I hung up the phone. Martin was standing behind me, waiting to hear what Dr. Wayne had said.
“There’s no way they can drive back to Dallas this evening,” I told him. “Holly’s sick as a dog. She keeps asking for Jewell.”
It was after dark when Ross and Jewell showed up. I was worn out from all my fretting and found it hard to believe that Jewell wasn’t that concerned when I told her how sick Holly had been.
“I’ve already called Dr. Wayne. He’s all set to meet you at his office.
Holly has asked for you several times.”
“You go see her.” Jewell turned to Ross. “I just can’t do it.”
“She’s very weak,” I cautioned. “I don’t think she can stand up alone.”
I followed Ross to Caroline’s room. When he opened the door, a funnel of light from the hallway washed across the early evening shadows on Holly’s bed. She tried to sit up, but fell back against the pillow. This reminded me too much of when she came down with polio. I worried that it had come back.
Stress could do things to a person and Holly had had more than her share.
“Holly, I want you to put your arms around my neck so I can lift you out of bed,” Ross instructed.
Her arms trembled as she raised them toward him. Ross gently lifted her out of bed and carried her down the hall. Martin was waiting by the front door so he could let them out. I grabbed the quilt from Holly’s bed and told Caroline to gather all of her belongings. Jewell was already in the car waiting for Ross and Holly.
Holly shivered in the cool, damp air. All she wore was a thin nightgown.
I covered her with the quilt which still smelled like vomit even though I had cleaned it off.
“I wish you wouldn’t try to drive back tonight,” I pleaded as Ross warmed up the engine. “It’s such a long way. Go see Dr. Wayne, then come back here for the night.”
“Holly will be fine,” Ross assured me. “I’m sure Dr. Wayne can give her something to make her feel better. I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done. We’ll call you when we get home. Bye, Libby, Martin.”
“I’ll call Tom and let him know you’re on the way.”
Jewell appeared to be in another world and never once turned around to look at Holly. I shook my head as they drove off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The distance between two hearts is the longest journey ever traveled.
Holly
I TRIED NOT to moan as we drove over the railroad tracks on Miller Road. The quilt Aunt Libby had thrown on top of me dropped to the floorboard when I tried to shift to a more comfortable position. I tried to pull it up but was too weak. I was cold and every bump in the road was like an assault on my body.
“We’re almost there,” Daddy reassured me.
Dr. Wayne’s office was just past the hospital. When we arrived, Daddy told Mother to stay put while he ran inside. He returned a few minutes later with Dr. Wayne, who stuck his head in the backseat.
“Jewell, if it’s alright with you, I’m going to take a look at Holly.”
Mother nodded.
“Ross, would you hold this so I can see what I’m doing?” Dr. Wayne handed Daddy a flashlight.
I tried to sit up.
“No, honey; you stay where you are.”
Dr. Wayne leaned in as far as he could and pressed his fingers against my abdomen. He smelled clean, like rubbing alcohol.
“Tell me if this hurts.”
“A little,” I mumbled.
Dr. Wayne reached under my gown and planted his stethoscope firmly over my heart. “Take a deep breath,” he instructed.
“Is everything okay?” Daddy asked.
“I’m going to give her a shot. She should be fine by morning.”
Dr. Wayne reached into his bag and pulled out a hypodermic syringe and filled it from a small vial.
“Turn over on your side, honey. This won’t hurt a bit.”
I flinched as the needle pricked my flesh and the slow burn of the drug he injected into me spread through my muscle. Almost immediately I felt groggy.
“Thanks, Tom.” Daddy shook Dr. Wayne’s hand. “This was a big help. We’re anxious to get back home.”
“Drive careful. Holly will probably sleep all the way to Dallas. You take care, Jewell.”
I don’t remember the ride home. I didn’t wake until Daddy pulled into the garage. He got out of the car and opened the door.
“Come on, sleepyhead. It’s almost eleven. We need to get you to bed. Do you think you can walk if we help you?”
“I’ll try.”
Mother and Daddy helped me up the stairs and into bed. Daddy kissed me on the forehead and left the room. Mother walked over to my dresser and picked up the little music box she had given me several years ago. She wound it and carefully set it on my nightstand, then walked away as the arms and legs of the ballerina on top came alive.
“I hope you sleep well,” she said as she closed the door behind her. I fell asleep as the tiny dancer pirouetted to the sweet, haunting melody of “Für Elise.”
I was still feeling woozy when Mother checked on me the next morning. She picked up the music box that had soothed me to sleep and put it back on top of my dresser.
“Do you feel like eating?” she asked as she felt my forehead. “At least you don’t have a fever.”
“I’ll come down in a bit.”
“I can bring something to you. I don’t think you should get out of bed just yet. Your father and I are going to church this morning. Do you think you’ll be okay for a couple of hours?”
“Why are you going to church?” I couldn’t remember the last time either of them had gone to a service.
“We promised Brother Howard we would be there. It meant a lot to us that he drove down for Jake’s . . .” Her voice broke.
“I can take care of myself.”
“Are you sure? We don’t have to go.”
“No, you and Daddy go ahead.”
I should have been glad they were going to church. It’s what I had always wanted. I hated being dropped off at the door and picked up after the service was over. It embarrassed me when anyone asked where my parents were.
I fell back to sleep. When I awoke, the faint chimes of the mantle clock floated up the stairs. Seven, eight, nine . . . The house was quiet, as though it, too, were in mourning. Suddenly, a loud crash jolted me. I sat on the edge of the bed, listening intently. I heard nothing. I slowly got out of bed, holding onto the bedpost for support while I gathered what little strength I had. I made my way down the hall to the top of the stairs. I clutched at my robe, wondering if I was strong enough to go down the steps. I had to go, I decided. My knees trembled as I made my way to the bottom of the staircase. I took a deep breath as I tried to determine the noise’s origin. I slowly walked toward the family room and peeked inside. The Christmas tree lay sprawled across the floor. Shards of Mother’s glass ornaments jutted from the branches laced with silver icicles.
My shoulders drooped as I turned and walked back to the stairs. I plunked myself down on the bottom step, cradling my head in my hands as I thought about the day Jake came home from the hospital for a weekend visit. “It’s the ugliest tree I’ve ever seen!” he had screamed at me for decorating it without him. It was as if Jake had returned to knock over the tree. I hated myself for being so stubborn in refusing to see him after he ordered me out of his room when I brought my supper to the hospital. That night was the last time I ever saw him.
I THOUGHT MOTHER would be upset when she came home and saw her shattered ornaments scattered about the floor, but she seemed unfazed. I watched as she and Daddy salvaged what they could after standing the tree upright. Once all of its decorations were removed, they carted it out to the side of the garage where it would remain until after Christmas. There was no point in keeping a tree that had made everyone so unhappy.
With the tree gone, it was official that we weren’t celebrating Christmas this year. I had already dropped out of
the cantata scheduled for Christmas Eve. My one shot at singing the solo was gone forever. The only thing that upset me was that Maggie Thompson would be singing “O Holy Night” instead of me. Deep down, I knew Maggie had a better voice; but for whatever reason, the choir director had favored me over her. I was proud of the fact, regardless of how wrong that was.
On Christmas Day, Mother placed an envelope stuffed with a generous amount of cash next to my breakfast plate. The few presents originally under our fallen tree remained forgotten most of the day. That evening, I took the ones addressed to me and opened them in my room. Sometime during the night, Mother must have carried Jake’s unwrapped presents to his room, for they were nowhere in sight the next morning.
It had been a gloomy Christmas. The only thing worth noting was that Daddy, who had vowed not to drink while Jake was ill, was still sober. Even so, that didn’t make our holiday any happier. Mother stayed in her room and cried most of the day. Daddy read the newspaper and worked crossword puzzles while I dabbled with the watercolors that Kathleen and Randy had given me. Despite the gloom, it was the most peaceful Christmas I could ever remember.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
We cannot re-write our life experiences by scribbling over them.
Miss Atkins
“HENDRICKS?” I LOOKED up as I called the roll.
“Here.”
Holly had missed a number of days in December. The excuse note her mother had written simply indicated there had been a death in the family. I should have known there was more to it than that. Maybe I wouldn’t have been quite as harsh on her when her grades began to drop if I had known it was her brother who passed away. The school counselor told me Holly was failing Geometry and she had stopped attending French Club and Young Journalists meetings. All of her teachers had been put on notice several weeks ago, just in case there was a problem in the home. I felt bad that none of us knew what she was going through at the time.
It was the third week of January. The temperature was hovering above freezing, up a bit from the previous week’s blue norther. I stared out the window while I waited for the class to finish a pop quiz. The girls’ drill team was practicing for an upcoming competition with another district. They had to be cold in their short pleated skirts. In the distance, drums, tubas, and trumpets thundered across the open field as the girls kicked their legs and strutted to the music with their elbows crooked and their white-gloved hands anchored to their waists. How splendid it was. If my students had half the concentration of the drill team, they would all be on the honor roll.
I collected the quiz papers and stacked them on my desk. I hoped I wouldn’t be as disappointed as I was from the last quiz a week ago. A good many of my students clearly weren’t reading their assignments. I guess I should have expected it. Not everyone loved poetry the way I do.
This week we were studying twentieth-century American poets. I couldn’t help but notice, as I read aloud “The Buck in the Snow” by Edna St. Vincent Millay, that Holly wasn’t paying attention. It annoyed me, so I decided to sharpen her focus.
“Holly, what do you think Miss Millay meant in the last line of the poem?”
“Uh. I don’t know.” Her cheeks began to redden when the other students turned and stared at her.
“You weren’t paying attention, were you?” I cast a stern eye at the boys on the back row who chuckled.
“No, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
“Very well. Now, do pay attention this time. Miss Millay is obviously speaking about life; about life that goes on, uninterrupted—and class, even more important, undefeated by death. Life, looking out attentive from the eyes of the doe—what is Miss Millay’s message? Here we have a buck and doe, going about their lives, unaware of what the future holds. Then everything suddenly changes. The buck lies dead, his wild blood scalding the snow. But what about the doe? Is she dead? No, her life goes on. But it will never be the same. The doe that once leapt lovely and slow is now cautious, no longer innocent. She is wary and circumspect regarding life’s sometimes swift and brutal end: life, looking out attentive from the eyes of the doe.”
Holly looked down at her desk and fidgeted as if she thought I would call on her again. I had observed her face during my lecture. I knew when a student had lived and breathed a poem. I knew I had cut to her very soul; that something stirred within her when I interpreted the verse. It was as though she was the doe, longing for what the past had stolen, and forever wary of what the future might bring.
Ben Pooler, who taught American History, was a jerk for what he had said about Holly the other day in the teacher’s lounge. I just wish I had called him one to his face. Several of us were sharing our experiences from Career Day. Ben had hosted the session on architecture and was surprised Holly had signed up for the meeting.
“She was the only girl in the room.” Ben laughed. “The architect conducting the session asked her why she was there.”
“That was rude,” I noted. “What did she say to him?”
“That she wanted to be an architect. And she said it like it was something she had thought about for a long time. The architect, of course, laughed, which prompted all the boys in the class to laugh, too.”
“Poor girl. She must have been embarrassed.”
“I’m sure she was. But Mr. Grayson, after all, is a professional and in his opinion, a woman could never be an architect.”
“Why is that, Ben?”
“Well, you know—an architect has to know about wiring and plumbing. About the only thing Holly would know how to do is turn on a light switch.”
I wanted to smack the stupid grin off his face. According to some of the looks being exchanged by the women in the room, I wasn’t alone.
“I suggested Holly take a look at interior decorating,” Ben continued, unaware of how condescending he sounded.
“So how did this all end?” one of the other teachers asked.
“Mr. Grayson told Holly she would be quite bored with his lecture and asked her if she was sure she wanted to stay the whole hour. She did stay, so I have to give her credit for holding her own. It’s just weird that she came in the first place.”
It angered me that one of my colleagues had not stopped the architect in his tracks or put the boys who laughed at Holly in their place. What did that say to students? Women were just beginning to get ahead in the world. Why couldn’t Holly be an architect if that’s what she really wanted to do? Now that I was becoming more aware of her situation, I couldn’t help but think that the humiliation she experienced on Career Day was just another assault on her self-esteem. I, for one, was going to take what the counselor had said seriously and try to help this young girl.
A few days later, I asked Holly to stay after class. I had hoped I could get her to open up.
“Holly, your performance is off lately. I was wondering if there was anything you would like to discuss with me.”
Holly shrugged and looked away.
“Are you getting enough sleep?”
“Sometimes,” she mumbled.
“Do you have any—uh, anyone at home to talk to?” I caught myself before asking if she had any brothers or sisters at home.
“Not really.”
“Well, I hope you know I’m always here for you.” I decided to let it go at that. Holly wasn’t ready to talk. It could be weeks or months or even years before she was able to face the loss of her brother. I knew very little about the circumstances, other than her brother died of cancer, and rather quickly at that. Clearly, Holly had deep-rooted problems that needed to be addressed.
The excuse note Holly’s mother had written when Holly returned to school in January still bothered me. Why hadn’t Mrs. Hendricks indicated that the death in the family was her son? To me, that was strange. No doubt, Holly’s mother couldn’t bring herself to say her son had died. Based on what I had observed in Holly, I suspected the whole family was either trying to protect one another from more grief by acting like nothing had happened or they were
in a coma. This wasn’t good.
There was a sense of resignation written all over Holly’s face. I thought about the poem I had read in class. Life was tragic, and unfortunately, Holly had witnessed it sooner than most. As she walked out of the room, she hesitated and turned her head slightly in my direction. The last line of the poem was written all over her face: life, looking out attentive from the eyes of the doe.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Holding onto sorrow is like holding onto a hot handle; we feel the pain until we let go.
Holly
EVER SINCE THEY were married, Kathleen and Randy came for supper on Friday nights. I missed Jake the most when we were all together. The only thing that could tear through the sadness that choked our spirits was Jennifer’s impish laughter. Once, when she asked where BaBa was, Kathleen explained Jake had gone to heaven. My niece accepted that as something good. She didn’t suffer the way the rest of us did.
“How’s school, kiddo?” Randy asked one evening when they were over. “Anything special go on this week?”
“Career Day,” I mumbled.
“That sounds interesting.”
“I guess. I was the only girl who went to the session for architects.”
“Good for you.”
“Not really. I just about got laughed out of there when the man conducting the session made a big deal about me being a girl.”
“You shouldn’t let things like that bother you,” Daddy broke in. “I doubt if you’re going to be an architect anyway. By the time you get out of high school, all you’ll want to do is get married and have children. That’s what Kathleen did and look how happy she is.”
“That’s not what I want,” I said. “I have no intentions of getting married and having children.”
“You better think about improving your grades if you want to do anything at all,” Mother chided.
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