Another Dawn (14 page)

In spite of myself, I barely waited until Monday’s newspaper hit the ground before I rushed out to pick it up. I ripped off the rubber band and started reading. It didn’t take long to find out what I didn’t want to know. The TalkBack section was three full pages long, and considering that this comprised about a third of the total length of the paper, I saw this as a bad sign. The first entry was almost a full column long, and it was titled “Fruitcake Medicine.”

Former Shoal Creek resident Grace Graham has lived in California for the past five years. During that time, she attended college without bothering to graduate, had a son without bothering to marry his father, and apparently bought into all the Hollywood starlet hype that vaccinations are bad for our children without bothering to think about how that choice might affect others.

As a mother I can appreciate wanting to do what is best for your child. However, what I cannot appreciate is when you get that information from people like Jenny McCarthy, a former Playboy bunny, instead of from the CDC and other respected medical sources.

How dare this person presume to know why I made the choices I made? She had no idea of what had shaped my decision. She had no idea about Collin. Or Roger. Or Jessica.

Unfortunately for the rest of us—responsible parents who do vaccinate our children—her son has exposed numerous vulnerable members of the population. Being one of those parents who is now waiting with a sick dread, wondering just how bad it will be for my daughter, I say to myself, why? Why would another mother have put me in this situation? The answer, well, it’s something I have yet to figure out.

Anonymous

This letter had come from someone in the church nursery. From a parent whose baby I had watched while she enjoyed an hour of sitting, listening, and relaxing.

But I knew that none of that would matter now. All that mattered is that I had made a choice that was putting her baby at risk. For a mother, nothing else would matter. As much as I hated to be the brunt of this, it was logic that I couldn’t dispute.

I looked at the next one, not sure why I was going to put myself through more of this.

Who Is Responsible?

My neighbor is one of the babies that has been exposed. For the next three weeks his parents have to keep him inside his own home. Unless, of course, he is lucky enough to break with a rash before then, at which time we’re told he will be allowed back into the public four days later. His mother works full-time; his father works full-time. They are each having to give up work hours to stay home with their infant son because they are no longer allowed to take him to the day care, which has three other infants, due to fear of exposure. Who, I ask, should be responsible for the financial loss they are suffering right now?

I submit that vaccination should be a choice a parent is allowed to make. However, the people who choose not to vaccinate should be held financially responsible for the havoc they cause in the lives of the rest of us who actually do the responsible thing.

sallysmom

I decided I wasn’t ready to read the other comments just yet.

I spent the next hours idly paging through an old paperback mystery and toiling over the crossword puzzle in the paper. The only page of
The Advocate
I could bear to keep in front of me. Finally, my cell phone rang to break up the monotony and I checked the caller ID on my cell. Steve. I needed to let it go to voice mail, to get him out of my life for good. Then again, he might be calling about the Blue Pacific deal, and that was something I needed to know. Of course, I could get that answer from voice mail if I didn’t pick up. I let it go to the fourth ring when I finally decided I really wanted, needed, to answer. “Hello.”

“Are things going better today?”

“Hardly.” I looked out the window and I could see smoke wafting past the corner of the house, where my father was rocking and enjoying yet another cigarette. “I can’t wait to get out of here. I’m so tired of all of it—it’s not enough that Dylan is sick. My father is refusing to even attempt his physical therapy assignments, he’s grumpy as all get out, and if I have to watch that man smoke one more cigarette, so help me, I’m going to lose it.” Another reason I shouldn’t have answered. For some reason, no matter how much I tried not to, I always unloaded every single bit of my anger and frustration on Steve. No wonder he wanted to be around Daria.

He laughed. “He just had surgery; he’s gone from being a complete do-it-yourself kind of guy to being dependent, even if only for a brief time. I think you could maybe cut him a little slack, don’t you?”

“I’m certainly not getting any.” I looked at the paper, folded on the table. “The local newspaper here has a blog. For their non-computer-savvy customers, they put the choicest comments in the paper. You should see what the people are saying about me.”

“I’m guessing you’re not the most popular mommy on the block right now.”

“That’s the understatement of the year. I’m thinking of writing a letter to the editor, but I doubt she’d print it. I just wish those people could stop for one minute in all their self-righteous indignation and see my side of this story for what it is.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to see both sides of the story when someone you love is being hurt by one of the sides, huh?”

“I know that.”

“I’m just thinking . . . it sounds a lot like you and your father, doesn’t it?”

“No. That’s completely different.”

“You think? He made the decision he considered best for him—willing to accept the risk of the consequences. He just wasn’t thinking that those consequences might extend to other people, as well.”

“You know what? I think it’s best for both of us if we just make this a clean break. We’re obviously going in different directions.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Every time you get under pressure, you react by pushing everyone—including me—away. You come up with all sorts of crazy excuses to make it seem reasonable.”

“I do not.”

“Take the Dodgers game, for instance. You know I was there with a bunch of people from the office. Daria was one of them, sure, but so was Randall Dickson and Matt Jenkins. She was just an excuse, because you don’t want to admit you are afraid. Why can’t you realize that some things are worth staying put and fighting for?”

His words reminded me of Jana’s, about how I always ran away. That wasn’t true. I had just learned, the hard way, to remove myself from unhealthy situations. I needed to spend my time and my energy on my son and on forging healthy relationships. The only problem with that—at this point I didn’t have any healthy relationships left.

Steve’s phone call left me even more frazzled than before and it was all I could do to keep from pacing the house. I hadn’t committed a crime, and yet it felt like I was under house arrest. I’d barely even stepped outside for days, and now we were running out of juice, bread, and milk. I needed to go to the grocery store, but I didn’t want to go in the middle of the day. It was bound to be full of people, likely some of whom had read the paper and would recognize me. So I waited until a little after seven.

I hurried through the aisles, grabbing the first “no sugar added” apple juice I saw on the shelf and tossing it in the cart, then power-walked up the bread aisle. An uncomfortable sensation of being watched began to crawl up my spine. I looked around me and saw no one but a teenage boy looking at pastries and an older woman squeezing the loaves of white bread. Still, the feeling didn’t lessen.

There was only one cashier on duty in the full-service lane tonight, and she spoke so loud I could hear her throughout most of the store. “What kind of recipe you gonna use this in?” “You gonna fry this chicken or grill it?” “Did you hear about Norma Jean?”

Never before had I fully appreciated the self-checkout at a grocery store the way I did right now. I hurried over to it, making a point to keep my eyes averted from the loud-talking cashier. I did not want to attract attention of any kind.

I scanned the organic milk, listening to the
beep
as it went across. The bread was next.
Beep.
Juice.
Beep.

I was just sliding my credit card into the appropriate slot when I heard the cashier’s voice again. “Really? She’s the one? Are you sure?”

Though I couldn’t be certain, it didn’t take a genius to guess whom they were talking about.

I hurried out of the store and rushed over to my rental car. There was a torn piece of white paper under the windshield. I snatched it up, threw my groceries into the backseat, then locked the door and turned the ignition before unfolding the paper.

It was written in blue ink, in neat printing.

Go back to California where you belong. You’re not welcome here.

I glanced in my rearview mirror as I pulled from the parking lot. Nothing seemed unusual, but the note under my windshield had multiplied the discomfort I’d felt earlier in the store.

It wasn’t a long ride home, but I got caught at the second light on the one and only main road through town. Again I looked in the mirror. There was a large red pickup truck behind me. I couldn’t see the driver due to the glare of headlights. Could it be the note writer?

I wanna be a paperback writer. Paperback writer.

I jumped so hard my leg hit the steering wheel. I snatched up my cell phone from the side pocket of my purse. “Hello.”

“You knew, didn’t you?” Jasmine’s voice was cold and flat.

“Knew what?” It was a weak attempt at a cover-up at best, but it was all I could muster.

“Right. That’s what I thought.”

“Jasmine, why don’t you tell me what you’re talking about?”

“How is your father?” Jasmine spoke with slow deliberation.

“Dad’s doing better.” I turned right at the light and followed Springer Road closer to my father’s house, saying nothing else.

I looked in the rearview mirror again, relieved to see that the red truck was no longer behind me, but there were headlights just turning the corner in this direction a little farther back. I held the phone to my ear, waiting.

I knew Jasmine was about to unload on me. Maybe even fire me. Well, she would certainly have to be the one to bring it up. I was already dealing with an entire city that hated me here. I wasn’t going to go asking for more of the same from the other side of the country.

“Great, that’s great to hear.” She paused a moment. “Listen, I know we talked about this earlier, but do you think there’s any possible way you could work it to arrive a few days earlier than you’d planned?”

What was she up to? “I’d like to—you have no idea how much I’d like to—but my father really needs someone here taking care of him.”

“You just told me that he was doing fine.”

“Yes, fine for a sixty-five-year-old man who just had his knee replaced. That doesn’t mean he’s ready to live on his own yet.”

“Well, I think my news might change your mind.”

“What news?”

“Good news. Really good news, actually. The Wadley Foundation is serious about making an offer on this place.”

“The Wadley Foundation?”

“Oh yes, I told you about them, right? They had made inquiries earlier.”

Yes, and you told me that they often fire the entire staff when they take over an inn.
“But I didn’t think you were interested.”

“I didn’t think so, either, at least not until I got a call from one of Steve’s investment partners last night. How long have you known that was coming?”

“Jasmine, I—”

“How long?”

“I found out that it was a possibility the day before I left for Tennessee. But I talked to Steve earlier this week, and he told me that the deal still might go through. He also told me that Darin was going to call you days ago.”

“Don’t you think at least it would have been a good idea to warn me that this might be coming? Before I signed a contract for $10,000 worth of remodeling on my home—the home that there would be no reason to sell if this deal fell through.”

“I would have told you if I’d known before you started. By the time I knew what you were up to, it was too late. There was nothing for me to do but hope things worked out at that point.”

“Sounds pretty spineless to me.” She paused for a moment, then continued in a controlled voice. “The Wadleys are doing a first official walk-through on Monday morning. Because of the increased difficulties I am currently experiencing with my son because of the remodel—a remodel I would never have contracted had you bothered to tell me the truth—I would think the least you could do at this point is get back here early and help me get this place ready for their visit.”

To help her get ready for the deal that would cost me my job. At this point, I didn’t know what I would do if that happened. The likelihood of finding another job quickly in this economy was slim, and there was no one left for me to turn to. Steve. Jana. Jasmine. Dad. I’d managed to alienate all of them. “You don’t think you’ll be able to handle it alone?”

“As we’ve already discussed, the Oates family is here through Sunday. They arrived last night in a
big
way, believe me. Without you here, I’ll be forced to employ temps to pick up some of the slack.”

Every year the Oates family stayed for a week in May. Since the place was small, they ended up taking over half the rooms.

There were three generations of Oateses who graced our inn for a week each year. The grandparents were quite well off and actually very gracious people. Their three children, however, had been raised with very little responsibility or manners and carried none of it into their adulthood. The grandchildren ran wild, destroying things everywhere they went.

There had been crayon drawings on walls, broken crystal lamps, and numerous other issues when they came. Starting my second year working with the family, back when I still worked for Jasmine’s parents, we had taken all the valuables and put them away, putting cheaper replicas in their place, if anything at all. Even though we charged the family replacement costs when they broke things, and the grandparents paid without complaint, it was just easier to lose a lesser quality crystal lamp than the Waterford Kells table lamp, which they’d broken a few years ago. Anything remotely valuable or antique was put away and locked up.

“I really do wish I could be there to help you; believe me I do.”

“Why is it that I suddenly find that hard to believe, given what I’ve learned about your loyalty—or should I say lack of it?”

“I’m on leave without pay. It’s not like you’re having to hire temps to do what you’re already paying me to do.”

“Yeah, maybe I’ll even find one that I can depend on to be honest with me.”

“Jasmine, I am sorry. You’re right I should have told you. I expected them to call you on Monday, and then things started going downhill here. When I finally heard from Steve, he thought it had been taken care of.”

“This is in your best interest, you know. You were the one saying you didn’t want to spend two weeks with your father and wished you could get out of it. Now I’m giving you the excuse you need and you’re not taking it.”

“Jasmine . . .” I started to protest, but then I saw what she was saying. She did need my help. And certainly nobody else in Shoal Creek wanted me here. Dad was improving, if slowly. I was prepared to lose another week of salary anyway. Why not just hire someone to check in on him so it wouldn’t fall to Jana? “I guess if it is possible for me to get back there early, I will. In fact, I’ll start working on it and see what I can do.” Yes, the more I thought about it, the more appealing the plan became. “In the meantime, you can handle it, Jasmine. Just lock everything up, and I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

“I’m counting on it. Hopefully you’ll actually come through this time, although I guess I can’t really count on that, can I?”

When I pulled into the driveway, my father and Dylan were sitting on the side porch. Although the outside lights were off—turning them on this time of year asked for more bugs than anyone wanted to deal with—I could see their silhouettes in the faint light of the windows behind them.

I bounded up to Dylan. “Sweetie! You’re moving around again.”

He grinned. “Yep. I’m feeling better. Me and Grandpa are sitting here looking to see if lightning bugs are out yet.”

“I’m so glad, honey.” I sat down in the rocker and pulled him up into my lap and started gently rocking back and forth.

The smell of cigarette smoke still remained on the porch, although my father currently didn’t have one lit. I kissed the top of Dylan’s head, but something about the all-pervading smell surrounding us dug a memory from my childhood.

I must have been in the fifth grade at the time. One day each week a policeman would come to our class and talk to us about drugs and alcohol and tobacco, and how we should never use them. I had taken every word to heart.

One afternoon after such a class visit, my father had gotten angry at me for forgetting to feed the cat. “It’s irresponsible. You’ve got to learn to do what you’re supposed to do, to pull your weight. This is completely unacceptable.”

I listened and cringed and listened some more. Finally, I’d had enough, so I said something to the effect of, “Well, you smoke.”

“What?” I could still remember the look on his face. The feeling of power I got when my choice of words pulled him off his high horse, if only due to confusion.

“You smoke cigarettes. That’s worse than forgetting to feed the cat.”

He actually looked stunned for about two seconds before launching right back on the offensive. “Smoking is not a good thing; you’re right about that. It’s something that you should never start. Maybe it will someday affect my health, but it’s just me I’m affecting so that’s a choice I’m allowed to make. When you don’t feed KC, then you’re affecting not only yourself but someone else. Or some
thing
else at least.”

The memory still stung as if it were brand-new. But it wasn’t. It was a lifetime ago. My mother’s lifetime. I looked toward my father and thought, “You weren’t just affecting yourself, were you?”

Dylan turned to look at me. “What did you just say, Mommy?”

It was only then that I realized I’d spoken aloud. “Nothing, honey, just talking to myself.”

My dad’s decision affected a lot more than just himself. My mother, when lung cancer took her life. Jana and me, when it took our mother from us. I didn’t know how he could stand to sit here and continue to do this, knowing full well what he’d . . .

For the first time in years I felt my anger toward my father cool when I was thinking in this vein. Fact was, I was now in the same place. My decisions hadn’t only affected me—they hadn’t only affected my son—there were lots more people being affected by them.

Perhaps this is what Mrs. Fellows would call “coming full circle.” Back to the place where I decided to hate and never forgive my father. Back to the place where I had to look at what had happened before and do something different this time. The only problem was, it was too late for all of us.