Going Overboard (17 page)

Her thoughts pierced me. I stumbled for words. But there weren't any. She would see through any attempt I made to disguise myself. So instead I leaned over and placed my head on her shoulder. She patted the side of my head with her bony hand and said, “There, there,” just like she used to when I was little.

I listened to her soft breathing and faint heartbeat, and suddenly the fear of losing her someday struck me. I had nearly fallen apart when Big Jack died while I was pregnant with Ford. Big Jack had been like a second dad to me. He called me “Miss Scarlett” and “Miss Punkin” and his “favorite granddaughter” (I was his only granddaughter), and he sent me silly cards “just because.” I felt like the most beautiful and special person in the world with Big Jack.

It would be doubly traumatic to lose Doris.

“I love you, Doris,” I said, looking up at her.

“I love you, too, darlin'.” She patted my head again. Then she pulled me upright and looked me in the eyes. She was scowling again. “Now you remember what I told you,” she said. “Don't you go messing anything up. You take good care of those babies and Dustin. And never forget that God is love. Do you hear me?”

I nodded my head, swallowing back a lump in my throat.

“And, Sarah?” she said.

“Yes?”

“Grow out your eyebrows, child! For Heaven's sakes!”

I laughed. “OK, Doris. OK.”

9
GOD IS GREAT, GOD IS GOOD; LET US THANK HIM . . .

I
never called Dr. Ashley back (although I did replay the message often, looking for clues—a tone in his voice, a word I had missed). I'm not sure why, except that calling him felt wrong.

Like a strange dream that leaves you feeling icky about a particular person the next day, each time my fantasy and reality of Dr. Ashley met in the middle, I chickened out and was unable to follow through. For all the daydreaming I had done about Dr. Ashley, you'd think I would have been thrilled to call him back. But no, I just settled for listening to his message over and over and over again, until his voice started to sound like a chipmunk's.

It was pathetic! I had never seen him outside the hospital, and I wasn't even sure I'd recognize him without his blue scrubs and white coat, yet there was an undeniable connection between us, one of those confounding “sparks” you feel but can't explain.

Or was it just me who felt this? Was the connection really between
us
? Or was it all in
my
head?

Doris and Mom left the next week. Dad was returning from
his detachment and Mom wanted to be there when he got home. She would drop off Doris at the train station on her way out of town. As they pulled out of the driveway, Doris waved and I could see that Mom was crying. I held back tears myself, watching from the front door with Ford on my hip. I was both excited to have my house back again, and scared . . . to have my house back. Each time my mom leaves, it's like flying out of the nest all over again.

I couldn't wait to talk to Dad and hear about his trip to the ship. But when I called him a few days later, he was downright bland with the details: “He looked like the same old Dustin to me,” Dad said.

I don't know why I expected more. If I wanted the real scoop, I'd have to send my mom or Doris out to the ship. Why did I think Dad—a man—would give me the answers I really wanted: Did Dustin look happy? Was he thinner? Heavier? Did you see him talking to any women? Did he talk about me?

But no, Dad just told me the basics and then said, “Uh, I don't know—do you want to talk to your mother?”

That weekend, which was Valentine's Day weekend—the most dreaded of holidays for lonely wives—the Spouse Club was having a baby shower for Leslie, who had had her baby shortly after the men left. With all the commotion, no one had had a chance to do anything for her, so we combined the February Spouse Club meeting with a baby shower and a Valentine's Day pity party. Melanie volunteered her home.

Courtney and I met at Jody's house so the three of us could ride together. Melanie had instructed everyone to bring her favorite dish with a Valentine's theme. This stretched even Courtney's creative abilities: There just aren't many “Valentine's Day” foods. Well, there's chocolate, obviously, but there are only so many ways to dress up chocolate so that you can outdo the other wives.

I was impressed when Courtney showed up with a bottle of wine covered with a homemade label:
LOVE POTION
#9. And Jody was arranging weenies on a tray when we walked in. One by one, she gouged a toothpick into the links, and then affixed a sign to the tray:
SCORNED LOVER
.

“Very nice, Jody,” I said. “And somehow, not surprising at all.”

“Yeah? And what did you bring, Mrs. Smiley?”

I laid a glass bowl filled with fluffy pink marshmallows and goo on the table. “I brought pink salad.”

“What
is
that?” they both said together, wrinkling up their noses.

I pulled back the tight Saran Wrap to give them a dose of the cold, fruity smell. “It's my dad's favorite,” I said. “His mom used to make it, so when I was growing up, he made it for Thanksgiving and Christmas.”

They both stared at me.

“What?” I said.

Jody shook her head. “Nothing. It's just that, well, how does pink salad relate to Valentine's Day?”

I put a hand on my hip and stomped my foot. “Oh, come on! Pink. Valentine's Day. Get it?”

“No, we need to come up with a better name,” Courtney said. “Something more clever.” She put a finger to her pursed lips and looked up at the ceiling.

Jody laughed. “How about ‘bleeding heart salad'?”

“No, I've got it!” Courtney said. “We'll call it pink passion-ate fruit. Jody, grab a pen!”

So the two of them were busily redoing my handmade label when Jody's telephone rang.

“Could you grab that, Sar?” Jody asked without looking up.

I lifted the receiver and started to say hello when I heard heavy breathing on the other end.

“Jody?” a strained voice said.

“No, it's Sarah. Can I help you?”

“Sarah, it's Melanie.”

I put a finger in my ear to block out Jody and Courtney's howling laughter in the background. “I'm sorry. Is that you, Melanie? I can hardly hear you.”

There was a moaning sound, and the phone dropped. I snapped my fingers at Jody and Courtney to get their attention. Their laughing wound down to a sigh when they saw my face.

“What is it?” Jody whispered. “Who is it?” She and Courtney crowded around me.

“Melanie? Melanie?” I said. “Pick up, Melanie. Are you still there?”

“I . . . can't . . . get to the . . . phone . . .” she said between breaths.

I started to feel faint and passed the phone to Jody. Cold chills ran down to my toes and up through my neck. Courtney put an arm around my shoulder to steady me. “Don't worry. Jody will take care of it,” she whispered. “Whatever it is.”

“Melanie!” Jody yelled into the receiver. “Pick up the phone and tell me what you need.”

Melanie must have responded because Jody was listening and squinting her eyes real hard. After several seconds, she started barking orders at Courtney and me: “Melanie's having a miscarriage,” she said. “Sarah, go to her house and take her to the emergency room. Courtney, get on the phone and start calling the guest list. The baby shower will be over here now.”

I stood blinking and numb. “Me? Me go get her? But . . . but why me?” I followed close behind Jody, nearly clipping her heels, as she hustled back and forth between the kitchen and den. “Jody, I can't possibly handle this. Please, you take her. I'll stay here and do the party.”

Jody spun around and looked at me with an expression I had never seen on her face before. Her eyes and mouth were set so
tight, I thought the blood vessel in her temple might rupture. “There's no time for this, Sarah,” she said. “Go get Melanie and take her to the emergency room!”

My eyes filled with tears, and just as if I was in a bad dream, I felt unable to move. “But I didn't even know she was pregnant. Did you?”

“Now, dammit!” Jody yelled and threw my car keys at me.

When I got to Melanie's house, she was lying on her bathroom floor with a pool of blood seeping from between her legs and making a puddle around her drenched nylon slip.

“Hi, Sarah,” she said in a weak voice and tried to lift herself up. I rushed to grab her arm. “I'm glad you came.”

I tried not to look directly at her or at her exposed undergarments. “I think I should call an ambulance,” I said.

Melanie put up a hand. “No. I don't need an ambulance. Just drive me to the emergency room. OK? Everything will be fine.”

“Melanie, I don't think I can handle this. I don't think—”

“Sarah,” she said. “I asked Jody to send you. I need you.”

Me? But why?

I was unsure how to act as I got Melanie into the car and drove. Did she want air, or no air? Music, or no music? Christian music, or regular music? It seemed that everything I said or did was clumsy and awkward. But Melanie didn't notice. She mostly sat with her eyes closed and her head lolling back and forth on the seat each time I turned. She was sitting on a pile of towels and I tried not to look at them for fear of getting sick. But the heat radiating from her body was beginning to make me feel feverish anyway. I was even starting to have cramps.

At the hospital, the double doors pulled apart, forcing a gush of heated air—mixed with the smells of vomit and peroxide—across our faces. Melanie didn't seem to notice. She was hunched forward, one arm protectively around her waist, the other arm embraced in mine for support.

“We just go straight to the nurse triage,” she said and pointed me in the direction of a small cubicle to the left of the waiting room.

A nurse with Mickey Mouse scrubs saw us coming and rushed to take Melanie's arm. Once her weight was released from mine, I began to feel dizzy and sank onto a hard plastic chair. I was dressed in red high heels and a skirt—for the baby shower—and felt, shall we say, a little out of place. From across the room, I watched the nurse take notes and fit Melanie's arm with a blood pressure cuff. Melanie doubled over in pain a few times, and beads of sweat formed on her temples. She was sitting on a pile of towels, the same ones she had sat on in the car, and they were already soaked with red blood. The nurse didn't seem concerned about that, so I started to relax, but when Melanie's face suddenly turned pale and pasty, the nurse put down the clipboard and laid Melanie on a gurney.

Everything happened fast from there, with words like “hemorrhage” and “shock” shouted across the room. I followed the nurse and her squeaky tennis shoes as she wheeled Melanie through a narrow corridor with harsh fluorescent lights. I had to hurry to keep up, and my high heels echoed down the hall, making me feel intrusive and clumsy. I tried walking on my tiptoes but then I fell behind and had to run to catch up again. I was holding my pearl necklace against my chest with one hand to keep it from bouncing up in my face.

At a pair of swinging doors, the nurse turned to me and said, “You'll have to wait in the waiting room now. I'm sorry, but only family can go beyond this point.”

Melanie grabbed for my hand and squeezed it. “I'll be OK,” she said. “Call the Red Cross and get a message to Paul.”

The nurse pushed the gurney through the doors, which flapped closed behind them. I stood with my arm still outstretched and reaching for Melanie's.

I walked back to the waiting room in a daze and found a phone to call Jody. I had no idea how to contact the Red Cross, and if she didn't know, Courtney certainly would. The baby shower was in progress and I could hear voices and laughter in the background. Obviously Jody hadn't told them about Melanie. She probably didn't want to make Leslie feel awkward about the party, and that made sense, but I knew I might not have been as tactful. For instance, how did Jody explain the last-minute change of plans? These things just don't occur to me. Maybe that's why they sent me to the hospital instead.

After passing off the responsibility of calling the Red Cross to Jody, and promising to keep her informed of Melanie's status, I hung up the phone and went to find a seat in the waiting room. There was a pile of wrinkled magazines on a faux-wood end table, and I flipped through them mindlessly. My choices were either to read or eat Peanut M&Ms (not a good idea), but there was nothing on the table except
AARP
magazine and
Retired Officer
. So I did what any hypochondriac on a diet would do: I found a brochure about GERD (Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease), got a pack of M&Ms from the vending machine, and settled into a chair. The intercom above me blared occasionally about some doctor who was needed on a particular floor, but I only became concerned when I heard things like “code blue.” That was when I noticed my breath quickening considerably. I was waiting for them to call “code red” for fire because I've rarely been to the Navy hospital when there wasn't a fire emergency or false alarm. I was even the cause of the “code red” once. I had asked a health administrator to help me with my insurance form, and his computer actually caught on fire. That was the last time I ever tried to understand the military's insurance system.

But there were no code reds this night. In fact, the waiting room was unusually empty and quiet. Every once in a while a nurse squeaked by in stiff leather shoes, but there were no other
patients. Each time the doors swung open and closed, I looked up eagerly, hoping for the nurse in Mickey Mouse scrubs to come with news. But for long stretches of time, there was no one except an occasional custodian, who whistled while he mopped.