by Pamela Morsi
It was a well-appointed old home with high ceilings and a massive brick fireplace. The lady of the house came down to join us. She seemed totally unperturbed at having her sleep interrupted by a drunken lout and his friends desperate to be married. She was a tall, lanky kind of woman with a horsey face and a long gray-streaked braid hanging down her back. There was a naturalness about her. She had that kind of confidence that kept her as sure of herself in house-dress and slippers as she would have been in an elegant gown and tasteful jewels.
“I can see you young gentlemen are in need of some coffee,” she said as cheerfully as if we were honored guests. “I’ll brew a quick pot. Why don’t you make yourselves comfortable. Augustus will fill out your paperwork.”
Neither Les nor Berthrene could take a seat. He paced the rug. She managed to stand in one place, but she continued to pick nervously at her fingernails. I glanced over at Geri on the sofa beside me. She looked pale and scared, as well.
I wasn’t jittery at all. Somehow, in the back of that rumble seat I had come to a momentous decision that I was certain would put my life on the track I longed for. The relief I felt about it had me almost giddy. In fact, I couldn’t recall when I’d felt better. I was so relaxed and the sofa was so soft. I could have easily stretched out and enjoyed a nap.
“Are you boys joining up?” the judge asked
“We’re waiting to be called,” Les said. “But we expect it soon.”
The judge nodded.
“Our son, Cedric, is in Britain,” the judge said.
His wife walked in carrying a silver tray filled with coffee paraphernalia. “And our youngest is in Corregidor,” she added.
“Vivian!” the old man scolded her. She blushed.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not supposed to speak about it. Loose lips sink ships, I know. But he’s my baby and I worry about him.”
Berthrene and Geri nodded sympathetically.
The judge sighed. “Women!” he complained under his breath.
“So,” he said, more authoritatively. “We’re here to marry Lester Andeel and Bertha Irene Melrose.”
“Us, too,” I piped up. “Jack Crabtree and Geraldine Shertz.”
Three sets of eyes turned on me in shock. Berthrene issued a little gasp. Geri was silent. Les was not.
“Are you drunk or crazy?” he asked.
“Neither,” I answered, lying.
“You can’t marry her, she’s just a kid.”
“Oh my!” the judge’s wife tutted. “How old are you, dear?” she asked.
When Geri didn’t answer, I spoke up for her. “She’s seventeen,” I said. “That’s plenty old enough to know her own mind.”
The judge’s wife looked concerned, but her husband apparently wasn’t. “That’s legal age here in Arkansas,” he said. “Do you want to marry this young man?”
Geri glanced over at me and then raised her chin in typical defiance. “I don’t believe I’ve been asked,” she pointed out.
I couldn’t stop myself from grinning at her. “I thought you were the one who asked me,” I said and then added, “Crazy Girl, what do you think about us hitching up?” She didn’t hesitate an instant.
“All right,” she said with a definitive nod.
Around us, suddenly everyone was talking, questioning and arguing. But suddenly, unexpectedly, their words were drowned out by the overwhelming rhythms of “Beat Me Daddy, Eight to the Bar.”
I could still see them all talking but the music was too loud for me to hear what they were saying. Was the radio on? I tried glancing around the room and realized that I couldn’t move at all within what was a dream. The music was not there, it was not in the past—it was here in the present, in the hospital room where I lay strapped down and paralyzed. The beeps of monitors and the whizzing hiss of the machine that covered my face was here and now, but so was the big band. Was this hospital upstairs from a juke joint? It seemed impossible, but hearing was believing.
7
Friday, June 10, 6:17 a.m
The sun rose over Tulsa, illuminating the east sides of the downtown buildings. In the hospital room, Jack was far enough away to view the beauty of it. But far too tired to care. He’d caught a few minutes of catnap through the night, but he’d been more or less awake for twenty-four hours.
He glanced over at Claire. She had twisted herself into a fetal position in the chair by the bed, but he knew that she was only sleeping in little fits and starts. They had discovered through the night that Bud’s thrashing and gagging was cyclical. Just when they thought he was finally resting comfortably, it would begin again.
Claire would hold his hand, whisper to him, try to soothe him. Jack figured that was some kind of mothering thing, a propensity for nurturing. Claire hardly knew the old man, but she knew how to care about him. Jack had known him all his life, but didn’t really feel comfortable with him. He didn’t know what to say to him. Or even why to say anything at all.
The old man was quiet now. Everything was quiet. Jack could almost let his mind wander back to San Antonio and his life there. He thought about Butterman and pictured the lay of the land in the man’s backyard, mentally conjuring up his ideas for the pool. It was going to be great. Jack fumbled in his pocket for writing materials. He could always think better with a pencil and paper in his hand. He’d spend this slack time getting a few drawings done. He hunched over his paper, using the windowsill as a desk. It wasn’t ideal but, despite the discomfort, he was grateful for the distraction. Rebar and concrete, gravel and pipe, these were the materials he worked with. The calculable gradient or the instability of the bedrock were things that could be understood. Maybe they couldn’t be controlled, but he could build in flexibility that could make them manageable. When it came to human relationships, flexibility was still something he struggled with. He believed he was giving it his best. But somehow his best just wasn’t good enough.
A stirring buzz of activity outside Bud’s room caught his attention. It wasn’t sound so much as an alertness. The languid we-are-the-only-ones-awake feeling disappeared like a vapor, and it was a get-up-and-get-moving morning as clearly as if an alarm had gone off.
Jack speculated that it must be the change of shift, but discarded the notion a minute later when a thirtysomething man pushed into the room without so much as a hesitation. He jerked back the curtain, causing Claire to startle awake abruptly. Behind him, Nurse Lucy followed rolling the computer chart.
The man glared at Claire and then at Jack. He was clearly all business and didn’t offer so much as a greeting. As he washed his hands in the sink, he surveyed the blinking, beeping equipment. Nurse Lucy did the same. Drying his hands, he approached the bed.
Claire slipped out of her chair and made her way to Jack’s side. Her steps almost tiptoes, as if trying not to call attention to herself.
The man didn’t give her a glance. He tossed his paper towel into the bedside trash and began moving the myriad lines and hoses out of his way as he examined Bud’s face. He pried open the old man’s eyes and shined a light into each for a couple of seconds. He clicked off his tiny light and slipped it back into his pocket. Then he tossed the sheet back, surveying the thin body covered in a cotton hospital gown. From around his neck he retrieved the stethoscope and set the phones in his ears. He listened to Bud’s chest for several minutes, moving the sensor to several sights, including turning him slightly in the bed to place the shiny metal circle on his back. When he’d carefully laid Bud back down in the bed and covered him with the blanket, he placed the stethoscope back around his neck. Then he asked Nurse Lucy for scissors and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. He cut the bandage from the side of Bud’s forehead and examined the wound. It was angry, swollen, black and blue, made more unattractive by the raised line of stitches across the middle of it.
Jack felt the familiar queasiness that plagued him around blood and scars and wounded body parts.
“At least that looks good,” the doctor said. It was th
e first words he’d spoken.
He turned to Lucy. “Get him rebandaged,” he said. “And get me an update eval on his lungs.”
She nodded.
He walked over to the nearby sink and began washing his hands again.
“I suppose you people are more of the family,” he said without turning to look at Jack or Claire. “I’m Dr. Marchette, the neurologist.”
“I’m Jack Crabtree and this is my wife, Claire. This is my grandfather.”
The doctor made a noncommittal hmm sound.
“We got in from San Antonio late last night and came straight to the hospital,” Claire explained. “We know it’s not visiting hours, but we wanted to stay until we were able to talk to somebody about his condition.”
She was so apologetic, so conciliatory, Jack resisted the temptation to hush her up. Claire was always this way with strangers, meek and empathetic. Jack supposed that it worked for her in the way that sexiness worked for Dana. It was just a ploy to grease wheels in her direction.
Jack had his own way of handling people. He was not
about to allow this doctor, a fellow not much older than Jack himself, to pull any superiority crap on him.
“We have been and continue to be concerned about his care,” Jack told the man. “My stepfather is on the board of the Methodist Healthcare System in San Antonio. When Grandfather is stable enough, we may need to move him to a more highly rated facility down there. This place is basically the county gunshot and stabbing hospital, isn’t it?” He then had the immediate attention of both Dr. Marchette and Nurse Lucy.
The doctor, his face red and his cheeks bulging, answered quickly and sharply. “We do have an urban trauma center in this hospital,” he said, “as well as our share of indigent services. But I can assure you, Mr. Crabtree, that all our expertise and equipment is thoroughly up-to-date and our patient care is top-notch.”
Jack repressed a grin. He’d managed to get on a new footing with the doctor, even if he had to use his stepfather’s connections to do it.
“That’s very reassuring to hear,” he said, less belligerently. Dr. Marchette relaxed a little and then added. “And I don’t think it will be feasible to move your grandfather at the present time.”
Jack nodded. He, of course, had no intention of transferring the old man, but he wanted to give the impression of having options.
“Because of his condition?”
“Yes,” the doctor answered. “At this point, I think the less jostling around the better.” He turned toward Lucy and
held out his arms. She handed the computer chart to him. “We’ve been relying rather heavily on EEG readings rather than transport him for regular MRI scans. I’m trying to give him as much time as possible.”
“Time to wake up?” Jack clarified.
“Coma is not a complete lack of consciousness per se,” Dr. Marchette answered. “We associate it with unresponsiveness to stimuli and limited brain activity. Although we have not been able to interact or communicate with Mr. Crabtree, we believe your grandfather to be suffering from what we call locked-in syndrome. This differs significantly from what you’ve probably seen or heard about on TV, and it’s very difficult to definitively diagnose, but we believe the evidence indicates that your grandfather has significant brain function—periods of sleep and wakefulness and knowledge of his surroundings. But all the conduits to his ability to interact with us have been shut down. He doesn’t have control of his muscles, and therefore he can’t speak or squeeze our hands or blink an eye.”
Jack nodded. “And this is part of the stroke.”
“Yes and no. Unfortunately, the stroke symptoms are being masked by significant internal bleeding in his brain.” Jack nodded slowly.
“My wife was talking to him as if he could hear her,” he said. “Do you think that’s possible?”
“I think it’s very possible.”
“What’s going to happen to him?” Claire asked. “Is he going to get better?”
The doctor shook his head, uncertain. “I can’t really tell you that at this time. He’s in good general health, but he is elderly and it’s a significant injury. We’re trying to get the bleeding stopped. As it goes on, the pressure builds up and that may rupture more blood vessels. It’s a bit like repairing the foundation of a building with cotton candy. It may work, but it is hardly ideal. His body needs to be immobile to make the repairs in his brain. But the rest of his organs deteriorate with inactivity. His lungs, his heart, his kidneys, all of them are at risk.”
Jack glanced at Claire. She was eyeing the old man in the bed sympathetically.
“Last night he had that episode where he was thrashing around,” Jack said. “If he’s paralyzed how can he do that?”
“He’s not physically paralyzed,” the doctor answer. “His thinking brain can’t initiate movement. The thrashing occurs during his periods of sleeping. There’s apparently still some function in that state and that’s a very promising sign.”
“So he can make himself move when he’s asleep, but not when he’s awake.”
“Yes. We don’t want to overmedicate him for that, but we do need to keep him as still as we can. So, I’ve authorized the very prudent use of restraints.”
“You’re going to tie him down?”
“Only when his movement endangers him,” the doctor assured Jack.
“Why is he fighting so hard?” Claire asked. “Is he afraid or in pain?”
“No, I don’t think so,” the doctor answered.
“Then why would he struggle like that?”
“He’s having nightmares,” Dr. Marchette answered. “We believe that what we’re seeing is a typical effect from his PTSD sleep disorder.”
“His what?”
The doctor looked momentarily surprised.
“Mr. Crabtree has a PTSD sleep dysfunction,” he said. “Posttraumatic stress disorder.”
Jack was incredulous. “How would you know that?”
“It’s in his medical history,” Dr. Marchette answered. He pulled the stylus out of the side of the chart and tapped a few places on the screen. “He was diagnosed in 1986. PTSD associated with being shot down over the Pacific in 1943.”
Jack frowned.
Claire spoke up. “He was shot down in World War II? I didn’t know that.”
She looked at Jack questioningly. He hadn’t known it, either, but he refused to give any indication of his ignorance.
“It happened in 1943, but it was thirty-three years before he was diagnosed. Did he suffer all that time?”
Doctor Marchette shrugged. “Probably,” he answered. “It’s, unfortunately, not all that unusual for the old soldiers. Back in those days they told men to just buck up. The symptoms grow more manageable over time and most just lived their lives, secret intact. But a relapse can be triggered that sends people into treatment. That may have been what happened.”
He looked over at Jack for confirmation. Jack kept his expression blank. He knew nothing about posttraumatic stress or old soldiers. He only had a vague idea that his grandfather had even been in WWII.
The doctor was looking at the chart again. “It says he suffered insomnia and intermittent night terrors. Pretty typical.” He looked up from where he was reading and glanced over at Bud again. “So that’s what we think the thrashing is about. He’s just reliving his usual nightmares.”
“Oh, that’s horrible!” Claire’s voice was distraught. “That’s actually worse than if he was in pain.”
Jack’s cell phone vibrated on the bedside table. Claire heard it for about the twentieth time. Beside her, Jack was deeply asleep. He had that ability. He had slept through half her labor when she had given birth to the twins, innumerable childhood illnesses that had kept her busy all night, and every alarm clock he’d ever bought. And he slept through the annoying buzzing of his stupid phone.
Claire reached over and picked it up, squinting at the caller ID. It was Dana’s number at Swim Infinity. Now she was not only a
wake, she was annoyed.
The back bedroom of Bud and Geri’s little Catawah bungalow had two big windows on the west side. The late afternoon sun was shining through brightly, making the room uncomfortably warm. Claire was only covered with a thin cotton sheet, but she threw it off and rolled to a sitting position on the bed.
Her feet didn’t touch the floor. Why anyone would have a bed so high off the ground, she didn’t know. But there were a lot of things that she didn’t know and she managed to get through the world just fine without them.
She scooted off the bed and ran a weary hand through her hair. She needed a cut and a style, but she hadn’t had time in ages. She’d grown accustomed to just pulling it back into a ponytail and calling it done. Her mismatched T-shirt and pajama bottoms had seen better days. The logo for the Red Fireball Stars, Zaidi’s soccer team, had been washed almost completely into oblivion. But that was the thing about cotton, the more you washed it, the better it felt. Claire was all about comfort these days.
She padded through the tiny house and into the little kitchen. She got a glass out of the cabinet and Filled it at the sink.
In the dish drainer a coffee cup, saucer and cereal bowl sat clean and dry. Bud must have washed up after his breakfast, she thought to herself. It was a sad thought.
She glanced up at the clock above the refrigerator. It was shaped like a loaf of bread with several slices ready for buttering. Both hands pointed directly at one of the furthermost slices. Twenty after four. They’d gotten here from the hospital about eleven-thirty in the morning, and it had taken them maybe a half hour to get to bed. That meant almost four and a half hours of sleep. It wasn’t enough, but Claire supposed it would have to do.
She needed to call the hospital to see how Bud was doing. She needed to call her mother-in-law and talk to the kids. She needed to take a shower, get dressed and try to find something to eat. Instead she wandered out into the utility room, or as Grandma Geri had called it, the wash porch. The washing machine was still in its place, but nothing much else was recognizable. The room was piled high with old newspapers, magazines, dozens of plastic jugs and stacks of glass jars of every size and description. Claire was genuinely startled. The house was as neat as a pin, but this one room was a disaster. There were bins full of cans and boxes full of junk mail. Coils of wire hung on nails high up on the wall. A gigantic basket was piled high with threadbare rags. It was a huge truckload of trash.
