A Day Late And A Dollar Short Part 34

I open my eyes as wide as I can, 'cause it seem like maybe some air might get behind 'em and slide all the way down to my lungs, but it don't work, and when I look at Loretta she know exacdy what I'm saying, 'cause she say, "Don't worry. I won't forget. Now, shush, and relax. Do what they tell you to do, Vy. Come on, sweetie."

"Granny!" Shanice is crying and I can't take her seeing me like this.

"Shanice, sweetheart, come on out here and let these nice men help your granny, dear. Come on." Loretta puts her arms around my granddaughter and now my eyes just say thank you and she put her finger over her mouth to tell me to shush-up again, her favorite thing when she think I'm running my mouth too much, and I shake my head real fast to tell her that's what I'm about to do. Is shut up. And be quiet. But thank you for taking my granddaughter outta here. Thank you for being such a good friend, Loretta. I hope she saw all that in my eyes.

Now something is going down my throat and I know this is that other stuff they try when the first one don't work. "Her blood pressure's hypertensive: 170 over 104; and the pulse is tachycardia 160. And we have ectopy on the heart monitor. Let's watch her for a second. If no change, let's do another albuteral. How you doing, ma'am?"

All I can do is shake my head back and forth, and I think I got this whole sheet balled up in my hand. It's too hot in here. Can't somebody open a d.a.m.n window?

"Ma'am, I'm gonna give you a shot in the arm. But I need you to sit still. And then we're gonna give you an IV and put you on the gurney and we're gonna take you to the hospital, all right? Try to relax and we'll have you there in a few minutes."

I wish he would stop saying that! How in the h.e.l.l can I relax when I can't breathe? I feel 'em sticking me with more than one needle but for some reason it don't hurt. Now I feel like I'm about to gag, and, sure enough, here come that spaghetti.

"Oh, no, she's vomiting!"

My head is thick and hot and now I know I won't get no more air. Even when I feel that other tube coming down my throat I know this ain't gon' work either. When they pick me up and put me on that gurney and strap me in and prop my head up, something cold slides between my legs. It's usually colder than this. My hands is puffing up. My arms is, too. I'm swelling.

One fella picks up a litde telephone and says, "Base, this is Rescue 4. I'm in route to your facility. Code 3. My ETA is two minutes. Have a patient with a severe asthma attack. Does not appear to be getting better with the treatment given." And then he hangs up and looks down at me. "Hang in there, ma'am, you're gonna be just fine."

I know he lying. But it's okay. It really is okay. Ain't no use fighting it no more. As much as I wanna stay and move into my new condo and go on my cruise with Loretta, this feel so much easier to do. It don't take no energy. It don't take no strength. Why'm I feeling so much better all of a sudden? It feel like I don't even need to breathe. Lord, this is nice. This is so nice.

"She's unconscious. Her heart rate's dropping and she's turning blue."

I ain't unconscious. And I ain't turning blue either. What island is that over there, Loretta? Is that Jamaica or St. Thomas? Where the h.e.l.l we at today, girl? Yeah, I'll play a litde bridge, but only after we do some putting. Wait a minute. We home already? Cecil? You in there, baby? I know. I know. I do, I still do. You should know that. But I want you to be happy, especially after all this time. Right now, I'm happy. I don't think I ever been this happy before. I feel good. Just like I did right before I went into labor with Paris. My head is crystal-clear. I feel like I could fly and float and turn a few flips if I wanted to. Right this minute. I could. I know I could. I feel warm and cool at the same time. Soft. Moist and lush. Like Chicago on a hot afternoon right after a good thunderstorm. Whew. What kind'a medicine they done gave me? Lord, give me some more. Give me as much as you want me to have, 'cause right now, right this very second, it feel like I got everything I need. I don't know why it took me so long to get here. Why I been resisting all these years. When I coulda had this smoothness. This calm. This ease. I can't hardly describe it. I never woulda believed it would feel like this. And it's okay. I like this. I ain't worried about nothing right now. Except my kids. Lord, what they gon' do? Please don't let 'em take this too hard. Please don't let 'em fall apart. Please let 'em remember everything I taught 'em. Let 'em find their places-the place that was carved just for them since they was born. Don't let 'em hurt too much. And especially each other. Let 'em know that the one thing they'll always have is each other. And please let 'em find out what happiness feel like. Let 'em have every drop of my courage, my guts, my strength, 'cause I ain't gon' need none of it no more. Give what I had left to all four of 'em. Help 'em to remember how to backstroke and b.r.e.a.s.t.stroke instead of just treading water. And please, whatever y'all do, don't drown and don't let nothing or n.o.body make you sink to the bottom. Y'all supposed to rise to the top, 'cause that's how I raised you. That's how I raised all four of you. To be good. And then, be even better than that. To yourself. To each other. And to everybody that mean something to you. Don't forget that I loved y'all with every breath in my body, and if I had it to do all over again-all over again-know that each one of y'all could have this last breath, too.

Chapter 26.

Why Am I Wearing My Mama's Shoes I should be ashamed of myself. The phrase "shop till you drop" does not apply to me because I'm still standing. But, then again, this hotel room is small, and not by any stretch of the imagination even close to the standard suite size I'm used to staying in, in the States. But, if this were, say, a typical woman's side of a California walk-in closet (which is pretty much what it feels like), it would probably be close to full. It's wall-to-wall hat- boxes, garment and shopping bags, so many that I actually have to brush my way through a sea of tissue paper just to get to the bathroom.

How am I going to get all this s.h.i.+t home? I have to save the pretty bags for Mama, because she collects them. She brags (and, from what I gather, sometimes even lies) to her bowling buddies that she's shopped in these stores, but mostly she carries them like an extra purse to draw attention, because not only do they come in such an amazing a.s.sortment of colors, but the embossed name screams out that it's not from any store in Vegas.

I kick one of the hatboxes so that the top flips off. When I see orange, I actually giggle. I can't even remember buying an orange hat, but I don't care right now because I've had so much fun these past five days I can hardly stand it. Everyone's been so gracious and hospitable. They're all ethnically diverse chefs and restaurateurs, and they certainly know how to cook-in every sense of the word. I've eaten East, West, and South African food; East Indian dishes like I've never tasted anywhere; the spiciest, tangiest, most sensuous Jamaican fare ever, and some of the meals were prepared in private homes! I even got a chance to taste authentic Vietnamese food, although over here they call it "Eurasian"-which makes no sense to me, but it was better than any Pan-Pacific food I'd ever had.

Last night, Bernard, a Grenadian chef, took me to some nightclub where half-dressed men and women danced in cages that hung from the ceiling. The music was thumping and I wore this "s.l.u.tty" hot-pink dress I bought on Sloane Street with a pair of FM pumps that I know Charlotte would just die for. I danced so hard and long that I finally had to take them off. That was at four o'clock this morning. It felt good dancing like a madwoman. I felt like I was twenty-five again. I need to get out more often. It didn't take me all night to realize that. And I vowed to do just that when I get home. Once a month: go dancing. Even if I have to go by myself!

As I sit here in this yellow, white, and blue floral room, it feels like I'm waking up from a dream. I've spent a ton of money, done some real damage, but I enjoyed every minute of it. At home, I never splurge. Always trying to do what makes sense. For some reason I don't understand, I didn't feel like holding back.

I'm also feeling very s.e.xy here, like I should've brought something satin or lacy to sleep in, but of course I didn't. What would be the point? As I kick off these slingbacks, I look around and realize I probably need to buy two more suitcases.

I got something for everybody. Mama's hat came from Harrods and she's going to love that green bag! I got Daddy some hand-rolled cigars from Covent Garden. Shanice: an outfit from some teenybopper boutique. Right this minute, I can't remember exacdy what I bought Charlotte, Lewis, and Janelle. Dingus gets underwear from Marks & Spencer, and a weird pair of jeans. I wonder what he's doing? Probably with Jason.

I pick up the phone and call home to see if I have any personal messages, since I haven't checked in four whole days. I'm not even going to bother calling my business line, because I don't want to know. Only three messages! At first I feel relieved, and then, immediately, unpopular. Where are my stupid pills? I drag the phone over to the table next to the sofa, open the drawer, move the Bible, and push my hand back until I feel the botde. The name on the prescription is Dingus's. Right before I was leaving to come here, I had exhausted all my "sources" for refills, but I remembered that during spring training Dingus had torn a ligament in his Achilles tendon and then, two weeks later, strained his hip flexor, so his doctor wrote two different prescriptions: an anti-inflammatory for swelling and Vicodin for pain. I took the Vicodin, because Dingus said he didn't like the way it made him feel. I wish I had that problem. There was one refill on it, and after that I called the doctor and told him that Dingus had had a litde setback, that he'd been taking the one medication called Vicodin, and since it seemed to be alleviating his pain, would he mind giving him another refill. And here they are. I take one. I'm afraid if I take two I'll run out while I'm here and then I'll be up s.h.i.+t's creek.

The first message is a hang-up. And then I hear the s.e.xy voice of the infamous landscaper who disappeared off the face of the earth. This better be good. "h.e.l.lo, Paris. This is Randall Jamison calling. I know you're probably angry as I don't know what at me and you have every right to be. But, please, hear me out. First, I want to apologize and let you know that this is not how I normally do business. I mean, because you entrusted me with such a large project, I think I owe it to you to be honest and just tell you what's been going on in my life. I've been going through a nasty divorce and custody batde with my wife, who happens to have a huge substance- abuse problem. And to top it off, I just found out that she's been robbing the business blind behind my back. I've been so stressed out that it's taken all my time and energy to get everything straightened out and under control again."

Beep.

"It's Randall again. Your machine cut me off. Anyway, Paris, I truly apologize for any inconvenience I've caused you, and I will make it up to you. I promise to finish your yard in the next two months, and I'm willing to do the koi pond at cost. So, if you haven't fired me already, I'll actually be refunding some of your money, and real soon. I have a daughter. She's ten, and I hope 1 end up being her new mother and father, if the courts recognize the situation she's in. Anyway, I've rattled on and on, and it's only because I don't want you to kick me to the curb on a professional level. I can't wait for you to see how beautiful your yard's going to be. I won't disappoint you, I promise. So-I hope to hear from you real soon. But, please, don't be another person calling to cuss me out. Could you just pretend to be my friend and leave me a nice message? Take care, Paris. Bye."

Holy s.h.i.+t. I press the three b.u.t.ton and listen to the entire message again. Wow. A divorce? Whew. And his wife's a substance abuser? d.a.m.n. I sit down on the couch and then jump up and open the drapes and look out at Hyde Park. It's raining again. But I don't care. We must've spent at least ten or twelve hours going to different nurseries looking for plants and trees, and I admit that I looked forward to each time. We talked about everything from why we do what we do to what we love about living in the Bay Area. We even debated about why it's not too late for either of us to have another child. He was rather convincing. In a warm, sincere way. I wonder what kind of substance she's been abusing? Or was it more than one? Oh, what difference does it make? And just how long have I been taking Vicodin? s.h.i.+t. Almost a year.

Something told me Randall wasn't a flake. Maybe I could stand to trust my instincts more. Even still, I decide to call him when I get back to California, which is only two days from now. It's going to take all the strength I have to wait. I get under the covers, afraid to close my eyes because, if I do, Randall's going to be under this floral comforter waiting for me, and right now I'm not in the mood for pretending. Not when there may be a possibility that I-the Petrified Woman-might actually have a real opportunity to perhaps do more than smell a man up close.

I wake up starving. I look over at the clock and can't believe it's quarter to ten. For some stupid reason, before brus.h.i.+ng my teeth and was.h.i.+ng my face like a normal person, I find myself opening the Harrods hatbox. Mama's going to die when she sees this one! I put it on and look at myself in the mirror. This is a tough hat, anyway you look at it: it's black velvet and looks like a tamer version of a Dr. Seuss hat. It's not working for me. Not with this tired hairstyle. This wet and wavy look has played out, and I'm due for a new one so bad I can smell it.

I open a shoe box and try on a pair of hot-pink, mint-green, and lavender sandals. Mama and Charlotte both would have a stroke if they saw these babies! All three of us have shoe fetishes and even wear the same size. How'd that happen, I wonder?

I'm still starving. That much I do know. I'm just about to dial Room Service when the phone rings, scaring the h.e.l.l out of me. Who in the world would be calling me here? It can only be one of three people, and it's 3 a. M. back there. "h.e.l.lo," I say, cautiously, hoping it's a wrong number or someone with a British accent.

"Is that you, Paris?"

Whoever it is, is not British. "Yes, who's this?" I ask. It sounds like I've heard this voice before, but I can't quite place it right now.

"It's your mom's friend Loretta, dear."

My heart drops.

"Miss Loretta? What's wrong, did something happen to Mama? Please don't tell me something's happened to her?"

"She's at the hospital, dear. She's all right. I was here with Shanice when the paramedics took her about a half-hour ago, but we couldn't find a number anywhere for Cecil, and then Shanice told me where your number was, and the next thing I know I hear her starting up Viola's car, and when I look out the window she's following behind the ambulance. I didn't know what to do, so I called you first, and I'm going to go on down to the hospital to get her and then call her mother."

I think I'm hearing things, but I know I'm listening to Miss Loretta's voice right here at the Dorchester Hotel in London, England, where it is raining outside. Just to be on the safe side, I ask: "What did you just say?"

"It's all right, dear. I'm sorry to call you at this hour. What rime is it there?"

"I don't know. What hospital is Mama in, Miss Loretta?"

"Sunrise," she says, and then gives me the number.

"I'll call you back. Thanks, Miss Loretta."

I don't wait for her to say goodbye, because my heart is beating so fast I can hear it. 1 dial the hospital but it doesn't go through. 1 try again. No good. Why is it taking so f.u.c.king long to get an outside line? I finally get one and as soon as someone answers, 1 just say: "Emergency Room, please."

They transfer me, and then a nurse comes on. "I'm calling about my mother, Viola Price. Is she all right?"

"Hold on a minute, ma'am, and I'll put the doctor on."

I bite my bottom lip while I wait for what seems like an eternity, and then I hear a man's voice. "This is Dr. Glover."

"Yes, this is Paris Price. I'm Viola Price's daughter. Is my mama there?"

"Yes she is."

"Is she going to be okay?"

"Yes, your mother's going to be okay. But, unfortunately, she's not going to be okay in this world."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well, she's pa.s.sed on."

What did he just say? I know he didn't just say what I thought he said. Did he just say "she's pa.s.sed on"? Did he? No. Yes he did. He just said that my mama has pa.s.sed on. Pa.s.sed on to where? To what? Why? Wait a f.u.c.king minute, here. I take a deep breath, but it feels like helium has somehow gotten into my head and it's spinning a million miles a second, so I blow air b.a.l.l.s out in spurts and try to control myself, because I know I'm hearing things, I know that this man pretending to be a doctor on the phone did not say what I thought he just said. "What did you just say?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Price. But in my fourteen years as a doctor, I've never had to do this over the phone. I'm so very sorry."

"So you're telling me that my mama has died?"

"Yes, she has."

I sit here for what feels like forever, and then what the doctor has said registers in my brain, but then I want to know something else. "Did she suffer long?"

"No, she didn't. It happened very quickly. I can a.s.sure you of that."

How long is very quickly? And how does he know she didn't suffer? My stomach starts heaving in and out and won't stop. It feels the same way it did when I was sixteen and I'd pitched a fast ball to Esther Was.h.i.+ngton and she hit it anyway, a line drive right to my navel at about forty miles an hour, and knocked the wind out of me. Just like now. I press both hands against my belly to stop it from jerking, but it doesn't help, because now I'm crying so hard I can hardly breathe. What happened to the air in here? And my shoulders hurt. Now they're burning. And my chest feels like somebody just stuck me with an ice pick. Stop this! She can't be dead. My mama's not dead. She can't be. I just bought her a new hat and a new pair of shoes and she has to wear them. She has to. She asked for the hat, but the shoes are a surprise. I want to surprise her. I love surprising her. My mama cannot possibly be dead. She's only fifty-five f.u.c.king years old! She has asthma. She's had lots of asthma attacks and survived them all. Other people's mothers die when they're old. My mother is not old, so this has got to be some kind of mistake.

I think I may have let out a long howl, I don't know. I do know that now my stomach is s.h.i.+vering and my hands have no feeling whatsoever, which is why I suppose the phone falls to the floor and stays there until I'm able to stop screaming and crying. When I do, I look around this room. What an ugly room it is. Too many flowers. Everything's so f.u.c.king bright. And why did I spend so much money on all this bulls.h.i.+t I don't need? That n.o.body needs. I mean, who really gives a s.h.i.+t what color my sandals are or how many hats I wear? Who gives a f.u.c.k if I wear a Vivienne Westwood scarf or a dress from Voyage or a slick silver coat from Harvey Nichols, or that I bought black caviar and quail from Harrods? Who really gives a flying f.u.c.k?

I look down at the phone and pick it up in what feels like slow motion. I'm surprised the doctor's still on the line. I grab my prescription botde and pop two pills and swallow them dry before I press the phone against my ear. I can't tell if it's cool or warm.

"Your mother's friend Loretta Susskind is on her way here to pick up your niece to take her home with her. I understand you have other siblings?"

"Siblings?" I reach for the gla.s.s of water I had last night and swallow some. It's warm. This much I do know.

"Yes. I'm positive Mrs. Susskind's calling the litde girl's mother, but will you be able to call the others?"

"Me? Did I tell you I'm in London?"

"No. My gosh. Look, I can call them if you're not up to it."

Before 1 can even think about how I'm going to do it, I simply say, "I'll call them."

"Okay, then. And, Miss Price, you might want to start making arrangements."

"Arrangements? Arrangements for what?"

"Funeral services. If that was your mother's wish."

Arrangements? Funeral services? Wish? Funeral services for who? Who died? I mean, n.o.body's dead here. Is this the Make a Wish Foundation call? Is that what this is about? Because, if not, this has got to be some kind of huge, I mean huniongous mistake. I know it is, because somebody has just called here and played a dirty rotten trick on me and told me that my mama has died.

The next thing I know, I hear myself say, "Goodbye," and I hang up. Did I say thank you? I don't know. And what exactly would I thank him for? I bite my tongue to see if I can feel it, and it hurts. I look down at the phone again. Didn't I just have it up to my ear? And didn't Miss Loretta call and tell me to call the hospital? Did I actually do that? Did I really talk to a Dr. Glover and he said that my mother has pa.s.sed on? That my mother is dead?

I think he did. Didn't he? I sit on the edge of the bed and lick my lips until the salty taste of blood and tears are gone. I look over at the clock. It's ten after eleven. I look down at my feet. Why am I wearing my mama's shoes? I take them off and begin to put them back in the box. She's going to love these babies. I just know it. I know what she likes. I know her taste in things. But as soon as I lift the lid to the box, I look at my hands and realize that I'm still holding the phone. I blink five or six times to make sure I'm still in this hotel room, and then I pinch my arm to make sure I'm still alive. I am. And I'm surprised.

I take the phone with me over to the window and look out at that park. The gra.s.s is glistening green. The leaves on the trees are, too. I'm so cold I'm trembling. But all I can do is stand here and watch drops of clear water roll down this window until I'm blind. Unril I'm frozen. When I do move, I collapse against the wall, grab the drape, and wrap it around me until I begin to feel warm. I hold it like this until it feels like I'm in my mama's arms again. I squeeze so hard that, when the drape comes off the rod and drops to the floor, I do, too. Once I get here, I look around this room again. I stare until all the flowers on these walls, these chairs, and the sofa begin to wilt and die and I cry dry tears because I feel vacant inside, like a thief has stolen something from me that no one can ever replace, like the best part of me has just evaporated.

Chapter 27.

Sorry "Ma, what's all this stuff about?" Tiffany's sitting at the kitchen table, where I got all the information I sent away for from the International Correspondence Schools spread out.

"It's career information."

"What kinda career? Look like a whole lotta different ones here. They look like stamps!" And she starts laughing. But ain't nothing funny about it to me.

"Just don't mess it up. Where's Trevor? I wanna know where he put my lottery ticket. The drawing'll be on in fifteen minutes."

"Which one of these do you like, Ma? You gotta have some idea."

"I'm thinking about catering or learning how to be a gourmet chef. I don't know."

"You mean like what Auntie Paris do in California?"

"No! I would do my business different. I definitely wouldn't do it like her. Monique! Please close that door while you practicing that flute tonight, 'cause I got a headache and can't even hear myself think."

"Why not? She make a lotta money."

I hear the upstairs door slam. "Because I got ideas of my own."

"Like what?"

"Why don't you stop bugging me, Tiffany?"

"Ma, I just asked you a simple question. Dag."

She's right. But, h.e.l.l, I ain't got no answers right now. Kids is so nosy. Ask too many questions at the wrong rime. But. What I ain't told none of 'em is, I bought a book on mail-order businesses and read it cover to cover and I'm having a consultation with this lady tomorrow who'll listen to my ideas and sign a piece of paper to make sure she don't steal none of 'em and she'l l t ell me if she think any of 'em can work. But one of my ideas is in her book, so how could I go wrong? "Okay, let me ask you a question, Miss Grown-a.s.s?"

"Ma, please don't call me that."

"Okay. You right. Sorry. What do you think you wanna be when you grow up?"

"I don't know."

"Think about it for one whole minute."

"Dag, Ma. How'm I supposed to know? I'm only thirteen."