Grounded by Neta Jackson Page B

seen by a laryngologist. I can recommend a couple names—”
    â€œA … who?”
    â€œAn otolaryngologist, a doctor who specializes in treating vocalists like yourself. I’ll be glad to contact one on our list and say youneed to be seen ASAP.” The doctor turned to her computer and began using her mouse to scroll through several pages.
    Grace swallowed, which hurt. “But will I have to wait to see the laryn—uh, however you pronounce it—before I can get a doctor’s certification to cancel? It’s really urgent that I get it right away.”
    Dr. Stacy was typing something into the computer. “As your primary, I’m writing a note to that effect since a few weeks resting your voice and recovering from the mega stress you’re under can only be beneficial. But Grace,”—she swung around on her stool and eyed Grace soberly—“for anything beyond the concert next week, you’ll need to be evaluated by a specialist.”

    An hour later, Grace pulled her two-door Ford Focus into the garage behind her house. The alley hadn’t been plowed, but enough cars had used the alley since yesterday’s snowfall that two well-established ruts allowed her to make it into her garage with only a few skids around corners. As the automatic garage door shut behind her, Grace wearily gathered up all her things and headed out the side door, stepping carefully on the icy walk. She’d had to stop at an Osco Pharmacy to fill a couple of prescriptions, and the whole excursion had exhausted her. At least her strep test had come back negative. Still, she couldn’t wait to get inside the house and crawl into bed for a nap.
    But the ticking schoolhouse clock on the living room wall said almost four thirty. What she really needed to do was make an appointment with the laryngologist, and then fax the doctor’s certification to that new guy, Jeff Newman, before the booking agency closed for the day. The sooner he got back to the church in Milwaukee, the better.
    The specialist she called couldn’t see her until next Monday. She wrote the appointment in her Day-Timer, faxed the certification letter to Bongo Booking, and finally, fortified with a couple of extra-strength pain relievers and a cup of hot chicken broth, collapsedon the sectional couch in the living room. Curling up in an afghan, she gazed out the front window at the fading blue twilight as she sipped the hot salty liquid. Yesterday’s snowfall had stopped with the promised two inches—but that was two inches on top of her unshoveled walks. Most of the front walks on Beecham Street had been shoveled, except for hers and the two-flat on the other side of the street where the old lady lived. She knew better than to get out there herself, not with her voice shot and an upper respiratory infection. Her brother might be willing to come this weekend—but that was three days away. The longer she waited, the more packed down the snow would become as people walked on it. It was already an icy mess underneath.
    Grace sighed. Should she hire a service? The guy directly across the street had a truck that said
Farid’s Total Yard Service
with a phone number—and she thought she’d seen it with a plow last winter. But did a yard service do something as small as shoveling walks?
    Maybe she could hire one of the older kids on the block to shovel and spread some rock salt. There were some kids at the other end of the block, but she didn’t know them at all, and the interracial couple in the house next door, both professionals of some kind, didn’t have any kids. They seemed like typical DINKS—Double-Income-No-Kids. The family on the north side of her, though—middle-aged, African American—had a couple of teenagers, nice kids as far as she knew. They might be a possibility—except she didn’t have their phone number. Last name? JASPER was lettered on an oval house sign