The Seeds Of A Daisy: The Lily Lockwood Series: Book One (Women's Fiction) by Alison Caiola Page B

sister.
    “Well, if you’re going to say you’re both her brothers, I better not catch you holding hands or kissing. That’s not how we roll in my family!” They laugh.
    Then I remember what the doctor asked me to find out. “Tommy, do you know who my mother’s attorney is?”
    “Well, the lawyer she uses for all her book contracts is Albert Wadell. Why?”
    “The hospital wants a copy of her living will. They want it faxed to the I.C.U. at University Hospital.”
    There is silence.
    “And they need to know who her…shit…I forgot what the word is. What is it called… it’s the person who will make decisions for her, if she can’t make them for herself,” I explain.
    More silence.
    I don’t hear anything on the line. Did we get disconnected?
    “Tommy, hello, can you hear me—are you there?”
    “Her proxy. It’s called a proxy,” he finally says. He sniffles, “I’ll call Albert and see if he knows anything. If he has it, I’ll tell him to fax it.” He takes a deep breath. “Don’t forget to call us when you’re going to the hospital.”
    Then Fernando says, “Oh, love—I almost forgot, I got a call from Donna. She’s on standby. She’ll be there either late tonight or early tomorrow. She said she’d text us right before she gets on a flight.”
    “Thank you guys. I love you both,” I say it and mean it from the bottom of my heart.
    “We love you, too. We know Mom’s going to pull through this with flying colors,” Tommy says.
    “She has to,” I say before I hang up.
    I go through my list of calls. It’s tedious but I know it’s necessary. I try to keep each call to less than ten minutes, so I can get through the list. After eight calls, I’m ready to throw my phone and then myself off the nearest and highest cliff. I can’t do this anymore! I decide that since God created email, (well, He didn’t actually
create
email, but he had the forethought to create the people who created it.), it’s a totally acceptable mode of communication. I know Mom would disagree, but truthfully, I’m beyond caring. I’ll finish up the list with a well-written email that contains a full explanation. This way, I avoid—at least for a while—the two reactions I’ve encountered so far:
    The first kind of reaction I hear comes from those who live under a rock and haven’t heard the news. Initially they’re delighted to hear from me, but then they gasp and lapse into tears and anguish. Inevitably they recount the story of the last time they were either with my mother or spoke to her. The second type of reaction I receive usually comes from those who
have
heard the news. We skip the initial delight part and jump right into the gasp, tears, and anguish. I don’t want to be heartless (do I?); it is simply too painful to continue.
    The phone rings and I hesitate for a minute. I don’t recognize the number or the area code. Maybe it’s Jamie…
    “Hello?” I answer.
    “Lily, it’s Theresa. I just got your message. Pete’s here too—we just heard the news—it’s all over the TV this morning. We’re sick to death worrying. What the hell’s happening?” Theresa sounds borderline hysterical.
    I tell her everything. By this time I have the whole story down to four sentences—tops.
    “Holy shit!” is all Theresa can say. I hear Pete in the background asking what’s going on.
    She says, “Daisy’s in a coma” as she breaks down and cries.
    Pete grabs the phone and says, “Lil, oh my God, honey—are you okay?”
    “I’m hanging in there—I told Theresa we’ll know more after the test. I’ll call and let you guys know what the results are.”
    “Did you speak to Jamie?” he asks.
    I feel my face getting red. “No, Pete. It’s early yet. I figured I’d let him sleep before I call him.” I lie.
    “Well, I’ll talk to him on set later—I’m sure he’ll wanna fly out. I’ll see what we can do to change the shooting schedule. I’ll talk to Harvey, too,” he says.
    “Uh,