Mother (32 page)

Shit!
Claire went after him. She heard Mother’s hitching sobs from the shed as she caught up to her husband. “I’m sorry, Jase,” she said, taking his hand. “I was being a bitch.”

He kissed her perfunctorily on the cheek, but he didn’t argue with her.

He sighed and unlocked the door. “I’m just glad we’re getting out of this place. I don’t think it’s good for either of us.”

And
that,
Claire knew, was the truth. “She pushes my buttons. She’s the only one who’s ever been able to get under my skin.”

“Well, I think you need to stop letting her.”

She sighed. “I’m trying. I really am.”

“I know. But now there’s light at the end of the tunnel. That ought to help, right? ”

“Right.”

Jason leaned in for a kiss. A real one.
 

“Franklin, darling, I’m so worried about our little girl.”

Fred Martin, a prisoner of his own body, did not respond. He never did now; it just resulted in condescension and tranquilizers. He didn’t even look at his wife; she’d often called him Franklin, the name of his long-dead twin, her first husband. He’d died in Vietnam, a war hero, mere months before his son, Timothy, was born.

“Carlene has dizzy spells, you know, but she won’t talk about them to me, her own mother. And I’m a nurse! What do you think of that?”

He thought their daughter had a good head on her shoulders and knew what she was doing. He was proud of her and her choice of a new name. ‘Claire’ suited her well. He’d hated ‘Carlene,’ but it was Priscilla’s middle name and she’d insisted on it, paying no attention to his suggestions. She never had.

Fred stared at the blank TV screen as Priscilla went on about how the girl wouldn’t share anything with her, and how she and her husband were so ungrateful that they intended to move out, but wouldn’t give her any details. Priscilla was beside herself. She was always beside herself.

When his brother Frank had died, Priscilla had mourned him - and his heroic status - so long and loudly that Fred and his parents had been a little embarrassed. Then she had begun coming over to Violet Street, where he and his bride, Shelly, lived, looking for companionship and help around the house. She’d tried to befriend Shelly, but from the first, Shelly’d known what she really wanted: another husband. She’d been polite to her sister-in-law, but unforthcoming as Priscilla asked Fred - or Frederick, as she always called him - to come to Morning Glory Circle and fix a gutter, move furniture, or help her paint Timothy’s bedroom.

That had gone on for years, and Fred had always been aware that what she really wanted to do was seduce him; he’d listened to Shelly when she told him that and, before long, could see it himself. He had remained impervious and life had gone on. He and Shelly had a good marriage; he was a well-paid structural engineer and Shelly had taken over as manager of her dad’s accounting firm when he retired. She was good at it, too. Good with numbers, and with people. He’d loved his wife. They’d been happy.

“I do wish Carlene would take my advice and go see Dr. Hopper,” Priscilla was saying. “I don’t trust this obstetrician of hers. She’s too young and inexperienced, don’t you think?”

He didn’t reply, of course, and she prattled on. After being widowed, Priscilla had gone back to working full-time at the hospital - she’d been Dr. Hopper’s nurse back then. Fred had always thought the two might get together, but it hadn’t happened; Eugene Hopper was as married then as he was now. The doc was about the only person who ever came to see him - not that he really liked the man; he was a wimp, always caving to Priscilla’s wishes.
 

Six years passed and then Shelly had died in an auto accident. Priscilla came to comfort him. He didn’t want comfort; he only wanted Shelly back. Priscilla brought him food; she even came on Saturdays, her small son in tow, and cleaned his house.
 

Poor little Tim.
The boy was the reason he finally married her. He needed a father, that had been clear; Priscilla was turning him into a momma’s boy and Tim deserved better. He needed to know all about Frank - and he needed his uncle Fred to help raise him, to see to it that he was prepared to have a good life.

And so they married and he’d sold his own home and moved into the one on Morning Glory Circle because Priscilla said it was a nicer house and Timothy’s friends all lived nearby. That was fine by him. As quickly as he bonded with Tim, Priscilla had become pregnant again. While he’d never enjoyed his new wife’s company, he loved Tim - and Carlene - with all his heart and would have given his life for either of them.
Perhaps I did.

Then, when Claire was three and Timothy almost twelve, his own accident had taken everything from him. He’d been Priscilla’s prisoner ever since, stuck in this room with only a balcony for fresh air. There was plenty of money, but she never even put in a damned chairlift so he could ride downstairs and get out in the world. He’d never leave the house again.
 

“Do you have a sour stomach, dear?” Priscilla asked. “You look like you do.”

He barely shook his head, not wanting her to pour some god-awful medicine down his throat.

“Good. Well, then, let’s get a diaper on you and give you something to help you sleep all night.”

For years, he’d wished for death, and only since his daughter had come back and sneaked in to see him, had he sometimes been glad he was still alive. She gave him hope. But at this moment, he would prefer moldering in the grave.

Priscilla looked at the alarm clock. It was past three and she had yet to get a wink of sleep.
Oh, Lord, Please hear me. It’s Your unworthy servant, Priscilla. Thank You for all the blessings You’ve bestowed upon me, but could You please see fit to help me sleep? Dawn is only hours away and I must care for my husband, my home, and Your church as well as figure out how to make Carlene see the error of her ways. I do try very hard to please You, oh, Lord, but I’m not certain I can uphold my obligations to You without proper rest.
She sighed heavily, hoping the Lord would see her exhaustion and appreciate her efforts.
 

Oh, Lord, help me show my wayward daughter the Light and help me guide her unto Your waiting fold. She’s going to be a mother and she must grow up now. Please see that she gets past her contrary nature so that I, her mother, might give her the guidance she needs. Please urge her to listen to me. Yours in Christ. Sincerely, Amen.

She sighed and stared at the ceiling, knowing the Lord heard her, but unsure whether or not He’d do anything to help her.
The Lord only helps those who help themselves.
She continued staring, listening. Slowly, as softly as the whisper of leaves on a gentle wind, the Lord advised her.
 

Getting a Leg Up

Jason had left the coffee on for her when he left for work Tuesday morning and now Claire sat at the table in her bathrobe and sipped, hoping it would energize her.
Maybe I overdid it yesterday
. It was hard to believe, but possible. She’d packed up nearly all their clothes, spent a few hours working on her clients’ websites, then she and Jason had dropped off the suitcases and a couple of small boxes at their new house and gone on a little shopping spree at Target before treating themselves to dinner at Hamburger Heaven.
 

She’d slept like a rock, but getting herself moving this morning had been difficult. Even the vitamin B shot, which had quickly perked her up every morning, had no effect. She set the cup down. The coffee wasn’t helping either - she felt sleepier than ever. She thought about going back to bed, but decided not to give in to her exhaustion.
What I need is a good hot shower!

Within five minutes, she stood under the pulsing jets, enjoying the feeling as the water hit her neck and shoulders. But she still felt sleepy and when she bent to pick up the bar of soap, her head swam. Dizzy, she decided it was time to get out.

Paul Schuyler sat on the edge of Jason’s desk, a grin on his face. “So,” he said. “Are you all packed up and ready to go?”

Jason had been grading tests, but his mind hadn’t been in the game. All morning, his thoughts were on the move. “Claire’s doing most of the packing. We didn’t bring much with us from home, so it should be a quick task. We bought some new things for the house last night - Claire’s really on the nest - and we’ll do it again tonight.” He paused. “She’s hoping to be sleeping there by tomorrow night and be totally moved out of her mother’s place by the weekend.”

Paul nodded. “Great.”

“I’m really grateful for this, Paul. Things have gotten pretty tense at Prissy’s, and I’m not sure how much longer we could have taken it.”

“Living with people rarely works out. Even parents.”

“No kidding!”

“Well, I’m happy to have you. As soon as things have settled down, I’ll take you guys out for a celebratory dinner. Anywhere you want, my treat.”

“You don’t have to do that, Paul.”

“Oh, I insist. Independence should always be celebrated.”

Jason got the feeling Paul wanted them away from Priscilla Martin as much as they did. It made sense, he supposed; Paul knew how unpleasant Prissy could be.

His intercom beeped and he held up a finger to Paul. “Yes?”

“Mr. Holbrook,” said Bridget, the school’s secretary.

“Yes?”

“I’m afraid you have an emergency at home.”

His heart leapt. “What? What kind of emergency?”

“Your wife,” said Bridget. “She’s had an accident and is at Snapdragon General. Your mother-in-law called. She doesn’t have your direct ext-”

“What kind of accident?” Jason was on his feet and Paul’s face showed concern.

“I’m not sure, Mr. Holbrook. She just said you needed to come right away.”

“On my way.” Jason slammed the phone down and grabbed his jacket off his chair.

“Is everything okay?” asked Paul.

“I don’t know, I’ve got to run. I’m sor-”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Paul. “Just go.”

“Thanks.” Jason hurried, breaking into a run when he reached the parking lot.

Claire opened her eyes.

The room was all white, and bright morning sunlight streamed through a large window. She stared at a stainless steel sink.
Where the hell am I?
From the corner of her eye, she saw movement. She turned her head, her entire body aching with the effort.

Mother, face buried in a tissue, sat on a green chair. When she saw Claire, she jumped to her feet. “Oh, Claire,” she said through the wadded tissue. Her eyes streamed with tears. “Oh, Claire, my baby.”

Claire looked down at herself. She lay on white sheets in a hospital bed. Tubes ran from her arms into an IV stand.
I’m in a hospital!
She tried to sit up and that’s when she noticed the pain. It shot up her hip and down her leg.

Mother dithered over her. “No, you just rest.” She fluffed a pillow.

“Where’s Jason?” Claire’s voice was sluggish, dry.
Painkillers.
 

“He’ll be right back. He just went to get coffee.”

“What happened?”

“You had an accident in the shower.” Mother pressed her face to the tissue as new tears sprang. “I heard you scream. I knocked, but there was no answer. And the shower was running.” More tears. “I found you on the bathroom floor.”

Claire tried to remember. Yes, she recalled the shower. And feeling dizzy.
 

“You broke your leg, honey.”

Claire stared down at herself. Even through the haze of painkillers, she knew it was the truth. It hurt like hell.

“Where’s Dr. Putnam?” She had to know if her baby was okay.

Prissy straightened and wrapped her fingers around her hair necklace. “She’s not on duty today. Of course
she
wasn’t there when you needed her.” She sounded disgusted. “You’re under Dr.
Hopper’s
care now. I’ll fetch him.”

The door opened and Jason entered, smiling when he saw her. “Here’s the coffee you asked for, Prissy.”

Claire winced as she tried to sit up.

“She’s awake.” Mother moved to Jason’s side and clung to his arm, speaking to him in funereal tones. “I’ll go get the doctor,” she said, and left the room.

Jason stooped and kissed her on the cheek.

“How is the-”

“The baby is fine, sweetie.”

Relief crashed over her.

Jason took her hand and squeezed it. “I wish you’d told me you were still having bouts of fainting, Claire.” He looked at her. “When I went for coffee, I bumped into Dr. Hopper. He said, according to your records, you’ve fainted multiple times. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Multiple? What are you talking about?” Her cheeks reddened and fury shot through her. “What the hell … He had no right … I’m not his patient.” She couldn’t think.

“I know how stoic you are, but you really could have been hurt, sweetheart.”

“He had no right to look at Dr. Putnam’s records.”

Jason sighed. “The point is, you can’t keep these things to yourself. You could have died, Claire! What if you’d been standing at the top of the stairs?”

“I hate Dr. Hopper.” She did not want to acknowledge Jason’s statements, mainly because she knew he was right.

“Well, he’s all you’ve got right now. Apparently, Dr. Putnam is on administrative leave.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know what it means. All I know is that she’s been suspended.”

Claire blinked. “Why?”

Jason shrugged and smiled at her. “How do you feel?”

Claire struggled to imagine Dr. Putnam under investigation.
For what?
 

Just then, the door opened, and Mother returned with Dr. Hopper.

Eugene Hopper had aged badly. Claire hadn’t seen him in a dozen years, and the watery-eyed GP had developed puffy bags that hung beneath his wire-rimmed glasses like sagging breasts. He looked like a frowning clown. He always had. It was supposed to be his serious face, she figured, but he just looked like a tired bloodhound, droopy and dragged-down.

“Well, young lady,” he began.

“Did Dr. Putnam discuss me with you?”
 

“No-”

“Then why do you have my records? I want Dr. Putnam.”