“Right now, I don’t want us to have a business relationship. I’d rather consider you like a great-niece who’s come for a summer visit and helps around the house a little bit because it’s the polite thing to do.”
“Tami says I need to make money.”
“We’ll talk about that later,” I said. “Don’t worry about clearing the table. I’ll do it so Mrs. Fairmont and I can talk. You can take Flip out for a walk.”
“He’s exhausted,” Mrs. Fairmont said, pointing to the little dog who was lying stretched out on his side beneath her chair. “He didn’t have the energy to beg during the meal, he’s played so hard.”
“Okay. Go for a ride on the bike. If you take a right on Whittaker Street, it will lead you to Forsyth Park.”
“There’s a water fountain on the east side where I used to get a drink when I was a little girl,” Mrs. Fairmont said. “You’ll recognize it because there’s a spigot low to the ground for people to get water for their animals.”
“I want all of us to talk when I get back,” Jessie said.
“We’ll see,” I replied, feeling like a parent dealing with a stubborn child.
Jessie left the house via the veranda steps to the courtyard and through the side gate. I watched from a window in the foyer as she pedaled toward the nearby intersection of Hull and Whittaker Streets. When I returned to the kitchen, Mrs. Fairmont was rinsing the plates in the sink and loading them in the dishwasher.
“Wait, I was going to clean up.”
“I decided if I had the energy there was no reason for me to treat you like a servant.”
“You’ve never treated me like a servant.”
“In my mind I have. Jessie’s got me thinking about a lot of things.”
Mrs. Fairmont and I sat at the table in the kitchen while I told her about the plea offer. I didn’t have Jessie’s permission to share details about her case with Mrs. Fairmont, but I pushed my reservations aside and laid it all out except the possibility of additional criminal charges in the future. The more I talked, the more troubled Mrs. Fairmont looked.
“As you can see, the big issue is that Jessie wants to stay here with you,” I said. “She’s right that Julie’s apartment isn’t a long-term solution. But I don’t want you to commit to something after only spending a couple of days with her. Jessie has a stubborn streak that’s going to come out at some point in her relationship with you.”
Mrs. Fairmont put her hand on her stomach and closed her eyes.
“Christine, I don’t feel well.”
“I’m Tami,” I replied, then reached out as the elderly woman put her hands on the arms of the chair and tried to push herself up.
“Help me get to the bathroom,” she said.
I steadied Mrs. Fairmont as she shuffled to the downstairs bathroom where she got sick. As the waves of nausea hit her, waves of compassion hit me. I hated sickness, especially when it afflicted someone I loved. I held Mrs. Fairmont’s hand and kept her steady as she emptied her stomach. I wiped her forehead with a cool washcloth.
“Is your head hurting?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “And my arm.”
She touched her left arm. Mrs. Fairmont’s mental problems were related to ministrokes, but with the mention of pain down her arm, I suddenly became concerned she might be having a heart attack.
“I should call an ambulance.”
“No, I don’t want to go to the hospital. I want to lie down in the den.”
“Does your chest hurt?”
“It’s my stomach.”
I held her up as the nausea returned.
“That’s it,” she said when she finished. “There’s nothing left. I want to rest now.”
I gently wiped her face and led her to the den where I spread out an afghan and positioned a pillow under her head. Flip jumped up and curled up at her feet.
“Please, let me call an ambulance,” I said.
“No.” She shook her head, keeping her eyes closed. “I want to lie here quietly in my own house.”
I left Mrs. Fairmont, went into the kitchen, and called Mrs. Bartlett.
J
ESSIE PEDALED FURIOUSLY DOWN
W
HITTAKER
S
TREET, NOT SLOW
ing at four stop signs until a sanitation truck crossing West Jones Street made her put on the brakes and skid to a halt. She wiped away the beads of sweat that had popped up on her brow. She wanted to get to Forsyth Park as soon as possible, drink from the water fountain so she could tell Mrs. Fairmont she’d tried it, and return to the house so she could plead her case in person. Jessie wasn’t about to trust her future to Tami’s conversation with Mrs. Fairmont.
The past two days had been like happy pages cut from the best book Jessie ever read. Twice during the afternoon, she went downstairs, touched the beautiful bedspread, and smelled the clean sheets. When Mrs. Fairmont napped in the den, Jessie explored the house, admiring the beautiful things that surrounded her. There were no antiques in her stepmother’s trailer, only broken secondhand items barely able to serve their intended purpose.
Jessie had been nervous when Gracie arrived, but the older black woman greeted her with a big, soft hug. She then included Jessie in a workday that was more fun than labor. Gracie didn’t tell Jessie that she thought it was a good idea for Jessie to live at the house, but she was sure Gracie would have said so if asked.
Jessie crossed Gordon Street and saw the corner of Forsyth Park. The green space was a lot bigger than she’d suspected, and it took her about ten minutes to find the water fountain. She got off the bike to get a drink then splashed water on her face to cool off. After she wiped the water from her eyes, she turned around and bumped into a man standing behind her.
“Did you know your bike has a flat tire?” the man asked.
“No, it doesn’t.”
Jessie looked past him at the bike, which had a totally flat rear tire. She went over and felt the collapsed rubber.
“Do you have far to go?” the man asked.
Jessie looked at the man for the first time. He was probably in his fifties with gray hair and a closely cut goatee. He was wearing blue jeans, a T-shirt, and dark sunglasses.
“Not too far,” she replied. “I live on Hull Street.”
“That’s at least ten blocks, a long way to push a bike,” the man replied. “My wife and I live on East Perry, just around the corner from Hull. I’d be happy to give you a lift. You could throw your bike in the back of my pickup, and I could drop you off.”
Jessie looked down and saw the wedding band on the man’s hand.
“That’s my truck parked on the street.” The man motioned with his left hand. There was a shiny blue pickup truck with heavily tinted windows next to the curb. A woman was behind the wheel. When she saw Jessie looking in her direction, she waved.
“That’s my lady,” the man said. “We come to the park to walk our dog every evening after we get off work.”
“What kind of dog do you have?” Jessie asked.
“A Chihuahua.”
“My grandmother has a Chihuahua,” Jessie said, brightening up. “His name is Flip.”
“We call our dog Peaches. Come over and meet her. But I’ve got to warn you. She’ll try to lick your nose off if she gets a chance.”
The man started walking toward the truck. Jessie followed, pushing the bike. The man was right. Pushing the bike to Mrs. Fairmont’s house would take a long, long time.
“See what I found?” the man said to his wife. “A young woman with a flat tire in need of a ride to Hull Street.”
Jessie reached the truck. The truck bed was empty, and she leaned forward to see the dog inside the cab.
“Where’s your dog?” she said.
“On the passenger floorboard. She’s just a little thing,” the man said.
The man pushed Jessie’s head inside the truck, and the woman covered her nose with a foul-smelling cloth.
Everything went black.
M
RS.
B
ARTLETT TOLD ME SHE AND HER HUSBAND WERE FINISHING
supper at a restaurant not more than five minutes away.
“Is she conscious and able to talk?” Mrs. Bartlett asked after listening to a quick summary.
“Enough to tell me she didn’t want to go to the hospital.”
“Ken and I will be there as soon as we can. But if she’s in a crisis, don’t wait for us to call an ambulance.”
I returned to the den with a clean, cool washcloth.
“Would you like this on your head?”
“Yes.”
I placed the cloth on Mrs. Fairmont’s forehead. She’d gotten hot from the exertion caused by the nausea. I gently wiped her face.
“That feels good. Did you call Christine?”
“Yes, ma’am. She and Mr. Bartlett were eating at a restaurant in town and are on their way.”
“Tell her I don’t want to go to the hospital.”
“I did.”
Mrs. Fairmont shut her eyes for a moment. “I feel a heavy weight on my chest.”
I sat on the edge of the couch and took her hand in mine.
“That worries me. Along with the pain in your left arm and the nausea, it sounds like you could be having a heart attack.”
Mrs. Fairmont opened her eyes and shook her head. “No. Just let me rest for a few minutes before Christine gets here. If I end up in the hospital, she’s going to pressure me to buy a unit at Surfside. I need you to speak up for me.”
I took the cloth with me and returned to the kitchen. The fact that Mrs. Fairmont could think lucidly was good; the possibility that I might end up in the middle of an argument between her and her daughter was bad. Mrs. Fairmont had spent almost a month in the rehabilitation wing of the nursing home after suffering a stroke the previous summer. It was a new, clean facility, but like so many elderly people, Mrs. Fairmont prized the familiar comfort of home more than the security of twenty-four-hour medical care. I rehearsed what I would say if the two women got in a discussion and tried to drag me into it. I decided the best course might be to appeal to Mr. Bartlett, a levelheaded man who had found a way to endure the verbal barrage that flowed unhindered from his wife’s mouth. The front door opened, and Flip raced out of the den toward the foyer. I ran after him, hoping to intercept him before he could launch an attack on Mrs. Bartlett’s ankles. I grabbed him as he bared his teeth.
“She’s in the den,” I said, slightly breathless.
I hung back as Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett went down the hall. I stayed in the foyer and soothed Flip until I felt it was safe to deposit him on the floor in the den doorway. He ignored Mrs. Bartlett and hopped up to his place on the couch at Mrs. Fairmont’s feet.
“Mother, this isn’t the time for you to play doctor and diagnose what’s wrong with you. With the symptoms Tami described, you should go to the ER.”
“I feel better already.” Mrs. Fairmont looked at me. “Will you get me a glass of water? No ice, please.”
I returned with the water. When Mrs. Fairmont reached for the glass her right hand shook. I guided the glass to her lips.
“Look at your hand,” Mrs. Bartlett said. “At least let me call Dr. Dixon and see what he thinks you should do.”
“He’s at home with his family.”
“And has an answering service that will notify him.”
“If Dr. Dixon isn’t on call, I don’t want to talk to Dr. Faraday. He has the worst bedside manner. You said yourself that he had less personality than—”
“We won’t know who’s on call until we try,” Mrs. Bartlett interrupted, taking her cell phone from her purse.
“I want to hear what you tell the doctor, whoever it is,” Mrs. Fairmont said.
Mrs. Bartlett left a message with the answering service. In less than a minute, the phone rang. It was the doctor.
“Dr. Dixon, thanks for calling,” she said. “Tami Taylor, mother’s caregiver, was with her and can tell you exactly what happened.”
I didn’t want to be the bearer of news that might send Mrs. Fairmont for an unwanted hospital stay, but, I had no choice. I took the phone and gave the doctor a detailed description of what had happened.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Mrs. Fairmont wants to talk to you, too.”
“Hello,” Mrs. Fairmont said in a slightly shaky voice, then listened. “Yes, what Tami said was correct. Here’s Christine.”
Mrs. Fairmont looked at her daughter with sad eyes and handed her the phone. Mrs. Bartlett was silent for a longer period of time.
“I agree,” she said, then clicked off the phone. She turned to her husband.
“He wants us to take Mother to the ER. He’ll meet us there. She won’t have to wait; he’ll see that she’s taken immediately to a room where he can run some tests.” She turned to me. “Tami, pack a few things she might need for the next few hours and put them in the small green carry-on bag.”
“Is there anything special you want?” I asked Mrs. Fairmont.
The elderly woman had her lips pressed tightly together. She shook her head.
“Ken, pull the car around to the garage,” Mrs. Bartlett said.
I bounded upstairs, not exactly sure what might be appropriate for an emergency room visit. I took the suitcase from the closet and quickly filled it with Mrs. Fairmont’s favorite nightgown, slippers, toiletries, a photo of Flip, and other items that were part of her daily routine. Downstairs, Mrs. Bartlett was holding her mother’s arm as they stood in the foyer.
“Put the suitcase in the car,” Mrs. Bartlett said to me.
I put the suitcase in the trunk and said a quick prayer for the woman whose personal items it contained, then hurried back to help Mrs. Fairmont down the three steps to the garage.
“I’m feeling better already,” the elderly woman said when we reached the car. “Maybe I just needed to get off the couch and stretch my legs.”
“That won’t work with me,” Mrs. Bartlett said. “We’re meeting Dr. Dixon at the ER even if you claim you could jog to the hospital.”
After we helped Mrs. Fairmont into the front seat, Mrs. Bartlett opened the rear door.
“Will you let me know—,” I asked.
“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Bartlett cut me off.
I stood at the bottom of the steps as Mr. Bartlett backed the car into the street and turned in the direction of the hospital. A humid dusk had settled over Savannah. The gray sky matched my mood. I stepped from the garage and glanced down Hull Street toward Whittaker Street.
And remembered Jessie.
The young woman could have ridden multiple times around Forsyth Park in the time since she’d left. I quickly looked up and down the street and saw nothing except one of Mrs. Fairmont’s neighbors sweeping the brick walkway to her house. I wasn’t sure whether to wait for Mrs. Bartlett’s phone call or search for Jessie. News from the hospital would be slow coming. I went inside the house and grabbed my purse.