Chapter Twelve
Lucy
Lucy stomped into her mom’s shop. Of all the infuriating…it wasn’t her fault that the alarm clocks were blinking midnight when Otis shook her awake. Dylan had no right to be so…so…judgmental. Hadn’t she gotten through to him last night in the rain? She’d felt a flare between them. Outrageous, because it sounded impossible, but her nerve endings had lit up more than once when she’d grabbed his hand or touched his arm. They’d had so much fun, too. Maybe that was the problem…maybe Dylan was allergic to fun.
Didn’t matter. She had a ton of work to do, and no time to spend worrying about Dylan.
But you still want to, a little voice piped up.
She shook that thought off. Too much on her plate to listen to little voices or dwell on sparks when you touched a guy’s hand. Her needle was waiting, and it wasn’t nearly as moody as a certain pitcher she knew.
The ladies in Mom’s quilting class looked up briefly when Lucy strode through the front room. Most waved in greeting—she’d known half of them her entire life…like an entire squad of grandmas ready to spoil her rotten. She smiled at all of them, forcing herself to be warm and welcoming as she breezed by.
Mom was in the back, sorting through quilting pieces, with a pinched expression on her face. Lucy’s stomach turned to ice. Not now. Not today. I can’t handle anything else right now…
But her mother was moving like she was swimming in Jell-O, careful not to turn her head too much. Lucy went to her and put a hand on her arm. “Mom?”
Mom looked up slowly, squinting under the shop’s fluorescent lights. The laugh lines around her eyes were deep, and a furrow had dug itself in between her eyebrows. “Hey, honey.”
“Migraine?” At her mother’s nod, Lucy took the quilt pieces out of her hands. “I’ll run the class. You need to lie down.” Work would have to wait. Until when, Lucy didn’t know…but she’d manage. Somehow. Who needed sleep, anyway?
“I’ll be fine.” The words were weak. “You have all those new orders…”
Yes, she did. The black wedding gown, in particular, would be a lot of work. The bride wanted a punk rose-vine, complete with thorns, along the hem. Goth-bride for the win. “I have plenty of time,” she lied. “Go rest.”
Mom nodded, winced, then headed to the back of the shop, a testament to how bad it was. Usually she powered through, but every couple of months, a migraine hit her so hard she could barely function. Lucy hated seeing her this way. It seemed like since Dad had deployed, the headaches were getting worse and more frequent, and without him here, Lucy had to be in charge. It scared her. What if she messed everything up? Mom couldn’t handle much stress, so Lucy couldn’t afford to screw up, not even a little.
She took a deep breath, fighting back tears. It would be okay. It had to be. Fake it until you make it, girl. You got this.
Lucy waited until the playroom door shut before announcing, “Greetings, campers! I’ll be your host today.”
“Aw, Lucy-girl!” Mrs. Jennings, her favorite regular at the store, said. “Aren’t we in luck.”
“You are, because I’m going to…” Lucy paused for dramatic effect. “Teach you to use the new embroidery machine!”
Eight gray-haired ladies cheered like she’d offered them a gin and tonic, paired with a date with Robert Redford. The little things made them happy. She rubbed her hands together, feeling a little better about how the morning would turn out. Time to work some magic.
Lucy rang up Mrs. Jennings’s purchases, then stopped to stretch. Crazy morning, but they’d loved the new machine. One woman planned to monogram everything her granddaughter owned, or so it sounded. Lucy smiled, pleased. That would turn into some nice revenue for the store.
Mom still hadn’t emerged from the playroom. It had been more than two hours, now. A prickle of fear rose on the back of Lucy’s neck as she headed for the back of the shop. Mom’s migraines could be bad and fairly regular, but usually not terrible.
Usually…but not always.
“Mom?” Lucy asked, a tremor in her voice. She knocked on the playroom door. “Mom, you okay?”
A soft groan made her heart lurch, and she pushed the door open. The trash can, smelling of sick, sat next to the sofa, and her mom flung an arm over her eyes at the sliver of light arcing into the room from the shop. “Don’t…know…”
Lucy closed the door and made her way to the sofa in the dim light. She pulled Mom’s arm away from her eyes. Her left eyelid was doing its twitchy dance, and her eyes were glazed. This was a bad one. Maybe one of the worst.
“We need to get you to the doctor.” Lucy helped her mother sit up, trying not to gag at the vomit stench in the room. “I’m going for your sunglasses.”
“What about Otis?” Mom’s speech was slurred and her hands shook.
What about Otis? Given what she was seeing, Lucy didn’t have a choice as to where she was needed, but she still felt torn in two. God, she wished Dad were home. He could’ve taken care of Mom, leaving Lucy to watch the shop and her little brother. “I’ll text a few of his friends’ moms. Someone can bring him…”
Lucy’s palms started to sweat. Bring Otis where? He couldn’t stay home by himself, and no telling how long they’d be at the doctor. “Um, I’ll figure that part out.”
Mom started to nod, winced. “Help me up.”
It took several minutes to walk her to the car, and a few more to close up the shop with a cheery sign that said, Closed, but we’ll be back soon! By the time Lucy made it to the Jeep, her T-shirt was stuck to her back from the summer heat. She ran the A/C until she saw her mother shivering next to her, then turned it off and rolled down her window, resigning herself to the sweat.
Mom’s neurologist was thirty minutes away, but she knew he’d prefer to see her. Dr. Westfield was one of the best in the Dallas area, and he always wanted his patients to come straight to him during a bad attack, rather than the primary doctor. At the last stoplight on the way out of Suttonville, she texted Otis: Squirt—Mom’s bad off. Can Joey or Max give you a ride home? Sorry about this. I’ll text once I’m at Dr. W’s.
Lucy stuck to the speed limit the whole way there, sneaking worried glances at her mother. Mom had her head in her hands and eye scrunched tightly shut. The fact that she wasn’t remarking on Lucy’s driving, or asking about her projects, or…hell, or even talking at all was probably the scariest thing.
Glad the car had Bluetooth, she called the doctor’s office and, as Lucy had thought, they said to bring Mom straight there. It was so strange, being the one in charge. The one making the phone calls and the frantic drive to the doctor. She was only seventeen, but right now she felt like she was twice that.
Lucy swallowed against a sob rising in her throat. It would be okay.
It had to be.
When they made it to Dr. Westfield’s building, Mom could barely move. Her gait was jerky, and she weaved when she walked. Lucy finally had to hang firmly onto her mother’s arm to guide her inside. Inside…oh, thank God for over-air-conditioned buildings. Lucy felt a little guilty at enjoying that as her mother shivered in the elevator, but not a lot.
The receptionist jumped up when they came in and opened the door to the back, bypassing the waiting patients, some of whom clucked in disapproval. Lucy almost bared her teeth and hissed back. None of them was semi-conscious and deathly pale. They could wait, and to hell with their disapproving stares.
“Oh, dear,” the receptionist said, glancing back at them as she led them to an empty exam room. “This is a bad one, isn’t it?”
“The worst,” Lucy said. “I’ve never seen her this bad.”
“You’re a good girl, taking care of your mother.”
Maybe so, but Lucy’s knees were shaking. She felt like a fraud accepting the praise when she was barely keeping it together herself. The little box she’d felt closing in around her was getting smaller by the day.
A nurse stuck her head in, took one look at Mom, and left. The receptionist nodded. “She’s going to triage your mother to next-patient status. Hang in there a bit longer, Mrs. Foster. We’ll fix you right up.”
Mom mumbled something like a thank you and Lucy sank into the chair next to the exam table, wishing she could lie down, too. The nurse bustled back inside, dimming the lights, giving Mom a warm blanket, taking her temperature and blood pressure—both too high.
“Dr. Westfall will be here shortly.” The nurse glanced at Lucy’s mother. “We have her shots ready to go as soon as he gives the word.”
Lucy nodded, tired. The experimental treatment, a specialty of this particular neurologist, had been a miracle, but it wasn’t a cure. There would be more days like this. More days where she’d have to balance school, work, the shop, her brother, and Mom. Serena and the hens, and all the other things she wanted to do, had to wait.
A tear fought through her determined calm and slid down her cheek. I want my dad.
She dashed the tear away with the back of her hand, angry. It couldn’t be helped. The Army didn’t worry about such things. And a lieutenant colonel in the reserves didn’t have any control over when—or where—he had to go. If the Army called, he had to take leave from his job at Texas Instruments and go wherever he was ordered.
Lucy closed her eyes. This too would pass. She wasn’t easily defeated, but it was hard not to wallow. Just a little. Because she’d have to be strong for—
Her heart shot into her throat…she’d completely forgotten her brother. Lucy snatched her phone out of her purse. A single text from Otis: It’s okay. I found a ride.
But with who?