Life is Sweet (19 page)

“Yes!” they shouted in unison.

Using her pincer-like grip, Ms. Andrews hauled Becca across the room, right past Nicole, to a line of three adults sitting in folding chairs against the bookcase along the wall opposite the door. Becca lowered herself into the empty chair—obviously the one Nicole had been sitting in—and apologized to these people for being late. The man seated next to her, who seemed very familiar, shrugged and leaned over to whisper, “This lady at the front's just been confusing the pants off of everyone anyway. Me included.”

During the remainder of Nicole's presentation—something about creating electricity from wave turbines anchored under the ocean—Becca shot surreptitious glances at Olivia and gleaned what had happened as Olivia mimicked opening a computer, typing, and then pointed from her chest and then to Becca.

Another e-mail snafu. She'd been in such a hurry to get over here this morning, she hadn't checked. Of course, given the fact that she knew there were several accusatory e-mails from Erin waiting for her, too, she now felt inclined to toss her computer into the nearest lake.

Nicole finally wrapped it up, and then the man next to Becca stood up and introduced himself as Grover's dad, Brad Neuhaus, a lawyer currently serving as a delegate in Virginia's state legislature. That's where Becca had seen him before—yard signs. She chuckled to herself, which earned an annoyed flick of the head from Nicole, who was now sitting next to her.

Throughout the short talk on the state's General Assembly and how it worked, Becca tried to imagine what she was going to say. The next person up was an orthopedic surgeon who entertained the kids with grisly stories of broken bones. By the time it was her turn, Becca decided it would be best if her audience were distracted. If their mouths were busy they might not notice her wobbly knees.

“My name's Becca, and I run the Strawberry Cake Shop here in Leesburg.” She passed out little paper plates and plastic forks, and then distributed the cupcakes. This went over well, and mostly covered her faltering explanation of what owning a bakery was like.

When she was done, she was ready to scurry back to her seat, until she noticed that there wasn't one free. Then Ms. Andrews's pincers were on her arm again, and she beckoned the rest of the adults to stand in front of the teacher's desk to field questions from the students. Some of these questions sounded coached. “Did you want to be a (
fill-in-the-blank—
) when you were our age?” and “Did you have to go to a special school to get your job?” were favorites. Then, about five minutes into the interrogation, a hand shot up on the last row. Ms. Andrews said, “Yes, Isabel?”

Isabel looked straight at Becca. “Weren't you on television?”

Several kids nodded.

Becca smiled. “Yes, I was. I was on a show called
Me Minus You.
”

A murmur spread among the desks. Becca caught one boy saying “I told you!” to another.

“How old were you?”

“Actually, I was about your age,” Becca said. “I lived in California and acted until I was about fifteen.”

“How did you get on television?”

“I auditioned after a television executive spotted me. My mother worked as a secretary at a television studio.” Becca shifted uncomfortably, especially when she saw the orthopedic surgeon glancing at his watch. Somewhere there was a waiting room full of people with agonizing bone pain, and he was stuck here listening to a baker rattle on about her defunct Hollywood career.

“Did you ever forget your lines?” another kid asked.

“Not too often. That was one thing I was really good at.”

Another girl's hand shot up. “Could you sign an autograph for my mom? She said she used to watch you.”

“Uh . . .” She shot a nervous glance at Ms. Andrews. “I guess so.”

She scooted toward the desks to sign a piece of ruled notebook paper, and then found herself with a line.

The other visitors did not look pleased, a fact that even Ms. Andrews noticed. “Maybe we should ask some others some questions?”

A boy's hand went up. “What gets paid the most?”

The adults exchanged flummoxed looks. “I know it's not the person selling cupcakes,” Becca said to them, “so I'll leave it to you guys to answer.”

“Anyone else?” Ms. Andrews asked, pointing to a girl sitting near the front.

The girl looked at Becca. “When you made money when you were ten, did your parents let you keep it?”

“I had a hardworking mom, and she saved all the money for me. I received it when I graduated from high school.”

“
All
of it?” the girl asked. “Was it a lot?”

Ms. Andrews waved her hands. “That's enough discussion of money. Money isn't the only reason we work, is it?”

Becca laughed, but sobered quickly when she noticed that no one else thought this was hilarious.

“Who in the class can name some other reasons we might pick a particular job?” Ms. Andrews asked.

Another hand was raised. “To make enough money to buy a house.”

“Well, yes, but sometimes work has other rewards. Who can say what those would be?”

“So you can afford to go to Disney World every summer.”

By the time the Q&A broke up, Becca was antsy to leave. She wanted to check on Walt, and then get back to the shop. After Ms. Andrews and the class formally thanked the visitors, Becca tried to scoot out, but Olivia caught up with her at the door. Her mother was right behind her.

“We sent you an e-mail,” Olivia said. “Didn't you get it?”

Becca aimed an apologetic glance at Nicole. She truly hadn't meant to steal the woman's Career Day thunder. “No, I'm sorry. I've had a crazy twenty-four hours.”

“So did Mom. She just got in last night.”

“Oh God,” Becca muttered in sympathy. “You just flew in from Hawaii last night?” She couldn't help wondering if this was the same flight Erin and Bob had come in on. Surely not. “And yet here you are this morning, giving slide shows. On time.”

Nicole placed a hand on Olivia's shoulder. “I'm sorry you ended up coming when you didn't have to. Olivia tells me that we already owe you a big thanks for the wonderful party, and for letting her ride your horse.”

“Don't mention it,” Becca said, meaning it. “It was fun.”

“I'm glad you came anyway, though,” Olivia told her. “The cupcakes were good, and I might get extra credit for getting two people to come in.”

“That's no way to thank Becca for the trouble she's taken,” Nicole admonished Olivia. “Especially when she obviously had so little time to prepare.”

Becca tried not to take offense, and chalked up the woman's frostiness to jet lag. “I'm a terrible public speaker.”

Olivia's mouth dropped. “What are you talking about? You were the best one!”

Becca edged farther toward the door. “I really should scoot. I have to visit Walt in the hospital.”

Olivia gasped. “What happened?”

“He's sick.”

Olivia spun on her heel toward her mom. “Can we go visit Walt in the hospital after school today?”

“Who's Walt?”

“I told you about him,” Olivia said. “He's the man I talked to outside the cupcake store that day.” She lowered her voice. “When Grover was being such a jerk.”

“The homeless man?”

“He's not homeless,” Olivia and Becca chorused.

Nicole shook her head. “You have gymnastics this afternoon, remember?”

“Yeah, but I don't like gymnastics, and what if Walt dies?”

Becca backed out the door. “I'll tell Walt you send your best. He'll get a kick out of that.”

“Okay,” Olivia said, disappointed.

Becca fled to the parking lot, and then drove to the bank to make sure she was able to get money transferred from her savings to checking for today. After the bank, she stopped on the way to the hospital for some things Walt might like. During her mother's hospitalizations, Becca had always tried to arm herself for visits with something Ronnie loved. Sometimes the gestures had backfired—such as the favorite snacks her mom could no longer stomach, or the little evergreen decorated for Christmas that had brought on a raging headache. But she'd also hit a few home runs, like the little iPod loaded with all the show tunes her mother adored, the Wendy's Frosty, and the Chinese checkers game.

The trouble was, she didn't know Walt all that well. She ducked into a store and got him a comfy pillow, a detective fiction paperback and another book of crossword puzzles, a deck of cards, and some of the lotion she'd noticed had been disappearing from her bathroom since he'd started using her place to wash up.

When she arrived at the nurses' station at the ICU, she discovered that Walt had already been moved to a semi-private room. She was half-hoping that she would find him asleep so she could dump the stuff and run. She wasn't looking forward to the awkward conversation they needed to have. But when she got there, he was lying in the bed nearest the door, an IV in his arm. He looked just as frail as the night before, although he was awake and smiling.

She grinned. “You're up. You look better.”

He chuckled. “I'll bet. They tell me you saved my life last night.”

“Not really,” she said. “I'm just glad I found you in time. Why on earth didn't you tell me you were so sick?”

“I've been doing okay lately,” he said.

This was clearly a lie, since the hospital said he'd been here before. She didn't want to start an argument, though. Instead, she turned to the shopping bag she was carrying. “I brought you some things.”

She pulled out the pillow first. “Mom always complained about hospital pillows not being fluffy enough, so I got you a new pillow and a case so the orderlies don't run off with it accidentally. Here's some other stuff, too.” She handed him the plastic shopping bag to go through while she dealt with the pillow.

“I'm sorry the new pillowcase is sort of scratchy.”

He laughed. “Scratchy is my middle name.”

She remembered looking at his arms and noting how dry the skin was. Another side effect of his condition, probably.

He found the lotion bottle in the bag and slathered some on his arm, then sighed as if he'd just stepped into a hot, soapy tub. “That feels good.”

She grinned. “I got you books and magazines, too. If there's anything specific you want or need, let me know. That goes for food, too. If I can grab anything while I'm out, just tell me.”

“You shouldn't do that.”

“I want to.”

He shook his head. “I didn't want you to go to any trouble.”

“What are friends for? If you'd told me earlier that you were sick, maybe I could have done something for you. I could have at least made sure you didn't skip your last dialysis treatment. That was crazy of you.”

“I tried to keep up, but I couldn't.”

“Then it was just the money?”

He shrugged. “Mostly.”

She wondered what the other reason was that “mostly” didn't cover. But Walt seemed as closemouthed as ever when it came to important things.

“I know now what you were trying to tell me on Monday,” she said.

His eyes widened. “You do?”

“About your kidney problem. I wish you'd just said something. I wouldn't have let you work so hard yesterday.”

He sank back against his new pillow. “I forgot all about Monday.” He smiled. “I remember that cake, though.”

They chatted a little more, keeping their voices down because there was another man in the semi-private room who was recovering from hip surgery. Walt didn't have a lot of energy himself. After a quarter hour, he had a hard time keeping his eyes open. She got up to leave.

“Thank you so much, Rebecca,” he said, on the verge of dozing off.

She was halfway down the hall before she remembered Olivia's message. She'd forgotten to give it to him. It wouldn't make sense to wake him up just to tell him that, though, so she continued on to the business office at the center of the hospital. She was shown into a cubicle where a woman sat with a computer and a pile of color-coded forms in a network of trays across the top of her desk.

“I'd like to help pay for Mr. Walter Johnson's outstanding bill,” Becca said, helping herself to the visitor's chair at the side of the desk.

The woman nodded and took Walt's name. “And your name is?”

“Rebecca Hudson.”

The woman peered at her screen. “All right. And would you like to pay that in full, or a partial payment?”

“How much would ‘in full' mean?”

“That would be $12,386.”

Becca had been poised to offer her bank card, but the thin plastic slipped out of her boneless fingers and fell to the floor. She was glad for the distraction of picking it up. It probably saved the woman from seeing her goggling eyes. Twelve thousand dollars! She shook her head. “How could it be so much?”

“Well, your father has been here on two previous occasions, and he's not signed up for an insurance plan.”

Becca shook her head. “He's not my father.”

The woman peered quizzically at her screen. “Rebecca Hudson,” she repeated, as if reading.

“That's right, but—”

“It says so here.”

Maybe Walt had written her name down so the hospital would have someone local to call in case anything catastrophic happened to him.

“You mean I'm his emergency contact person?”