The Seeds Of A Daisy: The Lily Lockwood Series: Book One (Women's Fiction) (14 page)

There are now tubes and wires coming out of the top of her head, her chest, and her arms, all leading to different monitors and to the IV. She is still on a ventilator. What have they done to my poor beautiful mother?”

The sides of the bed are up. I kneel down and put my hand through the opening in the slats closest to the mattress, and lightly stroke her left arm.

“Mama, I love you. You’re going to be fine—you have to be,” I whisper. For some reason, I don’t know why, I remember a song that my mother used to sing to me. I must have been about five or six years old. We were watching Sesame Street together and saw Helen Reddy sing the song to Kermit when he needed cheering up. After that, Mom sang it to me whenever I was hurt or had a bad day in school, or when someone had been mean to me.

I sing it to her very softly.

“You and me against the world, sometimes it feels like you and me against the world. When all the others turn their backs and walk away, you can count on me to stay…”

Fernando and Tommy are crying in the doorway.

T
ommy and Fernando leave early in the evening. I tell them I’ll be fine and that I want to stay with my mother until I hear from Auntie D. They are hesitant about leaving me, but I’m kind of relieved they’re going. It’s hard enough dealing with my own anguish, much less taking on theirs too.

I have no idea when Donna will arrive, but I know she’ll text me when she lands.

I have not heard back from Jamie. I think about him and Natalie and feel sick to my stomach again. I consciously decide not to think about them. Instead, I look at my mother, wishing she could hear me and talk to me.

Can a person in a coma hear what is being said to her? Gilda told me that no one can really say for sure, but that in her experience, the people who come out of comas faster are the ones whose families have been talking to them and taking care of them.

So I talk to my mother nonstop for hours. I tell her about the show and about all the people who have either called, texted, or left messages for her. I tell her what the nurses told me—that flowers and plants are pouring in for her. They said they’ve never seen so many flowers and such big arrangements all at the same time. Since they don’t allow flowers or plants in the I.C.U., They agree to hold them for her in the nurse’s lounge until Mom is better and is moved to a different part of the hospital.

I walk over to the lounge to check out the flowers and to collect the cards that accompany the arrangements. I tell my mother I will make sure that when Jodi gets back from Hawaii, she will contact each and every person to thank them for their kindness. I know Mom would like that—she’s very into thank-you notes. She taught me early on to write thank-you notes for every present
or good deed I received immediately after receiving it. That I shouldn’t let too much time go by, or it would seem that the gift or deed wasn’t appreciated.

I talk to her about the dresses we should consider for the Emmys. This feels comfortable and familiar to me. This is what we would be talking about if she hadn’t had the accident. She was planning to fly out a few weeks before the Emmys to work with our favorite stylist, Rachel Zimmerman, to pick out the most fabulous outfit for me, and of course for herself. I tell her that Rachel left a message a couple of days ago that it is time for us to start looking at her choices. She sent photos of her two faves.

The first is a gorgeous red duchess satin draped gown, with a large bow motif on the bust. It is stunning. I tell my mother that my very favorite is a strapless Altelier Versace antique rose gown in silk tulle and georgette. I explain to her as best I can that the micro draping forms the bodice, while boned piping retains the shape, before falling to create a sort of cage effect. It’s embroidered entirely in crystal in a “degrade” effect. It is gorgeous and is my very favorite. But I tell her that I absolutely cannot and will not agree to it until she gives me the okay. I half expect her to open her eyes and weigh in on my dress choices.

Gilda comes into the room to say goodbye. Her twelve-hour shift will be over in about fifteen minutes, and she wants me to know that she will see me tomorrow at 9:00 a.m. She informs me that she’ll be around for a little longer, sharing patient information with the next shift of nurses and lets me know that Tina will be my mother’s night nurse.

That’s how patients must mark the passage of the days—with every shift that leaves and every new one that comes on—day in, day out. It feels really strange to be in a hospital room, seeing the inner workings of the place for so many hours, and not be ill.

I need to clear my head a little and get something to eat. I check the time. It is 9:15 p.m. and the only thing I’ve eaten is the snacks from the vending machine. I go up to the nurses’ station and ask if there is a restaurant in the hospital.

“There’s one in the lobby, but it closes at 8:30 p.m. as visiting hours end. But you can go to our cafeteria, the one for hospital employees, on the third floor. It’s open all night,” Doris tells me.

I grab my purse and head down to the third-floor cafeteria. They don’t have much in the way of hot food, so I pick up a PB&J on whole wheat, and
some bottled water. When I sit down, I notice most of the people are looking at me. I squirm. I need something to read so I won’t have to watch them watching me. I get out my Mom’s diary.

The next entry is dated almost one month later:

June 14, 1969 Saturday

Dear Diary
,

I am really, really, really sorry that I haven’t written in a few weeks. But things are very hectic here. I’m getting ready to graduate from junior high school and the busy season is starting at the farm. I can’t believe that I am going to be a HIGH SCHOOL STUDENT next year. I am so excited, I can hardly breathe. Mama always tells me to take deep breaths so I don’t hyperventilate when I’m excited. So that’s what I’m doing, taking plenty of deep breaths
.

The end of this week, they are going to announce the winners of the Fifth Annual Poetry Contest in Newsday. I’m in the thirteen to sixteen category. The prize for the winner is seventy-five whole dollars. It would take me weeks to figure out how to spend it all! Papa said I shouldn’t get my hopes up too much, because there are going to be so many kids who are older than me also competing. He said that my poem was probably not that good anyway
.

Why would he say such a hurtful thing? It really made me feel sad. When I asked him to read my poem before I sent it in, he said he didn’t have time for such nonsense. I went to my room. It made me cry and I got nervous and almost didn’t send it in. I am making a promise, Diary. If I ever get married and have children, I will do everything I can to help them be what they want to be
.

Mama came into my room later on and said that I should certainly send it in anyway, that Papa can sometimes be a grouch and don’t worry. She hugged me and I told her all the things I want to do in my future. I just know, in the deepest corners of my heart, that I will be a great writer! Mama agreed with me. She said she felt it too, in the deepest corners of her heart
.

Well, it’s time for me to go to sleep. I will promise to try to write more often.

Daisy xoxoxo

PS. Here is the poem that I submitted, hope you like it
.

A New Day

By

Miss Daisy Edwards

In the morning I can’t wait to meet the brand-new day
,

But is the day waiting for me to join it today?

How many towns have so many girls like me?

How different can so many girls in so many towns be?

Will this new day ever know how happy I feel inside?

Or how I hurt sometimes or am filled with pride?

Or know that I hope to be someone special in my own way?

Or does the new morn bring hope to all people, every day?

The poem touches my heart. It captures the essence of my mother—an eternal optimist with a beautiful spirit. I continue to read the next excerpt:

June 21, 1969 Saturday

Dear Diary
,

So much has happened since I wrote last week. Even though I want to write every day, by the time I’m ready to go to sleep I’m too pooped to pop! Well, there’s some good news and some bad news. First bad news is that the winners were announced for the Newsday Poetry Contest. I didn’t win first place. Now the good news, I was third honorable mention!

Donna said that is extraordinary since all the other kids who won were much older than me! And she said that must mean I am super talented. I have to agree with her
.

Now the bad news is that the honorable mention doesn’t have any money awards. Now the good news, I get a trophy that says Daisy Edwards, Third Place Honorable Mention, 1969 Fifth Annual Newsday Poetry Competition. Now the really bad news and it’s really bad, believe me!

I was working at the farm stand last Sunday and it was really quiet. It was about noon and there wasn’t one customer all day! I was soooooo bored! My friend Donna came by on her horse, Sandy. She asked me if I wanted to hop on the back with her and ride down to the beach. We wouldn’t be long, just a half hour or so. When I told her that I couldn’t leave the stand, she said, “Daisy Edwards, how are you going to write about life if you don’t experience it? All you do is work, work, work! And besides, I’m getting ready to go to my family’s house in Martha’s Vineyard until the middle of August and I won’t see you for
eight full weeks!!!”

That made perfect sense to me. I wouldn’t be gone too long. Nobody would even miss me. I got on the horse behind Donna, and we galloped down to the beach. We really had a good talk
.

Diary, I was right, she is taking Marjorie Potter with her on the trip. I’m sure they’re going to come back best friends. Well, I hope not. We promised we would write letters every
week and she would call me when she could. It’s going to be a long summer without Donna. She makes life so much more fun and better in every way
.

I glance up and look around the cafeteria. I notice that most of the people have gone. Only a few nurses and a couple of doctors remain. I think about how long my Mom and Auntie D. have been friends, and about all the things they must have gone through together over the years. I continue reading:

So we had a great time and we were gone for less than an hour or so. When I came back Papa was behind the farm stand, helping customers. He gave me an “If looks could kill” look and I wanted to say to Donna, come on, let’s keep riding. But I couldn’t. I said goodbye to her and we promised again to stay in touch
.

After the customers left, Papa came over to me and he was sooooo mad. I had never seen his eyes look so strange. Sort of wild-looking is best as I can describe it. Anyway, he yelled at me that I wasn’t supposed to leave. And how could I do something like that? And leave the money box there for anyone to steal. I tried to tell him there was NO money, ’cause there wasn’t one customer all day. But he wouldn’t listen. He called me a lot of hateful names, like ingrate, and things that I don’t even want to put into my diary, they were so bad
.

Anyway, he was still mad and told me to follow him behind the barn and bring some more tomatoes to the stand
.

When I went behind the barn, he kicked me so hard that I screamed. He did it three times, then stamped on my foot
.

Diary, it was so painful, it felt like my toes were crushed. I cried. He told me to stop acting like a baby and that it would teach me never to leave the farm stand again
.

The whole day my left foot hurt me so bad. It felt like a strong heartbeat was in my toe
.

When I closed the farm stand and went to the house. it was before dinner, so I went into the bathroom and took off my sneakers and my toe was ten times its normal size and looked bent. I called Mama in and she said it looked broken. I asked her if we would go see Dr. Kaplin and she said it wasn’t necessary, that she would make it feel better. First she put some ice on it and then she wrapped it in bandage tape to make it stiff. But it made it feel worse. Mama said not to bring up the broken toe to my father, ’cause it would make him madder
.

She warned me not to say anything to anyone else. Papa always tells me, “The things that happen in the family must stay in the family!” But I can tell you, Diary, ’cause you are part
of my family. Anyway, my toe feels a lot better and Papa did take us to the movies. I think he must have felt bad, don’t you?

Daisy xoxoxo

Tears are blurring my vision. Poor little Daisy. Why didn’t she ever tell me? How could my sweet Gramps be that monster? He was the kindest man, and always treated me like a princess. How did Mom feel when she would see us together? Would she think about how horrible he was to her? In my wildest dreams I can’t imagine how painful it would be to have an abusive parent. I may not have had a father in the picture, but Daisy was an incredible Mom.