Read The Seeds Of A Daisy: The Lily Lockwood Series: Book One (Women's Fiction) Online
Authors: Alison Caiola
The Seeds Of A Daisy: The Lily Lockwood Series: Book One (Women's Fiction)
Copyright © 2012 Alison Caiola
All rights reserved.
Cover artwork by Eric Hutchison
Cover design by Inbeon Studios
Author photo by Jennifer Rozenbaum
This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perception and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred
ISBN: 10: 1481159623
ISBN 13: 978-1481159623
Library of Congress Control Number: TXu 1-701-711
The Seeds of a Daisy: New York City, New York
For my mother, Florence, whose love, support, and friendship I will forever miss and for which I will be forever grateful
.
T
o my son, JD: Thank you for your patience when I read chapter after chapter to you, during the whole creation process. I am awed by your talent and your bravery and I love you.
To my agent John Campbell: It was a lucky day, and certainly no coincidence, when I contacted you. Thank you for your sound advice and all your support.
To my posse of cheerleaders—Joyce, Donna, Alissa, Lita, Jeanne N, Jeanne H, Elyn, Anita, Kristin, Barbara and Deb—thank you for your feedback and guidance. I appreciate and value your support and love.
To my brother Steven: I can only hope to live up to the person you think I am. You have always been my safe place and I love you.
To Chuck Adams: Thank you for your effort, time, and generosity.
To Kelli: Your medical information was immensely helpful.
—
Those flowers were planted by the long-since departed
.
Let us not forget to sow seeds for the ones yet to come
.
—Alison Caiola
“I
t’s Lily. I’m here now. Open your eyes. Please, Mom, please—you have to do this for me!” I plead, praying that somewhere deep in her unconscious darkness, she’ll hear me, and, like the wonderful, overly protective, overly involved mother she has been my entire life, realize I need her, and open her eyes, ready to spring into action.
The I.C.U. nurses at the station across from my mother’s hospital room are loud—really loud. Their laughter—explosive bursts of it—reaches us like shards of glass that viciously slice the dense shadows encasing the tiny bed. The only other sounds are the irritating beep … beep … beep … of the heart monitor, and the chilling Darth Vadar-like gasps from the ventilator that’s breathing for my mother. She hasn’t opened her eyes or uttered a word since she was medevaced to the hospital twelve hours ago.
A machine-gun blast of laughter erupts from the hallway.
Here it is, 3:30 in the damn morning, and they’re acting like it’s the middle of the day.
I take a deep breath. I’m cranky, exhausted, and in desperate need of a shower. I stare at my mother, usually so chic and sophisticated and in control, lying in the bed, looking small and helpless. Her petite, pretty features are swollen, cut, and seriously bruised. Her long, dark, wavy hair, her shining glory, is hidden under a thick bandage that is tightly wrapped around her head. The stray pieces of hair that have managed to break free from the snug, white dressing are knotted and bloody.
I lean over the bed rail, this time closer to her face, and beg, “Mom, it’s Lily. I’m here. I’m with you now, Mama. Please, open your eyes.” As I’m saying it, part of me is thinking that this is way too trite.
If my mother and I were seated in one of our favorite movie theaters (Ziegfeld in NYC or AMC Loews in Santa Monica) watching this scene play out on screen, we’d look at each other and roll our eyes at how cheesy and unoriginal the writing was. The heroine, with tears streaming down her beautiful face, totally distraught and halfway out of her mind, screams for her beloved, unconscious mother to wake up out of her coma.
But this is not a scene from a bad movie. This is happening up close and personal, in heart-pounding, gut-wrenching living color. I call my mother’s name again, more loudly this time. Laughter continues to erupt from the nurses’ station. My head is going to burst. Abruptly, the laughter subsides and one of the nurses enters the room. She is extremely short, exceptionally round, very blonde, and looks to be about my age—late twenties or so.
She smiles nervously, walks to the other side of my mother’s bed, adjusts the I.V, presses a few buttons on its monitor, and says, “Excuse me, Miss Lockwood… well, first of all, I want you to know I’m a big fan—
St. Joe’s
is my favorite show on TV. When I work on Wednesday nights, I always TIVO it. And I love you. I mean I really love your character, Stacey. I can totally relate to her. St. Joe’s reminds me of University Hospital. I go through a lot of the same things here. Well … except for all that sex they have in the nap rooms. That doesn’t happen here.”
She hesitates for a second, and her chubby cheeks turn three shades of pink. “Well, at least not to me it doesn’t. Anyway, you’re awesome on the show!”
“Thanks. And Tina, please call me Lily.” This seems to fluster her even more.
She giggles and then catches herself, realizing where she is. She lowers her voice. “Lily, I’m so sorry about your mother. If there’s anything I—any of us—can do, just ask. I’m totally serious.” I thank her again, and she hastily leaves. Moments later, she stumbles back into the room lugging a large leather recliner that she pushes next to my mother’s bed.
“There you go. This is all we have right now.” She’s out of breath. “Doris, our head nurse, said as soon as there’s a bed or cot available, we can wheel it in here so you can sleep next to your mother.”
“Thanks.” I collapse into the chair. “What time do the doctors make rounds in the morning?”
I’d arrived at the hospital an hour earlier. Since it is the middle of the night, my mother’s doctor is not yet on duty. No matter how hard I press the nurses
to give me more details about her condition, they are unyielding in their, “We’re sorry, we can’t tell you anything, the doctor will be able to tell you everything during his morning rounds” mantra.
“Rounds are usually around 7:30 a.m. Doris said she left the doctor a message that you were here and anxious to talk to him,” Tina replies.
“Okay, thanks.” Tina walks toward the door. “Oh, and Tina, can you ask the nurses to be a little quieter? I’m sure they don’t want to wake the patients.”
Tina turns around and stammers, “Well…of course, but, you know, all of the patients on this side of the I.C.U. are
coma
patients.” She smiles and walks out.
My mother is a coma patient. I look at the tube coming from the top of her head and follow it up to a screen on the side of the bed. There is a second screen on the wall. The nurse had told me that it monitors my mother’s heart rate, blood pressure, and oxygen. Multiple wires run from the screen to different parts of my mother’s body, parts that are hidden under the stiff, grey blanket that is stringently tucked into the wafer-thin mattress.
If my mother were conscious, she would absolutely not tolerate her blanket tucked in that tightly. She despises anything that stops her from moving around freely.
“Poor Daisy,” I say out loud. Her situation is much worse than anything I could’ve imagined during the long plane ride. It seems like a lifetime ago when I got the phone call, but barely nine hours have passed. I guess your whole world and everything you know—really
know
to be true—can crumble in a matter of seconds.
I was on set and had just finished a scene with Dr. Jack Parker, my lover on the show. It was an angst-ridden exchange in which he told me that, even as he had professed his undying love to me for the past three seasons, he’d been having a steamy affair with one of the hot new interns. I have to admit the scene went great—better than great, actually. When the director yelled “CUT,” the cast and crew who were still on set actually clapped—which, I might add, hardly ever happens now that we’re headed into our fourth season.
Most of the cast and especially the crew are jaded; they sport an extremely blasé “been there, done that” attitude. So a reaction that actually evokes a physical response is certainly the highest compliment, one they don’t give lightly. I wonder if they would be surprised to find out that for
that
scene, I didn’t have to do much acting.
When the scene was finished, I gave my best grander-than-thou Shakespearean-actor bow and walked back to my dressing room. It was then that I felt the sharp burning pain in my belly—my solar plexus, actually. It was the same pain that had been with me at all times since Jamie and I had had that terrible fight Sunday night. He left for the airport on Monday at 6:00 a.m. to begin shooting a Western in New Mexico, and we haven’t spoken since. That was two days ago. This pain, this solar plexus pain, is larger than life and has its own name. I call it JamieYouAreSuchAnAsshole Pain, or Jamie Pain for short. It disappears briefly when I am on set shooting. As soon as I finish—BANG, it’s back, like a red-hot kick in the gut. Jamie Pain is my constant companion all day, and keeps me up most of the night.
I unlocked my dressing-room door and entered. Before I could close the door behind me, Stan, the production manager, rushed over to me. “Lily, I don’t know what’s going on, but Maddy says your manager has been trying to get you on your cell for an hour. She called the office looking for you three times already, saying it’s pretty important.”
