The Underside of Joy

know you first and foremost as their mother. You’ve fed them and diapered them and been there for them for the past three years while she’s been God knows where? No. It is not in the best interest of the children for them to be taken away from their home, their loving stepmother, their relatives – I’ll need letters from every one of them, by the way – in order to live in a strange place with a stranger. Especially since they’re dealing with the trauma of losing their father. I think we have a strong case.’
    I took a deep, shaky breath. ‘You don’t know how good that is to hear.’
    She smiled again and took off her glasses. ‘So. Tell me. Are you sleeping? Eating?’
    I shrugged. ‘Not much sleep. Some food.’
    ‘Try yogurt. Milk shakes. Whatever you can, because, honey, you are going to need every ounce of your skinny self. And your kids are going to need you too.’
    I nodded.
    ‘I hate to lay this on you right now with everything else. But you’re going to have to find a source of income. And fast. It looks like she’s making bank – or at least she’s painting that picture. From what I’ve heard, that’s probably accurate if she’s involved in any aspect of real estate in Vegas right now. If your financial picture is as dismal as you’re saying it is, you might not appear able to support the children. If that new store of yours doesn’t start making money right away, you might have to come up with another plan. But I will say it shows initiative and pluck, and you’re preserving their family heritage, more than I can say for her.
    ‘And one more ugly detail: My retainer fee is five thousand dollars. I’ll need that to proceed. We should try to avoid a trial because that gets expensive. Then they’d do an investigation, get a social worker involved, interview teachers, doctors, family, friends – even the kids. But I really don’t think we’ll need to take this that far.’
    I nodded again and tried not to look as hopeless as I felt. Why had I poured all my money into the store so soon? And my energy?
    I could barely drag myself to the Jeep. I sat in the parking lot with my forehead on the steering wheel, my eyes burning with lack of sleep, and made myself turn the key in the ignition.
    On the drive home the despair began rising. Not now. I needed a plan. I needed to eat. And sleep. I needed to take care of my kids. What were they feeling right now? I had a flash of memory: how confused and lost I felt after my own father died. That night after the Great America fiasco, my mom had reassured me, saying how she and I had made it through Dad’s death, and we had. But I remembered those first months, how much I wanted my mom, and how blank her eyes went when I tried to talk to her. The sound of her TV through my wall all night, and when I came home from third grade, the drapes still closed, the porch light still on, the newspaper still on the front step, and my mother still in her nightgown. I could not do that; I needed to get the kids through this.
    I needed to fight Paige. Make money. Stop sweating. Get my chest to stop hurting. Breathe. I wasn’t even doing that. Why was I sweating? Did I have a fever? My chest hurt. My arm hurt. I still couldn’t breathe.
    And then it all became clear: What I needed most was to get to a hospital.
    Memorial Hospital was just around two corners, but I was afraid to keep driving, afraid I might run my car off the road and hit a pedestrian. I parked and cut across the street, almost getting hit myself. The sweat continued pouring down my face, my chest crushed with pressure. I was a thirty-five-year-old skinny woman who ate a boatload of organic vegetables. I was also the daughter of a man who’d died at age forty of heart disease. I walked into the emergency room, up to the check-in desk.
    ‘I think . . . I think I’m having a heart attack,’ I whispered.
    She took one look at me and picked up the phone and shouted into it. ‘Possible cardiac arrest. Female. Thirty . . .?’
    ‘Five,’ I said. Within seconds I was on a gurney, answering questions. What were my symptoms? When did they start? How severe was the pain? Who should they contact?
    Who should they contact? Joe, I thought. Contact Joe. ‘My husband,’ I said. ‘But he’s dead.’
    Who should they call? They asked again. Not Marcella – she was taking care of the kids. My mom was too far away. Who else was there? Lucy. They could call Lucy. I gave them her number