“Okay, okay. Oh. How about this, then: ‘A Man Is Not a Plan,’” I declare, proud of my rhyming title and my expertise in this arena.
“Even a really rich man?” Lisa questions.
“Nope.”
“What if he has one foot in the grave and is looking for a fifth marriage to take him across the finish line? No prenup required. What about then?”
“That sounds more like a case-by-case basis, but I’ll consider it if I write up the pitch.”
Lisa smiles appreciatively at my more detailed feedback. “What else you got?”
“Let’s see. Oh,” I say, reading down my list. “You’ll like this one: ‘I Call My Midlife Crisis Betty.’”
“I call mine Mavis. They should date.”
“They already do. Look at us.” I point back and forth across the kitchen table.
“Mavis is not thrilled Betty is on the wagon.” Lisa frowns.
“I know.” I reach across the table and give Lisa’s arm an apologetic squeeze.
“What about if you started an ongoing series called ‘After the Divorce’? Instead of reliving all that went a million unexpected directionslike the shrapnel of your past, why not chronicle what happens to you going forward when you are back in the driver’s seat of life?”
“Kind of a ‘Forward at Fifty’ concept.”
“Yes, though I wouldn’t tell the lesboists you are really fifty-two.”
“That idea has legs, Mavis.” I smile wide at Lisa, my mind already churning with possibilities.
“Thanks, Betty. It’s all yours to make happen.”
Chapter Twenty
November 1992
“Excuse me. I’m Delsie Beaumont. I’m here to see my boy.” Hearing a name I recognized, I looked up from my copy ofIshmaelthat I wasn’t really reading. My eyelids had become heavy as the hour reached midnight.
The attendant asked, “What’s the patient’s name?” I leaped out of my seat to Mrs. Beaumont’s side at the nurses’ station to lend my assistance and make my presence known.
“Porter Beaumont,” we announced at the same time, me a little too loudly. Despite the late-night hospital setting, I flashed my warmest smile, eager for this long-overdue opportunity to make as good a first impression on Porter’s mother as Porter had with my parents.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” I apologized to Mrs. Beaumont when she looked at me, taken aback.
“Oh, honey, I don’t startle so easily,” she stated.
“Oh, good. Good. I’m so glad you made it. I’m Callie; we spoke on the phone this afternoon.” At Delsie’s lack of recognition, I added, “Callie Steele. Remember?”
“Oh, yes. Porter’s friend.”
“Well, actually, his girlfriend,” I clarified. The burn that she voiced zero recognition of who I was over the phone, and now in person, scorched my skin.
“Mm-hmm,” Mrs. Beaumont intoned, and turned back to the nurse to ask, “Can you please tell me what room my son is in and when the doctor will be by?” Mrs. Beaumont’s Southern accent was like Porter’s but with more elongated vowels, and I had to lean in and watch her lips to understand what she was asking.
“Porter’s in Room 216, and the doctor should be by soon,” I answered before the nurse could, hoping to prove to Mrs. Beaumont that I was on top of Porter’s care.
With a slow blink and a twist of her head, Mrs. Beaumont returned her attention to me. “Callie, is it?”
“Yes, that’s me!” I gushed, desperate for any recognition from the mother of the man I was deeply in love with. “Don’t worry. I can tell you everything that’s happened with Porter. So his stomach was really hurting him during and then after the game, and he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but my dad’s a doctor at Weill Cornell Medicine, and he always tells me that if something doesn’t feel right, you need to get help immediately.”
