Intertwined, p.8
Intertwined, page 8
“No, what you need is a big ol’ hug followed by a clear course of action.” She paused. “Look at that! Tammy Lynn, you never told me your neighbor Mrs. Greenland was pregnant! How cute she looks! We should bake her something.”
“What? Mom, where are you?”
“At your house, dear, like I told you.”
Chapter 12
Tammy rounded the corner, and her eyes widened. You’ve got to be kidding me. Her parents’ RV—all forty feet of it—sat in her driveway.
“Yay,” Tylan squealed. “Nana and Poppa.”
Becky glanced up from her permanent appendage—her phone. “Are we going camping?”
“No.” Please tell me this is a pit stop.
Dad stood near her garage door, shielding his eyes and peering at the gutters. He’d have a ladder out by the end of the day.
A few feet away, Mom fiddled with a flowerbed on the porch. A soft-sided cooler rested against the siding next to a paper grocery bag. Filled with what? Feel-better cupcakes?
Tammy’s grip tightened around the steering wheel as she eased to the curb and cut the engine.
Upon seeing her, Mom strolled over, grinning and waving. The kids tumbled out. Becky ran to Nana, Tylan to Poppa. Tammy shuffled along behind them, working her stiff face into a smile.
Okay. So, she’d have company. For an extended period, apparently. Could be fun. Good for Tylan and Becky. Maybe God knew they needed some extra snuggles and kisses.
Tammy approached Mom first and gave her a sideways hug. “Hey. How are you?”
“Oh, sweet pea.” Mom opened her arms wide and wrapped them around Tammy, her hand pressing against the back of Tammy’s head. The familiar scent of almond-cherry lotion swept over her, triggering the threat of tears.
Don’t fall apart now. And whatever you do, don’t show signs of weakness. That’d trigger Mom’s hovering instincts faster than a flame to kerosene.
Inhaling, she blinked and pulled away. She turned to Dad. “Good to see you.” Despite the sixty-plus temperature, he wore his favorite shorts—teal Bermudas with pink palm trees—topped with a faded Seahawks T-shirt. A lopsided straw hat covered his bald head.
“Been too long, huh? How’s my favorite daughter?” He engulfed her in what was more of a headlock than a hug.
“I’m your only daughter.” The youngest of three, the others boys, and hence the reason both parents treated her like a princess in need of rescue. She’d spent her entire life trying to prove otherwise. Any progress she’d made had been shattered by her divorce.
Dad gripped her shoulders and studied her face, his eyes soft. “How you doing?” He stared at her for a moment.
“I’m good.”
He continued to stare at her, his mouth quivering as if he didn’t believe her and was searching for something to say.
Wanting to alleviate his papa-bear turmoil, Tammy soft-punched him in the gut, then looped her arm through his. “How was your trip to the Rocky Mountains?” They strolled up the walk, Mom and the kids following.
“Too much hiking for this old man.” Shaking his head, he lumbered up the porch steps, favoring his right leg.
Behind them, Tylan chattered about Saturday’s little league game while Becky fired a zillion questions in rapid succession. Mom responded to both of them with ease, alternating from praises to “I don’t see why not.”
Tammy’s cell rang. Great Grandmother Lotus’s number flashed across the screen. She rolled her eyes. “Mom, how many people have you contacted?”
“Unlock the door, will you, dear?” Mom touched her elbow. “I’ve got perishables in there.” She motioned toward the cooler.
Mom and Dad hovered over the welcome mat while Tylan rang the doorbell incessantly.
Tammy dug in her purse for her keys and engaged the lock. She opened the door and froze, her gaze sweeping across the cluttered living room. The kids’ cereal bowls sat on the coffee table, Tylan’s blanket on the couch. Shoes—like eight pairs—lay scattered across the floor, along with a pair of grass-stained socks. “I . . . uh, I haven’t had a chance to clean up yet.” She glanced over her shoulder, catching Mom’s hint of a frown.
“Don’t you worry about a thing.” Mom patted her on the shoulder, then scooped up her bags with a grunt. “That’s what I’m here for. To manage the house while you rest, which is exactly what you need, rest. And time to reevaluate.” She wiggled past Tammy and headed to the kitchen while Dad and the kids migrated to the living room.
Reevaluate? Translation—concede to their wishes, which included quitting her job, selling her home, ripping her kids out of the schools they knew and loved, and moving them three hundred miles from their father and into a 700-square-foot, musty basement. Not happening, no matter how long and hard they nagged her.
Cupboards banged in the kitchen. Following the sound, Tammy found Mom digging through spices and bowls. Large quantities of food would soon follow. The one bright spot in her otherwise frustrating Sunday.
Tammy moved to the archway. “Dad, can I get you something to drink?”
He waved her off and bopped Tylan on the head with a pillow. This initiated war, and soon shrieks and squeals filled the house. Tammy smiled. Annoying or not, this would be good. Their house could use more laughter, and the slight scent of Arthricream. At least her babysitting dilemma was solved. For now.
She crossed the kitchen and started to help Mom unload. “So, how long are you staying?”
“As long as you need, darling.”
Needed for what? To change her mind or find childcare? But there was no sense initiating the debate. The subject would arise soon enough.
Mom pulled a freezer bag filled with raw meat from the cooler. She held it up, inspected it, and then set it on the counter.
“What’s with the spiced beef?”
“Lunch.”
“I’ve got thawed chicken in the fridge.”
Mother shrugged and continued pulling items from her cooler—a green bean mixture in a lidded baking pan, spices, a bag of red potatoes, and cooking wine.
Tammy reached for a paring knife, but her mother smacked her hand. “Uh-uh. You relax, dear. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No.” Tammy leaned against the counter. “It’s been three years, Mom, and we haven’t died yet.”
“I know, dear, and I know how hard you’ve tried to stand on your own, but there’s no shame in asking for help.”
“Speaking of.” Tammy crossed her arms. “Thanks for enlisting my church elders in your ‘Save Tammy’ campaign.”
Mom sucked in a deep breath and pressed steepled hands to her lips. “Let me get lunch going, then we’ll talk.”
That was one conversation she wasn’t looking forward to.
Three hours and two lectures later, Tammy rubbed her temples and glanced at the clock on the microwave.
Sitting at the kitchen table beside her, Dad reached over and rubbed her back. “Listen to your mother. It’s for the best. For you and the kids.”
Mom nodded. “Maybe you could even go back to school. Change careers, find one with more reasonable hours.”
“You and Dad have given me a lot to think about.”
Mother smiled and patted her hand. “Good.”
If she avoided the conversation long enough, would they give up?
Nick sat at Payton’s bedside, the steady beep of the machines thudding in his brain. He stood and moved to the window, staring mindlessly at the endless stream of cars on the streets below. People pumping gas, buying and gorging on fast food, fighting with their kids.
Footsteps clicked behind him. He turned to see Melissa, one of the nurses, holding a food tray.
“Hungry?” She glanced at the bedside table where another tray sat, barely touched.
Nick shook his head, staring at the handmade sign propped against an unopened milk carton. Jeremy had brought it that morning. Poor kid. Nick’s mom said the boy had barely slept the night before, plagued by one nightmare after another. If Payton didn’t pull through . . . A sharp pain stabbed at his chest, stealing his breath.
“Can I get you anything else?” the nurse asked.
He shook his head again. No sense telling her he wasn’t hungry.
She replaced one tray with the other, watched him for a moment longer, then left.
He stared at the food, his stomach alternating between cramps and convulsions. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich lay beside apple slices. Unable to stomach solids, he grabbed the pint of orange juice instead.
Returning to the window, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Dark shadows hung below his dull eyes, his skin ashen beneath course whiskers. Taking a swig of juice, he glanced at the travel bag his mother had brought. Eventually he’d need to shower, change, brush his teeth.
Check on the restaurant.
He pulled his phone from his back pocket to dial Chef Rictor. A missed call flashed on the screen. An unfamiliar number with a Woodland Pines area code. He played the message.
“Hi. It’s Tammy. I . . . Call me back.”
He paused with his finger over her return number. He wasn’t in the mood for a social call or to field questions asking how he was doing. He called the restaurant instead.
After four rings, Nick started to hang up when Chef Rictor’s voice came on.
“Hello? Er . . . I mean”—he cleared his throat—“thank you for calling the Flaming Mesquite, home of the best steaks south of the river. May I help you?”
“Hey, Rictor, it’s Nick.”
“Oh. Any news?”
“No. The doctors said Payton could come out of his coma at any time or he could . . .” He swallowed past a lump in his throat. “Or he could remain in his current state, indefinitely.” He looked back toward his son, staring at the squiggly lines stretched across the EEG machine. “How are things there?”
“The fire marshal came out, did a thorough inspection.”
“They find the cause of the fire?”
“The deep fryer’s high-limit switch failed.”
Nick closed his dreary eyes, trying to process through a thick fog of fatigue. He really needed to go down and survey the damage for himself, get a repair crew out there. “Did it spread past the hood and duct system?”
“A little, but not much, thanks to our meticulous cleaning. The guy said it could’ve been worse—used the opportunity to lecture us on fire prevention.”
“What’s the damage?” “Minus the swamp caused by the sprinkler system?” Rictor gave a hollow chuckle.
Nick leaned against the wall, still watching his son. How much could Rictor handle? “Could you get some people out there, gather a few estimates for me?”
“I don’t know, bro. The marshal said you’d need to get some kind of renovation permits and construction applications. Would the city let me do that? Maybe you could give me power of attorney or something.”
Nick rubbed the back of his neck. “No. I’ll take care of it.”
“I don’t mean to sound forward, but . . .” Rictor paused. “Do you got the capital to make it through this?”
Translation—will I still have a job once this is over?
Nick wasn’t the only one with bills to pay. He sighed, his breath reverberating in the mouthpiece. “We’ll figure it out.”
Fire damage was just the beginning. Each day the restaurant stayed closed, he lost more money. And with mounting medical bills, he didn’t have a dime to spare.
“Yeah, that’d be good. The crew’s getting nervous, talking about unemployment and all that garbage. I told them not to worry—that you had our backs.”
“Thanks, Rictor. I’ll call you later.” Tucking his phone back into his pocket, he sank into the chair.
Lord, give me strength because I’m about to break.
Chapter 13
Tammy stretched and rolled on her side. Birds chirped outside her bedroom window, the morning sun slanting through cracked blinds. Bunching the pillows under her head, she smiled and closed her eyes. She hadn’t felt this rested in weeks.
Except today was Monday.
She bolted upright and checked her clock. Nine thirty.
Ugh. Her alarm never went off. The kids would be late for school. And had probably already torn the house apart. A lovely start to her week.
Shucking the blankets, she sprang out of bed and slipped on her bathrobe. She paused at the door and cocked her head. A steady hum drifted from the living room and pounding came from somewhere beyond. She sighed.
Mom and Dad.
Squaring her shoulders, she smoothed her tangled hair behind her ears and emerged with what she hoped resembled a smile. Her mother stood with her back to Tammy, running a vacuum across the same patch of carpet. Her cleaning bucket filled with sprays, rags, and polish, sat on the end table.
Tammy turned toward the sound of clanking metal and shook her head.
Dad, what are you doing?
Propped against the outside glass of her living room window stood an old rusted ladder. All that showed of her dad were his stained tennis shoes and hairy legs, from ankle to wrinkled knees. While he worked, blobs of decaying leaves plunked to the porch.
That explains the pounding.
Propping her hands on her hips, she glanced around the immaculate living room. “Where’re the kids?”
Mom continued to vacuum, head bobbing as she belted out an old hymn.
Tammy approached and tapped her shoulder.
She squealed and whirled around, eyes wide before crinkling into a smile. She flicked off the vacuum. “Good morning, sweet pea.” She planted a slobbery kiss to her check. “You sleep well?”
“Too well. Where are Becky and Tylan?”
“At school.” She said it matter-of-factly, as if this was to be expected, like it’d been her responsibility to see them off.
There was another loud clank and a yell. Tammy turned to see her gutter dangling, brown gook splattered across the window.
Mom turned and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Wilbert, you be careful!”
Dad lumbered down the ladder, shirt dusted with decaying leaf matter. He flashed a grin and a thumbs up sign.
Shaking her head, her mom turned back to Tammy. “I told him to call someone, but no. Had to do it himself, the old penny-pincher.”
Tammy tensed. I’m not a child in need of rescue. “I appreciate the help, but . . .” She glanced at a stack of laundry on the couch, her folded underwear on top. “How long have you been up, anyway?”
Mom gave a flick of her hand. “Since five, maybe five thirty. You hungry?”
“Not really.” She glanced from her mother to her bedroom. “Did you turn off my alarm?”
Mom smiled. “I knew you needed the rest. Now,” she crossed the room and pulled a Bible from her book bag, “how about you have some sweet time with Jesus while I cook you up some eggs and sausage?”
Grown woman, here. Thirty-eight years old. “I’ve got my own Bible, and like I said, I’m not hungry.”
Her mother frowned, staring at her for a long moment before closing the distance between them. She grabbed Tammy’s hands. “I worried this might happen.”
Tammy sighed. “What’s that?”
“You’re depressed.”
“What?” Tammy snorted. “I’m not depressed.”
“Of course you are.” Releasing her hands, Mom wrapped her in a hug. “But that’s why we’re here. For as long as you need. In fact . . .” She returned to her tote bag and pulled out a thin book with a gray cover. “I picked this up for you.”
Battling Depression: A Step-by-Step Guide.
There was another clank, followed by more cascading leaf splatter, as the rest of the gutter came crashing down.
“Mom, listen . . .”
“Yes, dear?”
She studied at her mother for a long moment then huffed. “Never mind.” It wasn’t worth breaking Mom’s heart. So Tammy would wake to the sound of vacuum cleaners and falling gutters. And the extra sleep had been nice.
“I need a bath.” Choosing a moment of self-imposed isolation over much needed coffee, Tammy shuffled back into her bedroom. She headed straight for the master bath with its Jacuzzi jets and fragrant oils. She soaked until her skin shriveled.
After wrapping a towel around herself, she trudged back to her room and plopped onto the bed. She scooted back until her spine rested against the headboard, grabbed a pillow, and hugged it to her chest.
How long can I stay in here?
She really had nothing pertinent to do.
Her phone rang.
She glanced at the number. Brody. So he’d finally taken the time to call her back.
“Hey.” She rose to a sitting position and leaned against her headboard. “I was calling about Friday. What time are you picking the kids up?”
There was an extended pause. “This Friday?”
“Yes, Brody. It’s your weekend, remember?” Seriously, when had he turned into the absent-minded father? Didn’t he want to spend time with them? Come to think of it, he’d never fought her on custody.
Brody sighed. “Sorry. It’s been crazy at work, and I guess I got my dates mixed up. But this weekend’s good. What time?”
“They get out of school at three.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll be there.”
The line went dead. If he bailed one more time . . .
Her kids needed a dad.
There was a soft rap on the door, and a moment later, it creaked open, and Mom poked her head inside.
“Hey there.” She stepped forward, holding a steaming plate in one hand a glass of orange juice in the other.
Tammy wrapped her towel tighter around herself. “Mom! I’m naked.”
“Then I suggest you get dressed.” Mom laughed and deposited the food on the end table, plunking onto the edge of the bed. “How long are you planning on hiding out in your bedroom?”
“Um . . . Till three?” She gave a wry smile, not sure whether to be amused or irritated.
“You know what you need, dear?”
