instead of Friday. I don’t see nothin’ else.”

“Thank you.” I sighed. That, I could handle.

Sharice chuckled, then reached over and closed the chart. “Your mother is mighty ill wit’ you though. First, she say you never come visit.” She raised a finger and pointed it about an inch from my nose.

“What?”

“I done told her straight up that a bunch of hooey. Here you are.” She checked the pink watch on her wrist. “It be eleven-fifteen at night. Do you see any other children ’round here?”

I couldn’t say much. I was hardly ever here this late either.

Sharice looked down one hallway, her hand shielding her eyes as if she were out in broad daylight. “Nope, there ain’t none here.”

“It’s late,” I started to defend the other families. “People are busy…”

Sharice pulled her head back and shook it side to side. “Now, Miz Melissa, don’t you be tellin’ me nothin’ about busy. I know who busy. I know who come regular and who don’t. Don’t nothin’ get by Sharice. Believe me, my Darius try it all the time.
I didn’t eat that cookie, Mommy.
Uh-huh.”

“He needed the cookie, right? He’s a growing boy,” I winked at Sharice.

“I wisht Miz Ruth Anne was only tryin’ to get a cookie. At supper, she be hollerin’ about us tryin’ to poison the mashed potatoes. She done found a lump in one of them and decided…well, I don’t know.” Sharice opened her mouth and licked her lips. “She say it ruined, anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, embarrassed at Mother’s behavior and helpless to stop it.

“She makin’ it up in her head. Stuff gettin’ more confused up there.” Sharice tapped her braids. “Why, jes’ the other night, Miz Bailey talk about you and her goin’ to the opera and the theater to see fancy shows.”

“Now, that part—about the shows—is actually true.” I thought back. Those were some of my fondest memories as a child, dressing up, going to the theater, just Mother and me. “After the show, sometimes Mother and I would go out for tea. Or buy something special at a boutique.”

“Well, there no bow-tiques here. An’ I thought she makin’ it up.” Sharice scratched her head. “I guess I need to try harder to keep up wit what real or not.”

“I’m sorry, Sharice.” I pressed my hands on the counter. “Truly I am.”

Sharice smiled as wide as she could, revealing a gold tooth in the back of her mouth. “Dat what they pay me the big bucks for.” She snapped her fingers. “Besides, now I got one man who want to come to supper every night in his boxer shorts and eat nothin’ but broccoli. Try dealin’ wit dat.”

I surely don’t want to.

“Thanks for telling me about Mother.” I tugged at my purse. “Let me go and check on her. She’s probably asleep now.”

“Sleepin’? Yeah, I’d guess. At least she do dat. Most of ’em can’t. And they be up at all hours, wantin’ to turn on the TV. And you know they gotta have it loud. They all deaf!” Sharice turned and locked up the medicine. “Dat the reason they all arguin’ tonight.”

“What, about the volume of the TV?” I could easily see that.

“No,” she chortled. “Dey all be arguin’ about what channel to watch. Your mother win dat battle a lot. She love her news. But they try and outfox her, those men. Wantin’
Sports Center
and some huntin’ show. But your Mother know better. Always W-S-G-A.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. I don’t know how she does it, but she remember.”

I knew, or at least had a good theory.
It’s because she’s programmed some kind of internal clock for the last 60 years to go off at news time every night.

Sharice grabbed a clipboard and started writing. My cue to leave.

I didn’t get three steps.

“Oh, and Miz Meelissa,” Sharice called after me. “Now that you on the news, she get her way ninety-nine percent of the time.” Sharice let out a chortle loud enough to wake up half the nursing home.

Did I hear that right?

Sharice started humming again. I opened the door to Mother’s room and snuck inside. One small lamp on the dresser gave off enough light for me to make my way to the chair beside her bed.

Mother slept peacefully, chin to one side, her silver hair smooth against the propped-up pillow. Her cotton nightgown, buttoned up to her chin, was the same kind I remembered her wearing when I was a child. As I sat down, my foot brushed against what felt and crinkled like a stack of papers.

I bent down to look. Sure enough, a thick, spiral-bound notebook rested on the floor. A pencil lay nearby.
Her journal.

Had it been twenty or even fifteen years ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about seeing a random pad of paper or a notebook lying around. Mother used them to jot down notes and outline her books. And as with everything else, they were off-limits.

I stole a glance at Mother. She was still asleep. It was close to midnight. Surely, no harm would come from taking a peek. Was it an unfinished biography? A novel? When I put my hand on the notebook, for an instant, I felt sixteen years old again. I was worried my mother would find out and ground me for a week.

With a careful hand, I opened the tattered cover. Mother’s handwriting, more shaky and lighter than I remembered, covered the page. And the next, and the next. In the dim light, I squinted to study the underlined words Mother had written every few pages.

One said
Life as a Writer
. Further inside the notebook, Mother had printed
A Mother at Forty
. Another read
Melissa and Me
.

My breath caught in my throat. I blinked and scanned the words a second time to make sure I wasn’t seeing things.
Melissa and Me.

I gripped the corners of the notebook, heart fluttering, and started to read.

Two hours later, my eyes burned and my back started to ache from sitting in the same position, bent over, reading every word. Finally, I left the notebook by the bed and forced myself into the car to drive home.

I was still in a daze when I walked into the bedroom and found Chris sitting up, waiting for me.

“I thought you’d be asleep by now.” I paused in the doorway, conscious that my late-night appearance was quite unusual.

“I tried your cell phone.” Chris crossed his arms across his chest, his shoulders tensed. “Where were you?”

Sugar.
I had completely forgotten to call. The phone was turned off and in the bottom of my purse. I hadn’t bothered to check it.

“I was with Mother at the nursing home,” I explained, trying not to seem defensive. “There was a note at the station. It was kind of cryptic. It ended up being nothing, just a change to her doctor’s appointment.”

“And so that took you until two o’clock in the morning?” His voice was incredulous. Chris was trying hard not to get upset.

“I-I can explain, really.” I sat down on the bed next to Chris. “There’s this notebook Mother has been writing in. It’s incredible. Like a memoir, all about her life. Some of it doesn’t make sense, probably because she was having one of her episodes, but most of it is wonderful.”

Now Chris looked even more skeptical. “Your mother wrote a book about her life? Are you sure it wasn’t an old notebook she had dragged out from somewhere?”

I grabbed a pillow and hugged it to my chest. “Well, the thought crossed my mind. But she threw most of them all away when Daddy died.”

Chris stared up at the ceiling. My stomach spiraled.

“Did you bring this notebook with you?” he asked slowly. His eyes narrowed.

“I wanted to…”

Chris frowned. “Melissa, if this isn’t the truth, just tell me now.”

The urge to cry welled up inside me. I shut my eyes for a few seconds instead, trying to see the situation from Chris’s angle.

“I am telling the truth, Chris. If you want, we can go back to Mother’s right now.” I spoke as calmly as I could, gripping the pillow tightly. “You can see it for yourself.”

He didn’t answer for a moment. His forehead wrinkled. “I didn’t want to call the TV station or Candace. But I thought about calling the police after what happened with Alyssa.”

That was more than reasonable. “I’m sorry. I should have called.”

Chris ran a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply. “Mel, I’ve had a rough day. Tyler got the promotion.” He sighed heavily. “I didn’t.”

My breath caught like a bubble in my throat. Chris’s face was a mixture of anger and despair.

“Oh, you must be so disappointed. You didn’t need anything extra to worry about.” I twisted my fingers together on my lap until they hurt.

Chris grimaced. “I am disappointed. I’ve put in
years
with this company. Tyler put in a few months and became a superstar. And my superior.”

I bit my lip. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. Not now.” Chris cleared his throat and shook his head. “I’ve got to check on a few things. Run some numbers. I’m not giving up on this just yet.”

It took everything I had not press him for more information.
What do you mean? What is he doing?
But I made myself nod and keep quiet.

Chris paced the room. I let him walk and sat on the edge of the bed in silence.

“So, I’m curious,” Chris stopped and faced me. “What did your mother say about you reading this notebook?”

“Um, Mother didn’t know,” I admitted. “Sharice mentioned she’d been keeping a notebook. I was snooping.”

Chris drew in a breath. “So, what did it say?”

“I know it sounds ridiculous,” I pleaded, “but there was a lot written about my childhood. How she felt being a new mother. Then, she wrote about her career and being on the road.”

My voice cracked and I couldn’t make my mouth form the words. Big, wet tears began to streak down my face.

That she loved me, but she just didn’t know how to show it. That she was proud of me, but didn’t know how to say it. That she didn’t regret having a child at forty. That she was sorry that she was never home while I grew up.

“Why couldn’t she just tell me she loved me? Why did I have to read it in a notebook?”

As Chris wrapped his arms around me and hugged me to his chest, I sobbed harder. I cried for Mother and me. All of the time we lost. All of the hurt feelings. I cried for my stress at work. For missing Kelly every single day. I cried for Chris and his lost promotion. Why did everything have to hurt so much?

“It’ll be okay,” Chris murmured into my hair and wiped my cheeks with his fingers. “I promise.”

I closed my eyes and prayed he was right.

After my long talk with Chris, I tossed and turned throughout the night. On and off, I dreamed of Mother and her notebook, Chris and his job, Alyssa and Tim in the studio.

About the time I drifted off into a deep sleep, the morning light streaked through the window. I pulled the covers over my head, hit snooze for the third time, and clutched my pillow a little tighter. Then I remembered.

My doctor’s appointment!

I flew out of bed, light-headed. Did I have time to eat? Was I late? How late?

While I hated to go in and be told I was being a hypochondriac, even worse was the thought that something might actually be wrong with me. That alone propelled me out the door faster than a jackrabbit chased by a pack of wolves.

All to hurry up and wait.

An hour later, after being weighed and measured, I sat drumming my fingers on the exam table. In nothing but a paper gown, I stared at a huge chart of the female reproductive system. Contraceptive companies displayed fancy pill packs on the counter behind me.

Dr. Freeman knocked and whisked into the room before I could say, “Come in.” She peered over her wire-rimmed glasses at me, smiled, and sat down.

“Hi Melissa. Good to see you.” She ran a finger down my chart. “So, you’re thirty-nine, your weight’s fine, blood pressure is normal. Tell me what’s going on.” She leaned back and tapped her pen against the counter. “You’ve had a bit of trauma lately, I’ve heard.”

I rolled my eyes. “You could say that. On top of it all, I’ve been having nausea and stomach cramps.”

Dr. Freeman tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “When was your last cycle?”

 
“I don’t remember. A month or two? I’m pretty irregular.”

Dr. Freeman gave me a funny look, then waved a hand. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Tell me about the nausea.”

 
“Sometimes when I eat, sometimes before I eat. Doesn’t seem to be triggered by any foods in particular. Just comes on all of a sudden.”

“In the mornings?”

I thought back. “No, different times.”

“Are you having any breast tenderness? Sharp pain in your abdomen?”

“None that I can think of.”

Dr. Freeman scribbled in my chart, her pen like lightning across the page. “Are you tired a lot of the time?”

“Sure. Comes with the job.”

“And I already know your stress level is way too high.” Dr. Freeman adjusted her glasses. “You may need to find a way to relieve some of that or it’ll take a toll on you.”

“Right. My best friend swears by Pilates and yoga.”

“That’d be great. Get her to exercise with you. It’s always better with someone there to push you along. Encourage you.” Dr. Freeman set down my chart and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “Now lie back and let’s take a look at what’s going on.”

She chattered away while I stared at the ceiling.

In a flash, she peeled off her gloves, threw them in the trash, and stood up. “Melissa, I have some suspicions, but I’m going to run a few blood tests before we talk about anything.”

My paper gown crinkled as I sat up. A slight amount of panic flickered in my heart.

“I’m also going to have them run a pregnancy test, just in case.”

Pregnancy test?

 
Dr. Freeman caught the surprised look on my face. “Don’t worry.”

“Oh, I’m not worried,” I scoffed, but the hairs on my neck stood at attention.

Dr. Freeman smiled, then rushed out the door. It clicked shut.

Off the table, I crumpled the paper gown into a ball and got dressed. My mind whirled like a carousel. Images of down-soft blankets and smocked dresses paraded through my brain.

I’ve always wanted a brother or sister for Kelly. How will Chris take it? How will I?

The phlebotomist was ready and waiting when I arrived. Three tubes of blood later, I went back to the waiting room. There, I was surrounded by moms-to-be, all glowing with the flush of pregnancy. A few new parents hovered over brand new infant carriers, looking nervous.

It all took me back to when Kelly was a newborn, how tiny she was, and how perfect. I loved her from the moment I saw her. In that moment, the world vanished, leaving only me, Chris, and our amazing, beautiful baby girl.

Wouldn’t it be crazy if I were pregnant again? How lucky I would be.

After another agonizing fifteen minutes, Dr. Freeman beckoned me into her office.

“Well, there’s good news. Your blood work is normal. No infection. Your thyroid is normal, iron levels are normal. Everything’s really good.” Dr. Freeman paused, pushed her glasses back, and glanced up at me from the paper.

“And what about…” I didn’t even want to say the word. I pressed my palms to my knees to keep my hands from quivering. “The other test?”

“Nothing to worry about,” said Dr. Freeman. “It came back negative.” She offered me a kind, sympathetic look. “You’re not pregnant.”