Someone to Watch Over Me Page 3

  The nurse obliged me only a sip, saying I shouldn’t eat or drink anything until the anesthesia wore off. “Don’t want you to lose whatever you put down.”

  Please. After all I’d been through, I was a professional vomiter.

  The next thing I remember with clarity is eating Jell-O, trying to convince myself that it was okay to eat again. The surgery was over, but I still needed to satisfy my psyche. One bite. Wait a minute. Another bite. Wait. Before the next bite, I examined the Jell-O. My taste buds must have been asleep still because I wasn’t able to taste much. I had to rely on texture. Gelatin made with real sugar was thicker than Jell-O made with artificial sweetener. My fork sliced through the shiny red goop easily. Splenda.

  I’m pretty sure I slept like a baby for most of my two-day hospital stay. There was little to occupy me except an occasional visit from the doctor or a nurse. I could have kicked myself for leaving my laptop in the car. The outside temperature was cool enough to prevent damage to my equipment, but the workload would certainly swell with neglect. If only I’d had someone I knew come by, I could give them my keys and ask them to go get my bag.

  Kevin called once, between meetings, to check on me. “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better.” I powered my bed to an upright position. “How’s it going in Chicago?”

  “Sweet. I think that pharmaceutical company I told you about is going to award us the account. It’s huge. Seriously—huge.”

  “That’s good.” I wish I could say I listened to him go on and on about the deal, his residuals from it, and how his team would probably win the contest if they got this one, which meant a trip to Saint Lucia for us both, but as exciting as all that was, something else caught my attention. Actually, it was the lack of something that struck me. I didn’t have any flowers. Not one balloon, not one card. Nothing.

  Voices from the hallway spilled into my room, and I watched for a moment to see who they belonged to. First appeared a woman about my age with her hair pulled behind a white cloth headband. She wore a full-length halter dress and flip-flops. The child, probably her son, hopped from tile to tile as he traveled alongside her. She told him to stop it; hospitals were no place for leaping. Slowly, a man came into view pushing an IV cart. The patient. They were a family, I figured. The mom and son had come to visit the father. A few more elderly family members trailed the man. Maybe his parents. They talked about whether or not the man would still be able to travel to “D-I-S-N-E-Y land,” the grandmother spelled out, presumably so the child wouldn’t understand the topic.

  As I watched this family’s snapshot, the absence of flowers, cards, and balloons seemed minor, to belie my saddest realization. No one had come to see me.

  I broke into Kevin’s impending-sales-victory train with a question. “Do you think we’re ever going to be a family?”

  He stuttered, “Wh-what?”

  “A family.” I spelled it out for him: “Me, you, kids, your parents.”

  “Tori, we’ve already talked about this.”

  I sighed. “I know, I know. It’s just that I’m sitting here in this hospital all alone and—”

  “You’re having a fleeting maternal episode, babe. Don’t get down about it, all right? You’ll be up on your feet in a few days. This moment will pass,” he assured me. “I gotta go. I’ll call you when I get a chance.” He hung up before I could even say good-bye.

  My eyes began to sting and lumps jumbled in my throat. I’m having a fleeting episode? A moment of wanting someone to care enough to check on me? This ain’t no Twix commercial, this is life. I didn’t want a moment of being cared about—I wanted someone to care about me every day. For a lifetime.

  I blinked back the tears because crying, like vomiting, was not my forte. The last time I could remember crying, I mean shoulder-shaking, snot-flying crying, was when my mother told me not to cry. I was sixteen and had just delivered a stillborn baby boy.

  A nurse brought him to me, swaddled in a white blanket with pink and blue stripes. She said she’d leave me alone with him for a while. To say good-bye.

  His little body was perfectly formed, ten fingers and ten toes. He had my lips, his father’s nose. If the doctors hadn’t told me he was dead, I would have figured he was just sleeping. A guttural wail came from deep inside me as my tears fell onto my deceased son’s forehead.

  My mother sat beside me on the hospital bed and fingered through my hair. I wasn’t expecting her to do that. She’d been so distant—both physically and emotionally—throughout my unexpected pregnancy, I’d forgotten she could actually show affection like most human mothers.

  “It’s going to be all right, Tori. Everything will work out for the best,” she whispered softly. Then she stroked my son’s plump cheeks. “He has your lips,” she agreed with me.

  I laughed slightly. “He kind of looks like Grandpa Henderson, doesn’t he, Momma?”

  She laughed, too. “Yes, he does look like my father—you’re right. He’s a handsome little thing.”

  “You think Grandpa Henderson will recognize him and take care of him in heaven?”

  “I’m sure he will, Tori,” my mother said as she pulled me and the baby into a hug.

  Just then, Mr. James entered the room. My mother stiffened, then jumped up from the bed wiping her eyes with the back of her hands. She walked toward my stepfather and braced him, holding both his arms. Mr. James was short, stocky, and balding on top of his head. His mean black eyes peered from beneath hooded lids. How he’d managed to snag someone as beautiful as my mother was strictly business. She wanted financial stability, he wanted a trophy wife to complement his joke of a political career.

  “Give her a minute with the baby, James.” My mother attempted to stand her ground with him.

  “It’s dead, Margie.”

  I burst into tears again. Why did he always have to be such a jerk?

  “No use in crying over spilled milk. What’s done is done,” he snapped, and pushed past my mother to confront me directly. “I told you and your momma you weren’t ready to handle a baby. Even God agreed with me.”

  I secured the baby in the nook of my left arm, then used my right hand to bop Mr. James upside the head with the hardest thing I could get my hand on—the television remote control.

  Mr. James cupped his eye with his hand and stammered, “Are you cr-crazy?”

  My mother jumped in between us, as she’d always done. “Tori, stop this! You’ve lost your mind, hitting your stepfather.” No surprise there, either. She almost always took his side. “I’m going to call the nurse. Maybe they can give you a Valium. . . . James, go to the nurses’ station and see if you can get an ice pack.”

  My mother pushed the call button and seconds later, a nurse arrived to assist. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me that the nurse would want me to relinquish the baby. But when she rolled that bassinet into the room, reality punched me.

  “No! Don’t take him!”

  “Honey, give me the baby,” Mother demanded.

  “I’m not ready,” I protested. “He’s not ready. Aunt Dottie didn’t get to see him.” I truly wanted my aunt, who had taken me in during the last five months of my pregnancy, to see him. But she was busy working at her store. It was the day before Thanksgiving. There was no way she could close shop on such an important day. She said she’d come and see me as soon as she closed and I knew she would. Aunt Dottie always kept her word.

  “Tori, it’s all over now,” Mother coldly surmised. Somehow, Mr. James always managed to turn my mother into a wicked witch when he was around.

  Gently, the nurse and my mother pried my son from me for the last time. “Wait!” I tried to maintain physical contact with him, but they weren’t listening. I’d learned no one listened to sixteen-year-old mothers, actually.

  When the nurse placed the baby in the clear standard-issue bassinet and rolled him out of the room, I fell apart, sobbing uncontrollably and scrambling to get out of bed.

  “Tori, stop this
!” my mother ordered. “Stop this. It’s over! Stop crying, stop crying this instant! You hear me? What’s done is done. Crying won’t change anything.”

  She was right. Crying had never changed one single thing about my miserable life before. I had no reason to think things would change at that point. If anything, things had been worse with my mother and Mr. James since I’d gotten pregnant by one of the neighborhood thugs.

  My mother had already decided we weren’t having a funeral. Just a graveside service, which I’d already overheard my stepfather, Mr. James, tell hospital personnel “cost way too much money for a dead baby. Why can’t they just dispose of it?”

  He thought I was asleep. I wasn’t.

  Chapter 4

  The doctor ordered me to refrain from driving for at least another three days following the appendectomy. So when the time came for me to check out of the hospital, I was stuck out. Kevin was still in Chicago, so there was absolutely no one on hand to escort me home. My attending nurse asked if I knew how to get in touch with anyone from my job, but since it was Saturday, I had no means of reaching them outside work except e-mail. After all, they were my coworkers, not my friends. I went to an occasional wedding shower or birthday party with those people, but that was about it.

  The nurse went down a list of other possibilities: church members, sorority sisters, neighbors. She even went so far as to ask if one of my clients might be willing to transport me. No, no, no, and are you out of your mind? The more she asked, the more frustrated I became. She instructed me to go through my cell phone and scan the contacts to see if there might be someone I’d overlooked. “Maybe you’re a little foggy, with the drugs and all.”

  I followed her orders and still turned up nothing. All I had was business contacts, Kevin, my favorite restaurants, and Aunt Dottie, who lived more than three hours away and whom I wouldn’t dare bother with my troubles. She was in her seventies. I had no doubt she would hightail it to Houston if she had to, but the last thing I wanted to do was raise Aunt Dottie’s blood pressure.

  “Can’t you just call a taxi for me? Whatever it costs to get me back home, I’ll pay,” I offered. As if the hospital would have it any other way.

  Satisfied that I was indeed a real-life true hermit, the nurse sighed. “I’ll call a social worker. He or she will help the checkout and take it from there.”

  “A social worker?” I attempted to sit up, but the sting in my side reminded me of stitches I still needed to guard. “I’m not a foster kid. I’m a grown woman who happens to not have a lot of friends.” Do Facebook friends count?

  When she left the room, I picked up the phone to call a taxi myself. Why were these people acting like everyone has to have a million friends? A zillion contacts? I mean, some of us are busy with work. We’ve dedicated ourselves to being the best at what we do. Is that so wrong? Isn’t that the American dream?

  Besides, I did have a boyfriend. He and I had friends. Well, they were mostly his friends, but I knew them. I saw them at Target and McDonald’s and said “Hi!” They always said “Hi!” back to me.

  The social worker arrived shortly after I’d psyched myself out. My life isn’t so bad, really. I’m perfectly fine.

  “Hello. Tori Henderson?” A chubby Hispanic lady with glasses and a long braid down her back tentatively stuck her head into my room. “I’m Josephine Sanchez with Social Services.”

  I couldn’t be rude to this lady. She was just doing her job. Plus, she was at least twenty years older than me, so I had to be respectful. “Yes, I’m Tori.”

  “Great.” She entered the room and came right over to me, stretching out a hand for shaking purposes.

  I returned her gesture and she pulled up a chair. “Well, as I understand it, you’re going to need transportation from the hospital to your home. Will you need someone to pick up your prescriptions for you as well?”

  “What prescriptions?”

  “For pain.”

  “Well, my boyfriend will be back in a few days. He travels a lot.”

  She laughed slightly. “I don’t think you’ll want to be without pain medication in the interim. My son actually had this same surgery a few years ago. Trust me, you’ll need it.” Her eyes turned to slits when she smiled, but the warmth therein still came across. She had the kind of demeanor I wished I could have when I was in those “What went wrong with your campaign?” meetings with Mr. Harvey.

  “Don’t hospitals have pharmacies?” I asked.

  “Some do,” she said, nodding, “but this one doesn’t. Don’t worry about it though, Miss Henderson. I can help you with that, too.” She produced a notepad from her purse and scribbled. “And, by the way, I can also help you to connect with other people in the Houston area so if you’re ever in a bind like this again, you’d have people to help you.”

  I shook my head and smirked. “I don’t need help meeting people.”

  She shrugged. “Well, that’s part of what Social Services is all about. If you’d . . . already been meeting people, it might be easier to get along in life. Especially when things like this unexpected surgery happen. Life has lots of surprises. The longer you live, the more you get.”

  “Ms. Sanchez, I thank you for taking the time to arrange for the taxi and the medications, but I don’t need any other Social Services. I do have a life, I have a boyfriend, and I’m one of the top producers at my job—”

  “Tori.” Josephine stopped me, taking off her glasses and peering at me for a moment. She seemed to be deciding something. She looked toward the sky, seemed to nod, and then took a deep breath. “I’m going to tell you something off the record. Something I wish someone had told me a long time ago. Do you want to hear it?”

  Do I have a choice? “I guess.”

  “I think you’re ready.” She smiled, as though she had been waiting for this moment since she first heard my name. “I used to work for a huge bank. I was well on my way up the corporate ladder, bringing in millions for the company, looking forward to that corner office.

  “One day, a colleague in my department died of cancer and we all went to her funeral. We carpooled together that morning. We went to support the family and represent the company, of course.

  “When the ceremony was over, about five of us piled into my car. And do you know what was the first thing someone said when we got back into the car?”

  It took me a minute to realize her question wasn’t rhetorical. “Umm . . . I don’t know.”

  She smiled with a faraway look in her eyes. “The first thing said, I remember it word for word, was, ‘Hey, where do y’all want to go for lunch?’”

  Call me a little slow still that morning, but I didn’t get her right away. “Okay. And?”

  “My point is, when you die, the people you work with will move on with their lives just as if you never lived. Your employer will post an opening, there’ll be interviews, and your position will be filled as quickly as possible. It’ll be just like you never lived. Is that how you want to go?”

  My face crinkled in annoyance. “No. No one wants to be forgotten. I’m just . . . very busy living my life.”

  “And you have no family whatsoever?”

  Eyes cast down toward my blank hands, I answered, “None to speak of.”

  “Who raised you? Are you originally from Houston?” she prodded.

  “What’s with all the questions?”

  Josephine smiled and leveled with me. “I’m also here to make sure you’re not in any danger. You’d be surprised how many people use a hospital stay as an opportunity to escape abusive situations.”

  I took a deep breath, wondering if Josephine worked for the FBI, too. “My mom and stepfather raised me here in Houston until I was fifteen. Then I got pregnant and went to live with my Aunt Dottie in a little country town called Bayford. Ever heard of it?”

  Josephine shook her head. “Can’t say that I have.”

  I continued, “I stayed with her until I graduated from high school, then I went to college. After gr
aduation, I got my first entry-level job and worked like crazy. Got another, better paying job I really enjoy. Then I met Kevin. We moved in together. It’s just been me, him, and work since then.”

  Josephine had listened intently, nodding and smiling. She was just listening—not taking any notes. “Why didn’t you tell the nurses about your mom or your aunt?”

  “I haven’t talked to my mom since the day she ripped my son out of my arms and told me to stop crying. And Aunt Dottie . . . I talk to her now and then, but she’s elderly. I wouldn’t want her to worry about me.”

  “You love her though, right? I can tell by the way you say her name.”

  A smile crept up on me. “Yes, I do love my Aunt Dottie very much. If she lived closer to me, there’s no way I’d be sitting in this room all alone.”

  Josephine snapped her notebook shut. “Well, if you ask me—and you didn’t—but if you did, I’d say you might want to think about getting you some folks. Everybody needs folks, you know?”

  I nodded.

  “So, I’ll get you a taxi and have your prescriptions filled and dropped off at your house. I can also coordinate having meals delivered to you.”

  I laughed at her offer. “I’ve got plenty of restaurants in my cell phone.” I had those if nothing else.

  “Good deal, Tori.”

  Chapter 5

  Anormal person probably would have enjoyed lounging around the house for ten days. Relaxing drove me crazy. For one thing, when I finally spoke to Preston about my predicament, I learned that he’d farmed my work out to Lexa and a few other representatives who didn’t know diddly-squat about my clients’ profiles.

  “Tori, you’ve always kept immaculate, clearly written reports. We should have no problem picking up where you left off. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

  I pleaded, “Can’t I at least have proxy to view communication relevant to my accounts?”

  Preston let out a condescending laugh. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll personally supervise them for you. Take some time off, catch your breath, and come back as soon as you can. All right?”