The Art of Breathing

by Janie DeVos

  “Anything. Anything at all!”

  “Can Donnie stay with y’all once he’s out? Would that be all right?”

  “Do you really need to ask, Kate? That’s ridiculous! Of course he can stay here. Of course.”

  “Thank you, Mama! Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you and Daddy. I’ll never be able to pay y’all back for everything you’ve done.”

  “Well then, it’s a good thing we never put you on the books. Call me as soon as you know what’s going on.”

  “It’ll probably be early afternoon before I’ll know anything. Will you be there?”

  “We should be back by then. We’ve got an appointment in Marion to get your father’s cast off. But, Kathryn, if you should decide you need us to go pick Donny up, you call me early so that we can do that instead. We can always reschedule the doctor’s appointment.”

  “You go on, Mama. You need to take care of Daddy. I’m glad he’s gettin’ that heavy thing off.”

  “Yes, indeed,” she enthusiastically agreed. “With bustin’ Donnie out, then hiding the little fugitive away, the law’s likely to come a’callin’, and we’d all better be able to run like hell!” She started laughing, and I did, too. It was the small dose of levity that we both needed. It helped everything. It helped to calm me, which helped me to think more clearly. Besides, I knew that it might be the last time we had anything to laugh about for a while.

  CHAPTER 31

  Declaring Victory

  “Mrs. Cavanaugh, Dr. Ludlow is ready to see you in his office now.” I was sitting in the administration building’s back waiting room, which was reserved for patients only so that visitors wouldn’t be exposed to our illnesses any more than they had to be. I’d been there since seven thirty that morning, and it was now a little after eight. I hadn’t been able to sleep at all the night before because I’d been too wound up after the phone call with Mama. I was anxious to talk to Dr. Ludlow, and the minutes had dragged on like hours.

  I hurried down the hallway to his office, but stopped just outside the doorway when I saw Dr. Ludlow was on the phone. He turned from gazing out the window and waved me on in. I quietly sat down across the desk from him.

  “Well, you tell her I said that I don’t have the class’s pile of penmanship practice sheets, and that she hasn’t been teaching for the last thirty-one years. But tell her that I’ll stop by to see if I can’t help her find them after I get done at work. Tell her I said to lie down and rest until I can help her search.” There was silence as he listened, then, “Okay, Helen, that’s fine. Yes, ten milligrams is fine. Okay, I’ll see you then.” He replaced the receiver in its cradle. “Heaven help every person with dementia and every child of a parent with it. I have to wonder what she did in her life to deserve it, or what I did.” He shook his head and chuckled, but there was no masking the sadness in his eyes. “Mother’s in a nursing home in Asheville. Moved her down soon after I came down. We’re about all the family each other has anymore. Half the time she recognizes me and half the time she thinks I’m Gary Cooper.”

  “Well, in all honesty, Dr. Ludlow, you do kind of look like him.”

  “Your eyesight is shot, Kathryn, but thank you. Now, how can I help you? What’s going on?”

  “Dr. Ludlow, I need to leave Pelham for a couple of nights and I wondered what the institution’s policy is about that.”

  “Do you mind my asking why?”

  I trusted the man with my life, so I trusted him with the truth. “Because my husband enrolled our son in a boarding school last week, even though he promised he wouldn’t. I know my child is confused and scared, and I need to go get him.”

  “Where will you take him from there?”

  “To my folks’ place in Howling Cut.”

  “I see.” Dr. Ludlow was thoughtful for a moment; then he rose and walked over to a set of filing cabinets that lined one of the interior walls. He rifled through the top drawer and pulled out a file. “All right; let me have a look here,” he said, sitting back down at his desk and putting on a pair of reading glasses. He turned to the last page in the file. “Kathryn, you do know that you’re not due for your next X-ray and sputum sample for another ten days, don’t you?” I said that I did, and that I was praying the results would show that my lungs were healed. “Let’s go on over to the lab. Considering your progress thus far, I think we can turn a blind eye to those ten days, don’t you?”

  After the tests, I sat down on the bench outside to wait for my results. It was the same bench I’d sat on my second day there, where I’d watched the patients working in the garden, including Philip and Merry Beth. It was the day they’d sung “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad.” So much had happened since then. Philip was gone, and in a sense, Merry Beth had been found. So many of the women in my ward had come and gone, too, and a few had left us in the way we prayed none would. Even with all of the miraculous advances in the treatment of tuberculosis, the disease still took prisoners, and some didn’t come back alive. The minutes dragged. But finally, I heard steps coming toward me on the walkway and looked up to see Dr. Ludlow approaching.

  “Come with me, Kathryn.” I couldn’t read his face and he didn’t say another word as I fell in behind him and we returned to the administration building. Entering his office, Dr. Ludlow shut the door behind me, then told me to have a seat as he went back to the filing cabinet. Pulling out another form, he returned to his desk and began filling it out. “So, how are you going to get there?” he asked as he continued to write.

  “I’m sorry?” I was sitting on the edge of my chair, and I leaned in toward him as if that might pull my test results out of him.

  “How are you going to pick up your boy and then get back to Howling Cut?” He looked up from his writing and smiled broadly. “I’m releasing you today, Kathryn. Permanently. Your X-rays are clear with the exception of one old lesion that has diminished quite a bit in size. Continuing to treat it with antibiotics should heal that up, and most likely, it’ll be completely gone by the time you have your next X-rays. As you know, it’ll take a few days for us to get your sputum sample results, but I’d be willing to bet it’ll be streak-free. You’re going to call me next week to confirm that, though. So, how are you going to get to your boy’s school?”

  If it hadn’t been for the fact that I had a six-year-old son feeling abandoned and unloved, I would have danced around the room at that moment, pulling Dr. Ludlow around with me. However, I needed to stay focused on what I had to do. “Actually, I need to get to Cabot. That’s my home, and my car is there. My parents are down in Marion right now getting the cast off Daddy’s broken leg, but I’d really like to get out of here as soon as possible. Otherwise, they’d have to drive all the way over here to pick me up, then drive me to Cabot, then return to Howling Cut. It’s too much to ask. Do you know if Aunt Harriet is here today? Maybe she—”

  He held up a finger to interrupt me and dialed his secretary. “Grace, who’s in the garage right now? Good. Patch me through to him, would you?” He listened for a moment, then, “Who’s this? Ah, yes, Harold, do you have any pick-ups or drop-offs scheduled over the next several hours?” As he waited for the driver to check his schedule, Dr. Ludlow put his hand over the mouthpiece on the receiver and said, “Go get packed, Kathryn. I believe we’ve won this war!”

  CHAPTER 32

  The Feeling of Home

  “Harold, let me at least pay you something,” I said as he set my luggage by my front door. He was the same driver who had picked up Aunt Harriet and me at the train station when I was admitted to Pelham.

  “Mrs. Cavanaugh, it’s Pelham’s policy to ensure that our guests have transportation to and from the facility whenever it’s needed,” he insisted. “This is protocol, so please, put your money away. Besides”—he smiled—“it’s absolutely my pleasure.”

  “Well . . . thank you, Harold. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your help.”

  “Mrs. Cavanaugh, seeing you leaving in a car rath
er than a hearse is a joy. God bless you, kind lady. I hope never to see you under sad circumstances again.” He pumped my hand enthusiastically. Chancing the fact that it might embarrass him, I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Mrs. Cavanaugh.” He looked embarrassed but mostly pleased. Then he turned away and walked back down the front steps.

  With shaking hands, I worked my house key into the lock. Hearing the deadbolt click, I slowly pushed the door open and took in the sight of the grand foyer with its black-and-white tiled floor, and the eighteenth-century southern Queen Anne mahogany table sitting in the middle of it. An enormous crystal vase sat on the table, artfully displaying a medley of berry branches. Stepping inside, I continued to look around at all of the finery that had been so tediously and painstakingly picked out, with the help of a couple of different interior designers. The opulence of it brought dear Annabelle to mind. This home seemed more suited to her taste than mine. I thought of her often and wondered how she was doing, but as was often the case when patients were released from Pelham, they didn’t follow through on their well-intentioned promises of staying in touch. Life thankfully went on.

  Refocusing on the task at hand, I left my satchel and small suitcase at the foot of the large sweeping staircase, which was built in the shape of a wishbone, with one set of stairs on the right side of the foyer and another on the left. Taking the stairs on the left, I hurried up to the second floor and down the hall to Donnie’s room at the end. Opening the door to his walk-in closet, I retrieved one of his larger suitcases from a top shelf. Taking clothing from hangers and shoes from the rack, I then turned my attention to articles of clothing in his drawers. I didn’t take too much, but I figured that at Penmire he was undoubtedly wearing uniforms and dress shoes, so I took what he’d need in order to shed, both literally and figuratively, that rigid lifestyle. Finally, I grabbed Donnie’s teddy bear, the one he’d had since he was a baby, which Geoffrey insisted should be included in the next trash pickup. However, I’d held firm that Donnie’s childhood was short enough, and if he found some sense of comfort and security with the bear, then so be it.

  Moving down to the other end of the hall, I entered the master bedroom and then my own walk-in closet. Geoffrey’s was on the other side of the bedroom and far more meticulously organized than mine. Reaching up to a long shelf that spanned the length of the closet, I pulled down a large suitcase that Geoffrey had brought back from the sanatorium for me. Pressing the buttons on the latches, I confirmed that it still held the clothes I’d taken to Howling Cut for Uncle Prescott’s wedding. After adding just a few other articles of clothing, I snapped my suitcase shut and then grabbed Donnie’s. Hurrying down the stairs, I set both suitcases next to my other luggage, and then went into Geoffrey’s home office.

  There were several exceptionally fine and rare original pieces of artwork on the wall. However, one painting was just a reproduction of Van Gogh’s Wheatfield with Crows. Lifting it off the hanger, I set it down, then focused my attention on the safe that was hidden behind it. The combination was easy to remember: our wedding date. Opening it, I reached into its dark interior and pulled out several velvet-covered jewelers’ boxes. After selecting several pieces of my best jewelry, I pulled out a large leather envelope-style pouch, with “First Imperial Bank of Cabot” embossed in gold on the front. Sitting at Geoffrey’s desk, I counted out the money that it held, and finding that it totaled $4,300, I divided it exactly in half and slipped some of the money into my suitcase, and some into the zippered lining of my pocketbook.

  Then, replacing the pouch and painting over the locked safe, I took one last look around the room to make sure that there was nothing out of place and exited the room. As I hurried out into the foyer, I ran smack dab into Genevieve, who had just come back from the market.

  “Oh, Lord!” I shrieked, and just as startled, Genevieve shouted, “Save me, Jesus!” As soon as we recognized each other, we tightly embraced, laughing until we cried, or perhaps crying until we laughed.

  “Good God a’mighty, missus! Whatcha doin’ here!?”

  “I’m not here, Genevieve. You haven’t seen me.”

  “Then who’s ya supposed to be?”

  “No one; a ghost, a specter. I haven’t been here. You haven’t seen me,” I impressed upon her.

  “No’m. I ain’t seen ya. Shoot, I been to the store. We musta been like two ships that passed in the night.” She smiled. This woman, this friend, was one I could count on.

  “Here, Genevieve.” I reached down into my purse and pulled out $200. That was exactly a month’s wages for her. “You take this.” I pressed it into her hand, closing her fingers around it.

  “What’s that fer, missus? You don’t got to pay me a thing for not seein’ ya!”

  “It’s not for that, Genevieve. It’s for the wrath you’ll have to put up with when Geoffrey finds out I’ve been here and gone. And it’s also because you’ve been a good friend to me these many years. Now, I have to go.” I reached up and kissed the tall, broad woman’s plump, warm cheek. “Thank you for everything.”

  “You ain’t comin’ back, missus?” She hugged me tightly to her. I whispered that I didn’t think so, at least not for a while. She firmly held me away from her then and looked me directly in the eyes. “You go be happy somewhere—you and your boy.” She was definitely no one’s fool.

  “I will—we will,” I tearfully whispered. “You take care of yourself, Genevieve.” Then I picked up our luggage and left the house. I stopped for a few seconds and looked up at the massive structure. This place had never been a true home to me. A home should create a feeling of comfort and safety, and most of all joy, for everyone under its roof. But this house had not been much more than an enormous, elaborately decorated symbol of wealth and prestige that held our belongings and kept us dry from the storms outside its walls. But never from the quiet, unspoken ones within.

  Go, I thought. Go! So, hurrying over to the garage, I bent down and grabbed the horizontal handle at the base of the door, holding my breath as I raised it, and praying that my 1953 red-and-white Pontiac Chieftain was still inside. And it was. Just patiently awaiting our escape.

  CHAPTER 33

  The Power of Love

  “But Mrs. Cavanaugh, usually we receive some kind of advance notice that a student is being withdrawn. Are you sure Mr. Cavanaugh approves of Donald’s removal?” Mrs. Caldwell, the director of Penmire, condescendingly asked as she stood on one side of the counter in the front office, while I stood on the other. She had a hard look about her, especially her eyes. Adding to it was her unnatural jet-black hair, which hung straight to her shoulders, framing a face that was wrinkled enough to give away the fact that her hair was naturally gray.

  The administration building was one of a dozen handsome cream-colored stucco buildings with dark green colonial shutters that made up the very large and prestigious boarding school. Aside from the buildings were a pool, tennis courts, athletic track, shooting range, and archery field. To the average observer, it must seem a child was certainly privileged to be attending such a place, participating in as many recreational activities as academics. But if the school was stripped of its façade of expensive perks, what would be left were the bare bones of rigidness and strict discipline, with very little room for error and even less forgiveness for such.

  Originally built in 1873, the facility had first been used as a military school with the purpose of grooming young men for dedicated and lengthy careers in the armed forces. The school’s original mission statement still hung in its place of honor, within a thick gold frame, high on the wall above the director’s desk. Even from where I stood at an angle to it, I could still make out the school’s ambitious intentions:

  The mission of Penmire Military School is to provide each cadet with a strong academic foundation, a healthy mental and physical environment, and leadership training for a better understanding of the obligations of honor, citizenship, and self-discipline, all deemed necessary for a successful an
d beneficial life of service and selflessness.

  Apparently, too many people had found that the school was just a little too severe for even the most devoted military-minded families. A new tactic was adopted. Penmire was advertised as a boarding school that offered the highest quality education. Soon the school was able to charge a hefty tuition to parents of “high-strung” children who had plenty of resources to pay for their children’s direction and discipline, but not the time nor the interest to administer it themselves. So Penmire Military School became Penmire Prep School, and even though the uniforms were a little less militaristic, the school’s protocol and code of conduct remained the same and were strictly enforced. Anyone who strayed off course was quickly and harshly reminded not to do so again, and most students didn’t make that error twice.

  “Maybe the better question, Mrs. Caldwell, is not if Mr. Cavanaugh approves of our son’s withdrawal, but whether I approved his enrollment in the first place,” I said evenly, using every bit of self-control I had in order to do so. “Now, let me have whatever forms are needed to formally withdraw my son, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “I can assure you, Mrs. Cavanaugh, this is against Penmire’s protocol. Just as we have certain guidelines for the enrollment of the students in our school, so do we have them for their withdrawal. Perhaps I should call Mr. Cavanaugh, and we can discuss this. It’s highly unusual for—”

  “I’ll tell you what,” I said, interrupting her. My words sounded clipped and had dropped an octave as I was getting angrier. “While you call my husband, I’ll call the police and explain that you’re refusing to release my son to me. That’s kidnapping, Mrs. Caldwell, and I tend to believe that your school’s board of directors, not to mention its trustees, will be none too pleased to find themselves tangled up in a mess like a kidnapping charge. But we can certainly do it your way. Just hand me the phone, please, and we’ll both make our calls.” My hands were gripping the counter tightly as I leaned halfway over it, ready to go over the entire thing to get to the director if she didn’t release Donnie immediately.