Grounded (7 page)

“Good.” Dr. Stacy studied the forms Grace had filled out and the nurse's notes. “
Mm
… uh-huh …” She set them aside. “Tell me what's going on.”

Grace took a deep breath and told the doctor when the sore throat had started, then the laryngitis, now a low temp. And … she also needed a doctor's note that she was in no shape to sing, so that she could cancel her next concert a week from Saturday.

The doctor pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Grace, I'm your doctor. The things you've mentioned might indicate a viral infection. But I think there's more. Your weight is down, your blood pressure is up. You want to cancel your next concert. I'm guessing a good deal of stress and overuse of your voice has a lot to do with what's going on. What happens in this office is confidential, so let's get the whole story.”

It took some gentle prodding, but Grace finally managed to get it all out: the breakup with her fiancé, a family emergency taking her assistant out of the picture, the humiliating experience going through security at the Memphis airport … on top of four weeks of travel and a packed concert schedule. By the time she finished, Grace was in tears.

Handing her a wad of tissues, Dr. Stacy nodded sympathetically. “Well. Statistically speaking, that's enough stress to go right off the chart. But let's take a look at what's going on in that throat …”

Grace blew her nose and tried to hold still as the doctor checked her ears, shined a light into her mouth, had her say, “Ahhhhh,” felt the glands in her neck, then used her stethoscope to listen to her chest, front and back. “
Mmm … mm-hm
… take a deep breath … another …”

Finally the doctor scooted her stool back. “Well, we definitely have an infection going on, probably viral, but I'm going to swab your throat for possible strep. If it's strep, I'll order an antibiotic. Otherwise, all you can do is take care of the symptoms and wait it out. Should be better in four to six days with a lot of liquids and rest. But—”

“But I think I really need to rest my voice.” Grace heard the anxiety in her raspy voice. “Can you—”

“Hang on. I'm getting there. I also think you should be seen by a laryngologist. I can recommend a couple names—”

“A … who?”

“An otolaryngologist, a doctor who specializes in treating vocalists like yourself. I'll be glad to contact one on our list and say you
need to be seen ASAP.” The doctor turned to her computer and began using her mouse to scroll through several pages.

Grace swallowed, which hurt. “But will I have to wait to see the laryn—uh, however you pronounce it—before I can get a doctor's certification to cancel? It's really urgent that I get it right away.”

Dr. Stacy was typing something into the computer. “As your primary, I'm writing a note to that effect since a few weeks resting your voice and recovering from the mega stress you're under can only be beneficial. But Grace,”—she swung around on her stool and eyed Grace soberly—“for anything beyond the concert next week, you'll need to be evaluated by a specialist.”

An hour later, Grace pulled her two-door Ford Focus into the garage behind her house. The alley hadn't been plowed, but enough cars had used the alley since yesterday's snowfall that two well-established ruts allowed her to make it into her garage with only a few skids around corners. As the automatic garage door shut behind her, Grace wearily gathered up all her things and headed out the side door, stepping carefully on the icy walk. She'd had to stop at an Osco Pharmacy to fill a couple of prescriptions, and the whole excursion had exhausted her. At least her strep test had come back negative. Still, she couldn't wait to get inside the house and crawl into bed for a nap.

But the ticking schoolhouse clock on the living room wall said almost four thirty. What she really needed to do was make an appointment with the laryngologist, and then fax the doctor's certification to that new guy, Jeff Newman, before the booking agency closed for the day. The sooner he got back to the church in Milwaukee, the better.

The specialist she called couldn't see her until next Monday. She wrote the appointment in her Day-Timer, faxed the certification letter to Bongo Booking, and finally, fortified with a couple of extra-strength pain relievers and a cup of hot chicken broth, collapsed
on the sectional couch in the living room. Curling up in an afghan, she gazed out the front window at the fading blue twilight as she sipped the hot salty liquid. Yesterday's snowfall had stopped with the promised two inches—but that was two inches on top of her unshoveled walks. Most of the front walks on Beecham Street had been shoveled, except for hers and the two-flat on the other side of the street where the old lady lived. She knew better than to get out there herself, not with her voice shot and an upper respiratory infection. Her brother might be willing to come this weekend—but that was three days away. The longer she waited, the more packed down the snow would become as people walked on it. It was already an icy mess underneath.

Grace sighed. Should she hire a service? The guy directly across the street had a truck that said
Farid's Total Yard Service
with a phone number—and she thought she'd seen it with a plow last winter. But did a yard service do something as small as shoveling walks?

Maybe she could hire one of the older kids on the block to shovel and spread some rock salt. There were some kids at the other end of the block, but she didn't know them at all, and the interracial couple in the house next door, both professionals of some kind, didn't have any kids. They seemed like typical DINKS—Double-Income-No-Kids. The family on the north side of her, though—middle-aged, African American—had a couple of teenagers, nice kids as far as she knew. They might be a possibility—except she didn't have their phone number. Last name? JASPER was lettered on an oval house sign alongside their front door. Maybe if she saw someone outside …

Her cell phone rang somewhere. The ringtone was beginning to get on her nerves.
“All Hail the Power …”
What had she been thinking? Grace pried herself off the couch and followed the ring into the kitchen, where the phone danced on the kitchen table—then went silent. Too late. She checked Recent Calls … oh, dear. Samantha. She'd never called her assistant back! She tapped Redial …

“Hello, Sam here! Grace, is that you?”

“Yes. Sorry about not calling you. I've been kind of sick, lost my voice.”

“Oh no! You sound terrible! Look, I'll text next time, okay? Save your voice. I just wanted to tell you they're going to discharge my mom from the hospital tomorrow, but I'm going to stay for a few more days, maybe a week, to help out here. That's okay, isn't it? No, wait, don't answer. Don't strain your voice. But if I remember right—”

Grace wandered back into the living room with the phone and wrapped herself up in the afghan again as Samantha chattered.

“—your next concert is that sweetheart banquet thing the day before Valentine's Day, and Roger's going with you, right? You said I didn't need to come along, so hopefully this will work out. But if you've got fan mail and stuff you want me to do, I'll try to catch up when I get back to Chicago next week. Is that okay?”

Grace felt too weary to say anything but a raspy, “Fine.” She'd explain it all later. Sam had enough to worry about.

But the sweetheart banquet was only the tip of the iceberg. What about the other concerts Bongo had booked for her? And the upcoming West Coast tour in late spring? Did Roger have
any
idea how embarrassing this was for her? She'd been sharing about their engagement with fans all over the country for the past year—it made a great
denouement
to her testimony about abstinence and waiting until marriage. And now she was supposed to show up on stage with a plastic smile and say, “Sorry. Just kidding. Our engagement's off. But I'm still worth waiting for!”

She had a sudden urge to call Roger and blister his ear with how he'd managed to ruin her personal life
and
her career with his cowardly breakup! Except … she couldn't muster the proper decibels of outrage even if she tried. She'd come off sounding like a whining two-year-old.

Well, she'd bide her time. The doc had told her to talk as little as possible, anyway. Shouldn't be hard since she lived alone … though she realized she'd gotten into the habit of talking constantly to Oreo. Resting her voice actually gave her a good
excuse to
not
talk to Roger until she was good and ready.
Ha
. Doctor's orders.

Glancing out the window, Grace realized the daylight had faded, and light shone faintly through blinds and curtains in windows all up and down the street. Drawing her own living room drapes, she felt a pang of frustration. Not talking was going to be a pain in the neck if she wanted to find someone in the neighborhood to shovel those treacherous sidewalks.

As she opened a can of cat food Saturday morning—Oreo heard the electric can opener and came running—Grace realized she was starting to feel better. Amazing what a few days of rest could do. She still didn't have much voice, but the soreness was mostly gone, as well as the fever and headache. She'd taken Samantha's advice and let phone calls go to voice mail the past few days, then she'd answered them with a text or e-mail. Except for Roger's two calls. Those she just left in voice mail.

Her spirit was starting to relax. Jeff Newman had e-mailed on Thursday to confirm he'd gotten the doctor's certification and canceled her appearance at the sweetheart banquet. The Living Hope folks were naturally disappointed, he said, but they understood and were concerned about her.
But we should talk about your other upcoming concerts. I think there are four single events before the West Coast tour. What's the doc say about your prognosis?

She had e-mailed back:
Don't know yet. I see a laryngologist on Monday
. Ha—and spelled it right too. She didn't add that the medical issue was only a small part of her problem right now. Each day that went by, it got harder to imagine going onstage with her usual program of songs and purity message. New Year, New You? More like, Same Old, Same Old. Besides, most of the single concerts were out of state, but
no way
was she going to get on a plane, not if it meant having to go through security again!

As Oreo greedily gulped his breakfast, Grace poured another cup of coffee—she was sick of lemon-and-honey tea—and idly turned on her laptop. Another e-mail from Jeff Newman? This one
was dated Friday.
Grace, I'm coming through Chicago on my way to Nashville next Tuesday. Any chance we could meet? I could arrange to spend the day in Chicago since my meetings in Nashville aren't until Wednesday. Be glad to rent a car and meet you wherever. Just tell me what works for you
.

Grace frowned. A face-to-face meeting with Jeff Newman? Why? Wasn't this guy just filling in for Mr. Fowler? She typed:
When is Walter Fowler getting back?
and hit Reply. Not that she really wanted to talk to Fowler either. Her agent wasn't going to be happy when he got wind that she'd canceled a concert. At least today was Saturday. Newman might not get her reply until Monday.

She scrolled through more of her e-mails … deleted the inspirational Forwards she was supposed to send to ten others within ten minutes to get a blessing and the plea from a total stranger “stranded in England” who needed money … but read the fan mail before moving them to a folder for Samantha to answer when she got back. She was just about to shut down her laptop when a new e-mail popped in. From Newman. Good grief. What was he doing working on the weekend?

Grace, I'm so sorry. I thought you'd gotten an official notice from Fowler. Walter won't be back till the end of February, but he's asking me to take over some of his client load permanently. Including you. He thought we'd be a good team. Which is why I'd like to meet you in person. Of course, you have the final say in who your agent is, but I'd be honored to take over your booking. What do you say? Can we meet Tuesday?

Irritation rose like bile in her mouth. No, she hadn't gotten “an official notice” from her agent. What way was that to treat a client?! First her fiancé, now her agent—

Okay, okay, get a grip, Grace
. She leaned her elbows on the kitchen table and pressed the tips of her fingers against her temples. It wasn't like she and Fowler had ever really clicked. Maybe this would be a good change. But … meet up with Jeff Newman? She'd have to think about that.

Grace closed the lid of her laptop. Maybe she'd know better once she'd seen the specialist on Monday. Fact was, she was going
a little stir crazy, stuck in the house for the past week. What she really wanted to do was go for a walk. If she bundled up, why not? Would do her good. They probably kept the walkways well shoveled through the cemetery that bordered their dead-end street. She could walk there.