Southern Fried Sushi (41 page)

A bittersweet glow radiated from the gray windows outside, and the yellow light overhead reminded me of where I’d come from and where I still needed to go.

We all avoided each other’s eyes, and for the first time I felt a twinge of sadness at the thought of leaving. But that was life, and I needed to find mine. Far away from here.

“Wale,” said Tim, extending his hands to us. “There’s one thing we do at these times. We pray.”

We bowed our heads over the table, three sojourners, as Tim prayed for me and my finances, for Mom’s house, and for Becky and the baby. Then we raised our heads and dug in like old times, passing biscuits and gravy. Laughing as if we’d share meals like this forever and none of us would ever leave.

After lunch Tim flipped through all my envelopes one by one and totaled them without flinching or fudging. I was ashamed at the debt I’d managed to rack up, as if snooping in a stranger’s bills. How could that have been me, spending six hundred dollars on a Gucci bag?

It felt an eternity ago. Now I checked prices in the grocery store. Bought generic and store brands. Cut coupons. Turned off the car air conditioner to save gas. Checked my weekly hours at work to see if I’d have enough to pay my bills.

Becky sat there quietly, never making a snarky comment. Patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. Tim’ll getcha outta yer fix as fast as he can. I know you’re tryin’.”

I looked for judgment in their faces as he opened the Louis Vuitton envelope, but found none. With the $390 I’d spent on a silk scarf, I could have gotten Adam’s brother some new medical equipment. Bought Becky some smashing maternity clothes. Invested in tickets to come see my mom, even if out of principle.

But I had been so intent on playing the part—a woman above my means—and snagging a man like Carlos, who in the

end didn’t even want me at all.

Tim watched me redden and squirm as he wrote down the amount and finally smacked me with the corner of the envelope. “Gotta face ‘em, Shiloh! Face ‘em head-on. That’s tha way ta do it.”

“I know. I just can’t believe I was so stupid with money back in Japan. I’d have a nest egg saved up by now.”

“How much’d ya make?”

I gulped. Covered my eyes. Told him. In the past I would have lied, but his “face-’em-head-on” speech emboldened me. I’d pretended too much of my life away already.

“Yep. But that’s how ya learn. No sense cryin’ over it now.”

We did some more budgeting, and then Tim told me to call every single one of the companies, on Skype if I had to, and ask them to waive the late fees. To tell them the truth and see if they’d cut me any slack.

In the past my pride would have refused, but now I obediently jotted it down in my planner.

Tim wrote me out a weekly budget for necessities and added another small category: house repairs. To get me in Lowell’s good graces again. Said he’d help me if I promised not to do anything myself.

Then suddenly: “What time is it? Shoot, we’re late! It’s on!”

“What’s on?” We all jumped up, including Gordon, who bayed and wagged his tail.

“The race!” And he dashed to the living room and turned on Mom’s TV. “It’s in Daytona ta boot! Shewwweee!”

“NASCAR, silly!” giggled Becky at my blank face. “Siddown right here and watch!” She smacked the sofa.

“NASCAR?” I repeated stupidly, not moving. “We’re really watching NASCAR?”

“Watch and learn!” Tim gave a silly grin, stretching out his gangly, cowboy-booted legs and hugging a couch pillow. “And let’s see if our sweet tea’s ready while we’re at it!”

I’d never seen cars go around a track so many times. I got dizzy after a while, but between Tim and Becky’s excited cheers and explanations about drivers and crews and sponsors, and who cheated and who didn’t, the whole thing began to make … well, a bit more sense. Maybe.

I memorized a few car numbers and who was “pole position” and absorbed (not necessarily intentionally) all kinds of weird information about the greats. Tim liked a new upstart named Vic Priestly, number 54, who drove for John Deere. He’d come in the top five in the last four races and won the Brickyard 400, beating all the favorites.

When I decided to cheer for Juan Montoya, it made things instantly easier. I now had enemies.

And every time one of us said “Jeff Gordon,” Gordon bayed and waggled his backside. I hauled him onto my lap, where he snoozed comfortably.

“Doggone it, Vic!” yelled Tim, throwing the couch pillow. “Now don’t go runnin’ inta the wall! Git ‘em! Show ‘em how it’s done!”

I grabbed the pillow and dusted it off. “Quit throwing my house-staging props!” I scolded. “They’re supposed to make rich people buy my house!”

“Oh, and this, too?” He picked up my basket of half-folded, wrinkled laundry. “Yer smelly ol’ socks oughtta bring ‘em in by the truckloads!”

“Go! Go! Go!” screamed Becky to Tony Stewart, sitting on the edge of her seat. “You ken pass him! Pass that ol’ Jimmie Johnson and leave him in the dust!”

Then she let out a soft groan and doubled over.

“What’s wrong?” I put down my iced-tea glass. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” She waved me away. “That chicken must a woke up! Don’t worry ‘bout me.”

Then Jeff Gordon crashed with Vic Priestly, and we all turned back to the TV screen. Tim stood up, arguing with the commentators and waving his arms. Plopped back down in frustration, slapping his knee.

And then Becky, “Ow!” Sharper this time.

Tim and I both turned. “Sugar? What’s wrong?”

She sat up again, brow wrinkled. “I don’t know. Prob’ly nothin’. I just … felt some pain outta nowhere. Just some cramps, I reckon.”

We turned back to the TV, but something niggled in my brain. I watched her profile out of the corner of my eye as she sipped her tea and followed the race. Cheered when Tony Stewart sailed past Vic Priestly into first place. But she massaged her belly as if something still hurt.

Kyle Busch cut off Juan Montoya with a buzz of tires, grabbing third—and then Becky’s face furrowed in pain, so strong she gasped.

She frowned and stood up. “I’ll just use the bathroom real quick.”

The race shifted to a commercial break, and Tim and I followed her, exchanging silent glances. Cold uneasiness crept over me, like when I’d seen shadows on the trail in Winchester.

“Go on! Y’all don’t have to listen!” Becky called through the closed door.

“What?” Tim hollered back. “Cain’t hear ya! We was just listenin’ ta Becky use the bathroom!”

I chuckled and emptied another ice-cube tray into the pitcher. Sweet tea sure made us go through ice awfully fast.

The race came back on, but neither Tim nor I made a move for the living room. Becky hadn’t come out yet, and I busied myself with washing the table, trying not work myself up and upset Tim. But I worried. Especially when I heard her groan in pain again. And give a sharp cry.

“Baby?” He rapped at the door anxiously. “You okay?”

No answer. Then a weak, “Yeah, I think so. I just don’t know why I … oh no. Oh no. That ain’t good. Oh God! Tim?” She opened the door a crack and peeked out with scared eyes. “I’m bleedin’!”

“Bleedin’? You mean … sweetie? You think …?”

Becky doubled over again, looking pale. “I think we’d better …”

I felt cold all over so quickly goose bumps prickled on my arms.

“Let’s go! Right now!” He helped her put her shoes on, coaching her to take it easy. Put her arms through her jacket and zipped it up in such a gentle way it nearly made me cry. “Shiloh, I’m sorry ta bail on ya, but—”

“I’m going!” I shouted. “Just get in the car! I’ll drive you!”

“But yer all banged up, an’ Gordon’s here….”

“Get in the car!” I ordered. “Gordon’ll be fine. You take care of Becky. Just tell me how to get there.”

And we bolted into the rainy evening.

I drove as fast as I could, Tim and Becky sitting in the back, praying in low tones. Fingers laced together. Becky’s groans punctuating the swish of wet tires.

I stopped at a red light, windshield wipers swashing back and forth, and prayed myself. Wished I could send out a red alert for everybody to pray at top speed. Maybe numbers made a difference—like in finances.

The hospital hid in the middle of nowhere, clear on the other side of the county—or state. I wasn’t sure which. I pushed the Civic as fast as possible on the rainy roads, gripping the steering wheel until my nails dug into my palms.

The baby’s fine! You’ll see!
I calmed myself into a numb oblivion, pressing the accelerator and signaling and watching for signs. Squealed into the hospital parking lot and unloaded Beckyand Tim at the front door.

“I’ll find you.” I squeezed her hand tight. “Don’t worry! Just get in there! Everything’s going to be all right.”

I parked the car, shaking all over, and then rushed inside the spacey-looking complex of white, metal, and glass. Sat down on the hard hospital seat and clasped my hands tightly together and waited. And waited. And waited.

I tried not to look at the people around me, all in various stages of worry or stress. This made my second visit—in one weekend—to the emergency room. My stomach heaved at the smell of antiseptic.

I called Faye. Called Adam. Sat riveted to the seat, waiting for any movement from the emergency-room door. Waited for Tim to come out with a grin, telling me Becky had swallowed a fly or some silly joke. All would be fine. We could go home, recap the race, feed Gordon, and get up tomorrow smiling.

Please, God … please, God …
I prayed, hands wrapped around my still-throbbing abdomen and half-thawed peas, which did little to relieve the pain. Two children played with blocks in a corner, the girl’s blond hair in pigtails.

Please, please, God …

Time dragged on, and I ached. Shivered in air-conditioned blast. Wrapped my jacket tighter and wished I’d brought some aspirin or a fresh bag of peas.

Faye called, on her way, and Adam promised he’d leave as soon as his dad arrived to stay with Rick.

Adam and I texted back and forth:

A
NYTHING?

N
OTHING
.

A
NY WORD YET?

N
O
. I
‘LL LET YOU KNOW
.

The white ceiling and beams screamed futility. People walked