The phone rang. She answered it. “Hello?”
“Birdie? Welcome to New York. Isn’t the place great?”
“Oh, yeah. Great.”
“I can’t wait to see you.” A pause crackled through the lines. “But I’ve got a meeting in fifteen minutes. I should be home in an hour and a half. Not more than two hours. You’ll be okay there, right?”
It took a conscious effort to simply say, “Of course.”
“That’s my girl. I love you, Birdie.”
“Do you?” She hadn’t meant to ask it. The question just popped out.
“Of course. Gotta run. See you soon.”
“Okay.” She hung up. It was a moment before she realized that she hadn’t said, “I love you,” in return. That was a first. In the past, she’d always been able to find the words, even when the emotion felt faraway. She wondered if he even noticed.
She walked over to the window. Outside, the world was a glittering combination of black sky and neon lights and streaking yellow cabs.
With a sigh, she went back to the cardboard box and unwrapped a photo album.
There they were, she and Jack, standing in front of Frosh Pond at the UW, holding hands.
Each picture was a stepping-stone on the path of their marriage. First at the UW … then the house in Pittsburgh when he’d played for the Steelers, then the second house in Pittsburgh, bigger than the first … then the house on Long Island … in Albuquerque, and so on and so on.
Elizabeth wandered down the photographic hallway of her married life, seeing all the compromises she’d made.
She’d moved and moved and moved.
Every time had been the same: Another trade, another job, another city? Sure Jack.
Here she was again, waiting for Jack. It seemed as if she’d passed her whole life that way, a woman set on pause.
At eight-thirty, her cell phone rang. It would be Jack, she knew, calling to tell her he’d be a little later than expected. Only an hour, honey, I promise. And just like that, this new city would take them on the same old ride.
She fished the phone out of her purse and answered. “Hello?”
“Birdie?” said a thick-as-molasses Southern voice. “Is this you?”
“Anita?” She glanced at her watch. It was too late for a friendly call. Fear sidled up to her, slipped a cold arm around her waist. “What’s the matter?”
“Your daddy had a stroke. Y’all better get down here fast.”
TWELVE
The first thing Elizabeth did was call Jack.
Oh, baby, he’d said softly, I’m so sorry. I can be home in thirty minutes. I’ve got blah blah blah to do yet. Will you be okay by yourself until I get there?
Of course she would. Her husband had never handled tragedy well. Even when he showed up, Elizabeth knew she’d really be alone.
Next, she called her daughters. Stephanie was loving and accommodating; she’d probably gone on-line during their phone conversation and ordered plane tickets. Jamie didn’t say much. She’d been hit too hard by the unexpected news. She and her grandfather were so close …
Elizabeth heard the fear in Jamie’s voice when she said: Maybe he’ll be okay. You think he’ll be okay, don’t you?
Elizabeth wanted to rush in then, to salve her daughter’s pain, but this was no time to make promises.
After that, Elizabeth concentrated on the details. By the time Jack got home, she’d made most of the necessary arrangements and packed his suitcase.
It took them more than two hours to get to the airport, go through security, and find the gate. Once there, they sat side by side in silence.
Finally, the flight was called and they boarded the plane, finding their seats in first class.
When they were in the air, a flight attendant appeared in the aisle in front of them. A loudspeaker reeled off emergency instructions.
Elizabeth didn’t hear a word of it. When you were flying across several states to see your father, who might or might not be dying, it was impossible to think about much else.
Thank God for Christmas.
(Don’t think that way.)
“Are you okay?” Jack asked again.
Elizabeth squeezed his hand. “No.”
Finally, the plane landed in Nashville. She and Jack hailed a cab and headed north.
Forty-five minutes later, the taxi pulled up in front of a sprawling gray hospital.
“This entrance okay?” The driver asked, turning around to face them.
“Fine,” Jack answered, handing a wad of bills to the driver.
Elizabeth got out of the cab and crossed her arms, waiting while Jack gathered their bags.
She was close to falling apart, but she wouldn’t allow herself that luxury. If there was one thing motherhood taught a woman, it was how to hold herself together in a crisis.
Still, she clung to her husband’s hand as they walked through the electric doors and into the sterile, antiseptic-scented lobby.
At the front desk, she said, “We’re looking for Edward Rhodes, please.”
The receptionist looked up. “The Colonel’s in intensive care. Sixth floor west.”