by Shenda Paul
“I’m nineteen, twenty in a couple of weeks. Can you tell me if my mom’s going to be all right, please?” I ask anxiously. Why can’t anyone just answer that one, simple question?
“As I’ve said, your mother’s condition is serious. The impact of the collision caused spinal cord injuries between C-four and C-six, those are the spinal joints, starting at the base of your skull. Your mother’s suffered fractures to the spine around here,” he points out the area on his neck.
“The surgery is to remove bone fragments and to reconnect her vertebrae. We’ll use small metal screws and perhaps also a rod to stabilize her spine and assist in fusing the bones.”
“But she’ll be all right after that?” I ask, fighting back tears.
“We’re thankful your mother’s alive, but this accident has irrevocably changed her life. Things will not be the same for her again, but she is alive,” he stresses, looking at me intently as if assessing whether I can cope with anything more.
“Your mother will be what we term a quadriplegic, Miss Bain. I’m sorry,” he says after a moment’s hesitation. The tears that I’ve managed to contain spill unhindered now.
Doctor Nicholls waits patiently until I’ve calmed down before he continues.
“Lesions at C-one to seven cause injuries to the cervical spine that leave the potential for partial or total loss of function to all four limbs. Some people retain use of their arms, but suffer finger dysfunction; they can use their arms but have no nervous control over their fingers and thumbs. People whose injuries are in the region of C-four and higher will, almost certainly, need constant care and assistance. Your mother’s injury falls into that category, I’m afraid.”
9
Doctor Nicholls stares at his feet as he walks toward me. He looks utterly exhausted, and I fear the worst. He gives me a tiny, reassuring smile when he looks up, and I feel I can breathe again. I send up a silent prayer. “Please, please, let the news be good.”
He sinks into the chair beside me. “Surgery went well; as well as can be expected,” he says, and I let out an audible sigh of relief.
“We’ve stabilized your mother’s spine as we discussed and her fitted with a brace, which she’ll need to wear until the bones have fused. She’ll be moved to the spinal injury ward when she’s ready to leave the recovery room. The nurse will come and tell you when she’s settled; you can see her then. I’ll check on her tomorrow afternoon.”
“Doctor Nicholls, I…. thank you…” I stumble over the words.
“Just doing my job, Miss Bain. I’m sorry you’ve had such devastating news, but you must remain thankful for small mercies. Your mother’s sustained no brain damage, and she’s alive. Goodnight—I mean good morning,” he corrects himself, then, with a reassuring touch to my shoulder, leaves, no doubt to get some much-deserved rest.
Tears of relief start slowly and build as I finally allow the full impact of the night’s events to sink in. The news is devastating, yes, but Mom could so easily have ended up in a drawer next to Peter. His loss is indescribable, but Mom’s still alive. I am thankful that my sole, remaining parent has been spared.
It’s another hour and a half before I’m allowed to see Mom. She’s heavily sedated, but the nurse says she woke briefly in the recovery room. She’s still pale, deadly pale, I think, but, given my recent experience with Peter, immediately reject the thought. Cleaned of blood, the many lacerations, which I assume were caused by shattered glass, are now clearly visible on her face and what little I can see of her neck and chest. I shudder when thinking about of how much worse the damage could have been. I pull up a chair and, sitting, bring her cold hand to my lips. “I love you, Mom,” I whisper over and over, hoping she can hear me.
I talk, recalling our happy times; her reading to me, brushing my hair, the two of us with Dad, her time with Peter until my voice is hoarse, and a nurse comes in to check on Mom. She tells me there’s nothing more I can do right now; Mom will be asleep until at least around lunchtime. “Go home and rest,” she says.
All that greets me is silence and a depressing sense of emptiness. It’s as if the life and joy have been sucked out of our normally welcoming home. The kitchen clock says it’s ten twenty—sixteen hours since Mom and Peter left, happy and full of life, and nearly twelve hours since I opened the door to two police officers. From that moment, it felt as if I’d stepped into some horrific nightmare, one, which I’m still struggling to wake from.
I drink thirstily from a bottle of water, and, then, making my way into my bedroom, throw myself onto my bed. I’m so tired, and my injured leg aches, the first time in months it’s done that.
I wake with a start, then curl into a ball, hoping for sleep to reclaim me. For one fleeting moment, I’d forgotten; but the empty silence soon robbed me of that notion. If Mom were home, I’d hear her pottering around, calling out to Peter, a vacuum cleaner humming, music playing, the garden sprinklers going. No matter how much I wish it were all just some awful dream, how much I want to forget; there’s no escaping my new reality; our new reality because Mom and I are on our own once more.
Later, as I search Peter’s desk for leads on his family, another realization strikes. I’ll have to arrange his funeral, and worse still, tell Mom he died. That thought sickens me. I need to speak with Doctor Nicholls or someone at the hospital to find out when they think Mom will be ready to hear the heart-breaking news. I cradle my head in my arms, desperately trying to blot everything out. “Just for a short while, please, let me forget,” I whisper over and over until I finally accept that it’s not going to happen. I have to bear the lion’s share of this, I conclude. I can’t put any more pressure on Mom. She needs to concentrate on getting well, as well as she can be, given the circumstances.
It takes me half an hour to summon the strength to pick up the phone.
“Hello?” Mandi answers.
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Angel? I didn’t recognize the number. You sound funny, what’s wrong?” Questions roll off her tongue, in the same way they always do. This snippet of familiarity, being able to speak with someone I know and love, makes my throat constrict.
“Uhm… I have some bad news,” I manage to say.
“Is it your leg?” she asks, her voice sharp with concern.
“Mom and Peter were in an accident.”
A shocked gasp echoes down the line. “Are they okay?”
“Peter died… and Mom…” my voice cracks. “Mom’s in hospital.”
“Is she going to be all right? She’s going to be all right, isn’t she? Angel, she’s going to be okay, isn’t she?”
I’m sobbing now. “Mom’s a paraplegic… she…”
“Mom! Mom!” Mandi yells. “Angel, I’m getting on the next plane. Angel?” I nod and then realize she can’t hear. “I’m here,” I say.
“I’ll let you know when I can get there. It’s going to be okay.”
“I have to go…. I need to find a telephone number for Peter’s aunt.”
“I’ll call you soon. I love you,” she says tearfully and hangs up just as I hear her Mom asking what’s wrong.
I can’t find anything on Peter’s family. I do, however, come across several letters from the bank, reminding him that he’s behind on loan repayments. I replace them quickly, feeling awful for prying into his things and reading documents, which are none of my business. I hope I’ll be able to speak to Mom about Peter soon because I need her to tell me what arrangements to make, and confirm whether he has any relatives or not.
I had to wait three days before I could tell Mom that Peter died. The day after her surgery, when, in my presence, Doctor Nicholson told her about the extent of her injuries, Mom had been so distraught, they had to tranquilize her to ensure she didn’t move her head or neck too much. At that stage, we’d yet to learn the extent of her physical capabilities details and determine the level of care she’ll need. What Doctor Nicholson had made clear, though, is that I’m not capable of caring for her on my own
. In fact, no one without the proper medical training would be, he’d said.
Mom asked about Peter many times, but she’d been so groggy and disoriented that, on Doctor Nicholson’s advice, I decided to wait until he deemed her capable of coping with the news. So, I told her Peter was in another part of the hospital and like her, couldn’t be moved. I hated lying, and it nearly broke my heart to witness Mom’s devastation and breakdown when she learned that he’d died. She was so upset, I wanted them to sedate her again, but Doctor Nichols thought it better for her long-term recovery if she dealt with her grief. So, I sat with Mom for days when she didn’t speak. After her initial bout of crying, she stopped doing that too. Eventually, afraid she’d never recover, I raised the subject of Peter’s funeral. I told Mom we needed to put Peter to rest, and she pulled herself from whatever dark place she’d gone to help arrange his burial.
It’s nearly three weeks, now, since I broke the news, and, earlier today, we finally farewelled Peter. Mom, rightly, insisted on attending, and we’d been forced to wait until Doctor Nicholls declared her fit to be moved. We also chose to wait until we’d exhausted every attempt to contact Peter’s family. Unable to find anything among his belongings and based on the limited information Mom had, we posted notices in the local Abernathy newspaper and three major Texas publications.
No one responded, and Peter left this earth without his family knowing of his death or being present at his funeral. He’d never admitted to any religious affiliations. Mom, after some thought, suggested we arrange for a non-denominational minister to conduct the service, so that’s what we did. Peter wasn’t buried; he’s being cremated as that was what he’d once said he wanted. I can’t help but feeling grateful to be spared the sight of someone else I love being lowered into the earth.
Arranging Mom’s attendance had proven quite an exercise. She’s not stable enough yet to be sitting up in a wheelchair. Dr Nicholls, saint that he’s turned out to be, came to our rescue once more. Thanks to his intervention and help, Mom was made comfortable on a special gurney and accompanied to the chapel by two specialist medical staff.
The only attendees, other than Mom and me, were Mandi, Mom’s friend, Rachel, Samuel and Nicole, three of Peter’s staff, and no more than half a dozen of his business associates. That saddened me; that the life of a man as generous and loving as Peter had been acknowledged by so few.
Mandi, Rachel, and I have gathered in Mom’s room at the spinal care center; she was transferred there a week ago.
Just before that, Doctor Nicholls outlined Mom’s ongoing care needs. We learned of the associated costs, which astounded both Mom and I. Then, two days ago, Peter’s office manager contacted me. The poor man had been so apologetic when he raised the subject of salaries and other matters that needed attention. I know absolutely nothing about business, but I’ve promised to do what I can to help sort things out.
Mom’s given me access to her and Peter’s joint bank accounts, which contain enough funds to pay for her medical and care costs for three months. I don’t know how we’re going to cope after that; I certainly don’t earn enough to cover our needs. I don’t want to add to Mom’s burdens right now, so I haven’t yet mentioned the potential financial mess his business is in. I know I’ll have to raise the very painful and uncomfortable matter shortly, I just don’t know how to approach it. She’s already overwhelmed, trying to cope with her health issues and the loss of Peter.
Right now, I can tell the day’s been an ordeal for her. She’s physically and emotionally exhausted, so I announce that we’re leaving her to rest.
She tries to object, but her protests are feeble. “I’ll be back this evening,” I tell her, pushing the hair back from her face. Her beautiful eyes tear up. “Thank you, Angel, for all you’ve done for Peter… me,” she says.
“I love you, Mom,” I say and lean down to kiss her cheek. Her lids are already drooping as Mandi, Rachel, and I leave. They flew in the day after my phone call, and I literally fell into Rachel’s arms. It’s been such a blessed relief to have her maternal presence around me. With her and Mandi’s support, I’ve managed to cope.
They’re leaving in a couple of days, but Rachel’s been cooking up a storm, stockpiling meals for me and treats for Mom. Their presence has filled the house with the life it’s been robbed of.
It’s two months since Peter’s funeral, and Mom and I are meeting with the executor of Peter’s estate. Mr. Jamieson, also an accountant, is that person. Peter knew him for decades. He’s very nice, and has been extremely helpful and considerate. He’s made a trip to the center on several occasions already.
It was here, some weeks ago, that he and Peter’s solicitor read us Peter’s will. Except for a modest annuity for me, he left Mom everything. He’d also, thankfully, transferred the house into Mom’s name before embarking on his business expansion plans. He had one modest insurance policy, of which Mom is also the beneficiary. What has my mind reeling, though, is what Mr. Jamieson’s just revealed.
Peter’s business had been struggling over the last couple of years, and, in an attempt to save it, he’d overextended himself financially. His company now owes the bank a large sum of money. With his death, the additional business Peter planned on hasn’t eventuated. The company has, in fact, lost significant sales revenue.
Mom had already decided to sell the business. “It needs someone who knows what they’re doing,’ she said at the time. I’d been secretly thankful because the proceeds of the sale, in my mind, would go a long way to taking care of Mom. Now, Mr. Jamieson has informed us, they will have to be used to settle with the bank and pay employees.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Thompson,” he apologizes yet again.
“We’ll sell the house,” I announce decisively.
“No, Angel, that’s your home. I’m not selling it,” Mom protests. I clasp her hand. “Mom, it was our home—with Peter. You won’t be able to live there again, and it’s much too big for me. It makes sense to sell.”
“Angelique’s right, Mrs. Thompson. It’s the best solution,” Mr. Jamieson adds, and Mom reluctantly agrees.
Alone, we’re left with the grim reality of our financial future. I’m sure that, like me, Mom’s remembering the years of struggling during and after Dad’s illness. We’ve been through this before, I tell her. “We’ll get through it again.”
I decide to rent a small apartment. Mom thinks I should use the annuity from Peter to buy a place, but I refuse, saying I’m not ready to own property. I don’t tell her we’ll need the money to pay for her care. Mom has to remain at the spinal care center for another three months. We need to find her a permanent home; somewhere she’ll be comfortable, and where, she’ll receive the twenty-four-hour care she needs. She needs assistance to eat, bathe, even to go to the bathroom and has to be regularly checked for bedsores or pressure points. The list, it seems, is endless, but we’ve been so, so lucky, and I’m thankful I still have my mother with me.
A month later, we have a buyer for the house. I have three weeks to vacate, but I’ve found a one-bedroomed apartment in a neighborhood I love. It’s shabby, in need of a good clean and paint, but the rent’s affordable. Right now, I’m in the process of deciding what furniture from the house I should take with me. In fact, I’m trying to decide which pieces will fit into my space. Mom ’s sofas are much too big; even one would dwarf my tiny living room. Then, remembering the furniture Mom and Peter stored in the garage, I decide to forage there.
I dig through the motley collection until I spot a tan leather arm peeking out from beneath some boxes. I recognize the old sofa from Peter’s office immediately; the size would be perfect. Samuel’s promised to help today, and now, I’m impatient for his arrival, so he can move some of the heavy stuff to get to the sofa.
“Still so beautiful.” The voice I’d hoped never to hear again sounds from behind me. Shocked, I knock over a stack of books.
“What are you doing here?” I practically hiss.
“I only re
cently discovered your whereabouts, but I haven’t forgotten you, Angelique. And it seems you are in need of my help again, perhaps more than ever,” he says, that hateful smile in place as he enters the garage more deeply.
“Get out! You’re trespassing.”
“Now, Angelique, is that how you repay your benefactor? You still owe me; nothing’s changed since the last time we spoke.”
“A lot has changed,” I fill my voice with as much loathing as I can, “thanks to you.”
“You don’t have to worry, beautiful girl. I’ll take care of you. I’ll even support your mother. She needs a lot of care I’m told.”
The blood drains from my face, anger momentarily replaced by shock—how on earth does he know? My anger returns tenfold as I take in his arrogant, smug expression. He speaks before I can respond.
“I can see you’re wondering how I know. Well, you’ve made it very difficult for me, naughty girl. I had to hire someone to find you.”
“Well, you’ve wasted your money. I’d never go anywhere with or accept anything from you. I promise you, I will call the police if you don’t leave.”
“And tell them what, Angelique? That your benefactor offered you help after learning of your devastation?” He steps forward, and I try to back up, but I’m trapped between him and the furniture behind me. He’s so close, I feel his breath wash over my face. I cringe in disgust.
“When are you going to stop running from me?” He cups my chin, forcing me to look at him. I stare back defiantly. I will not let him see my fear.
“It won’t be so bad, Angelique. I’m sure I can do better than that young pup. He’s left you, now that you can’t dance. Do you see now how fickle young men are? I’d never let you go.” My eyes widen at the mention of Luke. Dieter grins almost evilly.
“Oh, yes, I know, and I’m disappointed in you; but I want you too much for it to make a difference.
