Saturday’s Child by JT Hume 14 - THE RED-EYE The city lights from the ground peek through the clouds, and we pass over a row of headlights from the evening commuters snaking toward the horizon. My ears pop as we descend, and the Gulfstream jolts to the right as we pass through turbulence. Grandmother isn’t fazed as she continues to tap away at her tablet, and I can’t be bothered to care. I’m empty, trying to process events as they happen. After the WSU, Devon and I went back to his apartment, and he took my garbage bag of clothes upstairs. Nothing I did could convince him to stay and keep me company. Some people worked for hourly wages, he said. It didn’t stop him from frisking me from collarbone to ankles, maybe looking for a weapon or the clasp to my bra. When the big jerk didn’t let me reciprocate, he went to work without me mentioning the big lipstick smears below his ear. Both ears. I put on my least-odoriferous set of sweats and threw the rest into his washer. It turned out to be three loads, and I wondered if I should bother. Most of the clothes were a reminder of being a wage slave myself, and if they were ruined, it wasn’t as if I couldn’t buy new ones. The clothes would remind me of another Emma, younger and naive. This new version had places to go, people to meet, and planets to shake. I smile at my exaggeration. My short time in CPS gave me an eyeful of our society’s treatment of the poor and very young, and I could do good. The challenge was that I didn’t know where to begin, because of the overwhelming need in the MSU service area alone. I have zilch experience with handling my own money. Daddy had experts taking care of his things, and we all saw how well that went. And Uncle Sam is going to knock on my door and want a few pounds of flesh. Did I have my money? Devon’s laptop and wireless network were handy, and I booted it up and logged into my bank accounts (he showed me how while I was “sitting” in his lap). Yep,
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume fourteen million dollars and change. I must have given the lawyer permission to access my bank when I signed those papers. I paid off three of my seven credit cards while I was logged on. I popped open my cell and called the manager at my old apartment, giving him thirty days’ notice. I told him I planned to rent a truck and get my crap this weekend and bail on the rest of the lease. He didn’t whimper at the thought of double-booking the space, collecting two rents at the same time. I let it pass. I cruised through Web sites to buy new clothes and my own laptop, using Devon’s apartment as a delivery address. I powered off the laptop before I screwed up and bought an island. All the while, Bruno was lapping at my hand and jumping up for a rubdown. If I was going to be his mommy for a while, I was going to have to set some time aside for our fur-baby. We went for a walk and rediscovered the cracks in the sidewalk, flowers, weeds, fire hydrants, and trees along the way. We both crashed for a nap when we got back to Devon’s place. A pair of lips on mine woke me, and Devon gave up his lunch hour for a more-engaging pastime. He had to go back to work. I rolled over and went back to sleep, thinking I should have been a millionaire years ago (I was, sort of. You know what I mean). After a couple hours, I was back in the sweat suit and finishing my third load when it hit me I should talk to my grandmother and, at the very least, take her to dinner. Or give her a kidney. I didn’t realize it at the time, but my stomach was a tight ball of stress and had been for weeks on end. I was seeing things in a whole new light, from hanging with people like Barb, Angela, Peter, and the others who were people of good character and work ethic. I was missing them something fierce. Marsha and Mayor Hart weren’t worth the energy, except to strive to not be them. Theirs was an example not to follow. Anyway, Grandmother time. I plopped on the couch beside Bruno and let him climb into my lap as I dialed her number.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume “Oh, Emma, I was about to call you, dear. I’m sorry. I called the airport, and they’ll be ready to go in an hour. Do you want to come to the hotel, and we’ll go to the airport?” “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Grandmother, slow down. What’s going on?” Dead silence for a few seconds. “They didn’t call?” Oh God. “Who didn’t call?” “Those…” In a heartbeat, she went from the caring woman who looked out for me to volcanically angry. “How dare they treat you like this!” “Grandmother, please.” I was trying not to panic. Her being pissed was weirding me out. “Dear, your mother called. Your father had a heart attack this morning. He’s in intensive care.” I didn’t realize I pushed Bruno out of my lap until he was on the floor and whimpering. “How is he?” “I don’t know. The airport is ready for us, and I was looking up your number to call.” An absurd thought struck me while I stared off into nothing: I did my laundry. I have clean clothes. “Emma?” “Sorry. I’ll be at your hotel as soon as I pack and call a cab.” “Of course. And I’m sorry.” She hung up, and I looked at my phone. Nope, no messages, no voice mail, no texts, no nothing. My mother had this number, because she was texting me a few days ago. Silence. I threw some things in a suitcase I found in the hallway closet and stopped when I realized I hadn’t told Devon. I couldn’t call him, because he’d go with me, all gallant and stupid on his white horse. I wasn’t ready to inflict my family on him. I wrote a note and pinned it to the mirror in the bathroom, hoping Bruno wouldn’t find it and tear it to shreds. From the cab to the hotel to the airport, it was all a whirl. Thank God for little favors, though. We all have our phobias, and Grandmother’s was flying commercial, and her one real
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume gift to herself was a Gulfstream G650 for those short or long trips to meet charity donors for her causes. Ten minutes after we were dropped at the curb, handsome men grabbed our luggage and guided us to thick leather seats. The takeoff was smoother than the drive to the airport. The Gulfstream has a wireless connection, and Grandmother is wearing it out. I can’t muster the energy to care. I watch the ground and the traffic and clouds pass below, and lose track of time. I’m not concentrating on anything except the memories: learning to ride a bike, my first dance lesson, getting a sliver plucked from my hand with a kiss, driving lessons, and through it all, my father. It wasn’t all a scene from The Wonder Years. I learned young to fear his temper, vicious and loud, though never physical. The other side of the coin was his tenderness and caring. I didn’t see him then as now. When I was growing up, he was sweet and patient and scary. He’s no longer the man he was, and I hate this image, but it is what it is. My ears pop from the descent, and I bring myself back to the present. Grandmother has packed things away and is watching me. “We’ll be met by Bruce, and we’ll go straight to the hospital, if you don’t mind.” “Yes, please. Thank you. Have you heard anything?” I don’t say if I’m asking for me or because she expects me to ask. “I’m sorry, nothing. We’ll hear soon.” “Thank you,” I repeat and settle back for the landing. Again, handsome men are carrying our things and guiding us to Grandmother’s car, driven by her loyal Bruce. He’s been by her side for decades—an aide, butler, advisor, driver, and friend. The sisters and I whispered about him and his devotion to Grandmother. He is immune and above such idle gossip. We know little of his personal life, and he turns aside queries, reminding young girls and others that his personal and professional lives are apart. I thought he was cool, and it’s no surprise when he opens his arms for a hug. “I’m sorry to hear about Congressman Parks. Please, can I help?”
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume Bruce personifies the high road. I leave my hand on his arm as we part. “I don’t know. I’ll call.” Grandmother is less patient, and we aren’t fooled by her fake bluster. She relies on him too much. She could no less go outside without her right arm than go without Bruce. That she traveled to meet me without him was a clue to the importance of the trip. And how personal it was to her. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Panik, less hugs and more driving.” He winks at me as he hoists her suitcase into the trunk on her long limo. “Of course, Mrs. Heston. Miss Emma and I will be in the back catching up. The steering wheel is in the front of the car. The right pedal is the accelerator, and the other one is the brake. Don’t mix them up again.” I can’t help myself. “Mix them up?” “Yes,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. “The local IHOP’s front entrance will never be the same, I’m afraid.” “It was the Italian bistro, you idiot.” “Of course, Mrs. Heston. I suppose I better save a few lives and drive for us this time.” She gives him a dirty look as she ducks into the back, and I kiss his cheek. “God, I’m glad you’re here.” He nods. “You better get in, or she will drive. The local restaurateurs would object.” “The bistro?” “A funny story. Let’s save it for another day, shall we?” He’s saying he’ll save it for when I need a laugh. I look at my cell for a message from Devon. The screen is dark. Dammit. I forgot to charge it. The world could be looking for me, and I’m cut off. Bruce could get me a charge cord, though I’ve no clue what to look for (technophobic, remember?). I’ll have to figure things out on my own.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume For lack of a better name, “home” hasn’t changed much since I left, with the usual businesses, traffic jams, and houses along the road. As is his habit, Bruce avoids the freeways because Grandmother, a child of the sixties, thinks they are polluting cesspools. I asked her once about owning a private plane. She gave me a dirty look and changed the subject. No surprise: Daddy’s hospital caters to the rich and famous, ignoring the decent public facility five miles from our doorstep. No matter. The congressman deserves the best taxpayerfunded medical care, and he is damn well going to get it. If you don’t believe him, ask him (don’t look at his Obamacare votes, though). Who do you suppose is waiting outside? Mother and my sisters, Sissy and Lacey. I cock an eyebrow at Grandmother, who shrugs. “I didn’t tell them you were coming. Bruce?” He looks at us over his shoulder. “Of course not, Mrs. Heston.” “I should know better than to ask.” “You’re right. You should,” he says, and Grandmother smiles at the rebuke. “How should we do this, Miss Emma? I can find the back door.” “No, let’s get it over with.” I feel as if I’m approaching my firing squad. I can’t escape the sense that they’re pissed at me, but I’ve no idea why. Bruce gives them the big show, from parking at the curb to running (shuffling, really) to open my car door to hand me out. In a few seconds, I’m dropped back into the world of Washington society with the mandatory “kiss, kiss” of the cheeks, and nothing else. They do the absolute minimum and back up a step as one, arms crossed, waiting for me to make the first move. I didn’t miss this, not for a second, this maneuvering through emotional minefields and waiting for the enemy to show a vulnerability. Grandmother stands beside me, lending her support. I wish she were Barb, instead. My boss could handle these shallow creatures who resemble my family.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume If she can’t be present in body, then I’ll steal her spirit. “How is he, Mother?” “How dare…” Sissy starts with a tone she thinks will piss me off. She shuts up when I wave her down. “You’ll get a chance to gnaw on my neck later. Mother?” She picks up her daughter’s attack. “Emma, I don’t think…” Screw this. I push through them and leave them behind, even Grandmother, and almost run to the front door, giving it time to open and admit me to the building. I slam my purse on the counter, and the receptionist, giving her credit, takes her time looking up. She’s seen and heard it all. I try to dial my emotions down. “Congressman Parks’ room, please.” She gives me both eyes. “And you are?” “His daughter.” “He’s not in this hospital.” She doesn’t look at her computer. I want to scream before I have a flash of genius and pass over one of my CPS business cards from my purse. I was supposed to turn those in, and I’ll do it…someday. It works because hospital staff for the most part consider CPS workers to be “one of us” instead of “one of them.” She nods, consults a list, and writes his room number on the back of the card with her initials. “I hope your father feels better.” I take the card in one hand and take her hand in the other. “Thank you.” This is the first genuine warm gesture since we’ve arrived at the hospital, and I am grateful. Five floors up, and I’m facing a locked set of double doors with an intercom to the side. I push the button and hold up the back of the card to the camera. The doors click, and I pull it open. Intensive Care. The feel of the ward is oppressive. No laughter or bright colors, and the staff in sterile scrubs walk with determination and silent speed. For their patients, this is the last stop on a long road. I visited a neonatal ICU last week, and I was agog at the strength of the
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume nurses caring for newborns weighing less than a loaf of bread. I want to stop all of them and ask how they find the power and will to work in such a place. If they knew I used to be a CPS worker, they might ask me the same question. All visitors must check in at the desk. This time I get full attention from all three staffers behind the counter. “I’m Congressman Parks’ daughter.” I put the card on the counter, and one nurse takes her time to read both sides. She has no makeup, her hair is in a bun, and her expression is the same as some of my clients’ mothers back home. She’s lived a lifetime every day for a long time. “You missed your family.” “I came straight from the airport.” The truth is complicated. “How is he?” She consults a chart and a computer screen as the other nurses turn away, satisfied I belong in the ward. “He’s resting and awake.” She points over my shoulder as she returns my card to me. “His doctor is doing rounds and will be in to answer your questions.” “Thank you.” I put as much warmth and feeling as I can into my sentence before turning to his room. It’s a few feet away, and it seems time has slowed down, and it takes an hour to walk to the room as the memories rush in. Daddy’s power grew in Congress, as did his staff and office space. The ceilings got higher, the rooms got bigger, and the staff got smarter and better looking, all of whom would open a vein for Daddy if he asked. There were the cars, dinners, the swag from donors, and the vacations in faraway places. The trappings of office, they call it, again all funded by taxpayers. All of it replaced by an uncomfortable bed with thin linen, dripping IVs, the sound of oxygen, and light from a small window. The body of the man in the bed is half my daddy. He’s shrunk since I saw him try to explain his decades-long affair with an ex-staffer. I hated him, told him he’d played us, his family, for fools. The person in the bed couldn’t be more opposite. His thick black hair is white and stringy, and what were broad shoulders are skin and bones. His forearms seem smaller than mine.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume This isn’t from a heart attack. When did I last see him? It comes back in a rush: three weeks ago, when I was in The Crib, watching his public apology on national television, Mommy and the girls at his side. It hits me: they were standing under his arms, not at his side, holding him up. He was dying in front of millions and I didn’t even see it. Oh, Daddy! He opens his eyes and blinks to focus. When he sees me, he shows the million-dollar smile from a dozen political posters. “Hey, sweetheart.” His voice is a whisper, and I take a couple of steps closer. “Hey, Daddy.” “Missed you.” The emotion flushes away, and I’m not angry with him. I can’t be. Whatever his sins and trespasses, this is my first hero, my daddy. “I heard.” “Not blaming you. They’re mad.” When I start to respond, he waves a withered hand. “They have to be mad at someone. You’re not around. They are. They have to watch this, deal with it, live with it. Don’t expect them to be rational. And don’t be mad at them.” “I won’t.” “You see, they’re…” His body is rocked by coughing and wheezing, and I sit on the side of his bed, feeding him water through a straw from a glass on the table. “Thanks. Oh, sweetheart, they’re not strong. I hate to say it, they’re not strong at all. Sissy and Lacey. I can admit it: they take after me. I am not brave or strong. It’s what cowards do. When their student loans start to run out. They go to law school.” He sighs and catches his breath, and I don’t respond, because he’s not rational. It’s gotta be the painkillers. His two oldest daughters are Georgetown University Law Center graduates and noted piranhas in the corporate law arena. Isn’t he proud of them? I say silent thanks for real lawyers. Gary Ryan saw injustice in the way my trust funds were handled, and he had the ethical backbone to right a wrong. Hard to believe they’re in the same profession.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume Daddy’s reading my mind, because he’s smiling at me again. “Did you go to a judge and get control of your trust funds?” “I had help, but yes.” “Awesome,” he says as he pats my arm. “Good for you.” What? “I don’t understand.” “Time for truth, Little Emma, time for truth. No bullshit, okay?” It’s the first time I’ve heard him use that word in twenty-five years. “Okay, Daddy.” “Your mother will not give you your money without a fight. She thinks it belongs to her, and you have no idea what you’re doing with your life. She controls everything and everyone, even me.” Another body blow. My face must show it, because he talks faster. “No, it’s true. She’s running our lives with the skills of a spider in a large web. Your money was another hammer in her large financial toolkit. When you got control, it infuriated her. She stomped in tonight and screamed at me, assuming I put you up to it. Couldn’t believe it was her mother. They escorted her from the ward.” He smiles at the memory as it dawns on me I was raised by two strangers. I want to reject his explanation. I must. The drugs have replaced his personality and rationality. Is he wrong? a voice whispers. The awards, the ribbons, the parties, all of it was not for me. They were to make her look good, to validate her existence. He’s watching and reads the emotions in my face. “Be kind to your mother, Emma. She is her father’s daughter. He was the same. Somehow it skipped you, even though you remind me of him. You’re strong, stronger than them. Look at you. A social worker down in the trenches, helping children. While your sisters are gathering depositions on oil-tanker leases, you’re saving families. God, I was proud of you. Still am.” This is not the time for my life events, painful as they are. I change the subject. “Daddy…”
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume You don’t spend a dozen terms in Congress without guessing the questions. “It’s cancer, Little Emma. Pancreatic cancer. Caught it way too late, and it’s running fast. Stopped my heart this morning. It’ll stop it again, one last time.” His fatalism clutches my heart in a frozen grasp. “Why didn’t you call?” “I should have. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I guess I have some pride. I was angry with what you said about Patrice and me, because you were right, and I was wrong, so very wrong.” He laughs with a hand on his chest, holding it down. “Death makes us truth-tellers, it seems.” “Daddy…” He takes my hand. “Time for my last truth. I should have married the woman I love and left your mother. I didn’t, and I made our lives miserable for it. If I had an ounce of your strength and courage, your life would have been different. Maybe better.” I think of Devon. “It turned out okay, Daddy.” He sees the look in my eyes. “You have a guy.” “I do.” “Is he good? Is he strong? He won’t hurt you?” “Yes, yes, and yes.” “He loves you?” “He said so.” Tears comes to his eyes. “You love him?” “Oh yes.” “I want to meet him. I don’t…” His courage deserts him, because he can’t say what we’re thinking: he may die any minute. His eyes start to flutter. He’s stayed awake by sheer force of will, fighting the medication, and he reaches to me. The drugs are too strong for his weakened body, and he falls asleep, his arm dangling at his side. I tuck him in, climb into the bed, and pull him close, watching his chest rise and fall. Keep breathing, Daddy. Keep breathing.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume
This serial and book are solely owned by its creator, JT Hume (a pseudonym). Copyright © 2016. All rights reserved in all countries and languages. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Third-party vendors providing electronic means to create, edit, and/or publish/post this serial and book have no literary and/or financial claim (including wi-fi network owners and operators). For more information and permission requests, the author may be contacted via email only: jthumebooks at gmail dot com. Twitter: @JT_Hume Website: http://www.jthumebooks.com
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