Taken by Surprise: A Novel

By Leslyn Amthor Spinelli

Caroline and David Spencer believe they are prepared for the changes they’ve decided to make: their move from the suburbs to the city. Caroline’s new job as an assistant federal prosecutor. David’s more prominent role in child-care and his new business venture. Lily’s new school. The twins’ graduation to pull-ups and big-kid beds.

But they aren’t prepared for the unthinkable.

When a freak accident turns the Spencers’ world upside down, Caroline must rely on a cadre of helpmates—her mother-in-law, her best friend, and a tenacious private investigator—who each bring complications to the mix. How will Caroline deal with her anger, grief, and loss of control? How will the family weather the storm?

In the sequel to “Taken for Granted,” Leslyn Amthor Spinelli takes us back to Madison, Wisconsin, and the often-chaotic Spencer household, where most anything can happen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leslyn Amthor Spinelli
• Release date: Dec 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310977428

Leslyn Amthor Spinelli

Leslyn Amthor Spinelli—writer, editor, and publisher of two childhood newspapers—put creative writing on the back burner when it came time to choose a “real” career. Her interest in the field of criminal justice took her on quite a journey. She earned bachelor’s and master’s degrees in psychology, but her most fascinating educational experiences occurred in the workplace. Leslyn was employed by the Federal Bureau of Prisons as a case manager at a halfway house in Kansas City, at the prison camp in Leavenworth, and at the Metropolitan Correctional Center in Chicago. Later she was hired as a probation officer for the U.S. District Court in Madison, where she conducted in-depth investigations into the backgrounds of criminal defendants. Throughout the years, Leslyn's clientele included mobsters, gangsters, drug dealers, meth cookers, tax evaders, bank robbers and embezzlers. Many were addicted—to drugs, alcohol, gambling or spending. The fictional characters and plot lines in her Caroline Spencer novels, (Taken for Granted, Taken by Surprise, Taken for a Fool, and Taking My Chances), are influenced, in part, by the people and situations Leslyn has encountered over the years. She also draws on her more personal experiences with infertility, adoption, and panic attacks. Leslyn and her husband live in the Minneapolis area and enjoy spending winters in San Diego. They have two grown children.

Book preview

Prologue

Closing the door to the suburban house for the last time, David felt an overwhelming sense of wellbeing. He balanced a packing box on one arm, opened the hatch of the minivan, and stowed the box between the vacuum cleaner and a bucket full of cleaning supplies.

He drove out of the cul-de-sac, struggling to hide a grin as he passed the crotchety neighbor—the one who, with obvious glee, confiscated every baseball or kickball or tennis ball that happened to stray onto his pristine lawn. Ah, Karma! David thought at sight of the neighbor, t-shirt soaked with sweat, pulling impotently on the cord of an obstinate lawnmower.

He cranked the radio, rolled down the window, and sang along to the strains of Bob Marley’s Three Little Birds.

Don't worry about a thing, ‘cause every little thing gonna be all right…

The song and the thick humid air evoked wonderful memories of his honeymoon in Jamaica fifteen years ago. Yeah, he and Caroline had had their ups and downs since then, and they were now undertaking some serious risks. But everything was going to be all right. Caroline’s new job. Lily’s new school. His new business and more prominent role in child care. His stomach fluttered with excitement.

The minute he got onto the highway, he saw the pickup truck off in the distance. Oh, man! Caroline’s gotta see this, he thought. While recognizing his impulsivity, he reached into the deep front pocket of his khaki cargo shorts to find his iPhone and accelerated to catch up to the truck. He pulled into the right lane a few car lengths behind it, snapped two quick shots, and eased off the gas. Within seconds he was back in a safe zone, in the other lane and well behind the noteworthy vehicle. He threw the cell phone on the passenger seat, intending to email the pics to Caroline when he stopped to pick up lunch. It would brighten her day.

The traffic became increasingly congested as David neared his off-ramp. Executing a few dicey maneuvers, he worked his way toward the exit-only lane and found he had no choice but to pull in directly behind the overloaded truck. Still, he smiled at the sight.

Then, in what must have been a nanosecond, his smile turned to a grimace. He waited helplessly for the impact.

Chapter One

When the police officer at the front door finished his halting description of my husband’s car accident, full-blown, you’ve-got-to-be-kidding laughter erupted from my gut. Loud enough and long enough to bring my daughter Lily from her post in the living room, dragging a twin with each hand, bewilderment clouding her flawless ten-year-old complexion.

The officer—perhaps thirty-five years of age and certainly not a newbie—stood respectfully in the doorway, hat in hand, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. Each laugh caused more color to drain from his face, which clearly conveyed his thoughts: She can’t think this is funny. What on earth is wrong with her?

When my laughter abruptly subsided, my second reaction was no more appropriate than the first. How did you find me? I demanded. As though the news would magically cease to exist if they couldn’t locate me to deliver it.

What’s going on, Mom? Lily asked, crouching to get an arm around each toddler.

I turned to her. I want to know how he found me. Since we just moved to this house two hours ago.

The officer moved close enough for me to smell his unease and reached for my elbow. Ma’am, I really think—

I jerked away. Please don’t call me ‘ma’am,’ and please answer the question.

Lily’s wide, almost-black eyes darted back and forth between us with growing alarm.

Okay, he said. Your husband wasn’t carrying a cell phone, so we couldn’t contact you that way. The vehicle registration listed your address in Middleton. I went there, and a neighbor told me you’d just moved to Madison, somewhere near the zoo. She didn’t know exactly where. Then an officer at the scene of the accident noticed a realtor’s folder sitting on the floor of the minivan. He looked inside, saw the closing documents, and radioed the new address to me.

Lily let go of the twins. Accident? Is Dad okay? she asked in a voice too shrill for the comfort of her two-year-old siblings. Luke began crying and ran to grab my leg. Amy cowered next to her sister.

Ms. Spencer, the officer said in a near monotone but with clear urgency, you need to find someone to stay with your children while we go to the hospital. It would be best if we got there soon. And the truth began to sink in.

I reached down to lift Luke to my hip and pulled my cell phone from the pocket of my faded cut-offs. Lily, I said, struggling to single-handedly scroll through my contacts, your dad’s been injured in an accident. We’re not sure how badly just yet. Since Rosalee is the closest, I’m going to call and ask her to come stay with you guys. I need you to help her, okay?

Rosalee, my dear friend and former secretary, answered on the second ring. Hey, Caroline, she said in the honey-coated voice that seldom failed to make me smile. How’s the move going?

I leaned against the wall for support and choked back a sob. David’s been in an accident and I need to get to the hospital. Can you come over to watch the kids?

I’m there in ten minutes, she said and hung up. She didn’t need to tell me she’d be praying the whole way.

Tears pooled in Lily’s eyes. Mom, please let me go with you!

Oh, sweetheart, I don’t think—

The officer shook his head firmly. I’m sorry, Lily. Your dad’s in the emergency room, and children aren’t allowed there. I promise they’re doing everything they can for him.

Rosalee rushed in about the time I’d located a T-shirt to replace my sweat-stained tank top and found a packing box full of snack foods to tide the kids over until I got home. Though her caramel colored cheeks bore the tracks of melting mascara, she put on a confident façade and busied herself with hugging and reassuring my children. Which hospital? she asked when I grabbed my purse to head out the door.

I shrugged and looked at the officer. If he’d told me, I hadn’t heard it.

University of Wisconsin, he said. He handed her a business card. If you need to reach us, you can call my cell phone.

I don’t remember getting into the car, but when the officer hit the siren to clear the first intersection, the gravity of the situation struck me. I felt my heart race and struggled for a moment to catch my breath.

You must think I’m psychotic for laughing when you told me, I said, shaking my head. He didn’t reply, just kept driving.

Unnerved by his silence, I had an immediate compulsion to explain myself. "You gotta understand, I never let my husband drive behind trucks with precarious loads. I’m always petrified something will fly off and hit us. We laugh when we see the absurd ways people tie junk and tools and whatnot to their cars or trucks. Sometimes we sing the Beverly Hillbillies theme song, I continued, my voice rising and my eyes stinging with hot tears. Then we either pass them or stay way, way the hell back. We never ever follow them. How could he ignore our simple rule?"

I don’t know, ma’am. It was a freak accident.

One glance in his direction told me he regretted the ma’am. He shifted in his seat and looked at me from the corner of his eye.

I promise not to bite your head off again, I said more calmly. And I’m sorry to say I didn’t catch your name.

Officer Belkins. Mike Belkins.

Officer Bel—

Please, call me Mike.

Okay, Mike. Would you please tell me again about the accident? I’m afraid I wasn’t listening very carefully.

Sure, he said. His eyes fixed firmly on the road, he began to recite—once more—the account he’d probably rehearsed ten times on the way to my house. Your husband was driving east on Highway 12. He was in the right lane, near the Verona Road interchange. The guy driving the pickup truck in front of him, which was full of furniture, boxes and whatnot, slammed on his brakes. His load shifted, and one of the steel bedframes flew off and torpedoed into your husband’s windshield.

Yeah. I remember that part. And then?

Your husband was pinned against the seat and was non-responsive when the EMTs arrived a few minutes later. They were able to extricate him from the vehicle and resuscitate him. Because of his head injuries, they decided to med-flight him to UW—it’s a Level One trauma center.

I noticed I was shaking and hugged myself in a futile effort to stop. The words Level One trauma center echoed through my head.

Did you see him? I asked. Did you see David?

He nodded. Uh huh. I was the first squad on the scene. Got there about the same time as the ambulance.

We were nearing the hospital. Ask him, I told myself. Better to be prepared. Mike… I expect you’ve been to more than a few accident scenes?

Yeah, he said, looking over at me. Hundreds, I suppose.

Any with fatalities?

Several.

And I’m guessing the EMTs can tell who’s gonna make it and who’s not… and they let you know… maybe in subtle ways?

He paused and nodded tentatively.

Tell me, Mike, is he likely to survive?

He swallowed once and then again. I knew his answer before he spoke it. I doubt it.

I remember nothing at all about the rest of the ride.

The squad car jerked to a halt at the door to the ER, and Belkins walked me inside. Our arrival clearly anticipated, we were admitted without question and escorted not to my husband’s side but to an office. Its pale pink walls and subdued lighting—designed, I knew, to be calming—threatened to suffocate me. I want to see David, I said.

In a few minutes, the woman seated behind the desk replied. Her husky voice didn’t match her sharp features and lean, angular frame, and I recoiled when she came over to shake my hand. I turned, only to face a short, balding Indian man wearing rumpled scrubs, the too-tight shirt barely covering his stomach, smelling incongruously of patchouli and Listerine. His footsteps must’ve been muffled by the cloth booties covering his shoes—it was as if he’d materialized into the room. This feels like a Fellini movie, and I want out!

He bowed his head an inch or two. Hello, Mrs. Spencer. I’m Dr. Singh. I’m sorry for your loss.

Panic rose in my throat. Loss? I asked.

I saw the woman give Dr. Singh a withering glance. Please sit down, Ms. Spencer, she said. I was about to explain—

I could no longer hear her. My vision clouded. My knees gave way. I collapsed against Mike Belkins’ arm and let him usher me to the couch. I felt the edge in his voice when he said, Give her a moment.

Head down, hoping that ignoring these people might make them disappear, my thoughts darted—heaven knows why—to the chocolate milk stains on my sneakers. How long had it been since Luke spilled on them? I tried to remember.

The warmth of Belkins’ touch on my shoulder and the faint scent of Irish Spring—the brand of soap David used when I’d first met him—brought me back to my senses and finally enabled me to look up.

I took a breath. Okay. Tell me.

Husky Voice took charge. Apparently satisfied I wasn’t going to faint or bolt, she sat in an armchair to my left and motioned for Dr. Singh to sit as well. My name is Beth Ann Monogue, she said, and I apologize for the way this meeting has evolved.

In no way prepared to be gracious, I chose not to respond.

Your husband’s head injuries were severe and irreparable, she said. Although he was resuscitated, he’s no longer with us. About thirty minutes ago, the doctors pronounced brain death.

She paused, leaned toward me and looked me in the eye. Do you understand? She’d obviously related this message to countless families before, yet Beth Ann’s eyes were lustrous with tears—tears that unexpectedly touched me.

I nodded numbly. Uh huh. You want to talk with me about organ donation.

Yes. Although David carried a donor card, we need consent from you, as his next of kin, to proceed. He’s on a ventilator to keep the organs viable until you make your decision.

I remembered the frantic phone calls that had transpired when David’s father had suffered a fatal heart attack less than two years earlier. He, too, had carried a donor card, yet for some unfathomable reason, David’s mother solicited input from her children. The decision was a no-brainer for David: do what Dad wanted. But his sister Rita was adamantly opposed to organ donation. In the end, their mother, sick with grief and unable to resolve the conflict, couldn’t bring herself to give consent. David had made me swear a solemn oath to comply with his wishes, and I had done so without hesitation.

I bowed my head and closed my eyes, vividly picturing the hillbilly truck. Oh, David. We wouldn’t be in this mess if only you’d followed our simple rule! And, yes, I remember my promise.

I looked up and nodded to Beth Ann. I’ll sign. He wanted to donate all possible organs and tissues. I was surprised to hear myself refer to my husband of fifteen years in the past tense.

Then came the awful formalities. Trancelike, I listened as Dr. Singh, with his lyrical Indian accent, described the protocol they had followed to determine brain death. I watched my trembling hand scrawl barely legible signatures on the forms Beth Ann handed me on a clipboard. I croaked out a no when she asked if I’d like them to postpone the organ transfers so other relatives could come say their goodbyes.

Finally, with determination I didn’t realize I possessed, I stood. My legs held. I nodded my thanks to Mike Belkins and turned to the doctor. I’d like to see him now.

* * *

I had never touched a dead body before and always doubted I’d be able to do it. I’d heard people describe death—how they’d witnessed the unmistakable phenomenon of the soul leaving the body. It sounded too heartbreaking to withstand, and I was sure I wouldn’t be strong enough.

Beth Ann warned me this would be different: David’s body would be warm, I would feel a pulse and see his chest moving up and down with the ventilator’s breath. It would look like he was alive.

With measured steps, I entered the stark beige room—its conditioned air, sterile smell, and mechanized monitors stifling any sense of life or optimism. Take as much time as you need, Dr. Singh said quietly as he and Beth Ann left me alone at the bedside. I didn’t panic or turn away.

Beth Ann was right: David’s body looked strong and whole. But his head was covered in bandages, obscuring the eyes that had so attracted him to me when we first met. Green eyes with the uncanny propensity to turn hazel with most any strong emotion. Now, deep purple bruises crept down his neck, giving me a glimpse of the injuries I wouldn’t see. I pulled up a chair and sat holding David’s warm yet motionless hand. I leaned toward his head and whispered, David, squeeze my hand if you can hear me. Of course, there was no movement. I felt next to nothing. He wasn’t there. His essence had fled before Mike Belkins even rang my doorbell.

I had no need to linger.

Thanks to his foresight and generosity, the spare parts in David’s body would bring renewed life to others. Three groups of people waited in the hallway, garbed in the anonymity of blue surgical scrubs and speaking in hushed tones.

Godspeed, I murmured to what physically remained of my husband. With momentary peace and certainty, I nodded to the transplant teams and walked out to face what remained in my life.

Chapter Two

On that wretched day I was more than a little angry with God. Still, He certainly came through for me in one respect: in what I was sure was an illusion, my friend Glenda waited for me at the ER door. Though David had been my best friend, she was next in line.

Glenda and I had met sixteen or seventeen years earlier at a yoga class. I’d been in law school at the time, seeking ways to manage the stress of my studies. Glenda, a recent social work grad who’d never managed to shed the freshman fifteen, sought sleek muscles. The class hadn’t fulfilled our expectations, but happily we had found one another.

Without a word, she engulfed me in her sturdy arms and didn’t let go until minutes later when I forced words between my sobs. You’re supposed to be halfway to Colorado.

She held my hand in both of hers and coaxed me to a bench in the waiting area. Yeah. Well, Jacob was up puking all night. We couldn’t get it together to leave today after a night without sleep and decided to postpone our trip a day or two. I stopped in on my way to the store to see how your move was going and Rosalee filled me in… I can’t tell you how sorry I am, honey.

We sat in silence while I drew comfort from her presence. On some level, I was aware of other dramas being played out around us: sirens approaching—perhaps bringing in someone for David’s heart or kidney or lung, a young father trying in vain to calm a screaming baby, two kids fighting over a ratty stuffed bear while their mother sat zombie-like in a chair three feet away. I felt nothing except my own helplessness. How am I going to do it without him, Glenda? I finally asked.

The daughter of an ardent twelve-stepper, she responded, One day at a time, kiddo. She stood and pulled me up with her. And you won’t be doing it alone. Now let’s get you out of here. A person can only stand to smell hospital for so long.

I looked around. I’m not sure if Officer Belkins was going to wait for me…

I sent him on his way.

I must’ve looked puzzled.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who he was or why he was here, Glenda said. And I only needed to use a few of my social work skills to convince him to breach confidentiality and tell me what had happened. I promised him I’d stay with you and get you home safely. He said he’d be by later to check on you.

Normally a hair-raising driver, Glenda drove like an eighty-year-old woman in an ice storm and avoided the faster-moving thoroughfares on our way home. I noticed—and had to comment. Where’s your alter-ego Danica Patrick today?

After a brief glance in my direction, she resumed her attention to the road. In case you’ve forgotten, she said with half a grin, if anything happens to you, Hank and I promised to raise your kids. And while we could easily handle Lily, I’m not sure about those twins!

My jaw fell open and my hands clenched into fists. Oh. My. God. How can you even joke about something like this?

Glenda must have read my mind, for she eased over to the curb, parking beneath the umbrella of a lush ash tree. She faced me and took a moment to force an errant strand of hair into the perpetually messy blonde knot on the back of her head. I’m sorry, Caroline. You know the filter between my brain and my mouth doesn’t work too well. But, this whole situation is overwhelming—and I really believe voicing our worst fears is healthier than ignoring them.

I nodded and blotted my dripping nose with a wadded-up Dairy Queen napkin I’d found on the car seat. Yeah, but—

No ‘buts,’ she said firmly. Now, more than ever, you need to tune in to your feelings and fears instead of tuning them out. And you need to express them.

I nodded again, this time with enough conviction to get her to drive on.

As we approached our new neighborhood, my stomach became queasy with fear. I held the sticky, snot-sodden napkin to my mouth and swallowed a couple of times. Glen, will you sit with me while I tell Lily? I’m not sure I can do it.

My friend reached over and stroked my cheek. Of course, she said.

Glenda’s twelve-year-old daughter Sarah and my Lily were in the front yard playing a half-hearted game of tag with Luke when we pulled into the driveway. Rosalee sat on the top step of the front porch giving Amy a horsy ride on her knee. They all stopped in mid-movement to stare at me, with unabashed hope for the smile I couldn’t produce. It hurt to dash those hopes, and the stricken look on their faces was indelibly etched in my mind.

Lily ran to the car, opened my door, and climbed onto my lap. Oh, no, Mom. He died, didn’t he?

It took me a moment to find my voice. Yeah, honey. He died. His head injuries were way too serious to fix.

Do you think it hurt a lot? she asked in a barely audible whisper.

I hugged her tight, feeling her lanky body quivering in my arms. The doctor told me no. Your dad died instantly—before he even felt any pain.

She sniffed away some tears and bit her lip, nodding thoughtfully. Then why did the policeman say they were doing everything they could to help him? I mean, if he was already dead?

Good question. Because they didn’t want a scene outside the controlled environment of the pink room in the hospital? Because only trained professionals are allowed to give out the gravest news? Stop with the useless speculations and answer her.

The paramedics in the ambulance and helicopter were able to shock your dad’s heart into beating again, I said. Like they do on TV. And they kept his lungs breathing with one of those bag-like air pumps. But only the doctors at the hospital were able to tell that his brain—the part that made him who he was—couldn’t be started again.

Did they let you see him?

Yes. Except most of his head and face were bandaged.

Her head darted up, a glimmer of optimism flashing across her tan face. Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe it was somebody else.

My heart lurched into my throat. Much as I would’ve liked to allow her a fantasy, I knew it would be absolutely wrong. It was him, honey, I croaked. I saw the mole on his chin, and his Navy SEAL tattoo. I held his hand with the wedding ring—the one he and I picked out together.

Pausing to let it sink in, I realized Glenda remained seated next to me in the driver’s seat. Trancelike, she and her daughter held hands through the open window, tears streaming down their faces, listening but pointedly averting their eyes from us. Then my friend shook her head, as if trying to deny reality, and turned to me. Let’s go inside, she said.

You go. There’s one more thing I want to talk with Lily about.

When Glenda and Sarah moved out of earshot I nudged Lily out of the car and knelt down to face her, cupping her elbows in my hands. Your dad wanted to be an organ donor, I said. Do you understand what that means?

Uh huh. We talked about it in school when Melissa’s brother got a heart transplant.

I remember. Well, the emergency room doctors kept Dad’s heart and lungs pumping with machines until I got there to give them written permission to donate his organs. Your dad probably saved three or four other people’s lives today, which makes me pretty proud.

She broke free of my grasp, turned on her heel, and stormed toward the house. "I’d rather be not proud and have Dad with us, she yelled to me over her shoulder. They should’ve tried harder to save him."

And you think I don’t agree? I wanted to yell back at her, though I managed to hold my tongue. I knew, on some level, that anger was a normal response to grief, but I had been totally unprepared for her abrupt outburst.

I gathered my breath and trudged across the lawn, noting with chagrin it already needed mowing. I stopped to look up at the two-story white clapboard house with its steep forest-green roof and what felt like an endless number of windows. How on earth am I going to take care of this hundred-year-old monstrosity and overgrown yard by myself? How can I manage three kids and a full-time job that won’t pay nearly enough? How could you do this to me, David?

I couldn’t bring myself to go inside. I realized I was as angry as Lily and I had no idea how to tell my two-year-olds their daddy was never coming home. I retched into the bushes, my empty stomach yielding only sour fumes.

I sat on the porch, head in hands, until Glenda—bless her heart—brought me a sippy cup filled with red wine.

The sight of red wine in a plastic cup imprinted with yellow and baby blue ducklings jolted me from my ruminations, and I almost laughed. Where’d this come from? We drank up all the liquor so we didn’t have to pack it.

Glenda did laugh. On my way to the hospital, I dropped Sarah off with a bottle of Cabernet and a half-gallon of milk. I figured you’d need them no matter what the news. Rosalee found the kids’ dishes and silverware when they needed some lunch. We didn’t get around to finding your stemware though.

I took one sip and then another. I want to sit on the porch, get soused, and forget this god-awful day. But I gotta go in and talk to the twins. I stood up and brushed dirt from the back of my shorts.

It’ll wait, Glenda said. Rose already has ‘em mesmerized by a video, nestled on top of a quilt and almost asleep. We do need to make some calls, though—Officer Belkins says it’ll be on the news this evening, and we don’t want people to hear it that way. I’m making a list. She handed me a scrap of a brown paper bag with about eight names scrawled on it in red Sharpie marker.

The first name on the list buckled my knees. Sitting heavily on the porch rail, I looked up at my friend. "Oh my God, Glen! This whole time I’ve been focused on how this affects me and my kids. While I was at the hospital I had a fleeting thought about David’s mom and the fiasco over whether or not to donate his dad’s organs. Yet for some reason I didn’t even consider what another loss is going do to her. David was her oldest and probably her favorite kid. And he was definitely her closest confidante. I’m not sure I can cope with her grief, too."

Chapter Three

I tiptoed into the living room where Rosalee kept vigil over the sleeping little ones and nodded to her. Where’s Lily? I asked in a whisper.

Upstairs with Sarah. She said she was going to unpack. How you doin’?

Not so good. It’s time to make the dreaded phone calls. Can you stay a bit longer?

She nodded. No need to ask, honey. I’m here till you kick me out.

I found Glenda in the kitchen with a new, longer list—this one on notebook paper—displayed on the table.

Glenda pulled her iPhone out of her purse and looked at it with disgust. Dead, she muttered. Costs four hundred freakin’ dollars, and when you need it it’s dead. Then—seeing the stricken look on my face—she said, Oh, shit! I didn’t mean—

It’s okay, I hurried to say. I’d die if I thought you were censoring what you said around me.

We both instantly realized the slip I’d made. Guess death is just part of the vernacular, and I’ll have to get used to it. And Glen, the awful look on my face was about the length of this list, not about your phone being dead like David. The harsh reality of my words sent a shudder through my body.

I shook it off, refilled the ducky cup and sat down to peruse the list. We don’t need your phone anyway. The land line’s connected, I said. We just have to find the box of phones.

I think I saw a box marked ‘gadgetry’ somewhere—probably in the dining room. Maybe the phones are in there?

My chest tightened. David labeled most of the boxes, some more cryptically than I would have done, I said, trying to smile and failing miserably. Not only did he abandon me with three kids, he left me a shitload of unpacking to handle with my meager organizational skills.

If Glenda noticed my petulant tone, she was too polite to comment. I’m sure I can marshal some troops for the unpacking, she said. The phone calls you’ve been postponing are another matter.

You’re right. Will you get on the extension when I talk to David’s mother though? In case I lose it?

She threw her dead iPhone back into her purse. Sure, kiddo, she said, standing purposefully. Let me go find your gadgetry.

It took half an hour to locate the phones and working jacks, and another half a cup of wine for me to summon the courage to sit at the kitchen table and dial my mother-in-law’s house. I felt a mixture of relief and irritation when the answering machine began its spiel: I was far from ready to have this conversation, yet I realized it wasn’t the kind of news to leave in a message. I tried her cell phone and was about to hang up when she finally answered. Sorry, Caroline. The phone was in the bottom of my bag as usual. Lucky I even heard it!

Where are you, Abby? I asked.

At the mall with Julia. Why?

I’m glad you’re not alone… I have terrible news. The weight of the words made it difficult to force them from my throat.

What is it? What’s happened? Abby asked.

I had another one of those momentary, irrational thoughts that if I didn’t speak of it, the truth might go away—and I so wanted it to go away. You have to do this, I scolded myself. Like pulling off a Band-Aid—do it quick. I swallowed and forged ahead. David was in an accident, I told her. They rushed him to the hospital by helicopter but were unable to save him. I’m sorry, Abby.

No!

I heard what I assumed was her phone hitting the floor, then a man’s voice saying, Are you okay, ma’am? Can I help you?

Shuffling noises. Hurried footsteps. At last, I heard David’s sister Julia in the background. Mom! Wait, let’s sit… what’s the matter?

Abby’s voice, wavering, replied, It’s Caroline…

Julia picked up the phone. What’s going on? she demanded. What did you say to her, Caroline?

I couldn’t speak.

What’s going on? Julia asked again, louder this time.

Thank God, Glenda—on the extension phone in the foyer—was able to answer. Julia, she said, it’s Glenda—Caroline’s friend. I’m on the other line. She just told your mom David died in a car accident. She’s too upset to say much more. I’ll try to fill you in.

In a state of suspended animation, I listened while Glenda recounted the day’s events.

Julia and David, only fifteen months apart in age, were both levelheaded, take-charge type people. Julia didn’t miss a beat. Mom and I will fly up tomorrow, she said. I’ll call Rita and Tony and break the news. They’ll probably want to wait until the funeral arrangements are finalized before they decide when to come and whether or not to bring their families. Bobbi’s in a pretty bad way, and Tony may not want her to travel.

Call me with the flight information, and my husband or I will pick you up, Glenda said. If you can get better connections into Milwaukee, it’s no problem for us to get there.

Thanks, Julia said. Money’s tight, and it’ll help a lot if we don’t have to rent a car. Is there room for us to stay at Caroline’s?

This place is huge, Glenda replied. You can sleep in the twins’ new beds—they’re still using their cribs.

What about Caroline’s parents? Julia asked.

No, I interjected, surprising myself with my own vehemence. They can stay at a hotel.

Okay. If you’re sure, she replied.

I’m sure, I said.

It took my trembling hands two tries to place the phone securely on its cradle following the horrific but blessedly brief call.

What was that about your parents? Glenda asked when she rejoined me in the kitchen. I thought you’d want your folks here to help out. They can have Lily’s double bed, and she can sleep with you.

I’m not sure, I said truthfully. The thought of my mother staying in my house during this nightmare is simply more than I can handle.

We sat in silence while Glenda flipped through my address book, and I thought about my parents’ recent visits. My mother never says anything overtly critical, I said. "She just makes comments like, ‘Are you sure you like the furniture arranged like this?’ Or, ‘Don’t you think Lily would look cuter with her hair cut?’ Or, ‘Do you think the twins will look more Mexican as they get older?’ I mean these are my children, for God’s sake. Their multi-ethnicities are part of who they are. Not to mention she’s constantly fishing for thanks for all the ‘help’ she gives us."

My friend reached over and patted my hand. I’m sorry, kiddo. Why didn’t you ever tell me how you felt about her?

I try not to think about it, although sometimes I bitch to David and Dr. Brownhill.

Do you want me to call your parents for you? she asked. I won’t hesitate to tell them they’ll need to stay in a hotel.

I picked up the phone. No. I’ll do it.

I needn’t have worried about sleeping accommodations.

My dad—a man of few words—choked up when I told him the news. Oh, honey. I’m sorry. Let me get your mom on the other line.

After the obligatory platitudes, my mother asked the question that must have been foremost in her mind. Would you be terribly upset if we didn’t come for the funeral? We could come next month when things settle down a bit.

Dumbfounded, I didn’t reply.

You’ve probably forgotten we booked that cruise, and we’re supposed to leave day after tomorrow.

We’ll cancel it, Louise, my dad said.

The tickets are non-refundable, she said and, like a juggernaut, proceeded to rationalize her decision while my father and I listened wordlessly. I rolled my eyes at Glenda as she wiped my kitchen counter with a wadded up paper towel.

While I wanted to be pissed off at my mother, I simply didn’t have the energy for it. Numbness overcame me instead. It’s fine, Mom. Please go on the trip, I said. You’re absolutely right—you can come some other time.

Well, if you insist, she said.

And that was that.

After we’d finished notifying the folks on the A-List—as Glenda termed it—I went up to check on Lily. One of the reasons we’d moved to this house was its close proximity to where Glenda, Hank, and