by Wendy Dunham
“So she’ll gets two casts and then come home, right?” I ask.
Dr. Wing fiddles with his pen. “It’s not just broken bones, River. Your grandmother also has a head injury—a serious concussion. When she fell off the stool, she must have hit her head on the counter before landing on the floor. That’s why she’s unconscious.”
“But when we got here,” I explain, “she opened her eyes and even talked.”
Dr. Wing puts his hand on my shoulder. “She’s in and out of consciousness, which is a good sign. I expect she’ll do all right. It’ll just take time.”
“How much?” asks Dad.
Dr. Wing places his pen in his pocket. “I expect one week in the hospital, then two or three months in rehabilitation. But it’s difficult to predict.” Dr. Wing checks his watch. “I’m performing her surgery in ten minutes, so I need to excuse myself.” He takes my hand. “I’ll do everything I can.” Then he turns to Dad and Pastor Henry. “The surgery will take several hours, so you might as well wait at home where you’re comfortable. I’ll call when it’s done.”
6
Meatballs and Life Support
When we get to the Whippoorwills’, Aunt Elizabeth’s making a spaghetti dinner. Since Bethany’s helping, I go to the porch and help Nathan with the little ones. They’re building a horse ranch with Lincoln Logs. As I help Forrest build a roof on the barn, I overhear Dad and Pastor Henry through the window.
Pastor Henry: “Unbelievable how a fall from a stool completely changes things.”
Dad: “And by the sounds of it, it’ll be a long time before Mrs. Nuthatch is home.”
Pastor Henry: “In all likelihood she may never be. At her age it’s hard enough to have a hip fracture, but add to that a broken arm and a head injury, and you’ve got complications.”
Aunt Elizabeth yells from the kitchen, “Come to the table, everyone. Dinner’s ready.”
Uncle Henry says grace. “Dear heavenly Father, thank you for this food and for everyone around this table. We ask that you’d be with River’s grandmother. Help us trust you.”
Then without warning Forrest grabs a meatball and throws it across the table at Daniel.
“Forrest Whippoorwill!” says Aunt Elizabeth. “You know better than to throw meatballs at the dinner table!”
All the little Whippoorwills laugh except for Daniel who shouts, “That’s not fair! How come Forrest gets to throw meatballs?”
Pastor Henry looks at Daniel and says, “He certainly didn’t have permission.”
“But he didn’t get in trouble,” says Daniel, “so it’s not fair!”
“Enough, Daniel,” Pastor Henry orders.
Forrest laughs, holds up another one, and says, “Ball!” Then he whips it at Nathan, who bursts out laughing.
“Stop laughing,” says Aunt Elizabeth. “You’re encouraging poor behavior.”
“Hey,” Daniel yells, “he did it again and still didn’t get in trouble! That’s not fair!”
“I agree,” says Bethany.
“I think so too,” Rebecca says. “If I threw a meatball, I’d be in big trouble!”
“It’s because he’s the baby,” says Nathan. “Babies get away with everything.”
Complete chaos breaks out while everyone yells back and forth across the table until Pastor Henry stands up and shouts, “Enough!”
There’s complete silence except for Forrest who says, “Meatball!”
Even Uncle Henry laughs this time. “Settle down now,” he says. “The phone’s ringing.” He picks it up and answers, “Hello. Whippoorwill residence, Henry speaking.” He listens for a minute and then gets a serious look on his face. Still listening, he glances at my dad and then at me. “Yes, Dr. Wing,” he says, “I understand. What should we expect at this point?” Uncle Henry nods. “I’ll relay the information.” He hangs up.
I can hardly breathe. “What’s happening?”
Uncle Henry says, “We won’t lose hope, but your grandmother’s not doing well. The surgery on her hip and arm went okay, but her head continues to swell.”
“What does that mean?”
“When the brain swells, it creates pressure inside the skull. It’s very serious.”
My eyes are blurry, but I force myself not to cry. “Will she be okay?”
Uncle Henry takes a deep breath. “River, the swelling’s so serious that it’s caused her heart and lungs to stop. She’s on life support.”
Bethany says, “But isn’t supporting life a good thing?”
Daniel glares at Bethany. “How can you be so stupid? That’s not what it means.”
“Enough, Daniel,” says Uncle Henry.
“What does it mean?” I ask.
“It means your grandmother’s being kept alive by machines.”
I stand up so fast I knock my chair over. “Then I have to see her! I have to tell her I’m sorry! As soon as I do, she’ll be okay!”
Uncle Henry shakes his head. “I’m sorry, River. Dr. Wing said no visitors tonight. You’ll see her in the morning.”
Aunt Elizabeth takes my hand. “You’ll sleep here with us tonight.”
“Now,” Pastor Henry says to everyone, “enough with the meatballs. We will finish this dinner in peace. Understood?”
All the little Whippoorwills nod their heads except for Forrest, who smiles and says, “Dada want meatball?”
After I help Aunt Elizabeth give baths, read a bedtime story, and tuck the little Whippoorwills in bed, we collapse on the couch. “That was a crazy evening,” she says. “Who would have thought Forrest could throw a meatball like that?”
“Maybe he’ll be a baseball player.”
“One thing’s for sure—he won’t be practicing at the dinner table.” Then she looks at me seriously. “River, I’m sorry about your grandmother. I want you to know we’re here for you.” She takes my hand. “Now we need to talk about sleeping arrangements. Your dad always sleeps on the couch when he visits, so the only other bed is Billy’s. Would it bother you to sleep in his room? ”
I try to be brave. “It won’t bother me.”
“Okay, then let’s get you set up.” We go to his room. “Everything’s as he left it,” she says. “I can’t bring myself to change anything. Sometimes it doesn’t seem like he’s gone. She fluffs his pillow and pulls back the comforter for me. “Sleep well, River. See you in the morning.”
I look around Billy’s room. He’s everywhere. His shoes are by his closet, perfectly shined and without a scuff. His Bible’s on his nightstand. There’s a family picture on his dresser—all the Whippoorwills are in it. Even Billy (he hadn’t died yet). Extra pictures from our project are on his desk.
I climb into bed and reach for his Bible. When I open it, a piece of paper falls out. It’s Billy’s handwriting, “This verse reminds me of River—Romans 15:13. May the God of your hope so fill you with all joy and peace in believing that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound and be overflowing (bubbling over) with hope.”
I close Billy’s Bible and whisper, “God, thank you for letting me have Billy as a friend. But I really miss him. Will I ever have another friend like him? And please help Gram. I shouldn’t have been so mean. And, God, about my parents, I know you can do anything. I know you’ll help Mom get here soon. I can’t wait until my real family is back together again.”
7
She’ll Wake Up
The next morning Dad brings me to see Gram. We take the elevator to the fourth floor and follow signs to the intensive care unit. The nurses’ station is vacant, but then we see a nurse with short dark hair peek out from one of the rooms. “Be right there,” she says.
After a few minutes, she hurries over. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” She drapes a stethoscope around her neck. “May I help you?”
Dad answers, “We’re here to see Mrs. Nuthatch.”
The nurse opens a chart with NUTHATCH written across the side. She reads for a minute before looking up. “Doctor’s orders state no visitors exce
pt family. I assume you’re family?”
Dad and I look at each other. “Yes and no,” he says. “It’s complicated.”
She closes the chart. “Sir, either you’re family or you’re not.”
Dad looks like he’s not sure what to say, so I take charge. “Mrs. Nuthatch is my grandmother. Well, she’s not exactly my blood relative, but I call her Gram. And this man,” I say, pointing to Dad, “he’s my father—we found that out three days ago.”
The nurse looks at Dad with wide eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says, “but I’ll need to see identification.”
Dad hands her his license. She reads it, “Jay Whippoorwill from Kentucky?” She re-checks Gram’s chart. “The only Whippoorwill listed here is Pastor Henry Whippoorwill. There’s also a granddaughter listed as River Starling.”
“I’m River.”
Then Dad says, “And Henry Whippoorwill’s my brother.”
The nurse fiddles with her stethoscope. “Then Henry Whippoorwill needs to sign a form before you’re allowed to see Mrs. Nuthatch. And River,” she says to me, “only children twelve and older are allowed on this unit. And they must be accompanied by an adult.”
“Well I’m nearly thirteen,” I explain, “so that won’t be a problem.”
“Good,” she says. “I’ll just need you to bring identification, like your birth certificate.”
My heart sinks. “I don’t have one because I was stolen.”
The nurse shakes her head. “Honestly, this is the strangest story I’ve ever heard.” She puts Gram’s chart back. She looks at Dad. “I’m sorry but you’ll need to leave. I have patients to care for.”
“But I have to see her,” I yell. “I need to tell her I’m sorry.”
“River,” Dad says, “we’ll work this out.”
“I apologize,” the nurse says. “I have to enforce the rules.” She turns and walks away.
Dad and I go back to the elevator. When the doors slide open, Dr. Wing steps out, looking surprised. “Leaving already?”
Dad says, “Since I’m not listed as family, the nurse won’t let us in.”
“Which nurse?” says Dr. Wing.
“I didn’t catch her name, but she’s not much taller than River and has short, dark hair.”
“I could’ve guessed,” says Dr. Wing, chuckling. “That’s Rosa Amaranta. She’s new but already my favorite—no taller than a grasshopper with the spirit of a bear. Come with me.”
We follow Dr. Wing back to the nurses’ station. He opens Gram’s chart and writes something. “There,” he says, “now you can visit.” He puts his arm around me, “River, before we go in, I want you to know it might be frightening for you to see your grandmother. She has many tubes, wires, and machines attached to her. Her eyes are closed, and she can’t talk. Knowing this, do you still want to see her? It’s all right if you choose not to.”
Obviously Dr. Wing doesn’t know how tough I am. I march across the hall to Gram’s room. When I walk in, Rosa’s standing right in front of Gram, fiddling with wires so I can’t see Gram’s face.
“Good morning, Rosa,” says Dr. Wing. “I hear you’ve already met River and her father.”
Rosa’s still blocking my view. “Yes, Dr. Wing, we’ve met.”
“I commend you for following orders, Rosa,” he says, “however, they’re now cleared to visit.”
“Thank you, Dr. Wing.” Rosa moves toward Gram’s feet to straighten her blanket.
When I finally see Gram’s face, I actually feel better. She looks almost like she does when she’s sleeping at home. Except for the wires and machines, the only difference is that she’s not snoring or wearing her tie-dyed nightgown with glow-in-the-dark peace signs.
Dr. Wing moves close to Gram. “Rosa, has there been any change in Mrs. Nuthatch’s status?”
Rosa shakes her head. “No, Doctor.”
He takes Gram’s hand. “Good morning, Mrs. Nuthatch. If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”
Gram doesn’t move.
“Mrs. Nuthatch, can you blink your eyes?”
I watch Gram’s eyes. Nothing.
Dr. Wing slides a chair close to Gram’s bed. “River,” he says, “please sit. Hold your grandmother’s hand and talk to her. I’m not sure if she can hear, but it’s worth a try.”
As I tell Gram I’m sorry for being mean to her, Dr. Wing pulls Dad to the other side of the room. I hear their conversation.
Dr. Wing clears his throat. “The swelling caused considerable brain damage. Without life support, there’s basically no chance she’ll survive. But if she does, she’ll never walk, talk, or have a meaningful life.” He clears his throat again. “We could keep her on life support for months, but there’s no point. You should make funeral arrangements. If there’s no change by Friday morning, I’ll turn off the machines.”
I tell myself not to worry. I know she’ll wake up.
8
But I Know Different
Dad pulls out of the hospital’s parking lot. “Tell you what,” he says, “let’s get your mind off things and head into town. I have something to show you.”
He drives down Main Street, pulls to the side of the road, and then parks in front of a small house. The sign out front says: For Rent. It looks like a small cottage you’d find hidden deep within the woods. It’s white with forest green shutters, and below each window is a flower box filled with red geraniums.
Dad turns off his car. “Wait ’til you see inside.” He jumps out and heads for the front walkway.
I hurry to catch up. “What’s going on?”
He pulls the rent sign from the ground. “We won’t need this anymore.” He places a key in my hand. “Take a look.”
The door swings open to a place that feels magical—like it’s from a different time. Everything’s old and dusty but cozy in a different kind of way. To the left there’s a small living room with a big stone fireplace. It has a straw broom leaning against it, and there’s an oil lamp on the mantle with a box of matches. To the right of the entryway is a tiny bedroom with one bed and a small wooden desk with a metal lamp.
I walk forward down the hall to a small kitchen. The cupboards are filled with dishes, cups, pots and pans, and silverware that look so old that they’re probably antiques. I run my hand across the table. “Are we living here ’til Gram gets better?”
Dad laughs. “No, but you can come here as often as you want. A photographer needs a good assistant.”
“What are you talking about?”
Dad smiles. “I’m moving to Birdsong.”
“So… this is our new home?”
“No, this will be my studio. I’m starting a photography business.”
“Then where are you going to live?”
Dad explains, “I planned on staying with Henry and Elizabeth while I had a house built, but since your grandmother’s in the hospital, I’ll put that on hold and stay with you at your grandmother’s until she recovers. How does that sound?”
“Seems like a good idea. That way you can sleep in Gram’s bed and won’t need to sleep on the Whippoorwills’ couch.”
“Then it’s a plan. Now getting back to the studio,” he says, “take a look at that lighting in the living room. It’s full of natural light, perfect for pictures. The bedroom will be my office, and the kitchen’s exactly what we need for a quick meal when we’re here.” He pulls back a dusty curtain covering the kitchen window. “Look at the backyard—it couldn’t be more beautiful.” Then he walks around the table to a small door. “Come this way,” he says and ducks while going out. I follow him through the door and along a stone path leading to a pergola covered with coral roses. He scans the backyard. “Can you imagine a young bride standing in this very place with the man of her dreams? The scenery’s exceptional for wedding photos.” All of a sudden, it looks like Dad’s mind is turning. “This place has endless possibilities,” he says. “Not only is it great for pictures, it’s also perfect for the ceremony. We could host outdoor weddings, and sinc
e Henry’s a pastor, he could marry the bride and groom!”
“Did he marry you?” I ask.
Dad looks confused. “Did he what?”
“Was Henry the pastor who married you? You know—when you married Mom?”
For a minute Dad doesn’t say anything. “Yes, Henry did marry us.”
“Was your wedding outdoors like this?”
“No, we were actually married in Henry’s church, right here in Birdsong. You had no way of knowing, but at one time your mother and I lived here.”
After all the times I’ve been to Uncle Henry’s church, I never knew my parents got married there. It’s hard to imagine them walking down the same aisle I walk down every Sunday.
“Dad?” I say.
“Yes, River?”
“Now do we have time for you to tell me about Mom?”
He nods. “But I want you to know it will be difficult for you to understand. So first,” he says, “let me ask you this—do you know what amnesia is?”
“Like when someone gets hit on the head and they forget everything?”
“Yes. When that happens, people lose their memories. Those memories are no longer in their brain.”
I visualize the abductors hitting Mom on the head and knocking her out, “Did Mom get hit on the head?”
“No, she didn’t hurt her head. She got a different type of amnesia called dissociative amnesia. That can happen when someone goes through something traumatic. For her it was having you stolen.”
I try to understand. “So she remembers me but forgot I was stolen?”
“It’s more than that, River. Unfortunately she doesn’t remember anything about you or me. She remembers her life up through college until right before I met her, but that’s it. When you were stolen, she stopped remembering anything that had to do with you or me. For her it was like we no longer existed. She left me to start a new life because she didn’t know who I was.”
