The Truth is in the Wine (22 page)

She did not have much cash on her, so she sought to piece together the money. She was not sure how much Paul had in his account, but she had a duplicate card to his account and she knew the PIN number. He'd had her use it in the past and the PIN was the address to their first apartment: 2406.

So, she walked to the nearest ATM and was astonished when the balance read: $48,106. She wondered if the bank got it wrong. There was a time, years back, when her account balance read five hundred dollars more than she actually had in the bank. When she tried to get out more than she knew she had, she was refused. That had to be case here, she surmised.

If that was the case, it did not allow her an accurate balance, so she was not sure if there really was eighteen hundred available.
That made her nervous because the last thing she wanted to do was have to go to her mother for the money to help bail out her husband.

Before she could contemplate that much more, Ginger got woozy. She had been feeling strange off and on, but this time she felt really disoriented—and scared. It was not like what she considered a panic attack in the garage several months before. It was more of a lightheaded, dizzy feeling and an uneasiness in her stomach.

Her family had a history of bleeding ulcers, and she was always fearful she would get one, too. This time, she was more fearful than ever. Ulcers can be brought on by worry, and she certainly had been worrying and was worrying quite a bit about Paul—and her marriage.

Instead of trying to dismiss it, Ginger found a bench on the street, took a seat and used her phone to call a taxi—and locate the nearest hospital.

Before she could do either, however, Madeline called her.

“Ginger, what's going on? Is Paul out?” she inquired.

Ginger explained the dynamics to her and told her she would be back at the hotel later and that she was working on the bail money—anything to get her off the phone.

She succeeded in that and contacted Black Tie Taxi to pick her up near the detention center. She waited on a bench with her mind racing to many places: a potential ulcer, Paul, the abortion, Helena, her mother, her marriage. None of the thoughts gave her comfort.

“Queen of the Valley Medical Center on Trancas Street,” she said when she hopped into the back seat of the cab.

It was a short ride from where she was, maybe ten minutes. During that time she texted Helena, although it was around two
in the morning on the East Coast. She missed her and always found a base of comfort in communicating with her child.

Unlike many mothers and daughters that go through antagonistic crises during the child's teenage years, Helena and Ginger had no such issues. They got along more like sisters who actually liked each other.

“We are having an adventure here in Napa. Lots to share when we get back. Hope you're having fun. Sure you're at a party. Be safe,” was her text message to her daughter.

A return message came back in less than a minute. “Surprised to hear from you. Is everything OK?”

Ginger sent her back a smiley face because she did not want to lie. Then Paul's phone chimed. She took it with her from the room. It was a text message from Helena.

“Daddy, is all OK? Mommy just texted me. I am at a party, but I wanted to check on you all b/c Mommy texted me when you all should be having fun.”

Ginger texted her back from Paul's phone. “Hi, sweetheart. All is good. We just miss you. We love you.”

At least she had that to feel good about as she exited the cab and walked into the hospital's emergency room. She actually felt better than she had, but decided to go anyway. An ulcer gets progressively worse, and so she was intent on dealing with it at that moment.

The receptionist greeted her with a smile, had her fill out paperwork and she took a seat in the waiting area. She looked at the others waiting for service and wondered what their ailments were. It was a calm waiting room, much unlike when they had to rush Helena to Piedmont Hospital in Atlanta when she tripped on a street curb and cut her hand, requiring seven stitches. There was blood in that waiting area, and it was not all Helena's.

One teenager had a bruised shoulder and neck from apparently falling off a skateboard.
Probably was riding on the railing of some steps,
Ginger thought.
If that's the case, then he probably deserves this. Maybe he'll cut out that nonsense
.

The other few people looked to be not sick at all or battling something internal, like she was.

Within minutes, she was called to the back to see a nurse, which shocked her.
That would never happen at home
, she thought. She explained her symptoms to the doctor, who examined her family history, took some blood and a urine sample and gave her some ginger ale to help settle her stomach.

All her vital signs were fine. “Is this your first time in California?” Dr. Margolis asked.

“It is,” Ginger said. “Beautiful place. The feeling I'm having is getting in the way a little bit. It's nothing dramatic, but the dizzy spells concern me.”

“And they should,” the doctor said. “Dizziness should never be taken lightly. It could be some kind of brain issue. I'm not saying that at all. There's no reason to think that at all. I'm just saying that in general, the brain is so complicated and sometimes it gives us clues that something isn't quite right. So it's important when we get those clues that we explore them.”

“I have so much going on in my head right now, I wouldn't be surprised if my brain exploded,” Ginger said.

“Well, let's not have that happen,” the doctor said, and they laughed.

He told Ginger she could rest on the examination table until he returned with the blood work results that might give him some clue as to why she felt as she had.

She lay there thinking about her cousin, Rita, who was sick for months and went to many doctors who could not figure out her
health concerns. The not knowing drove Rita batty. Ginger fretted the doctor coming back and telling her there was nothing they could find out of order.

Finally, she dozed off on the table and dreamed the doctor came back to tell her she had an ulcer, appendicitis and a stomach virus. When she looked at him with concern, the doctor said, “Well, at least you know. That's what you wanted, right? To know?”

Before she could get too scared, the door opening awakened her. It was Dr. Margolis.

“Doctor,” she said as she got her bearings. “Did you find anything?”

“Let me ask you something,” he said. “Have you been drinking a lot of our wonderful wine we harvest up here?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that's it,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Ginger asked.

He said: “As good as our wine is, it does not go down so well when you're pregnant.”

Dr. Margolis walked toward the door, turned and added, “Congratulations.”

Ginger did not respond. She sat on the table, dumbfounded.

If Ginger's head was spinning before Dr. Margolis' discovery, it was
really
going with the news that she was pregnant. Again.

“Doctor, how can this be?” she asked. “I mean, I was told in no uncertain terms that I could not get pregnant. Now you're telling me I am?”

“I'm going to tell you a secret that I don't want you to repeat,” Dr. Margolis said. “This is covered under doctor-patient confidentiality, OK?”

Ginger nodded her head. She anticipated the knowledge he was about to share.

“Sometimes,” Dr. Margolis said, “doctors are wrong.”

And then he laughed. And she did, too. “That's the only real, honest answer there is,” he said. “This is not an exact science, as you know. Sometimes, no matter all the research and knowledge, we don't get it right. I'm kind of glad the doctors missed on this one. And I bet you are, too.”

“I am, doctor,” she said. “You have no idea.”

Dr. Margolis left the room and Ginger looked down at her stomach as she placed both hands over it. Then she looked toward the ceiling, and with tears flowing down her face, said, “Thank you, God. Thank you.”

She spent a few minutes in the room, rejoicing at the blessing
bestowed upon her, the miracle she never even considered.
And they say lightning doesn't strike twice in the same spot?
Ginger thought.

When she left the hospital, with pamphlets on healthy eating as a pregnant woman, breast-feeding and exercise, she didn't even bother to call a taxi. She began walking.

Her cell phone rang and she expected it to be her mother, who was looking for her to return to the hotel by then. She was not ready to speak to her. But when she looked at the phone, she saw an unfamiliar number. Immediately, she thought it was Paul, so she answered.

“What's going on?” Paul said. “My mom said you were working on the bail.”

“I did,” she said, “but there's nothing that can happen tonight. I was told you'll have to see the judge in the morning and he'll determine if you have to stay another day.”

“What? Another day? Are you serious?” he asked. “Where did you get that from?”

“Paul, we have a lot to talk about,” Ginger said. “Are you OK?”

“I'll be OK when I get out of here,” he said. “They let me use the phone again, so I only have a few minutes. Who told you about staying here two days?”

“That's the law out here,” she said. “Only the judge can make an exception. I'll be back at court in the morning at eight. I can use a debit or credit card, so I'll have the bail money—it's hard to get a bond because we don't live here—and let's hope the judge lets you go.”

“This is so messed up,” Paul said. “This guy didn't even give me the breath test. He went on his instincts. How can I get a DUI based on his beliefs?”

“That's what you should tell the judge,” Ginger said. “I hope he lets you go.”

“Yeah, me too,” he said. “Well, I gotta go.”

“I'm sorry this has happened, Paul. I really am.”

“Thanks. Me, too. But it'll be all right. See you in the morning.”

Paul got off the phone and was confused when a correctional officer directed him and the others to another area of the building. It was then that his little arrest experience turned totally humiliating and dehumanizing.

They were ordered to strip, and Paul watched in amazement as the men got naked, turned their backs to the officer and bent over so he could determine if they had stuffed “contraband” up the cracks of their anuses. When it was his turn to do so, Paul felt numb, like he was in a horrific dream.

He felt like cattle, like he was less than the man he was before entering that building. The officer ordered him to place his clothes in a paper bag and to grab a towel, a set of jail-issued clothes, plastic flip-flops and to take a shower in the stall that reeked of filth.

Paul did so in a daze. He could not believe all this was happening to him. But it was. He was no longer someone arrested on a DUI charge. He was an inmate and treated as such.

Once clothed, they were directed to a pod where there were two levels of cells and an open sort of recreation area. It was after midnight, so the televisions were off and the other inmates were already in bed.

Please put me in an empty cell,
Paul prayed to himself.

It did not work out that way. He was walked to a cell on the upper level, in the center. He walked in and when the officer shut that heavy metal door behind him, Paul's heart dropped. He truly was in jail.

Adding to his misery was someone on the lower bunk that Paul thought was sleeping.
What if this guy is crazy and I have to fight him
? he thought.

He placed the toothbrush kit he was given on a small table and climbed on the top bunk, banging his knee in the process.

He had never seen and even heard of a mattress as thin as the one he stretched out on. It was about four inches thick. Paul was totally uncomfortable, but not because of the bed. He was an inmate.

He didn't like breathing the air, and the idea of actually going to sleep was far-fetched. He tossed to try to find a manageable position to rest, which apparently irritated his cellmate.

“Hey, if you gonna flip and flop all night,” he said, “we gonna have a problem.”

Paul was not sure how to respond. He didn't want to punk out, although he hardly was some roughneck. But he had his share of fights in his day and had gotten himself in shape in recent months. He thought he'd better let dude know he was not to be played with.

“Man, go to sleep,” Paul said. He was not sure where that came from, but he blurted it out. “Don't worry about me.”

He held his breath, hoping the man would not respond or would not take it as a declaration of war. Paul's response seemed to disarm the man. “That's what I'm trying to do,” he said.

Paul did not respond. He felt lucky he got away with those reckless comments. He didn't want to push it. So he found a relatively comfortable position on his back and looked up at the cold ceiling. Paul counted the minutes, and they went by molasses-slow.

“Hey, why you in here?” the guy in the lower bunker asked.

“I thought you were trying to sleep,” Paul answered.

“
Trying
to, but can't,” he said. “First time in jail. I ain't too comfortable, you know?”

Paul was relieved. Maybe he didn't have a serial killer as a cellmate.

“Same here,” he said. “I came out here from Atlanta to enjoy the wine. I guess I had a little too much last night.”

“Wow, same here,” the man below said. “I live in L.A. Having some drama on the job and at home and said, ‘Let me get away.' This is my refuge. Been coming up here for years. Love it up here. Right now, though, not loving it so much.”

“Tell me about it,” Paul said. “I got my wife, mother and mother-in-law here with me. So imagine what I'm gonna face when I get out of here.”