Not Easily Broken

by T. D. Jakes

  The other vivid memory Dave had was of dancing with Clarice at the reception, thinking, My wife. Clarice Johnson. I’m her husband. We’re married. They spun in soft circles with Lionel Richie crooning “Three Times a Lady” in the background.

  Why was he thinking about all this now? Shouldn’t he be checking with the nurses, or seeing about their insurance, or finding out when he could see his wife? Shouldn’t he be more worried about this immediate crisis than all the maybes of the future? Dave prided himself on being a practical man, on not being one to borrow trouble. But when Clarice had looked at him with that no-nonsense face of hers, when she’d let him and everybody else in the room know, in no uncertain terms, that she was in charge here and there was no time for “messing around,” Dave suddenly realized Clarice didn’t need somebody to take care of her; she needed someone who could stay out of her way.

  Clarice’s mother. Dave sighed and dug in his pocket for his cell phone. He’d need to let her know, of course. He keyed in her number and stuck the phone to his ear. He listened to the ringing tone and stared at the blind eye of the TV mounted on the wall in the corner of the waiting room.

  Chapter Three

  Julie Sawyer was tired. She let her Sentra coast into the parking spot in front of the YMCA and shoved the lever into park. She turned off the engine but the key still hung there because there was something wrong with her ignition switch and of course she didn’t have time, much less money, to take it to the shop and get it fixed. So the alarm pinged at her while she fussed with the key and finally freed it from the switch.

  She got out of the car and walked toward the front doors of the Y. It was spring, the time of year when things were supposed to be coming alive, but Julie didn’t feel so alive this evening. The days were getting longer, the signal to her that summer’s heat was just around the corner. Around here, summer seemed to last forever. A rain shower during the dead of summer was enough to make you want to throw a party. She made a mental note to try and improve her attitude . . .

  tomorrow. Right now, she just didn’t have the energy to spare.

  She leaned against the glass door, entered the building, and went past the reception desk, down the hall toward the pool. She began to hear the faint sounds of splashing and the reverberations of voices bouncing around the tiled chamber that held the indoor pool. She passed through the double doors and the scent of chlorine washed over her in a damp wave.

  Bryson was there, as he always was, sitting on the bench with wet hair. He had his street clothes on, as he always did, and grabbed his gym bag as he came toward her.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hey, bud. How was practice?”

  “Fine.”

  “Ready?”

  He nodded and passed her, holding the door for her as they went back into the hallway.

  “Did Dad call back yet?”

  Julie allowed herself a mental sigh. “No, bud, not yet.”

  “Okay.” They walked a few paces. “You let him know about the meet next weekend, right?”

  “Yeah, son, I sure did.”

  “I hope he can come this time.”

  “Me too, bud.” But, of course, I also hoped he’d come to the last meet, just like I hoped he’d get in touch to congratulate you on swimming your personal best time three weeks ago. Or maybe send you a card in the mail, for crying out loud.

  “What’s for supper?”

  “Not sure yet, kiddo. We’ll have to see what’s in the cupboard when we get home.”

  “Cupboard?”

  “Yeah. You know, like Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard?”

  “But we don’t have a dog.”

  “And I’m not old. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Why don’t you just say pantry or fridge? You make it sound like we live in a cottage in the woods or something.”

  “Oh, where’s your poetic, whimsical sense, Bryson? Can’t I have a cupboard if I want one?”

  “I guess. Just don’t try to feed me a bone.”

  “Deal.” She grinned at him and ruffled his wet brownish-blond hair. They came outside and headed for the car.

  “How was school today?” she asked, as she jiggled the key into the ignition switch.

  “Pretty good, I guess.”

  “Homework?”

  “Done, except for a little English and some reading.”

  “Right after supper, okay?”

  He nodded.

  They pulled into the driveway at home. This time, the key slid out of the switch easily, to Julie’s relief. “Drop your wet stuff on the washing machine, okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She went to the fridge and gave the contents a critical scan: The chicken-and-cheese casserole was from Sunday’s lunch; it was only Monday—too soon. The pizza from Saturday night was still okay, but not as nourishing as Julie thought they needed. There were still some canned vegetables in the pantry from her last trip to the store and she thought she had most of what she needed for a salad.

  She felt it then. Creeping over her, twining through the muscles of her shoulders, arms, and legs, was the weariness of the day. She was on her feet all day, coaching and coaxing and cajoling her patients to do “just one more” leg lift or elbow bend or step up and down from the platform to the floor. All the while she empathized with their pain, their fatigue, their frustration, their discouragement. It was up to her to reassure them and counsel them and sometimes scold them—whatever she had to do to keep them going, making progress. And tomorrow at eight a.m., it would all start over. She looked through the doorway to the slightly worn overstuffed couch sitting in front of the TV in her living room. She sighed and slid the pizza box from the fridge.

  As she peeled loose one of the cold, stiff wedges from the pizza box and laid it on a plate, Julie remembered the memo she’d gotten in her mailbox at the clinic, something about a mandatory employees’ meeting the next day after closing. She’d been hoping to finally get her hair done tomorrow, but depending on how long the meeting ran, that might have to wait.

  She put a paper towel atop the pizza slice, slid the plate into the microwave, and punched the cook button. Julie thought briefly about calling Ted one more time and leaving yet another message on his voice mail, reminding him to make some effort to come to his son’s swim meet on Saturday. She hated to see Bryson wounded again by his father’s carelessness. How does he find the strength to keep hoping his dad will actually take an interest?

  She guessed that no matter what, kids want to believe in their fathers . . . even when their fathers stop believing in them. The microwave beeped and she poured her son a glass of milk. “Come eat, Bryson.”

  Bryson came in and collected his plate and milk, then went to the table and started eating. Julie punched the microwave button again. She turned to watch her son as she waited for her pizza to heat.

  Bryson carefully touched the tip of his tongue to the melted cheese atop his pizza. He started to pick up the slice, then thought better of it. He got up and went to the silverware drawer, retrieving a fork. He sat back down and methodically cut a piece from the tip of the wedge, stabbed it with the fork, blew on it a few times, then put it in his mouth.

  When had her son become so careful? Lord knows he has plenty of reason, she thought. When your home breaks apart, who knows what might happen next? It was best to take it easy, look ahead, and think of all the ways something could go wrong. Bryson was a forty-year-old inside a sixth-grader’s body.

  The only time Bryson approached life with anything close to recklessness was when he was swimming. The 50– and 100–meter freestyle were his specialty, and the crawl was his weapon of choice. His arms flashed and wheeled, cutting the water with the untiring regularity of propeller blades. He was almost never nervous before a meet, as far as Julie could tell. Instead, there was a kind of quiet confidence about him, as if he knew he was going to do well—it was just a matter of how well. When his coach hauled him out of the water at the finish line, Bryson was usually smilin
g like someone who’d just won the lottery, even on those rare occasions when he didn’t finish first in a race. Julie guessed that for Bryson, swimming was the thing, and recognition was the icing on the cake. When Bryson swam, he was a different kid, and he knew it.

  He had far too much class to brag or swagger, but he was one of the best swimmers in his age group at the Y swim club. His coach had told Julie he was considering adding Bryson to the age fourteen-and-up sprint relay team, a group at least two years ahead of Bryson’s own age group. Julie had heard the coach say more than once that Bryson could “go all the way,” whatever that meant. She hoped it had something to do with college tuition, because on what Julie made, that was the only way her son was likely to get an education without incurring a mountain of debt. Ted sure wasn’t likely to be much help.

  She pulled her plate from the microwave, got herself a canned soft drink from the fridge, and went over to sit with her son.

  “Pizza okay?”

  He nodded. “Fine,” he said around a mouthful.

  Julie took a bite of her pizza and a sip of her drink. She looked at the clock on the microwave: seven-thirty. Could she make it to ten o’clock without falling down from exhaustion? And where were the laundry elves when you needed them?

  Bryson was looking at her. She gave him a smile and reached across the table to pat his arm. “Better eat, bud. You’ve still got homework.”

  The orthopedist walked into the waiting room. Dave came up off the couch and met him just inside the door. “How is she?”

  “Your wife came through the surgery just fine. We did a spinal, so she was awake the whole time. The bones are all put back together and we’ve got her in a cast just to hold everything still.”

  “Can I see her?”

  “Sure. Just down the hall, then to your right. The recovery room’s through the first set of double doors. You’ll see it.”

  “Thanks, Doctor. We really appreciate you taking care of us so quick and all.”

  “No problem, Mr. Johnson. Glad we could do it. Just make sure she stays off that leg, okay?”

  “That’ll be harder than the surgery.”

  The doctor laughed. “Yes, I can see that. One of the nurses will give you my contact information; you need to schedule the first follow-up appointment in about two weeks. At that point, we’ll assess how she’s doing and go from there. Okay?”

  Dave nodded.

  “Well, good luck to you both.”

  Dave shook his hand and headed for the recovery room. He walked in and found Clarice sitting up in a hospital bed with nurses on both sides of her. Her broken leg was propped up on some pillows, and there was a brand-new fiberglass cast encasing her right leg from just below the knee to just above her ankle. One of the nurses was taking her blood pressure while the other one read aloud from a clipboard.

  “If your toes start to turn purple or you lose feeling in your toes, elevate your leg immediately. If you feel unusual pain in your leg for longer than a day, elevate your leg and call the doctor’s office—oh, hello, Mr. Johnson. I’m glad you’re here; you can listen in.”

  “David, did they give you a bag with some of my things?” Clarice asked. She turned to the nurse with the clipboard. “They took my bra in the ER, and I’d really like to have it back.”

  “I’ll check with them, Mrs. Johnson,” the other nurse offered, as she jotted something on another clipboard. “I’ll be right back, okay?” she called as she left.

  “I was just telling your wife some of the symptoms you need to watch for these next few days,” the other nurse began. “I’ve got a little brochure here that has most of the information. You probably ought to hang onto this awhile until we see how Mrs. Johnson’s leg is going to do. It’s also got the doctor’s office number.”

  Dave took the pamphlet from the nurse and stuck it in his pocket.

  “We also recommend that Mrs. Johnson get started with a physical therapist right away.”

  “How am I supposed to do therapy?” Clarice wondered aloud. “I can barely wiggle my toes.”

  “The therapist can begin working with you to maintain mobility and strength in your leg,” the nurse said. “With an injury like this, your recovery time will be much faster if you maintain a good therapeutic regimen right from the start.”

  “Well, do ya’ll have someone you can recommend?” Dave said.

  “We can give you a list,” the nurse continued. “There’s an excellent clinic affiliated with this hospital, as well as several other good ones. Most of them file on insurance, if that helps.”

  “Thanks. We’ll take that list,” Dave said.

  “Mrs. Johnson, we need to keep you here another half hour or so, just for observation. If you’re feeling all right, you can go home; I’ve already got your dismissal orders. I’ll be around, so if either of you need anything just let us know, okay?” She walked away.

  “If I hear okay one more time, I think I’m going to hurt somebody,” Clarice mumbled. “David, I need you to go home and get me something to put on besides this hospital gown. They cut my dress off of me in the ER; I guess they were afraid to move me or something.”

  “Okay. What you want me to bring you?”

  “I don’t care, just as long as it isn’t pants.”

  “Yeah, that could be a problem, couldn’t it? Okay, I’ll be right back up here. Anything else you need?”

  “To be out of here as soon as humanly possible, so please go get me some clothes.”

  “I’m gone, baby.”

  Frantic thoughts chased each other through Dave’s head as he walked toward the hospital lobby. Wonder if Brock can come pick me up? Guess I could call a cab. Got to get her set up with a therapist. Keep her off the leg, but how? Might need to stay home tomorrow and take care of her. What needs to be covered at work? What do I do about Clarice’s office? Need to call the insurance people.

  Then Dave heard his grandmother’s voice louder than the thoughts in his head: “You better just slow down, boy. You tryin’ to solve tomorrow’s problems today. The good Lord had something to say about that . . .” Granny could always tell when he was letting things pile up on him, even when he was a kid in junior high. Nothing seemed to rattle her or get her off her stride. She’d kept Dave centered through some difficult passages. Even now, hardly a day went by when he didn’t miss her.

  Okay, Granny. First things first.

  Dave punched Brock Houseman’s phone number on his cell phone. The phone buzzed and Dave heard a click as Brock picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Brock? Man, this is Dave.”

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Actually, I’m at the hospital.”

  “You’re kidding! Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, Clarice and I are both fine. We got sideswiped by a kid at South First and Delmont. My pickup’s probably totaled.”

  “Oh man, I hate to hear that.”

  “You think you hate it. Anyway, man, I was wondering if you could come give me a ride to the house so I can get Clarice’s car. She’s ready to go home, but I’ve got no way to get us there.”

  “Sure, but wouldn’t you rather just have me pick you both up and take you home? Save you a trip.”

  “Well, that’d be great, Brock, but I can just—”

  “Nope, that’s it. I’m walking out the door right now.”

  “Okay then. I really appreciate it, brother.”

  “Ain’t no thing, Dave.”

  Dave smiled as he pocketed his phone. Brock was a little goofy sometimes, but he was as good a friend as you’d want to have. They’d known each other ever since college and had stayed in touch during the years Dave spent teaching and Brock spent going to law school and beginning a practice. When Dave set up his business, Brock helped him with his incorporation and even advised him on his business plan. A year or two ago Dave had persuaded Brock to come help him with the Little League team he coached in Eastside. Brock hadn’t been easy to talk into it, but Dave was certain
it was just the thing to get Brock outside his shell. Coaching a team of tough little brothers from the hood would get him out in the real world, which Brock needed desperately after going nine to five in the suit-and-tie jungle where he worked. And it was even better for the kids, most of whom had few enough excuses to trust a white man on anything like a regular basis.

  He saw Brock’s car pull into the parking lot and was waiting beneath the covered drive-through at the front door. Brock parked and walked up to him.

  “I’m sure sorry this happened, Dave.”

  “I hear you, babe. But everybody’s okay, I think, and that’s the main thing.”

  Brock nodded. “Where’s Clarice?”

  “Up in recovery. Oh, that reminds me . . . can you take me home so I can get her some clothes to put on? They cut her dress off in the ER.”

  “Sure, man. Let’s go.”

  Driving home, Dave filled Brock in on the accident and its aftermath. “I don’t think the kid ever saw us. He sure didn’t slow down.”

  “Need a good lawyer?”

  Dave shook his head. “There you go. Not five blocks down the street and you already taking care of business.”

  “It’s a white thing—you probably wouldn’t understand.”

  “Watch out now, homie, before I have to put a smackdown on you somewhere. If you had any class at all, you’d take off work tomorrow and watch Clarice for me.”

  “You need my help to watch your wife?”

  Dave turned toward Brock. “You know Clarice. You want to try and tell her she’s got to stay on the couch and rest instead of messing with her real estate?”

  Brock gave a low whistle. “No, bro. I leave all that to you.”

  “Mmm-hmm. That’s what I’d be saying if I had the chance.”

  They pulled into Dave’s driveway and he ran toward the front door, fishing in his pocket for his keys, then realized they were probably still dangling from the ignition switch of his wrecked pickup. He headed to the back door and picked up the fake rock that held their extra key in its secret compartment. He went in, grabbed the first dress he saw in Clarice’s closet, paused a moment, then gathered up a handful of dresses. He started out, then went back and picked up a pair of flip-flops from the floor on Clarice’s side of the bed. He locked the back door and jogged around to the driveway, where Brock waited with his engine idling.