Authors: Cathy Lamb

A Different Kind of Normal (29 page)

It listed his blog site.

The hits for the next day: 2,400.

Late the next night I made tea with honey in it, opened the door to my porch, and stared out at a few snowflakes mixed with rain. Tate was beyond thrilled to be on the basketball team. Maybe I should have let him play before. Guilt assailed me like a slow-moving tsunami, getting worse and worse as I swirled the thought around. I had wanted to keep him safe. Maybe I had been too overprotective.

It could be.

Damn, but I felt guilty.

Lonely and guilty.

“If my father had received better care, if she hadn’t made mistakes and drowned him in morphine”—Dirk Hassells pointed a fleshy finger at me, his indignant face squished up—“he would not have died when he did.”

Dirk Hassells squirmed across the long table, a storming boar. This meeting, with the hospital’s attorney Sandra Torelli, Sydney, Dr. Baharri who was Mr. Hassells Senior’s head doctor, and a few other medical professionals and hospital administrators, was held in a conference room in St. Clare’s. We were hoping to reason with Dirk before he hauled in the chomping attorneys. It is difficult to reason with a storming boar.

I sighed. Loudly. Dirk sent me a withering stare.

“Mr. Hassells,” Sandra said crisply. “Can you please tell us what you know of your father’s illness?”

Dirk flushed. “I know that my dad was sick, but he shouldn’t have died. I had seen him recently before he died and we had dinner on the patio of his home.”

“When was that?” Sandra has long blond hair. She wears it straight down. She has oversized, quite white teeth. I have noticed that she smiles brightly right before she goes in for the kill.

Dirk shifted his fanny. “It was a few days before he died.”

I did not correct him. Neither did anyone else. We knew this was Sandra’s job and Sandra had told me, “Hold on to your temper, Jaden. Chill out and let me do my job.”

“Hmm,” Sandra mused, riffling through the paperwork. “I believe that your statement is”—she smiled, showing a host of teeth—“false. The last time you saw your father, according to Jaden’s paperwork, and according to your own sister, was about four weeks before he died. Is that true?”

Dirk shifted about on his fanny again. “I don’t keep exact records. I’m a busy man with an important job. But he was healthy then.” He pounded the table. “He could sit up in bed. His oxygen tank was helping him breathe. He was able to swallow milk. He could talk.”

“Hmmm . . .” Sandra said again. “You do realize that in four weeks a man who is suffering from liver cancer can fade rapidly?”

“Not my dad,” Dirk said. “Not
my
dad.”

“Why not your dad?”

“Because he was strong.”

“Ah. Okay dokay. I have Dr. Baharri here, and he is going to tell you, once again, about your father’s physical condition and diagnosis.”

“I already know it!” Dirk argued. “He had liver cancer—”

“How far had the cancer progressed, Mr. Hassells?” Dr. Baharri asked. He was born in India, but arrived in Florida when he was five. I have rarely met a more gentle, competent physician. He is second to Ethan only.

“It wasn’t far enough to kill him!”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know! I heard the early diagnosis. Liver cancer. That’s it. Nothing else.”

“Do you know what the liver does?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“What does it do?” Dr. Baharri asked.

“It does its function. . . .”

“Which is?”

Dirk squirmed again. “Why are we talking about this? What we need to talk about is why my father wasn’t treated right.”

“He was,” Dr. Baharri said. “I was his doctor. From the start, there was no hope because the cancer was not only in his liver, it was in his lungs and bones.” Dr. Baharri then spun off on a concise, but complete lecture on the late Mr. Hassells’s health.

“But when he went to hospice he had time,” Dirk said. “A lot of time!”

“Mr. Hassells, do you know what hospice is?” Sandra asked. There went those flashing teeth again!

“Yes, it means he’s getting extra help.”

“It means he has less than six months to live.” Teeth. “You don’t enter into hospice unless you’re dying and the patient, along with his doctors, agrees that there is nothing more to do, there are no more treatments, no more operations. Hospice is what people enter into when all options are over for that patient.”

“Not all options were over!”

“Yes, they were,” Dr. Baharri said. He then detailed what treatments were given to Mr. Hassells, Senior, and the outcome of those treatments. Basically he told Dirk, once again, but in a different way, how the disease had mangled Mr. Hassells, Senior’s health. “Surely you are aware that his liver cancer was not curable?”

“I didn’t say curable, I said that he didn’t receive competent help, especially at the end. He died because”—Dirk stuck out his chest—“he died because his hospice nurse, Jaden, gave him too much morphine those last weeks and killed him. She killed him!”

I didn’t move. I tried to stay calm and not leap across the table and bash him. I knew I had not done that. It was a lie. But still, to hear the accusation thrown at me, especially in front of my colleagues, was galling and infuriating.

“That is false,” Sandra said calmly. “False.”

“I must disagree with you completely,” Dr. Baharri said. “Completely. You are incorrect. You could not be more incorrect. For Miss Bruxelle to have killed your father she would have had to give him large amounts of morphine, and she would not have done this. I have worked with Miss Bruxelle for years and find her to be the finest hospice nurse I have ever met. She is highly educated and trained, she is infinitely kind and compassionate to her patients, she did not do this, your comments defame her—”

“Yes, she did!”

“How do you know?” Sandra asked.

“Because when I was at the house once I saw Jaden give my dad morphine through his mouth.”

“Did you expect her to give him morphine through his rectum?” Sandra asked. “Through his ear?”

“It’s used for pain control,” Dr. Baharri said. “Perfect drug for the cancer he had.”

“It was too much. She killed him. I know it.” But Dirk’s words fell soft. He was starting to sweat.

“You’re repulsive,” I said to him.

He brought his fist onto the table.

“Do you understand the accusation you’re making?” Dr. Baharri said. “Do you? You’re accusing a nurse of murder.”

“Yes, yes, I am.” Dirk’s tight mouth twisted.

“This is a deeply serious matter,” Dr. Baharri said, leaning back as he steepled his fingers. “Deeply serious.”

“It’s called defamation of character,” Sandra said.

“Then that’s what I’m doing!” Dirk slapped the table. Twice. “Defamation! Jaden’s wrong, she’s in trouble, and that’s why I’m getting my attorneys in here and we’re gonna sue you.” He slapped the table again and watched me with his weasel eyes.

“I did not kill your father. Go ahead and sue. I’d find it amusing.”

“You would?” Now that was baffling to Dirk!

“Yes. Because in court the jurors will see the neglectful, cold, selfish son that you are, the neglectful, cold, selfish son that your father thought you were.”

Sandra kicked me under the table. I kicked her back.

“That’s it, Jaden!” He pointed at me and stood up. “That’s what gets you into trouble! It’s that mouth of yours. You were rude to me when I was at my father’s, you were neglectful of me, I mean, you were neglectful of him and you didn’t care about me, I mean”—sweat actually dripped off his forehead—“you didn’t care about him, you would only talk to Beatrice and her bratty kids, not me, you never wanted to talk to me alone and your care was”—another drop of sweat rolled off—“reckless! That’s what it was, reckless! Plus, you wouldn’t keep me updated and call me when I called you.”

“We kept you updated,” Sydney said. “I ended up updating you regularly because you hit on Jaden so much, according to Jaden and your sister, and I cannot have my employees sexually harassed.”

“Not true!”

“True,” I said. “It was incessant. I told you that I did not want to go to your home and see your porn collections or sex toys or your hot tub or your naked art that you asked me to see. I don’t care for you, Dirk, and I am not forced to spend time with you. Your dad was my patient. Not you. I said no. That ticked you off. That’s why we’re here today.”

Dirk leaned over, fleshy face red. “And that sarcastic
no
of yours is going to get you into a lawsuit, Jaden. If you had smiled today and been nice to me and said you were sorry, we could have gone to my place for dinner and worked it out, but no!” He waved an arm in the air. “I’m suing you and I’m going to enjoy making your life miserable.” He stomped toward the door. “For years! You will regret this, Jaden! I will not leave your life for years! I will be in your head, I will be in your mood, and in your day. You will regret how you treated me, you stuck-up witch!” He slammed the door.

Ah. A witch. How quaintly fitting.

Dr. Baharri leaned forward. “I will testify for you at any time.” Sydney and the other medical professionals and the administrators all concurred. I was touched by their support.

I pushed my auburn curls back. “Thank you. He’s an obnoxious, lying slug.”

“I will beat him down with a stick until he’s mush, that’s what I’ll do.” Sandra smiled at us. She has such shiny teeth. I love those teeth. They are sharp. “Yes, he will be pudding when I’m through.”

“I have never found pudding pleasurable to the palate,” Dr. Baharri said, steepling his fingers again.

“Too soft,” Sydney said.

“Me, either.” I tapped a pen on the table. “I want to put that pudding man in a blender and turn it on high, though.” My Witch Mavis temper had been triggered.

On my way home, through a driving rain, almost cold enough to snow, I indulged myself in my black mood. I was depressed about Dirk’s accusation. My job was killing me. I loved my patients, I loved the families. But being accused of murder . . .

I had been working with the dying for years and I was burning out. I hate that phrase. To acknowledge it is to acknowledge a deep exhaustion and a wall to scale.

I was burned out on not having Ethan in my life, too. The burning had caught my heart on fire in a slow but deep simmer, as if even that were dying. Last time, when Tate had a checkup appointment with Ethan, I had not even gone in. I had stayed in the car, too upset.

I passed the Fischerson house, which is on the main street of our town. No one had lived in it for years. It was a two-story white house built in 1920. It leaned a bit to the right, but it had charm, too. There was a porch, columns, and some gingerbread trimming.

The first owner was a farmer. He had eight children. Rumor had it that he shot one of the daughter’s boyfriends because he was sleeping with his daughter, and the boyfriend, Frank, has been haunting the house since then.

The next owners were three sisters. They were nurses, never married, and they lived there thirty years. They said they did not marry because, “Frank wouldn’t approve of another man there.”

The third owner was a man named Rickets, what a name, and he loved zinnias and grew rows and rows of them. It was rumored that he chatted to Frank the ghost there, too.

It was all talk, I knew that, a fun story in town, but I loved the house. If I opened up a tea/herb/spice/sandwich/dessert shop, I would buy that house, paint it in different shades of yellow, polish up the original wood floors, knock down some walls, add plush, old-fashioned furniture in burgundy and blue, buy wood tables that would hold fresh flowers, install an old-fashioned bar, a couple of church benches, and run my business.

It appealed more than I wanted to admit.

TATE’S AWESOME PIGSKIN BLOG

The kids on the other side chanted and called me Frankenstein during our basketball game Friday night. Their coach made them shut up. That coach is now on my list of Awesome Dudes.

We played the game. I finally lost some fear. We won.

That’s about it for today, peeps. I have physics homework. Thanks for all your comments on this blog and for being real. I think we’re gettin’ to know each other.

Here is a photo of my favorite math problem. Don’t be scared, you break it apart bit by bit and it’ll work.

Here’s a photo of bread I made today.

Here’s a photo of my cousins, the triplets. Yes, Hazel is dressed as a hummingbird, and yes, she is wearing a monster mask with it. Harvey is the one dressed as a dolphin. He also has a holster and a plastic gun. No, I don’t know why. Maybe he was afraid a whale might leap out of the ocean and bite him. Heloise is the devil. Not in real life. Just in the photo.

Here is a photo of my favorite neurosurgeon, Dr. Ethan Robbins.

Question of the day: If you had thirty days to live, what would you do?

Tate’s blog was deluged with thoughtful, funny answers. Deluged.

I ran a finger down my computer screen on Ethan’s face.

I missed him so much I could hardly breathe. I ached. I ached all over, as if vital organs had been ripped from my body. I loved him, I did. I would not sacrifice Tate’s health for that love, though. I would not. I am not a martyr. Not at all.

But I love my boy.

On a chilly, rainy night, complete with earsplitting thunder and lightning off in the distance, which would sound unbelievably corny if it weren’t true, I headed out to my greenhouse. I wanted to drink tea, listen to Vivaldi, hang more dried roses, and study Italian recipe books. I told myself that I would not combine herbs and spices. No, I would not.

Faith and Grace, to my knowledge, had never smelled death in herbs and spices, but it’s family legend, according to Grandma Violet, that the ladies from England had another talent: They apparently killed a man using a voodoo doll. Voodoo dolls were not in their customs or culture, that black magic was taught to them in the middle of the night by a slave who had arrived in shackles from Africa only ten years prior.

When Faith and Grace were working on the Underground Railroad, helping slaves out of South Carolina, there was one dangerous, demented landowner they wanted to get rid of because he kept attacking and impregnating the women slaves, then selling off their children. He did not seem to mind seeing his own flesh and blood up on an auction block, bound for the deep South.

Mr. Taft had lynched two slaves who tried to escape. He had his wife sent to an insane asylum because she protested his treatment. There she was tied up, beaten, half-starved, and laid on a bed infected with fleas and lice. When he returned in three months, she was only half-sane. Still, Mrs. Taft was sane enough to whisper what she wanted done to her husband at an appointment with Faith and Grace to plan her spring wardrobe and two new hats.

To get rid of Mr. Taft, the slave, Emmie, made a doll out of straw that looked remarkably like Mr. Taft, began her chants, and stabbed the doll with a knife. It didn’t work and she was bitterly disappointed, as her son was soon to be auctioned off, punishment because Emmie had fought off Mr. Taft’s advances.

Faith and Grace used the needle from the velvet satchel, the thimble, white lace handkerchief, gold timepiece, and the charms to do what had to be done. They did not use the book with the black cover, they couldn’t go that far, but they did use the spells their mothers, Henrietta and Elizabeth, taught them.

When Faith stuck the needle into the heart of the straw doll, they heard Mr. Taft’s screams shooting across the plantation. When Grace stuck it in his crotch, they heard more screams. Emmie stuck the needle back in the heart.

Mr. Taft died after clutching both his heart, then his crotch, and back up again, as if he was being struck in both places.

His wife was later seen doing a jig of joy in the woods, Emmie’s son was not sold, and there were no more lynchings on that plantation.

I would never use a voodoo doll—not that I believed Mr. Taft died via a voodoo doll, or that they work. They don’t. But it is family lore, it is a tale handed down, and it is probably based in
some
truth. For example, maybe someone shot Mr. Taft a few times that night and the voodoo doll got the credit, or he had a simple heart attack.

When I was done reading Italian recipe books and ready to go inside, I was called to that darn cutting board, as if a rope were around my waist tugging me there. I was wishing, so hard, with everything I had, that it would tell me something different tonight.

I chopped up bay leaves, then squished them in my trembling hands.

I picked apart mint leaves.

I rolled the hard nobs of coriander between my fingers.

I mixed them together.

I smelled death. Raw, black, clinging.

Threatening.
Imminent.

The scent of a life filtering away filled the room, swirling all around, rancid and rotting. Mine?

My mother’s?

My brother’s?

Brooke’s? That was, rationally, the most probable.

Or Damini?

The triplets?

Tate?

I put my head on my cutting table, the scent of orange tea surrounding me sweetly, my candle burning off a blueberry scent, my white Christmas lights twinkling, such a cozy contrast to the putrid stench of death that had snuck into the room.

“Tate, remember how you said you wanted me to locate your mom so you could check on her, make sure she’s all right?”

“Yeah, yeah! I did.” He rolled away from his computer in his experiment room. It was freezing outside, but the sun was out. Earlier in the day it had rained and a rainbow had arched over the mountains.

I eyed a couple of beakers he had that were boiling. “What is that?”

“Water, Mom, water. Maybe a harmless mixture or two. Simple stuff. This and that. Nothing, it’s a blend.” He stood up, blue eyes eager. “Where is she?”

“And what is that?” I eyed a radio that was hooked up to several other wires, a cell phone, and foil.

“Another small experiment. Is she okay?”

“She’s okay, Tate. Currently she’s sober.”

“Cool.” His face relaxed. “I am out of this galaxy glad. Drugs are sketchy, unbalanced, and chemically destructive things with an unreliable creator and distributor, plus they can rewire and destroy your brain.”

“You got that right, buddy.” I put my hands in my pocket, unsure, utterly not confident this was the right way to go. “This might be painful for you to meet her. You can say no. . . .”

“I want to meet her. I do. I do, I do.”

“You still do?”

“Yes! I want to meet the Other Mother. I know she screwed up, I know it. But I still want to meet her, please, Mom!”

“Okay, son. You’ll meet her.”

I hoped this wouldn’t end in a melting-down disaster. So much of parenting is doing your best and hoping you’re making the right decision with the information you have at that time without resorting to sneaking whiskey in your closet. It’s darn scary.

What a mess.

I hugged him close. “I love you, Tate.”

“I love you, too, Boss Mom!” He hugged me tight and lifted me up. “You’re my mom, Boss Mom.”

I knew what he meant: I was the
real
mom.

I rocked in the old rocking chair that night by the windows. I wondered how many women in my family line had rocked in it, their emotions rolling, their control tight, as they analyzed how to handle one crisis or another as they stared out at the red poppies in the field, the fir trees, their abundant herb gardens. Oh, what to do, what to do, what to do....

I’m sure Grandma Violet spent hundreds of hours rocking in this very chair before that one night when he told her, “It’s time,” and she did what she did.

It did not bring me much comfort.

At my last appointment with Maggie Granelli she asked if Tate could come over soon and play chess.

I brought him over on a Saturday.

He was merciless. He won. He beats all his opponents.

“Ha ha!” he cackled. “Victory is mine, Maggie Shoes!”

“I fought to the bitter end,” she said, holding up her lone pawn and king. “The bitter end!”

“For my prize I’m going to eat your coconut layer cake.”

“Be my guest, then get yourself back in here. Next time the victory is mine, pip-squeak.”

Maggie’s roses are not blooming anymore. We talk about our favorite types of roses anyhow. Tate told her that she had a mouth like a rose. It wasn’t flirty, the words slipped out of his mouth, genuine and sincere.

Maggie smiled and reached out her hand. “You are a gentleman, Bishop Tate, a true gentleman.”

“Guess where I am now?” my mother asked.

“On the set? In your trailer?”

“Yes, I’m on the set and I’m in bed. Beck crawled into bed with me. He’s tired because his nephew is sick and he was up ’til one o’clock playing him songs on the piano. He may fall asleep if the director doesn’t get it together soon. Anyhow, we’re shooting the scene where we secretly reunite. Say hello to Beck, Jaden, you’re on speakerphone.”

“Hi, Beck,” I called out. Beck was a neat guy. He was tall and had white and black speckled hair. He’d been with his partner, Jason, for twenty years. Secretly, obviously. Who wanted to know that her favorite soap opera star, who was lusty and sexy with the ladies, was gay?

“My dear Jaden,” he boomed out. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m fine and dandy, Beck.”

“Tell me, Jaden, about this scrumptious seafood dish your mother told me you made last weekend called Seafood Bust Up. You used snapper, lobster, shrimp, and clams, right?”

Beck and I were off and cooking—at least verbally. We discussed Seafood Bust Up, named by Tate, and the garlic, olive oil, cumin, and green onions I used. Then we discussed an okra salad I made with lime juice, green onions, tomatoes, pepper flakes, and vinegar. Tate named the okra salad, Okay Dokay Salad. Beck’s a master chef.

“All righty, the cameramen are all ready now,” my mother called out. “You ready to go, Maryana? And you, too, Roz? Okay, sweets. Beck and I have to have a wild love scene and then we’ll call you back.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“Bye, honey!” Beck called out. “As a reminder: Butter is your friend. Do not skimp on it ever.”

“I will carve that into my walls.”

Before we disconnected I heard my mother say, “Okay, Bodacious Boy Beck, I’m ready for you, baby. Hold on. Have to arrange my boobs. Maryana, how do my boobs look . . . oh, you flatterer, you. Okay . . . move the left one up? Beck, remember when your arm is under me give ’em a lift . . . yep, you’re doing it, sweets . . . all right, kiss me, Becki, you burly bear—”

I envisioned my mother and Beck rolling around in bed, their faces heated, tight with their forbidden passion. Beck did call me back not too many minutes later. He wanted my great-grandma’s recipe, from her mother, for a banana cream pie.

I wish I could roll around tight with passion with Ethan. For a while I tried not to daydream about him. It didn’t work and it made me depressed. The loss was more unbearable when I was done with the daydream, but I couldn’t help myself. I needed to think about him. I needed him in my life, even if it wasn’t him, the living, breathing, smiling Ethan.

I am pathetic. I know this. And I need to snap out of it, get a life, stop being dramatic and sappy.

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