After the Fog

by Kathleen Shoop

  She tapped her foot as she rehearsed what she would say to her son. When she got to the part where she’d talk to him about his trumpet and the letter she realized the letter was in regard to his violin playing. Or was it strings in general? She ran back into the house and grabbed his violin and guitar. Father Tom pulled up to the house and she wrenched open the door, instruments under her arms.

  Father Tom bustled from his car to help.

  “Rose Pavlesic you look like you’re twenty dressed like that. Not that it matters, but something’s different. Care to discuss it?”

  Rose didn’t answer and they tucked the instruments into the back seat of the car. She rolled down her window and stuck her arm outside, feeling the air hit her skin. She wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.

  Father Tom put the car in gear. “One change at a time,” he said, winking at Rose.

  Rose relaxed back against the seat and thought for the first time in forever that things just might find their way to right. And, for once she didn’t pretend to know what exactly right was.

  * * *

  The sharp antiseptic smell of the rehabilitation hospital was familiar and made Rose comfortable. She could do this. She could.

  Rose and Father Tom followed a nurse to Johnny’s room. The doctors on morning rounds were huddled around his bed. A nurse’s aide had Johnny’s foot in his hands, pulling his leg up and out to stretch his atrophied legs. Johnny screamed, his face in pain. The doctors were discussing the bruising in Johnny’s spinal column. Finally, the swelling was going down, and the nerves were once again sending messages of pain to his brain and making him scream. This was good news to Rose, from a clinical perspective—his incomplete spinal injury had a chance of being reversed. There was a good chance he would walk. He would be his old self.

  Rose’s eyes filled and she thought back to when he was born. Unlike Magdalena who was a quiet mouse Johnny never stopped screaming, as if he didn’t belong in his own skin. Then, at age one, he changed into the good-natured boy he’d been since. Rose instantly remembered the helplessness she’d felt at not being able to take away his pain or comfort him.

  Rose squeezed the envelope from Julliard and glanced at her feet, at the collection of instruments she brought from the house. How could she have been so stupid? He wasn’t ready for this.

  Johnny’s voice cut through her silence. “Mum?”

  She went to him, telling herself to treat him like a patient, distance herself so she could be helpful to him instead of a blubbering mother who could do nothing but see the worst in his future.

  They held each other and Rose pulled away. The doctors had left and the aide was discussing something with Father Tom in the corner of the room.

  Johnny pried her hand open and took the envelope from her hand. “What’s this?”

  He opened it and read the letter, tracing the words Turnbow had written with his forefinger.

  Rose had never felt so unsure. “Johnny, um, well, John. My sweet John.”

  “John, is it?” he grinned at her coyly. “All I needed was to break my neck to get you to come around, huh?”

  Rose took his hand and kissed it.

  “I will never forgive myself for what happened. I’m sorry for not listening to you. I’m sorry for, well, the fact I couldn’t even call you John.”

  “You don’t have to do this, Mum. I know you want me to still go to college…well Dad said that, but then added you checked with Pitt and they could delay my acceptance, I could be a trainer for the football team, not that we have the money to pay for it without a scholarship anyway…I mean, Mum?”

  Rose filled a paper cup with water and drank it down. How did Henry know? He wasn’t even living with Rose let alone speaking to her. She turned toward Father Tom who glanced away and slipped out of the room. Damn small town. Secrets weren’t even safe with the priest.

  She pulled a chair up beside the bed. John folded the letter in his lap. “You don’t have to do this because you feel guilty.”

  Rose felt her shudder from her toes to her scalp. Was she doing it again? She did feel guilty, but she was not acting out of guilt. She was acting the way she should have all along—by doing what was right, right for him, not her.

  Rose plunked herself down in the chair, elbows on legs, chin on fists. She wanted to be very sure of what she was doing. She would not hurt her son again.

  She looked at him, but he stared at the ceiling. “I am…” she said, and cleared her throat, then fumbled with a paper cup and the pitcher of water again. She barely got the water down. “I am so sorry for what happened, John.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  Rose gave him a look. “No, I mean before the accident. When I look back now,” she said, her voice hoarse, even with the water. “I can’t believe how much I didn’t see. I forced you to…it wasn’t as though you weren’t a gifted football player or capable of college, but I didn’t listen, I looked right past who you were. I was just so scared to let you be.”

  “You just did what worked for you, Mum. I forgave you. I just don’t want to think about the future. Any of it, college, music, anything.”

  Rose’s hand shook as she picked up the letter and smoothed it back out on the blanket.

  “I know what you’re doing,” John said.

  “What?”

  “You’re trying to get me to look at the letter and tell you to contact that man, but it won’t matter. I’m only worth half a scholarship this year, next year I could earn a full, but how the hell can I live in a New York walkup with a wheelchair?” John’s mouth spread wide as he tried to force back the tears. He sobbed twice and then took several deep breaths, cleansing away the tears.

  Rose hesitated. She didn’t want to hold him so tight she’d hurt his spine. She didn’t want to hold him so tight that he might think she thought he was weak. But that, she thought, was her old thinking. That was her being afraid someone might know she was weak. She bolted up and grabbed him to her, shushing him. He latched on to her.

  “You’re going to do great, John. Anything you want to be, you can do. It doesn’t matter that you’re in this bed, it doesn’t matter what I thought you should do. You can do whatever you set your mind to and I will do whatever I can to make it happen. Your way, though. Not mine. You will walk again and you will play your music at Julliard.”

  John coughed and laid back. Rose dried his tears with a napkin. He took deep breaths and his eyes lit up, glassy but cheerful. Rose held his face in her hands, seeing him differently than she ever had.

  “They told me how brave you were,” John said.

  Rose met his gaze. “What?”

  She let go of his face, feeling exposed.

  “With everything that’s happened. Everyone who walks in here tells me how brave you were with it all. How much they miss you in the clinic, in the homes, how much Dad and Magdalena…”

  “What? Who?”

  “Everyone, Mum. Nurses and doctors…neighbors, Dicky.”

  Did people really think that about her?

  “We’re not talking about me, John. It’s you who …” Rose realized she sounded just like her usual lecturing self. She desperately wanted to leave the hospital knowing she wasn’t who she used to be.

  She should learn to accept gratitude from others.

  “That means a lot,” said Rose. “But it’s you, I need to know you’re all right. You’re the brave one. You’re the one who is great. Just as you are.”

  “No, I’m sorry, mum. We lied to you. We didn’t want you upset, but Dad and I, we see now how you were protecting us and we were protecting you and now it’s all torn apart.”

  John’s chin dropped to his chest and his shoulders heaved. Rose bent into him, holding him.

  Rose wanted to offer her usual platitudes; words she hadn’t realized were platitudes until they stopped carrying weight. She owed him enough to finally tell the truth, to see the truth, to understand she couldn’t control other people.

  “I don
’t know what’s going to happen with our family.” She took his hands. “I wish I could say it would all work out for sure, but, well, I honestly don’t know.”

  John’s eyes filled and Rose felt their sting, the truth squeeze tight.

  “But, I do know this, John Pavlesic. You are going to have a good life. The way you want. And I will be there to help you in whatever way I can, if you want me to.”

  Rose squeezed him into her body so hard he gasped.

  He laughed and squeezed her back. “You’re gonna bruise another vertebra if you keep that up, Mum.”

  Rose released him, both laughing, their eyes watery, the love between them palpable, comforting and powerful.

  John’s face grew serious as their laughter died down. He cleared his throat and pressed down on the bed with his fists to sit up straighter. “There’s something I need to make sure you understand, Mum.”

  Rose shifted her weight and wiped a tear from his cheek.

  “I didn’t want to go to Notre Dame,” he said. “I didn’t care if I set the world on fire that day at the game. But I did not throw the game.”

  “No, no, of course not,” Rose said. “You don’t—”

  “It’s that I’m too much like you. Much as I wanted to play like I didn’t care, I played hard. I tried not to, but I couldn’t. That’s how I know I’ll be all right. You know what I mean? I’m like you.”

  “Oh John. I know. I do,” Rose said hugging him again, inhaling the smell of his hair.

  An orderly knocked on the door and entered. “I need to get Mr. Pavlesic down to therapy.” Rose squeezed John again and gently laid him back down. She wiped the wetness from his face. Were they her tears or his?

  Rose stood and helped the orderly get John into a wheelchair.

  The man wheeled John around the instrument cases that littered the floor. She started picking them up. “I’ll take those, Johnny, John, I mean. I shouldn’t have...”

  John grasped the doorjamb on the way through it, stopping the orderly from moving.

  “Leave ‘em, Mum. This place could use some good blues. And Johnny’s fine, you can call me whatever you want. A name’s just a word. No matter what you call me, I know I’m Johnny in your heart. What does it matter what label comes out of your mouth? You’re my mum.”

  Rose nodded and waved to the back of John’s head. Relief rushed through her when she saw that he so easily moved from being upset to heading to rehabilitation as though it were the most normal thing he could be doing.

  She shuddered, slumped onto the bed and squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back tears, replaying his words. Her son was like her, he had said. He saw her as strong even though she no longer saw herself that way. She sighed and crossed herself, opening her eyes. She stared at the floor where the instruments sat. She swallowed her remorse, if John could be strong enough to move on, if he endowed her with that virtue then she’d find a way to get her strength back. To make the way he saw her true again. Somehow she would.

  Chapter 23

  Rose found her perspective permanently altered. Her conversation with John had renewed her, lightened her burden. She began cleaning house again, but her work was tinged with joy rather than resentment or duty. She fell back into the typical patterns of washing on Monday, ironing on Tuesday, dusting twice a day, every day. She even decided she might take in boarders if her family didn’t return soon. So, in thinking someone would be living with her in the near future, she needed to redd-up the house. She started in Sara Clara’s room.

  Rose dug out the pink putty that they used to lift the soot from the walls and headed down the hall. She kneaded the soft clump in her hand and pushed open the door, not knowing how messy it might be. It was spotless; no clothing was strewn around, but the room felt stale. She opened the windows and turned to the wall across the way. There she saw very clearly a message from Sara Clara. The day Rose asked her to putty the walls during the week of the fog. Sara Clara said she hadn’t started, but she did.

  Right in her own room, she used the putty to remove some soot, and did so in a way that formed the words, “I Hate You,” right on the wall. Rose laughed. She imagined Sara Clara in her mood, working the pink putty around the wall in the shape of letters, probably never thinking she wouldn’t end up puttying the rest of the room, which would have camouflaged her sentiment, never imagining that Rose would ever see it. Rose ran her finger down the letters. She wasn’t sure if Sara Clara had directed that at her, Buzzy, or the town of Donora, but any of them could have been her target, Rose thought.

  She squeezed the putty in her hand and stopped laughing. Or was this exactly what Sara Clara had wanted; she wanted Rose to see it. Rose shrugged. It wasn’t a surprise, Rose hadn’t been as nice to her as she should have. And, so, Rose puttied every inch of the bedroom walls, her fingers working the soft pink glob against the plaster, absorbing the black, bringing a concrete accomplishment at the day’s end.

  She repaired cracks in the walls and ceiling, sanding, giving it a fresh coat of paint, She waxed the kitchen floor and scrubbed the windows with vinegar. Even between choking on the strong odor, she felt heartened thinking of the Saltz family safely tucked away in Warm Springs, Georgia. Rose had taken pride in helping Mrs. Saltz forge a new path through life with the money Rose gave her. Rose knew the decision was right and was sure that finding the cash just when Mrs. Saltz needed it so badly, meant that a large portion of it must have been intended for her.

  Rose found solace in the simple act of caring for her surroundings. Still, she was lonely living by herself. Father Tom had been ordered to another parish to relieve another elderly priest and it surprised her how much she missed their talks.

  Though Rose could not find it in herself to believe in God again, she returned to the religious habits that had structured her spiritual life before: daily mass, novenas, confession three times a week, and the hope that with her actions, God would somehow show up in her life. Father Tom’s words kept her company when it was just her and Rags in the home.

  Her indifference frightened her, her disinclination to contact Henry and Magdalena, her failure to invite them or her in-laws back into their home. They would return when they were ready to accept her as she was. If truth were told, she was afraid to ask them back. She couldn’t handle them saying no. All it would take to decimate her new found strength was one blow from the people she loved. Living with ambiguity was better than being certain she was not worth loving anymore.

  Rose had come to understand that perhaps it was better for a woman to focus on her family. Magdalena would not have the same regrets as Rose did, no, she would have her child with her from the first breath the baby drew.

  Rose was enjoying a mid-morning break, sorting through the mail when she came across a letter that had been delivered from Henry. Rose’s hands shook as she opened the envelope. She pulled out the flowered stationary then shoved it back in, unwilling to read that Henry was formally breaking up the family.

  Rose sipped her coffee, opened the coal bill, and tapped the note from Henry on the tabletop. Rose told herself that he would not have used such cheerful stationery to report that he’d given up on their life together. Hell, he wouldn’t have written at all, Rose told herself, tapping the edge of the note causing one corner to fold over.

  Rose took the last sip of coffee and slid the note to the center of the table. She would save the news for later, for when she could accept what was in the note, no matter what the news might be.

  Back at her windows, Rose thought of the note in the kitchen, her worry about what its contents would tell her, that she could not risk losing her daughter even if Henry was finished with Rose. With a circular motion, then up and down, and across, Rose created gleaming windows, offering a view of a sunny, spring afternoon. The beauty of cleanliness and sunshine could not displace her need to make things right with Magdalena and Henry. No matter what the letter might say.

  She went back to the kitchen, ripped the note out of the envelope, feel
ing an ache for Henry in her belly. She closed her eyes worried he might never see her the way he used to. He would not forgive her. Henry was a kind man, but she understood people couldn’t always put their intellect ahead of their heart. Rose had learned that the hard way.

  She opened her eyes and stared down at the note she’d smudged.

  Rose,

  I saw you opened an account at Mellon Bank. I’m adding to the funds.

  Henry

  She turned it over and back. That was it? Rose exhaled, relieved there was no finality to it. She actually attributed positive connotations to it. It was decidedly good news, she thought, feeling as though there was still a connection between them, odd, as it might have been.

  Rose went back to her windows, grateful Henry had chosen to write instead of dropping in to see her. She ran her hand over her hair and looked at her palm. Not as clean as it normally was when Henry had last seen her. Despite her making progress in conducting surveys around town for Bonaroti and the government, getting residents to speak with her, Rose felt a shadow of her former self. She did not want Henry to see her that way.

  Even though Rose renewed her housekeeping with vigor, taking care of herself was another matter. The simple act of removing her clothing was off-putting. Full bathing seemed too much of an effort and sometimes four days would pass before she’d break down and get under the water.

  Rose was managing on behalf of Doc Bonaroti quite well. It was once she stopped moving at home, when the cleaning was done, the organizing finished, that she was left with only her thoughts and the reflection of her broken heart in the mirror of her soul. She began to realize that no matter what she did to structure her days, constructing a skeleton was not enough to have her life reborn. She was missing too much of what really mattered. But even as Rose came to realize that, she could not bring herself to make the remaining changes that would have given her a full existence.

  Rose was finishing up wiping down the countertops when someone knocked at the door. Rose contemplated hiding under the kitchen table, but fought the urge to get on the floor, her head tucked into her knees. She glanced at the clock. Probably the mailman.