I went back to the bathroom and opened Joel's drawer to find da Vinci's toothpaste, toothbrush, and cologne sitting inside. I didn't have the heart to tell da Vinci I didn't like his cologne, let alone the idea of him becoming a permanent staple in my bed. Did I?
“You can't be sick,” I moaned to Monica Friday evening. We had made plans to get a glass of wine, but apparently it doesn't mix well with cough syrup.
“It's these damn depositions,” Monica said, her throaty voice even sexier. “I always get sick around the holidays. I should just quarantine myself from November through January.”
My mom was already over, playing Scrabble with the boys. “Chicken soup, then?”
“I'm afraid I can't even lift my head off the pillow. It's that aching, stuffy-head, fever thing. I don't want to expose you and the boys.”
“Well, if it's that bad,” I said. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. “We'll just have to get together after you're better.”
Monica coughed into the phone. “Gonna have to be after T-day. We're traveling to Missouri to be with Jonathon's family.”
My heart sank. Another week. “Fine. You just get well, then.”
I hung up, wondering if da Vinci and I should go on a date date but remembered he was going to a frat function-some mandatory pledge thing-and that Anh was on a secret date with Michael, who was upset Rachel hadn't asked him to keep Zoe, because she was his child, after all, and I didn't want to spend another Friday night playing Scrabble. I'd had too much Scrabble in my life. It was high time I put some of those words I placed on the board into action.
Next I called Judith with the excuse that I wanted to bring a box of Joel's things over to her house-his great-grandmother's quilt she wanted back and a copy of his high school yearbook-and I'd get her to tell me everything she knew about Monica. She would know if her son ever got over Monica, wouldn't she? He seemed to tell her everything. They'd talked on the phone once or even twice a day. I'd often wondered if his mother was more of his best friend than I'd been. Besides, I couldn't just trust Monica's side of the story, could I?
“I have plans,” Judith said a moment later. “We're doing the prep work for the Thanksgiving dinner at the homeless shelter. Why don't you join us?”
“Who'll be there? I mean, besides the homeless.” Spending a Friday night helping my mom-in-law peel potatoes was not exactly what I had in mind.
“Oh, just a bunch of Lifers,” she said, which made me cringe. Lifers was the nickname she'd given to anyone who attended Life Church, but it came off sounding haughty. I wanted to remind her the term had been used in prisons long before she started using it.
Scrabble began sounding pretty good again, but my curiosity got the best of me. After a quick kiss to my kids, which was promptly wiped off by Bradley, I was out the door.
Chapter 19
A HOMELESS MAN WEARING socks for gloves and a stained Longhorns knit hat greeted me with a toothless smile as I entered the back door of the makeshift homeless shelter that once housed a mid-century clothes manufacturer. I imagined the place had been alive with the buzz of a hundred sewing machines before technology wiped out the need for so many human laborers. I refused to think the same clothes were now being produced in a sweatshop in a third-world country, which was probably the case. I made my way through the maze of cots, which were blocking the route to the kitchen, due to overcrowding from a bout of hurricanes that set the homeless awash in Austin.
A curious Hispanic boy noticed me and followed me to the kitchen. He looked to be about William's age, dirty but happy. I remembered why I didn't like helping in soup kitchens: I always wanted to take the children home with me.
“ Hola, señora,” the boy said, tugging on my jacket.
“ Hola, muchachito.”
The boy grinned, revealing both his front teeth missing. I asked him if he spoke English. He shook his head. He told me he and his parents had just arrived in a truck, and his mother was going to have a baby.
I had the sinking feeling they were illegal aliens and they would be out of the homeless shelter before INS arrived the next morning. I congratulated him on becoming a big brother and handed him a carrot that Judith had just peeled. I kissed my mom-in-law on the cheek and removed my jacket. The boy crunched the carrot like Bugs Bunny but didn't take his eyes off of me.
“I think someone has a crush,” Judith said. “Poor thing needs a bath like no one's business. Don't tell me. Illegal, right?”
“ Ssh! Mom,” I scolded.
“What? He can't speak English. What difference does it make?”
I asked the boy if he needed anything else and he repeated that his mother was having a baby. A terrible scream rang through the metal warehouse. “Oh, God,” I said, looking at the small group of volunteers in the kitchen. “He means his mother is having a baby right now! ”
Judith threw down her peeling knife. “I'll call the hospital.”
The boy's eyes widened. “ Mi mamá dice que el hospital nos llevará a la cárcel.”
“What did he say?” Judith said, rummaging through her designer bag for her tiny phone.
I thumped my forehead. “He's right. He says they can't go to the hospital because they'll deport them.”
“Well, the law's the law,” Judith said with a terse smile. I marveled that a woman who believed volunteerism was saintly and would spend hours peeling potatoes for the homeless would so quickly turn against them.
I grabbed the phone from her hand. “No hospital. We can't have a new mom deported. She'll be terrified. And she'll only go kicking and screaming.” I'd seen my share of illegal immigrants at the Panchal Center. While you had to have documentation to work for Panchal's temp agency, anyone could learn to speak English, green card or not.
The boy tugged at my arm as his mother's wails continued. “ ¡Ven! ¡Ven! ”
“I'm coming,” I told him. “We need a doctor.”
“Oh, Lord,” Judith said. “Unless you have some midwife skills I don't know about…”
“Is there a doctor in the house?” Cortland said, traipsing through the door with a bushel of potatoes.
I caught my breath. “Thank God! A woman is having a baby. Out there.”
Cortland plopped the heavy crate onto the counter and rolled his shoulders back. “A baby, huh? Might be a lot more fun than peeling potatoes.”
“You can't be serious,” Judith said.
“I'll need hot towels, some rubbing alcohol, and clean sheets.”
The volunteers rushed to carry out his orders, while I shook my head in amazement. Cortland and I followed the boy, Manuel, out into the main room where his mother's screams were even louder.
“What did she just say?” Cortland asked,
“She said, 'Get this baby out of me,'” I translated, suddenly feeling faint as we came upon the woman lying on her back on the cot, legs bent in delivery position. Her husband asked me if his wife Maria was going to be okay.
“ Sí,” I told him. “He's a doctor.”
The couple made the sign of the cross as Cortland spread the sheet over her, then knelt down to check her progress. “I can see the head,” he said with a grin.
“Okay, I'm just going to go over there at a safe distance,” I said, backing away.
“Oh, no, you're not. I need you to translate for me.”
Maria pulled me down by my arm and squeezed my hand until it was white with pain. “Fine. Powerful grip,” I said, wincing myself. “Just get her baby out now for all of our sakes.”