Nice pillow. Morning breath. Who's THAT?
November 29, 2008
November 22, 2008
November 18, 2008
My First Book--Scene Fourteen
Instead of giving a long list of links for you to read the previous scenes in my book, might I point you to the "Categories" at the left? Mosey down to "my first book--scenes", click there and scroll down to wherever you have to start.
Go on. We'll wait for you.
Back? Okay. Without further ado, I give you Scene Fourteen.
*******
January 1922
The new year dawned. Ruth’s health slowly improved, and we grated on each others’ nerves, fighting as we slipped towards full-on stir-crazy. Since she still had remnants of a fever and some whooping, though, we remained each other’s only real company. Lela and I had long-since resorted to leaving notes for each other clipped outside the door (she came by at least once a day for a mail call).
She had noticed, one of her letters pointed out, that the handsome Dr. Cosgrove seemed to be checking in on Ruth quite a lot. She claimed only a natural concern for her niece’s health. She no doubt also enjoyed my verbal squirming in insisting Dan’s visits were strictly professional.
Late in the first week of the new year, I made my afternoon trek to the front porch to fetch that day’s communiqué. The postman had left two other letters. I groaned. Damn it all. Another letter from Max.
After Max’s last letter, I told him, in no uncertain terms, that I did not believe we should have a romantic relationship. The tone of this newest letter proved he either did not receive that letter or was clearly ignoring my protest.
“Dearest Chloe,” he said, “My heart yearns for the next time we are together. The sound of your voice invades my every waking moment. This time apart from you is torturous, rendering me but a pathetic shell of my former self.”
Uh-oh. This one was even worse than the last. His heart yearns for…what? Really? Time away from me is torturous? Oh, dear. I realized, much too late, that this man wasn’t romantic. He was obsessed.
We met once. Once. That’s it. We had no torrid love affair. Really, I’d have to stretch to even call it a casual acquaintance. Whatever label I might assign it mattered little now. It had all gone horribly awry. It made no sense that he would behave in such a fashion. I would have to write to Jake and ask for his assistance.
I thought that until I read the last sentence in the letter. “I shall soon be passing through the town of Willard, and I look forward to spending time with you, brief though it must be.”
Clearly I no longer had time to write to Jake. I would have to put in a call to him. I made quick plans to use the phone…where? Anywhere I went to use the phone would guarantee at least one busybody that could be depended upon to spread the news all over town by the time I got back home.
Dan’s office. That was it. I could use the phone in his office. He’d allow me privacy. I would go in tomorrow morning and—No, that wouldn’t be possible. I couldn’t leave Ruth alone, and neither of us could take the chance on infecting anyone else. I only hoped Dan would come for another check-up in a day or two.
With trepidation, I turned to the only other piece of mail—a letter from Jake. His words only gave me more reason to fear Max: “I find myself in an awkward position and must beg your forgiveness.” The torrent of fear that cascaded over me as I first read the letter sent me reeling, and so many ominous words stood out. “I have been seeing…frightening demons…He has been increasingly irrational and unstable…unwise choices…led to his dismissal from seminary…‘immoral behavior’…scandal…police may be looking for him.”
Demons? Unstable? POLICE? Oh, shit. What have I gotten myself into? I could only wonder what horrible scenes might play out because of this man? What might he do to me? To Ruth? I dropped Jake’s letter on the table. Shaking, I looked frantically at the door. Unlocked. I ran to lock it, something I don’t think I had done while still home—had I even locked it when leaving the house?
I put a kettle on and fixed a cup of tea. Some time later, though still not feeling completely calm again, I picked up the letter to finish reading. Jake offered heartfelt apologies and said that he felt he had let Adlai down. Too true, little man, too true.
November 15, 2008
November 11, 2008
Armistice Day/Veteran's Day
On November 11, 1918, the guns finally fell silent. The armistice, signed between the Entente Powers and the Central Powers, took effect "at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month." Our forebears laid down their arms on this day after so many millions of men laid down their lives in this Great War, this War to End All Wars.
As our own history tells us, of course, the ending of this war served only to foment the issues that led to further carnage a generation later.
May we all pause on this day to remember their sacrifice and the sacrifices of all men and women who have so bravely served our country. Thank a veteran today. One Veteran's Day a few years ago, I made phone calls and sent e-mails to the veterans I knew and thanked them for their service. It was a moving experience all around.
If anyone reading this is a veteran, I thank you.
Welcome!
I've noticed, recently, a big upswing in traffic, and I'd like to welcome y'all. Hopefully, you'll come back again and again--and bring your friends. Kick back with a tasty snack and have a look around.
Drop me a line. Let me know what you think.
November 10, 2008
My First Book--Scene Thirteen
Instead of giving a long list of links for you to read the previous scenes in my book, might I point you to the "Categories" at the left? Mosey down to "my first book--scenes", click there and scroll down to wherever you have to start.
Go on. We'll wait for you.
Back? Okay. Without further ado, I give you Scene Thirteen (unless you're superstitious, in which case you can call it Fourteen. Don't make no never mind to me).
*******
This Christmas Eve held no promise of the next day’s celebration, no church service to attend. I only allowed Ruth out of bed long enough to add the baby Jesus to the manger scene, but she went right back with no prompting. Ruth was in her second week of whooping cough, and while her health seemed to be gradually improving, her temperature still hovered above one hundred one degrees, and she still battled debilitating coughs and occasional sneezing.
I plugged in the Christmas tree lights and sat on the couch, sipping a mug of hot cider. As I stared at the lights, I allowed my eyes to lose focus; the entire tree shimmered as a blurred mass of multi-colored lights. No one ornament or light existed. The popcorn string, a vague, white thread, wound snakelike through a sparkly blob. The green and red paper chain entirely disappeared. I wished for a Victrola record of Christmas carols but contented myself with the popping, crackling, and occasional hiss of the fire.
Quiet Christmases were certainly not usual for us, but Ruth’s contagion meant we could not afford to be around others. Ruth had eaten her final meal of the day some two hours ago, and I knew she was likely asleep for the night. I sipped the cider, relishing the warmth that spread through me.
A heavy knock at the door startled me, and I almost dropped my cup. Who would be out at this hour on Christmas Eve? “Who is it?” I asked, careful to set the cup in the middle of the coffee table.
Another knock, this one more insistent, was my only response.
“Coming,” I said. I crossed the room and opened the door to find Dr. Daniel Cosgrove standing on my front porch with both arms full.
“It sure is cold out here. Can I come in?” he asked, stomping his feet.
I threw open the screen door. “Come in, Dr. Cosgrove. Come right in.”
He rushed past me and headed right to the dining table, where he deposited his load. I hurriedly shut the door to keep in as much warm air as possible. “We weren’t expecting you tonight,” I said. “Is something wrong?”
Dr. Cosgrove swept his hat from his head and laid it in a nearby chair. “Had a Christmas delivery from the church. I volunteered to bring it over.”
“A what?” I asked.
He started removing pans from boxes and uncovering them. “Let’s see. Got a ham in here, some sweet potatoes, looks like green beans, carrots, a pecan pie, and ooh!” he looked up, a warm smile on his lips. “There’s some homemade rolls in here, and they’re still warm!”
I was flabbergasted. Having resigned myself to cold, meager leftovers, my stomach suddenly rumbled with a ferocity demanding hot, fresh food. I buried a fist in my belly and went to fetch plates. “Who is this from?” I asked, returning with two plates, an assortment of serving spoons, and two forks and knives.
“Just think of this as a Santa Claus delivery from the ladies of the church,” he said.
As an active member of the Women’s Training Union and other women’s activities in the church, I seriously doubted the veracity of his story. After all, preacher’s sister or not, Beverly Myers wanted credit for any such undertaking and would insist on conducting such an operation in person.
“Well, I certainly can’t eat all of this, and unless she wakes up coughing, Ruthie’s out for the night. Do you have somewhere to go, or would you like to stay and eat with me?” I desperately wanted company; specifically, I wanted his company, this evening.
He shed his coat, scarf, and gloves and said, “I thought you’d never ask.” While I brought in tea, he filled our plates.
“I must say, it’s so nice to have some company tonight, Dr. Cosgrove. I was afraid I’d be alone. Thank you,” I said.
He laid his fork on the side of his plate and said, “Listen, if we’re gonna share a meal, we should dispense with the formality. Please, call me Dan.”
I smiled, feeling at ease. “Then you’d better call me Chloe. I thought you’d be with family tonight, Dan.” A truthful statement, but still fishing a bit, I had to admit. I should have been prepared for his returning honesty.
“My parents are both dead, and my sister moved to Oregon with her husband. I’m on my own here.”
His matter-of-fact manner surprised me. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea,” I said. My last bite of food hung in my throat.
He shook his head and laid a hand on my arm, his touch light. “You’ve nothing to apologize for. My parents have been dead for a good number of years, and my sister is ten years older than I am, so we didn’t really grow up together.”
His thumb traced back and forth across my wrist while his smile, oh, goodness, that smile, melted my heart. I knew next to nothing about this man, so why could his slightest touch and the tiniest quirk of his mouth move me so much?
“To answer the other question you haven’t asked, I’m also unmarried. Never been down the aisle, in fact.”
I choked on a chunk of ham, and Dan was obliged to whack me between the shoulder blades several times before I could breathe again. Evidently my interest in him was more transparent than I thought. “Thank you,” I whispered. Tears streamed down my face, but I tried a feeble smile.
“So, I understand you are a seamstress?” he asked, changing the subject. “Not many women around here go out and start their own businesses.” He helped himself to another roll.
“I am,” I said. “After my husband passed, I had to work, and I knew how to sew. I didn’t want to leave Ruthie during the day, so working from home seemed a natural choice. It started out really small, but I’ve gradually been able to increase my business.” I smiled, not exactly filled with confidence but more with a relaxation. “In the interest of full disclosure, my parents and sisters moved back to Arkansas three years ago, but I am quite close to my husband’s family. His twin sister—you know Lela Pitler, don’t you? —she’s my best friend.”
He nodded. “Got a cute kid. Sure is a spitfire.”
I laughed, careful not to spit sweet potatoes across the table. “You’ve no idea!”
We ate in silence for a time. I listened for Ruth’s stirrings and was relieved, for a growing number of reasons, that she seemed to be sleeping soundly.
“Whoever cooked all this did an amazing job,” I said, finally breaking the silence.
“Thank—uh, I’ll be sure to pass the word along,” he said. He took an exaggerated amount of time to wipe his mouth with his napkin. I noticed it could not cover his involuntary grin.
I brewed a pot of coffee after the meal, and we retired to the living room. Illuminated only by the multicolor lights of the Christmas tree and the roaring log fire, we settled side by side on the couch. We laughed about stories he told from his college years; he even showed me a scar on his hand from a splinter he had one summer. “It was three inches long! And you want to talk about something that hurt? Oh wow! Right in the meat, here under my thumb. It sheared right off that log I was working and—” He rubbed his scar with the thumb of his other hand and smiled sheepishly. “Got a little carried away there. Sorry,” he said.
Conversation turned more subdued, and as the fire began to die, I rose to add a log. “It’s getting late. I should probably get home,” Dan said, unfolding himself off the couch.
I stood the fireplace poker in its stand, sorry to see our time together drawing to a close. “I can’t tell you how I’ve enjoyed the evening, Dan. Thank you.” I turned to face him. “And thank you for a wonderful supper.”
“Next time you an cook for me,” he said, his hand resting lightly on my arm.
The feel of his skin on mine aroused spontaneous warmth I had not expected, had not felt in such a very long time, and my breath caught in a staccato rhythm. He caressed my cheek with the backs of his fingers, and I leaned in to his touch, willing him to continue.
That first kiss, new and filled with the excitement of the unknown, dissolved everything as his lips touched mine. Flocks of butterflies lurched about in my stomach. So tender at first, his touch warmed me, sparking an ember deep inside me.
In Dan, I learned what it was to kiss a man confident in himself and in what, or who, he wanted. Had my mind been fully capable of thought at the moment, I would have seen the difference between what I had and what, evidently, was mine to have. His kiss grew more ardent, and I allowed myself to become lost in the moment, reveling in the attention and the passion.
Minutes later, he nibbled my lip and with a smile in his voice, he said, “I hope you’ll allow me to see you again.”
Reality flooded back. Gone from my mind were the passion and intensity. I broke the embrace and stepped away, crossing my arms. “Dan, I’m not certain I’m ready for this.”
“If you weren’t ready,” he said as he followed me and laid his hands on my shoulders, “you wouldn’t have invited me to stay for supper, and you wouldn’t have reacted like you did when I kissed you.”
Hot tears rose in my eyes. He turned me around, held my chin on his fingers, and captured my gaze in his own, refusing to look away.
My voice shook. “I’m scared.”
He enveloped me in his arms. “I promise you, Chloe, I won’t rush you.”
November 8, 2008
November 6, 2008
My First Book--Scene Twelve
Instead of giving a long list of links for you to read the previous scenes in my book, might I point you to the "Categories" at the left? Mosey down to "my first book--scenes", click there and scroll down to wherever you have to start.
Go on. We'll wait for you.
Back? Okay. Without further ado, I give you Scene Twelve.
*******
The wild black cherry bark syrup worked marginally, usually the best for only the first thirty minutes after we battled and Ruth choked down a dose. While she coughed and sneezed, I worked to keep her calm and quiet in bed to lessen the severity of her coughing spasms, when possible. In between singing songs, playing games, and coloring pictures, I encouraged her to drink cups of soup.
True to his word, Dr. Cosgrove returned two days later. Ruth and I were singing “Away in a Manger” when he knocked at the door.
He arrived, this handsome doctor with dimples, I suddenly realized, that were too cute for my own good, wearing no tie with his suit. That his high, starched collar was also missing underscored his informal, casual appearance. Should I write that off to the fact that he waited until after 5:00 to come by and was tired? Somehow, I had expected him to remain in his formal, office attire. I much preferred the difference.
What was wrong with me? My daughter had a fever and a contagious disease, and I was distracted by how the doctor looked? Really? “Welcome, Dr. Cosgrove. Come right in,” I said, opening the door wide and standing out of his way. I took a deep breath.
“Thank you, Mrs. Turner. How’s Ruth?” He stepped in and removed his hat.
“Not wanting to stay in bed, I’m afraid. Fever’s still up. It was one-oh-three about an hour ago.”
“So the fever hasn’t gone down any at all?” He followed me as I led him down the hall.
I shook my head as I opened the door. Ruth sat in the middle of her bed, singing to Herman.
“Ruthie, look who’s come to see you,” I said.
She patently ignored the doctor and continued singing to Herman.
“Hello, Ruth. I’ve come to see how you’re feeling. Have you been coughing much lately?” He knelt beside the bed and laid his bag on the floor near his feet.
“Herman’s sick,” Ruth said, thrusting the bear quite unceremoniously towards the doctor.
“Ruthie, I’m sure the doctor doesn’t-”
“Oh, dear. The bear? How sick is he?” Dr. Cosgrove said, interrupting me, and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Him’s been coughing all day. I think him caught the hoopy cough from me. Will him be okay?”
I smiled, appreciative that he would take time to reassure her.
The doctor reached for the bear, which Ruth readily handed over. His face betrayed no humor, instead treating her with all the seriousness of any other patient. He held the bear up to his ear, seeming to listen intently. “Has he been taking cough syrup when you do?” he asked Ruth.
“Him doesn’t like it. It’s icky.” She stuck out her tongue and contorted her face in a close approximation of the one that greeted me each time I had to dose her.
Still serious, the doctor nodded. “Well, as long as he follows directions and takes his medicine, he’ll be just fine,” he said as he handed the bear back to Ruth. “May I take your temperature now, Ruth?” he asked, reaching into his bag.
Ruth sat quietly with the thermometer under her tongue. I helped her lie down and pulled the quilt over her. Dr. Cosgrove rummaged in his bag and pulled out a small paper sack, which he laid on his lap.
“I’ll want you to keep a close eye on her temperature.” He took the thermometer from Ruth and read it. “One hundred one point six,” he said. “Not unreasonably high for her condition. I’m concerned about her age, though. Start the cold baths and alcohol swabbing if it goes back up near one-oh-three.” After wiping down the thermometer, he returned it to its case.
“Ruth, I’ve got some very important medicine for you to take, but you must finish your soup first, okay?” Dr. Cosgrove produced the small paper bag before she had a chance to fuss and extracted a peppermint stick, but he quickly re-wrapped it. “After supper,” he said as she reached for it. “I’ll give it to your mommy to hold.”
A smile lit her face, the first smile I’d seen from her in days. “Thank you,” she said without prompting, very nearly a first for her.
“You’re quite welcome,” he said. “I’ve not had a more pleasant patient all day.”
“Bye bye, Dr. Cosgrove.” She waved to him as he followed me out of the room.
I found myself wishing for any reason for him to stay as I handed him his hat. “Thank you for coming out,” I said. “And for the candy. It’s really quite a treat for her.”
He smiled and ducked his head. I might have sworn he blushed slightly. “How are you?” he asked, rolling his hat around in his hands.
“I beg your pardon?” Was this a doctor’s concern for another patient, or was it simply his ham-handed way of coming on to me?
“I know how Ruth’s feeling. How are you? Have you been coughing any? Are you running a fever?” He continued shifting his hat back and forth between his hands.
Oh. He was asking as a doctor. Why should this bother me so much? “Thank you for asking. Aside from being a bit tired, I feel just fine.”
He laid a hand on my shoulder and looked straight into my eyes, leaning in slightly closer than his normal conversational manner. His voice was soft, barely above a whisper. “You would tell me otherwise, wouldn’t you?” he asked, never breaking eye contact.
Much as I found myself wanting his attention, the depth of his gaze unnerved me. Only one other man had looked at me so intently. Gooseflesh pimpled across my body.
“Of course. Really. I’m fine.” Was I, though? Oh, goodness. What ailed me most certainly could not be labeled as whooping cough.
He sighed and looked away. “Very well, then. If you’re sure. I must be off. Should you need me, just send for me or come into the office. Otherwise, I’ll be back in a few days. To check on Ruth,” he said, that last bit almost an afterthought.
I nodded, feeling the flush bloom up my neck and across my cheeks. I hoped he had not noticed. “Thank you, doctor.”
“Good evening,” he said as he walked down the front steps.
November 4, 2008
Ten Word Tuesday
I've got the Saturday Sixers going on, but I saw this Ten Word Tuesday on iambossy and knew I had to try it (I also left it in her comments). Here's mine:
First election choices: Bush, Clinton, Perot. And I voted for…
My First Book--Scene Eleven (b)
This particular scene runs quite long, so I've divided into two different posts. This is the second of the two posts
As before, instead of giving a long list of links for you to read the previous scenes in my book, might I point you to the "Categories" at the left? Mosey down to "my first book--scenes", click there and scroll down to wherever you have to start.
Go on. We'll wait for you.
Back? Okay. Without further ado, I give you Scene Eleven, part two.
*******
I stood back, ushering them in with relief. “Please, come through. Ruth is in her bedroom. Right this way.”
“I appreciate you coming so soon,” I said. “She had a temperature of one hundred three degrees last night. I believe it may be a bit higher this morning, but I’ve not checked yet.”
Ruth, snuggling with Herman as we walked into her room, stared at the doctor, her eyes wide with fright.
“Ruthie, this is Dr. Cosgrove. He’s come to see what he can do to make you feel better,” I said.
She scooted sideways across her bed, inching away from us and doing her best to plaster herself against the wall.
“Good morning, Ruth,” Dr. Cosgrove said, addressing his patient directly. “Your mommy tells me you’ve been coughing since last night.”
Still clutching her bear to her chest, she nodded. She coughed into his fur and whooped in an effort to catch her breath.
The doctor withdrew his stethoscope from his bag and sat on the side of her twin-sized bed. “I need to listen to your lungs,” he told her as he placed the earpieces in his ears, “and I need you to breathe as normally as possible, okay?”
She nodded and took two full breaths before coughing again.
“Any other symptoms before the coughing?” he asked me. After listening to her lungs and heart, he palpated lymph nodes and looked in her nose, mouth, and ears.
“She was sneezing some yesterday evening,” I said.
Minerva, Dr. Cosgrove’s nurse, had stood quietly at his side, but she began digging in his bag as I spoke. “Will she take a thermometer in her mouth?” she asked.
“Most of the time,” I said. “As long as she doesn’t start coughing, I think she’ll be fine.”
“If it is whooping cough, we can expect the temperature to be elevated for some time,” the doctor said. “Of course, she’ll be quite contagious, so it’s important you not let anyone else around her. You must stay away from others, as well, while she is sick.” He returned the stethoscope to his bag and motioned for me to join him in the doorway as the nurse took Ruth’s temperature.
“There’s a test I need to do to confirm this is whooping cough. I’ll have to swab the inside of her nose, and she’ll likely fight it; you’ll need to restrain her.”
I nodded, not at all looking forward to the fight to come. “Is there anything she can take to get through this?” I asked.
He shook his head. “The only thing I can suggest is to dose her with wild black cherry bark syrup to lessen the coughing. I brought some, just in case,” he said. “Also, when she coughs, make sure she’s sitting up. She may strain with the coughing and vomit, so that’s safest.”
“Already has,” I said.
Dr. Cosgrove nodded. “Nothing heavier than broth, then. Feed her in small portions through the day.”
“One hundred three point six degrees, doctor,” the nurse said.
“Thank you,” he said and turned back to me. “A fever is the body’s way of fighting infection, so I’m not too worried about it right now. If it gets much higher, though, you’ll want to bathe her in cold water and swab her body with alcohol to keep her cool.” Turning back to the nurse, he said, “Get me a culture swab, please.”
I sat on the bed and gathered Ruth into my arms. “Honey, the doctor needs to put this in your nose. It’ll tickle, but you must sit very still, okay?”
Dr. Cosgrove knelt beside the bed with the swab in his hand. “Mrs. Turner, I’ll need you to hold her arms and legs down and keep her body still while I do this.” He turned to Ruth and asked, “Are you ready?”
Not surprisingly, she turned away from him laid her cheek against my shoulder, and began whimpering. I sat on the side of her bed, taking her onto my lap and wrapping my arms around her arms and legs when she began to wriggle away. She screamed and fought unsuccessfully to escape. As Minerva held her head steady, the doctor swabbed one of Ruth’s nostrils quickly but thoroughly. He sat back, and I took that as my cue to loosen my grip; Ruth immediately buried her face in my breast and, crying, began coughing again.
I smoothed her hair, running my fingers through her soft curls, and kissed the top of her head. “It’s all over, Ruthie. It’s okay. We’re all done, sweetie,” I said, trying to soothe her. A tear slipped down my cheek, and I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Mama’s right here. Shhh. You’re gonna be just fine, baby.”
Dr. Cosgrove laid a hand on my shoulder. “I’d go ahead and give her the syrup. I’m afraid it’ll be a while before the culture is ready, though.”
“Thank you, doctor,” I said as I shifted Ruth onto the bed and kissed her cheek, promising her that I would return soon.
Ruth continued coughing, whooping in great gulps of air when her lungs completely emptied.
As I stood, Dr. Cosgrove walked back to Ruth’s bedside, rummaging in his pocket. Though she continued to cough, she was not too ill to recoil in fear when he neared her.
He smiled, his eyes softening as he knelt beside her. “I promise I won’t hurt you,” he said as he patted her on the knee. “Here.” He pulled a hand from the pocket on his white coat. “Am I forgiven if I give you this?” he asked, producing a peppermint stick, his peace offering.
She looked up at me, her eyes questioning. “Can I, Mommy?”
I nodded. “What do you say, Ruthie?”
Her nearest hand shot out and grasped the candy. “Thank you,” she said as she wrapped her lips around the tasty treat.
“You are quite welcome,” he said and then turned to me. “The peppermint will also soothe her throat for a time. It’s a bit messy, but it does the job.” He smiled, ruffling her hair and patting the top of her head.
“Thank you so much, Dr. Cosgrove,” I said, truly grateful for his prompt help and caring bedside manner. I looked at Ruth and noticed her coughing had temporarily ceased.
“My pleasure,” he said. Looking around, he said, “Minerva’s left the syrup on your dining table.” He turned to leave, I noticed Minerva already standing by the door, but then he stopped. “One other thing. Assume this is whooping cough we’re dealing with here. You’ll remember how contagious I told you this is, so please do not take her around anyone until after the whooping has stopped for at least twenty-four hours, and make sure she doesn’t still have a fever.”
“Of course. I’ll see to it,” I said.
November 2, 2008
My First Book--Scene Eleven (a)
This particular scene runs quite long, so I've divided into two different posts.
As before, instead of giving a long list of links for you to read the previous scenes in my book, might I point you to the "Categories" at the left? Mosey down to "my first book--scenes", click there and scroll down to wherever you have to start.
Go on. We'll wait for you.
Back? Okay. Without further ado, I give you Scene Eleven, part one.
*******
I woke with a start sometime in the predawn hours. Ruth was coughing, but what woke me was a far more disturbing, foreign accompaniment: a high-pitched whoop. I threw back my blanket and sprinted to her bedroom.
Ruth sat up in bed, coughing violently and struggling unsuccessfully to breathe. I flipped the light switch as I raced into her room, and the look of terror in my daughter’s eyes as she wrapped her arms around herself, struggling unsuccessfully to breath between coughs, broke my heart. As her lungs completely emptied, Ruth sucked in a large volume of air with a whistling whoop.
She breathed several shallow times before coughing again and crying, “Mama, Mama.”
I rushed to her side and scooped her into my arms. “Mama’s here, precious. Mama’s right here. It’s okay. Don’t worry.” I cradled her, frightened and fevered as she was, and rocked back and forth on the bed as more spasmodic coughing again racked her tiny body. The characteristic whoop of the cough paralyzed me with fear.
Unsure what was happening, Ruth tried to cry, and tears coursed down her face, but sobs only started the coughing afresh. I struggled to calm her. She strained against my arms, needing desperately to control her little lungs. After more than ten minutes of coughing, Ruth vomited all over herself and me.
As she always had, Ruth cried at this, apologetic for making such a mess. My poor baby was exhausted, and twin rivers of snot ran down her lip.
I kissed the top of her head. “Honey, it’s okay. You don’t worry about any of this, sweetie. Mommy’s gonna get all this taken care of.” I wiped her face with the small spot still dry on my gown and picked her up, gingerly balancing a precarious hold on my gown with one hand and my grip on her with the other.
We made our way to the bathroom, where I stripped us both to our bloomers and planted Ruth on the toilet lid. Wide-necked gowns with generous, buttoned necks made the task considerably less hazardous with a minimum of mess. I wet a bath rag with cool water, squeezed the excess from it, and laid it on Ruth’s face. “Take some deep breaths, baby,” I said as I wiped her face.
I dug a thermometer out from the back of the medicine cabinet, praying silently that Ruth would hold it in her mouth without a fuss. I had no idea where the other thermometer was, and her face, hot to the touch, told me the fever was high.
Shaken by the entire episode, Ruth accepted the thermometer without question, and I went to retrieve clean gowns for both of us while she sat meekly on the side of the tub. I re-dressed quickly and checked her temperature—one hundred three degrees—before slipping her gown over her head.
“Come on, Ruthie. Come with Mommy,” I said, picking her up.
“I’m scared, Mommy,” she said, her voice a ragged whisper. “I don’t wanna throw up again. I’m scared to cough, and my throat tickles.”
I patted her back. “Ruthie, it’s okay if you do. Don’t get too scared. That’ll just make it worse,” I said.
She leaned limply against my chest and was almost asleep again before I laid her next to me in bed. Ruth woke three more times before sunrise with her coughing fits, not to mention the coughing while she slept; I barely even dozed.
By seven that morning, one touch of her forehead told me her temperature had raised since the previous night. Ruth sat sleepily in my lap as I took down her pin curls and brushed her hair. Even so, convincing her to lay on the couch with Herman while I cooked our oatmeal took no effort on my part. She endured several more coughing fits, but her breakfast’s heat seemed to soothe her, at least for the time being.
I opened the front curtain, the usual signal to Lela for our morning coffee, and waited by the door. She arrived minutes later, and I met her on the porch. “Ruthie’s sick,” I said without prelude.
She stopped on the first step. “What is it?” she asked.
“I think she’s got the whooping cough. It started last night, and she just had another fit. She couldn’t hardly catch her breath.” I crossed my arms, tucking my hands in my armpits, though it offered no help against the biting cold.
Lela backed away. “I’ll have Waylon go fetch the doctor for her. It may be a bit before he can get here, though. What can I do to help?” she asked.
“Thank you. We’re fine for now. I’ll keep an eye out for the doctor.” I sniffed, my nose running from the cold. My eyelids throbbed from exhaustion, but the cold roused me.
“Give Ruthie a kiss for me,” she said, calling over her shoulder as she scurried back across the street.
I nodded and hurried back into the sheltering warmth of the house. After settling Ruth in bed again, I took our gowns to wash. A knock at the door as I wrung the last of the water from my gown brought some small measure of relief. Drying my hands on a towel, I hurried past Ruth’s bedroom and opened the door.
Dr. Cosgrove stood on the porch, and his nurse, who had accompanied him, stood behind him. He removed his hat and said, “Mrs. Turner? I’m Dr. Daniel Cosgrove, and this is my nurse, Minerva. I’ve been told you believe your daughter to have whooping cough. May we come in?”
November 1, 2008
Final: 39-33!!
This just in: Texas Tech Red Raiders have just pulled up an amazing upset. In the final seconds of what has to be one of the most exciting college football games I have ever had the privilege of watching, #7 ranked Texas Tech beat #1 ranked University of Texas Longhorns 39-33. How sweet it is!!!
Wreck 'em, Tech!
Music I Can Write To
When I write, I often look for music I can have playing on my earphones. I'll play the song over and over. Always it should be something that can drown out background noise. Sometimes, like when I listen to this, it's just because I like listening to drum lines. Or maybe a particular song strikes my fancy.
This little ditty, which I concede might drive others bat-shit crazy (I can see how it might, really, I can), has been a favorite of mine since childhood. I can, and have, listened to it for hours on end because it does a fine job of drowning out background noise, but it does something else for me: it does a remarkable job of putting me in a historical state of mind (quite handy since my book is set in the 1920s). It's what's on iTunes for me right now.
It does bring to mind a thought, and thus, a one sentence story:
I always hear her perfectly sculpted nails clicking on the ivories whenever listening to "Music Box Dancer."
**Side Note: The Grammar Nerd in me requires that I change the title to "Music to Which I Can Write." I almost did make the change because I know it's grammatically correct, but today it just sounds like someone's got her panties in a twist. Thus, it stays.**
Halloween Update
The candy handout was significantly reduced (less than one honkin' big bag) from last year (more than three honkin' big bags). I really thought the economy would mean more kids out looking for free candy.
On the BIG upside, no teenagers seeking to wreak mischief kept me up all night worrying and wondering. What does this mean for you, dear readers? Why do you care that my dwelling escaped tping, egging, and paint ball splattering? Why, thank you for asking. See, I'm well rested and plan to spend the rest of the day writing--not sleeping.
But wait, there's more! Tonight's the end to daylight savings time and I get an extra hour this evening! WOO HOO!!!
You can go back to eating your candy and loving your sugar high. Have fun. Anybody want another SweeTart? Yech! I've got plenty left over.
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