“Let’s go, Marshall,” his dad called to him from the porch, and he made his way across the dirt yard and up the steps to face the waning afternoon trying to reconcile his father to this place and feed his nerves for the ride home.
“. . . about this trouble,” he heard his grandmother say from the kitchen, pouring his father a glass of tea she’d brewed on the back patio with thick slices of lemon and a tooth-aching amount of sugar.
“It’s family business,” Cal said as Marshall silently approached.
She thunked the glass down on the counter in front of his father, a scowl Marshall had not yet seen fixed upon her face, making her look old to him for the first time. “And I’m no longer family, is that what you’re saying?”
Marshall pulled the wood stool out and sat next to his father. Grandmother Tobias glared at him and then poured him a sweet tea and set it in front of him. His father took a long draw of the tea and sighed; Marshall couldn’t tell if it was in pleasure at the tea or in frustration at the situation.
He took a sip of the tea and almost felt it splash into his nervous, empty stomach. He cleared his throat but neither of them looked at him.
“I, uh, I told her about Meghan,” he said softly. But his father didn’t turn on him angrily as he might have expected. Instead, he continued to look steadily at Grandmother Tobias.
“We don’t know what’s going to happen,” he said. “But the most important thing now is to get Marshall home. The last thing Chloe needs is to have to worry about him too. She’s already lost too much weight and too much sleep being at the hospital all the time.”
He knew his father didn’t mean it to hurt him, but it felt like a punch in his already queasy stomach. He loved Meghan, he did, but her condition was too . . . foreign to imagine, too exotic and intense to think about without collapsing in self-hatred and sorrow. But thinking about his mother grown thin and exhausted with worry over Meghan and, even worse, him, was only too easy to comprehend, and it made him ill enough to consider another rapid trip down the hall to the bathroom.
Grandmother Tobias’s face softened. “It’s no good having a sick child,” she said. “Takes it out of you, and she’s a slight enough thing as it is.”
“Meghan’s not sick, Ma. She’s in a coma. There’s a big difference.”
Marshall flinched at the word coma. He could tell his father felt it, but he still didn’t look at him.
“And what’s going to happen with this one?” she asked, nodding her head at Marshall.
“I don’t know,” his father answered. “We have a lawyer who seems to still be willing to talk to him, so we’ll see.”
His grandmother snorted and gave Marshall a twisted smile that he didn’t know how to respond to. “ ‘And if the blind lead the blind, both shall fall into the ditch,’ ” she said ominously.
“And if you start with this, I’m taking my son and leaving right now,” his father said mildly, almost pleasantly.
“How far you’ve fallen, Calvin,” she said.
His father’s attention finally descended upon him. “Go get your things,” he said, “and get them in the car.”
“Shouldn’t we—”
And now his father’s attention was so fully upon him that he got spooked and rose so quickly that he nearly knocked the stool over. He retreated to the bedroom he’d taken over after Ada left and began to throw his things into the duffel bags he’d retrieved from the car before she took off.
As he worked, he heard snatches of conversation from the kitchen.
“... gonna leave just like you did . . . don’t take no genius to see that boy’s got . . . a real little hellcat you ask me . . .”
And answering Grandmother Tobias, his father, in a voice Marshall had never heard before: “. . . leave it . . . it doesn’t matter . . . happens or it won’t . . .”
He stopped several times in order to eavesdrop, but their voices fluctuated in volume, giving him just the hint of their conversation. He tried to make it not matter, tried to remember that in all likelihood, this visit, this thing—he wasn’t sure he could call it a bond—with his grandmother was nothing more than a temporary situation. The time he’d spent here was a blip in comparison to the drive home with his father. That car ride was going to be as intense as a sweat lodge.
He made a sudden dash across the hall to the bathroom and collapsed on the toilet, huddled over in misery as the decades-old argument continued in the same rooms it had been born in, his father and his grandmother at such opposite ends of the spectrum that it felt as though they tugged his insides back and forth between them.
He finally emerged, shaky and weakened, to silence. He peered down the hall toward the kitchen and saw no one, listened hard and heard nothing. He moved cautiously into the living room, nearly expecting to find that one had the other by the throat, or perhaps they had managed to kill each other, but found nothing.
He heard a noise from outside and whirled around to the windows. His father was lighting an old propane grill with a match held at the tips of his fingers, while his grandmother was setting a plate of sliced tomatoes on the patio table. Neither of them were moving their mouths, and they both looked grim enough to be in mourning, but at least they weren’t sniping at each other.
He backed away from the windows before they could catch sight of him and completed his packing, loading his bags in the back of the truck, before sitting down with his father and grandmother to a mostly silent dinner of fried fish and grilled vegetables.
Nobody said grace.
Eighteen
BY the time I got back to the hospital I’d eaten two more Tylenol, but my wrist was only increasing its insistent throb. When I got up to Meghan’s room, I actually felt a bit faint, my forehead slicked with sweat. The nurse at the station, Kendell, lit up when I stepped out of the elevator.
“Dr. Tyska is in with Meghan,” she said. “Reva told us about Meghan’s hand. We’ve been watching closely, but nothing else, yet.”
I loved her for the “yet,” and nearly forgot about my wrist for a moment, but then it sent a throb through me designed to make sure I remembered. She must have seen a grimace because she cocked her head and inspected my face more closely.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
I nodded. “I’ll be fine,” I said. “I just had a little fall. Thanks. I’d better go talk to him.” I smiled at her and hurried down the hall.
Meghan’s door was slightly open, and I could hear two voices in her room. I stopped just outside and listened, not at all ashamed to eavesdrop in the hope that I might find out some tidbit they hadn’t told me yet. Hearing Dr. Tyska’s deep voice soothed me, and nothing he was saying was of concern to me. In fact, I felt a little spectral pat on the head when I heard him say, “The mother’s been here constantly. She said she saw her right hand twitch last night—”
A woman’s voice interrupted, indistinct, as though she were farther away from the door than Dr. Tyska, and I assumed it was a nurse. There was a low laugh from both of them, and then quick footsteps.
“I’ll keep you posted,” Dr. Tyska said, still in the room, and the door opened the rest of the way, allowing Dr. Kimball out, her head with its gray pageboy turned back into the room.
“Thanks, Matt,” she said. “I hope things progress.”
“I told you to stay away from my daughter,” I said, my fury completely taking my mind off my wrist, the smell of the hospital antiseptic strong in my nose, making my head clear for the first time in hours.
She maintained her composure and stood up straight, sliding her hands into her pockets as if to show she wasn’t concerned about having to defend herself against me, and tossing her hair out of her face. “Mrs. Tobias,” she said, nodding professionally at me, causing her hair to swing forward again. “I heard Meghan made some movement. I simply wanted to check in for a moment. I assure you I’ve crossed no boundaries here.”
“You being here at all is crossing a boundary. Get out of my sight—”
“Is there a problem here?” Dr. Tyska asked as he stepped into the hallway, looking concerned.
“Don’t you ever allow this woman in my daughter’s room again,” I said, turning on him, forgetting my wrist and pointing the index finger of my bad hand at Dr. Kimball, causing me to gasp and clutch it to my chest again. Dr. Kimball immediately stepped forward, her hands reaching for me.
“What’s wrong? What did you do?” she asked.
I jerked away from her, protecting my wrist the way I’d not been able to protect my children, turning away from her grasp. “Get away from me,” I said, raising my voice, causing the nurse to peer down the hall. I edged around her as Dr. Tyska shot her an uncomprehending look and followed me. She raised her hands and mouthed, “Sorry,” to him before she turned and strode down the hall, stopping briefly at the nurses’ station.
I hurried to Meghan’s bedside, taking in her changed position, her right arm stretched to the edge of the bed, palm up. I glanced at the machines, their readings, their charts and cords, as if I expected to see them pulled from the wall. Kimball might have saved Meghan’s life, but I was certain she was a danger to it.
Dr. Tyska followed me in and stood on the other side of Meghan’s bed. “Are you all right?” he asked. “What happened out there?”
“I’ve been very clear that she is not allowed near my daughter,” I said, my voice shaking with adrenaline now that she was gone. I wanted to fall into my chair, but wanted to look as strong as my words while Dr. Tyska remained in the room. I could fall apart when I was alone.
“But—why?” he asked. “She was the admitting physician—”
“Because she’s the one who caused my son to get arrested. I think we’ve got quite enough on our plate right now without having to see her, don’t you?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t really know about that. I mean, of course I know about Marshall, right? But I didn’t know there was friction there. For what it’s worth, she’s not been here before as far as I know. I’ll certainly respect your wishes in the future. And, she really was just checking on her. When we have a patient like Meghan, a child especially, who looks like they might be making a change, word tends to get around.”
The words drove everything else away. “You think she’s making a change?” I asked, reaching out and grasping Meghan’s hand.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I heard it from Reva, but why don’t you show me what happened.”
I went through the story again, showing him all the steps I’d been repeating with her. He watched so intently that I fully expected Meghan to do it again. But she didn’t. Like Reva, he asked me to do it several times, checking her eyes with his light, watching the readings. He pursed his lips.
“I think we’re going to want to schedule another MRI. Dr. Makarushka will be over on Thursday, so let’s get it done Wednesday and we can see where we’re at.”
“Did you see something?” I asked excitedly. This is what you wanted from doctors, ability that nobody else has, finer eyes, keener hearing, faster synapses. Did he feel a vibration through her skin when he touched her, observe the slightest quiver of an eyelash? But he shook his head.
“I didn’t,” he said. “But we rely on the family a lot. You’re here more often, you’re more attuned to what’s normal, what’s not. It’s almost always the family who sees the first signs.”
I was counting on the doctors to be supernaturally observant, only to learn they were depending upon me. I nodded, disappointed. “Okay, MRI on Wednesday.”
“Now,” he said, “let’s see what’s going on with you.” He motioned me over to the table and held his hands out on it. I hesitated, but the throb was too insistent, so I laid my wrist down on the table and allowed him to carefully unwrap the bandage.
“What happened?” he murmured, stopping for a moment when a pain shot through me and I sucked air in through my teeth.
I cleared my throat, trying to stave off tears. “I tripped, well, really I was viciously attacked by my screen door. I guess I tried to break my fall, but it didn’t do much good. I think I must have sprained my wrist pretty badly.”
The last loop of the elastic bandage sprung off my wrist and I gasped. My wrist had doubled in size, and yes, it definitely looked . . . wrong. Dr. Tyska traced his fingers over the top of my wrist and nodded.
“We’ll get you to X-ray and I’ll send the orthopedist in to take a look, but definitely looks like a Colles’ fracture.”
“What’s that?”
“That’s what you get when a screen door viciously attacks you and you try to break your fall,” he said, raising his eyebrows, trying to make me laugh. I could only manage a weak smile. “It’s a break in the radius, right here,” he said, tracing the top of my wrist again. “You’ll need a cast.”
“Great,” I said faintly. “Shall we check for cancer while we’re at it? I’m sure that’s right around the corner.”
“Hey,” he said softly, “listen, you’re going to get through this. This? This is just a little broken bone. This is easy stuff. Easy to diagnose, easy to treat, easy to recover from. Save your energy for Meghan. You’re doing great, okay?”
I sniffed and bit my lip before nodding. A broken wrist was painful, and it couldn’t come at a worse time, but for a little while, during the x-rays, the orthopedist’s exam, and the application of the cast, I was being taken care of, and it felt like lying back in a cloud.
I checked my cell phone when they finished with me, hoping for a call from Cal telling me that he and Marshall were on their way, but there was only a message from Sandy, asking if there was anything she could get me, and telling me how nice the previous night had been.
I grabbed a sandwich from the cafeteria and ate it in Meghan’s room, feeling the painkillers slowly, beautifully kick in. The afternoon took on a drowsy, dreamy quality as clouds slid over the sun, making it even darker in the room. I leaned my head back in the chair, and finally gave in and put my feet up, thinking about Marshall, feeling the frustration over him calling Cal instead of me well up again.
I slept, I don’t know for how long. When I woke, in that foggy way you do when you’ve been drugged, not sure if you’re going to wake all the way or just go back under, my frustration was gone. I thought for a moment I was dreaming, the drugs acting as a genie in a bottle, granting me my wishes. I blinked once, twice, and then slowly began to smile.
Because looking back at me from her bed, was my daughter.
Meghan had opened her eyes.
MARSHALL
His dad hadn’t said anything for almost an hour. He’d cranked up the music, the old classic stuff he liked. Marshall could never understand his father’s complaints about his music, which was a hell of a lot lighter on the bass than some of this stuff from the seventies he wouldn’t stop listening to.
Marshall looked over at him at one point during the second playing of “Black Dog” and his father seemed less to be enjoying the music than internalizing it, his eyes locked on the road, silently mouthing the words when his mouth wasn’t clenched, bobbing his head.
It seemed to wind him up and relax him at the same time, and a half hour later he finally reached some balance and turned down Neil Young wailing away just when Marshall thought his head would explode if he heard about anyone else dying in O-HI-O one more time.
“Marshall?” His father’s voice was measured, and very, very calm. Marshall had spent the day in fear, but it had receded to some manageable level over lunch, what little of it he’d eaten. Now, hearing that voice made Marshall glad he hadn’t had much fried fish or he’d have to make his father pull over and make a dash for the bushes.
“I’m going to say this, and I don’t want any pretending that you don’t know what I’m talking about, I don’t want anything left out, and I don’t want any lies. I want it all. You hear me?”
He took his eyes off the road long enough to look at him, and Marshall swallowed. “Yeah.”
“Okay. Now, I
want you to tell me what happened. You can start with how you met her, or if there’s something important before you met her, then start there. Do not make me ask questions.”
“Her” was perfectly clear. His father thought it had all started with Ada. It hadn’t, of course, but no, he wasn’t going to be coy. He’d start where his father wanted him to. At the beginning. With him.
“You never told me about your father,” he started.
“God dammit, Marshall. That’s not what I want and you know it. You can blame me for all your problems, but you’re gonna have to be a man one day. I suggest you make it today.”
Marshall had to think. Make it today. He shook his head, his lip trembling, determined to not cry. “But you want to know where it started. Ira—”
He jumped when his father hit the dashboard hard enough to rock the car.
“No!” he bellowed. “Don’t you blame this on that poor kid!”
“He died right in front of me,” Marshall screamed back at him. “And you never even asked me about it. You never even . . .” And damn if he didn’t start crying anyway. Huge, horrible, humiliating gasps of sobs. His father punched the button for the glove box and pulled out a stack of fast-food restaurant napkins, throwing them in Marshall’s lap.
Oh, shit, what a mistake this was, Marshall thought. He should have left with Ada, he should have stuck to the plan. He grabbed a wad of the napkins and tried to pull himself together, tried to match his father’s stoicism, tried to work up some manly rage to counteract the childish fear, but they both seemed like the same thing to him, and the tears took longer to get under control than he would have thought.
“Fuck,” he finally said, kicking the front of the footwell in frustration and savagely wiping his face. His father stayed silent and Marshall put the window down and took great gulps of wind. His father was grim-faced and just reached out and turned the music up, Jim Morrison, screaming himself hoarse at the end of “Moonlight Drive.” Perfectly fitting.
Matters of Faith Page 26
