Before stepping out of the room, Ginger politely took the sheet of paper from Brenda listing the bail bondsmen in the area. She did not bother to look back at her mother and mother-in-law. She just kept it moving.
When she got out in the hallway, though, she breathed a sigh of relief that was so big that she got lightheaded. She gathered herself and went to the front desk, where the manager called a taxi for her.
While en route, she called Awesome Bail and gave the information about Paul’s situation. She figured that would expedite the process. But hardly is anything easy in times of trouble.
The company wanted all kinds of documents that she did not have—pay stubs, social security card, passport.
“We live in Atlanta; we’re here on vacation,” she said. “He left his wallet in the room; I have that. There are all kinds of documentation about where we live, credit cards, whatever. We’re not criminals. We are not trying to jump bail. I’m just trying to get him out.”
“Miss, there is a mandatory forty-eight hours of jail time with your first DUI charge in California,” he said. “So, even if he were to post bail, he would still have to serve two days.”
“What?” Ginger said.
“The only thing that could change that is if the judge rules the time could be converted into work service,” the man added. “But because you all live in Georgia, I don’t know if that’s a possibility.”
“Do they hold court on Saturday here?” she asked.
“You’re lucky; not all of California does, but here we do,” he said. “So, he will see a judge in the morning and will determine what happens.”
Ginger had the cab driver drop her off at the jail. There, she found a worker who gave her the deal: Paul would have to spend the night. He would have an eight o’clock appearance in front of Judge Davis. His bail was set but the judge would determine in the morning if he would have to serve another night behind bars and his court date.
Ginger was upset. She wanted to get Paul out; she felt some-what responsible for him being there. Having to stay another day would totally ruin their trip; they were scheduled to leave on the red-eye Sunday night.
She did not have much cash on her, so she sought to piece together the money. She was not sure how much Paul had in his account, but she had a duplicate card to his account and she knew the PIN number. He’d had her use it in the past and the PIN was the address to their first apartment: 2406.
So, she walked to the nearest ATM and was astonished when the balance read: $48,106. She wondered if the bank got it wrong. There was a time, years back, when her account balance read five hundred dollars more than she actually had in the bank. When she tried to get out more than she knew she had, she was refused. That had to be case here, she surmised.
If that was the case, it did not allow her an accurate balance, so she was not sure if there really was eighteen hundred available. That made her nervous because the last thing she wanted to do was have to go to her mother for the money to help bail out her husband.
Before she could contemplate that much more, Ginger got woozy. She had been feeling strange off and on, but this time she felt really disoriented—and scared. It was not like what she considered a panic attack in the garage several months before. It was more of a lightheaded, dizzy feeling and an uneasiness in her stomach.
Her family had a history of bleeding ulcers, and she was always fearful she would get one, too. This time, she was more fearful than ever. Ulcers can be brought on by worry, and she certainly had been worrying and was worrying quite a bit about Paul—and her marriage.
Instead of trying to dismiss it, Ginger found a bench on the street, took a seat and used her phone to call a taxi—and locate the nearest hospital.
Before she could do either, however, Madeline called her.
“Ginger, what’s going on? Is Paul out?” she inquired.
Ginger explained the dynamics to her and told her she would be back at the hotel later and that she was working on the bail money—anything to get her off the phone.
She succeeded in that and contacted Black Tie Taxi to pick her up near the detention center. She waited on a bench with her mind racing to many places: a potential ulcer, Paul, the abortion, Helena, her mother, her marriage. None of the thoughts gave her comfort.
“Queen of the Valley Medical Center on Trancas Street,” she said when she hopped into the back seat of the cab.
It was a short ride from where she was, maybe ten minutes. During that time she texted Helena, although it was around two in the morning on the East Coast. She missed her and always found a base of comfort in communicating with her child.
Unlike many mothers and daughters that go through antagonistic crises during the child’s teenage years, Helena and Ginger had no such issues. They got along more like sisters who actually liked each other.
“We are having an adventure here in Napa. Lots to share when we get back. Hope you’re having fun. Sure you’re at a party. Be safe,” was her text message to her daughter.
A return message came back in less than a minute. “Surprised to hear from you. Is everything OK?”
Ginger sent her back a smiley face because she did not want to lie. Then Paul’s phone chimed. She took it with her from the room. It was a text message from Helena.
“Daddy, is all OK? Mommy just texted me. I am at a party, but I wanted to check on you all b/c Mommy texted me when you all should be having fun.”
Ginger texted her back from Paul’s phone. “Hi, sweetheart. All is good. We just miss you. We love you.”
At least she had that to feel good about as she exited the cab and walked into the hospital’s emergency room. She actually felt better than she had, but decided to go anyway. An ulcer gets progressively worse, and so she was intent on dealing with it at that moment.
The receptionist greeted her with a smile, had her fill out paperwork and she took a seat in the waiting area. She looked at the others waiting for service and wondered what their ailments were. It was a calm waiting room, much unlike when they had to rush Helena to Piedmont Hospital in Atlanta when she tripped on a street curb and cut her hand, requiring seven stitches. There was blood in that waiting area, and it was not all Helena’s.
One teenager had a bruised shoulder and neck from apparently falling off a skateboard. Probably was riding on the railing of some steps, Ginger thought. If that’s the case, then he probably deserves this. Maybe he’ll cut out that nonsense.
The other few people looked to be not sick at all or battling something internal, like she was.
Within minutes, she was called to the back to see a nurse, which shocked her. That would never happen at home, she thought. She explained her symptoms to the doctor, who examined her family history, took some blood and a urine sample and gave her some ginger ale to help settle her stomach.
All her vital signs were fine. “Is this your first time in California?” Dr. Margolis asked.
“It is,” Ginger said. “Beautiful place. The feeling I’m having is getting in the way a little bit. It’s nothing dramatic, but the dizzy spells concern me.”
“And they should,” the doctor said. “Dizziness should never be taken lightly. It could be some kind of brain issue. I’m not saying that at all. There’s no reason to think that at all. I’m just saying that in general, the brain is so complicated and sometimes it gives us clues that something isn’t quite right. So it’s important when we get those clues that we explore them.”
“I have so much going on in my head right now, I wouldn’t be surprised if my brain exploded,” Ginger said.
“Well, let’s not have that happen,” the doctor said, and they laughed.
He told Ginger she could rest on the examination table until he returned with the blood work results that might give him some clue as to why she felt as she had.
She lay there thinking about her cousin, Rita, who was sick for months and went to many doctors who could not figure out her health concerns. The not knowing drove Rita batty. Ginger fretted the doctor coming back and telling her there was nothing they could find out of order.
Finally, she dozed off on the table and dreamed the doctor came back to tell her she had an ulcer, appendicitis and a stomach virus. When she looked at him with concern, the doctor said, “Well, at least you know. That’s what you wanted, right? To know?”
Before she could get too scared, the door opening awakened her. It was Dr. Margolis.
“Doctor,” she said as she got her bearings. “Did you find anything?”
“Let me ask you something,” he said. “Have you been drinking a lot of our wonderful wine we harvest up here?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s it,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Ginger asked.
He said: “As good as our wine is, it does not go down so well when you’re pregnant.”
Dr. Margolis walked toward the door, turned and added, “Congratulations.”
Ginger did not respond. She sat on the table, dumbfounded.