Status: In chapters
Goode Parenting
Bad News
She woke up the next morning to an alarm clock ring that sounded like Sistine Chapel bells. Her fingers were knotted in her long, matted, frizzy brown hair and her short black dress was now a shirt she wore with no dignity whatsoever. Her head pounded like a bass drum as she rolled over onto the floor, forgetting that instead of sleeping in her king size canopy style bed, she had chosen to dream on her couch that night. She let out a loud yelp as her head hit the wood floor and her bare legs hit the glass coffee table.
“I need a rug over here,” she mumbled, reaching for the arm of the couch to help pull her up off the floor. She looked at the time. It was 7 o’clock. She never resented the number 7 as much in her life as she did at that precise moment.
Glancing over at her phone, she saw the answering machine lit up with five messages on it. She figured it must be the school. That place could never be run properly without her. It made her smile that she was needed somewhere. She hit the play button on the machine and started taking off her clothes to get in the shower.
“First message at 11:59 pm from phone number—“, the automated voice on the messaging system spoke out loudly through the medium sized loft. She could easily hear it from the bathroom as she wrapped a towel around her body and turned on the water.
“I’m calling for Vivian Goode,” the words rang from the machine. Vivian crawled into the bathtub slowly, the loud squeak of the unfamiliar woman’s voice playing havoc with her hangover. “This is Marianne, head nurse at Josephine Hospital in Jersey City. We were given this number to contact. Ginger Baines is deceased as of 11:42 pm. If you could call us back, we have a few questions to ask.”
Vivian cringed at the message. The only thing she heard clearly between the honking horns coming from outside and the sprinkle of the shower water raining down on her head was the name Ginger Baines. She stopped the shower and wrapped the towel around her once more, running into the living room and almost slipping, her wet feet on the wood floor. She ran into the couch and her soaked hair dripped water on her new cushions.
“Next message from phone number—“, the machine cranked out the same number as before.
“This is Marianne again, head nurse at Josephine Hospital in Jersey City calling for Vivian Goode. We were given this number to contact.” The same squeaky voice called out of the small rectangular box on the side table. “Ginger Baines is deceased as of 11:42 pm. If you could call us back, we have a few questions to ask.” The woman gave the number of the hospital to get in touch with.
She only knew one Ginger Baines.
Vivian hastily picked up the phone as if she could talk to the woman right then and there before realizing she had to dial the number first. She listened to the message once more to write it down, her hand unsteadily scrawling the numbers down on the back of her dinner receipt.
Picking the phone back up off the receiver, she struggled to read off the damp flimsy paper it was written on. She punched the numbers into the phone and impatiently waited for the rings that told her she had successfully dialed.
“Josephine Hospital, nurses station, how may I help you?”
“I’m calling about Ginger Baines…this is Vivian Goode,” the frightened woman spoke in a very fast temperament.
“Oh, of course Ms. Goode, I’ll patch you in right away,” the nurse accommodated.
“Thanks,” Vivian replied, listening to the sound of the phone being reconnected.
“Ms. Goode,” the same woman’s voice from the message came through the receiving end of the phone. “We have a few questions for you concerning---“, she was interrupted by a confused, hung-over, edgy Headmaster who at the moment was dripping wet with both water and sweat.
“What’s happened to my sister?!”
“I need a rug over here,” she mumbled, reaching for the arm of the couch to help pull her up off the floor. She looked at the time. It was 7 o’clock. She never resented the number 7 as much in her life as she did at that precise moment.
Glancing over at her phone, she saw the answering machine lit up with five messages on it. She figured it must be the school. That place could never be run properly without her. It made her smile that she was needed somewhere. She hit the play button on the machine and started taking off her clothes to get in the shower.
“First message at 11:59 pm from phone number—“, the automated voice on the messaging system spoke out loudly through the medium sized loft. She could easily hear it from the bathroom as she wrapped a towel around her body and turned on the water.
“I’m calling for Vivian Goode,” the words rang from the machine. Vivian crawled into the bathtub slowly, the loud squeak of the unfamiliar woman’s voice playing havoc with her hangover. “This is Marianne, head nurse at Josephine Hospital in Jersey City. We were given this number to contact. Ginger Baines is deceased as of 11:42 pm. If you could call us back, we have a few questions to ask.”
Vivian cringed at the message. The only thing she heard clearly between the honking horns coming from outside and the sprinkle of the shower water raining down on her head was the name Ginger Baines. She stopped the shower and wrapped the towel around her once more, running into the living room and almost slipping, her wet feet on the wood floor. She ran into the couch and her soaked hair dripped water on her new cushions.
“Next message from phone number—“, the machine cranked out the same number as before.
“This is Marianne again, head nurse at Josephine Hospital in Jersey City calling for Vivian Goode. We were given this number to contact.” The same squeaky voice called out of the small rectangular box on the side table. “Ginger Baines is deceased as of 11:42 pm. If you could call us back, we have a few questions to ask.” The woman gave the number of the hospital to get in touch with.
She only knew one Ginger Baines.
Vivian hastily picked up the phone as if she could talk to the woman right then and there before realizing she had to dial the number first. She listened to the message once more to write it down, her hand unsteadily scrawling the numbers down on the back of her dinner receipt.
Picking the phone back up off the receiver, she struggled to read off the damp flimsy paper it was written on. She punched the numbers into the phone and impatiently waited for the rings that told her she had successfully dialed.
“Josephine Hospital, nurses station, how may I help you?”
“I’m calling about Ginger Baines…this is Vivian Goode,” the frightened woman spoke in a very fast temperament.
“Oh, of course Ms. Goode, I’ll patch you in right away,” the nurse accommodated.
“Thanks,” Vivian replied, listening to the sound of the phone being reconnected.
“Ms. Goode,” the same woman’s voice from the message came through the receiving end of the phone. “We have a few questions for you concerning---“, she was interrupted by a confused, hung-over, edgy Headmaster who at the moment was dripping wet with both water and sweat.
“What’s happened to my sister?!”