Georgia on Her Mind(8)

Normally I’d agree with her, but in light of recent events, a reunion sounds dreadful. “I don’t know. I might skip this one. Wait for the twenty-year, where hopefully I’ll show up married to a bazillionaire and running a Fortune 500 company.”

“Macy.” Lucy picks up her purse and digs out her keys. “You’re one of the most amazing women I know.” She hugs me. “I know today was hard, but you have to believe God has a plan for you.”

“I know. I know.” I spend the rest of my night getting ready to leave town. The laundry I meant to do over the weekend—but didn’t—has to be done. I load and start the washing machine, throw on my sneakers and drive to the office to pick up my computer.

I’m dreading this new assignment—a week on-site with an antsy, uptight customer. I mutter to God all the way to the office and back about this new phase of my life.

“Don’t understand what’s going on here…if You wanted my attention, You have it now…please, give me understanding…I promise to listen….”

It’s late when I finally collapse into bed. My thoughts are all over the place, yet not thinking of anything at all.

Just as I drift off to sleep, the phone rings. I toy with not answering. Who do I want to talk to at this hour? No one. But by the third ring, curiosity wins out.

“Hello?”

“Macy, sorry to bother you. It’s Elaine Woodward.”

Elaine Woodward. Mrs. Woodward? Her first name is Elaine?

“Hi.” I reach for the light.

“Can you come over?”



“Mrs. Woodward?” I call, cinching my pink robe and shaking water from my fuzzy green slippers.

The front door’s ajar, so I peek inside and step subsequently into 1954. The furniture, the lamp stands, the doilies resting atop the easy chair, the entire scene straight from a ’50s Better Homes and Gardens. I find it comforting and warm.

“Mrs. Woodward?” She’s lying on the couch, one hand over her stomach and one hand covering her eyes. “You okay?”

“Macy, thank you for coming. I didn’t want to be alone.”

“What’s wrong?” I ease down onto the edge of the sofa.

“Pain,” she says with a deep breath. “Right here.” She presses her middle, between her ribs.

Heart attack? Please, do not be having a heart attack. I am not EMT material. I faint at paper cuts.

“I’m going to call 911.” Just the idea makes my heart palpitate.

“No, no, I don’t want to bother them. I’ll be all right.”

“Bother them? It’s their job.” What is it with the senior set and their preoccupation with bothering people?

“No, let’s wait. I just didn’t want to be alone.” She sighs with a deep moan, her face pinched and pale.

Do not tell me this is a clever ploy to get me over for a visit. If she asks me if I’d like a spot of tea, or a bowl of soup, I’ll—

She moans again and I can tell she’s in real pain. I feel guilty over my lack of compassion.

“Does your chest hurt? Arm numb?” I slip my hand under hers. If she says yes, I’m bothering 911.

“It’s not a heart attack,” she mutters. “Could you get me a glass of water?”

I dart to the kitchen, praying as I go. Despite the fact that I don’t know what to do for my ailing neighbor, it’s a relief to focus on someone besides myself.

Mrs. Woodward’s hand trembles as she reaches for the glass, so I help her take a sip.

I plead, “Let me call for an ambulance.”

“No, it always passes.”

“You’ve had these episodes before?” I take the glass and set it on a coaster. “What did your doctor say?”

“I didn’t tell him.”

“Mrs. Woodward, this could be serious,” I lecture. I rack my brain trying to remember what organ lives between your ribs in the upper stomach region. I have no idea. Well, there’s $170 gone to waste for that university anatomy class.

For a while I sit quietly and hold her hand. I start to get sleepy and can’t help but think how fast 4:00 a.m. will come. Then I hear the soft sounds of sleep from Mrs. Woodward.

“Mrs. Woodward?” I gently shake her arm.

She’s out. I get up without disturbing her and reach for the afghan draped over the back of the couch. I cover her and click off the lights except one in case she wakes up and wants to go to her bed.

Pushing in the lock button on the doorknob, I head for home, captured in the sudden emotion of Mrs. Woodward’s episode. Dark rainy night, an elderly widow all alone, overcome with pain. I would have called me, too.

The last time I saw visitors at her place was last…last…hmm, well, weird—I’ve never seen visitors. I don’t even know if she has children or grandchildren. I didn’t see any pictures on the wall or mantel.

“Hey, Macy.”

“Who’s there?” I tumble into a cluster of overgrown palmetto bushes, freaked. My fuzzy slipper sloshes into a pool of floating pine chips.

“Macy, it’s me, Chris.”

I peek between the palm fronds to make sure it’s really him. A girl cannot be too careful. Yep, it’s the weasel.

“What are you doing here?” I step out of the shrubs, losing a slipper. I stoop to fish it out, hobbling on one foot.