A Month of Summer

by Lisa Wingate

  In your daydreams, you’ll return again and again, try to open your eyes for that single moment, but you can’t. This is the science of regret, according to Claude.

  Life is a journey by train, and the engine’s always at speed.

  Don’t close your eyes, even for a moment.

  After World War II, Claude drove the trains that took the Jewish people home from the concentration camps. He should have known that sometimes the scenery outside is so ugly there’s nothing to do but close your eyes for as long as you can, and pray for traveling mercies.

  I wanted to tell him that, but I couldn’t. Each time he repeated the story, all I could do was lie there and listen, until finally the young nurse’s aide, who wore her hair in a bun and dressed in long skirts and tennis shoes, found him. “Is he bothering you?” she’d ask sweetly, then adjust my pillows and smooth my hair while my eyes followed her movements. She’d smile sadly as she turned away, took Claude’s wheelchair handles, and said, “Come on, Mr. Fisher. Let’s go find you something to do. She needs her rest so she can get better.”

  Had the doctors really told her I would get better, or were those nervous words only filling empty space during that uncomfortable moment when she pictured herself in my place? Occasionally, even the young look at these aging, crippled bodies and see the weathered wrappings of once-vibrant human beings—people who lived and loved, worked and dreamed. They see that you can be standing at the clothes dryer folding laundry one minute, planning a trip to the grocery store, thinking about what to cook for supper, and considering what sort of flowers you might plant in the beds this spring. And the next minute, you can be sprawled awkwardly on the floor, unable to move, realizing that a flower bed may have been an impossible presumption.

  No one wants to imagine a moment like that. To imagine it is to realize the fragile nature of life. I know this, of course. I should know it better than most, but sometimes, I have been guilty of oversight.

  Lying in the nursing center, I had time to consider the truths of my existence. The train had slowed to a crawl, a limp, if you will, like the Little Engine That Could, chugging up a long, steep hill, puffing out the mantra, I can, I must, I will, I can, I must, I will.

  I can get better.

  I must get better.

  I will go home.

  On my very first night here, after transferring from the hospital to the nursing center, I made up my mind that I would not die in this place. I must not. And that was that. I’d decided about the issue, and I have always been a determined woman. Some might call me stubborn, but I prefer to think of myself as resolute.

  I would have told those things to Mary, the young nurse’s aide, if I could have, but my mouth wouldn’t form the words, and besides, Mary was always in a hurry. With a demanding job and two little boys, the oldest barely school age, and their father bringing them to the nursing center parking lot promptly at four thirty, on his way to work, she didn’t have time to dally. Her young husband was always unhappy if Mary wasn’t finished with her shift and waiting out front for the boys, but generally, she was.

  I watched them out the window, when I could get my head turned far enough to see. The boys were cute little things. The younger one, a towhead with a quick, stocky body, reminded me of my Teddy at that age. I often wished Mary would bring the little fellow inside for a minute. There’s no tonic for sadness like a child’s smiling face.

  The day Mary stopped by my room after four thirty, even though her family was waiting in the parking lot, I knew something had happened. The nagging fear that had been inside me since I came to consciousness in the hospital rose to the surface. Something was wrong at home. I’d known, as my days in the hospital and then the nursing center ticked by with painfully slow progress, that this moment might come. Even the most trusted hired help cannot be expected to forever manage the care of a dear man who remembers the history of every significant World War II battle but cannot recall how to write a check; and a boy who knows the names of each flower in the garden and every stray cat in the neighborhood, who lives in the body of a man, but does not always remember to look both ways before crossing the street.

  Mary hesitated in the doorway. “I wasn’t sure if they told you that the administrator had a call from your daughter . . . uhhh . . . Rebecca, I think she said.”

  No! I cried, but only a faint gurgle, a senseless sound, came from my lips.

  Mary seemed to guess the meaning. There was no telling how much the staff knew about our family situation. “She should be here soon. I just didn’t want you to be . . .” She searched for a word, then finished with, “Surprised.”

  My hopes, which had kept me chugging uphill hour upon hour, sank, and the fire went out of me. I’d hoped for many things these past weeks, but Rebecca’s arrival wasn’t one of them. My problem was not so much a lack of faith that peace could be made with Rebecca one day. Over the years, and particularly since Edward’s illness, I’d sent letters to her, urging her to visit her father while there was still time—while a bit of that strong, silent man remained.

  My pleas went unheeded. Now, I wanted them to remain so, at least for the time being. I couldn’t let our lives fall to the mercy of this stranger, this angry young woman with Edward’s dark hair and hazel eyes, but her mother’s fine, aristocratic features and her mother’s view of past events. I couldn’t continue to lie here, unable to defend Edward and Teddy, unable to explain the truths of our family history.

  Mary appeared to recognize my desperation. She crossed the room and squeezed my hand. “The physical therapist should be here in a bit, Mrs. Parker. You’re the last one on her list today. You work real hard and do everything she tells you to do, so you can get better, all right?”

  Don’t cry, I thought. It’s useless to cry. But like everything else in my body, my tear ducts no longer listened to my wishes. My eyes welled up, and my vision swam behind a wall of water. Mary reached for a tissue. “Don’t worry. It’ll be all right.” Mary always spoke in such pleasant ways. She never rolled her eyes, or huffed, or grumbled under her breath. She never shared in the gossip and complaining that took place among staff members when they thought we couldn’t hear. She just came and went in her white sneakers, her long denim skirt swishing heavily around her ankles. She was an island of quiet goodness in a sea of frustration and uncertainty.

  After checking her watch, and then the window, she dried my cheeks, then slipped a hand under my legs, lifted my knees, and fluffed the pillows there. As she threw away the tissue, she noticed the romance novel a young volunteer with the book cart had left after reading to me the day before. Her brows drew together, then she frowned and reached for the half-empty soda the volunteer had left on the table. “Looks like this needs to be thrown out.” Picking up the bottle, she discreetly turned Pirate’s Promise facedown.

  “I’ll see you in the morning.” She angled her head so that she could look at me eye to eye, but her gaze wandered back to the book, taking in the miniaturized picture of the pirate and his lady in a wild embrace. Sometimes, when I gazed at that picture, I thought of Edward years ago. I was never as buxom as Marcella, the countess with the long red hair, but Edward was every bit as handsome as Gavin, the pirate captain. Gavin was a striking figure—the type to set a young woman’s heart aflutter. . . .

  Flushing, Mary turned away from the picture. “Better?” she asked.

  Yes, I said, and attempted to nod, but my head jerked sideways, and the sound came out as a distorted moan, “Eh-eeeh-ehhhsh.”

  Mary smiled at the pathetic attempt. “That was good. You’ve been practicing.”

  “Eh-eeeh-esh.”

  “Did you show your physical therapist?”

  I willed my head to one side, then let it fall back to center as the answer rushed out harshly, “Ohh-ohh-ooo-oh.”

  Mary sighed. “You should. She’d be so happy. It’s progress.”

  “Pffff,” I blew out, then turned my face away as the door clicked open and the PT came into th
e room in the squeaky nurse’s shoes that always announced the beginning of our daily torture sessions. As far as I could tell, Gretchen was never happy about anything.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Parker.” In Gretchen’s deep, gruff voice, even the greeting sounded like a command. Have a good afternoon, or else. “Any changes?” she asked, looming at the foot of the bed and taking in Mary from head to toe, then frowning.

  “Nothing,” Mary replied, and squeezed my hand as Gretchen cracked her knuckles and lowered the window blind, shrouding the room in the necessary dungeon-like darkness. Mary gave my arm a last reassuring pat, then skittered out the door like a kitten ducking under the fence to escape a scrappy, pug-nosed mutt.

  Gretchen pulled her cart around to the bed and pushed up her sleeves, then reached for the blanket. As usual, I cringed when she drew it back. Even after weeks in the nursing center, being helped with the most basic of functions, these small losses of dignity were still hard to accept. I understood now why Edward sometimes became angry and resentful about his disease. It was humiliating, incredibly frustrating, being unable to do things you once took for granted.

  I reminded myself, as always, that pride would not make me well. Turning toward the window, I tried to focus on something else, something far from here, as Gretchen went to work, bending and stretching, lifting and turning parts of my body I couldn’t feel anymore.

  Through the broken slats in the middle of the blind, I could see Mary arguing with her husband on the curb. He pulled out his wallet, showed her it was empty, then threw up his hands. Perhaps he had a short fuse today because she’d been late coming out to get the boys. I hoped that was not the case, being as she’d stayed to comfort me. Her husband was young, like an overgrown teenager in his unkempt, overly long hair, sloppy jeans, and loose-fitting T-shirts. He made a strange picture next to little Mary, with her modest skirts and her chestnut hair pinned in a bun. I wondered how the two of them had come to be together.

  Then I reminded myself that love sometimes has a mind of its own. I should know that, if I knew anything. . . .

  Something wrenched in my leg, and I heard myself moan. The sound surprised me.

  “Starting to feel that,” Gretchen observed matter-of-factly; then I watched her lower my left leg to the bed and take up my right. I focused outside the window again. Mary’s husband was gone. Mary had scooped up the littler boy, and they were waving good-bye to him. I guessed the argument was over.

  Mary paused by the row of neatly trimmed forsythia bushes, and together she and the boys studied something on one of the branches. A caterpillar, perhaps, or birds building a nest. I closed my eyes and thought of all the times I’d done those things with Teddy. The most perfect moments of my life were those simple, quiet ones spent watching butterflies comb the flowers, or observing ants parading in a line across the driveway, or capturing fireflies and laughing as the cage of Teddy’s tiny fingers lit up.

  I tried to picture Teddy’s hands, tried to draw closer to him, to Edward and home—away from this place, away from Gretchen’s grunts and heavy breaths, away from the scents of antiseptic and perspiration, away from my own body.

  I’d almost achieved it, almost left the nursing center behind by the time Gretchen finished poking and prodding, moving and stretching. As she gathered her things and finally walked out the door, every part of me ached—the parts I could feel, and the parts I couldn’t, which made no sense. How could there be pain in useless limbs I couldn’t control? Was it only a figment of my imagination? Was my mind making me feel the way it seemed I should, after being twisted like a pretzel? Then I wondered if I was getting better. I needed to heal, to miraculously recover before Rebecca arrived. Perhaps this new pain was a sign of returning function. Perhaps I could will it to happen, just because these were desperate times.

  Gazing through the broken place in the window blind, I imagined a sudden healing, and wished I could see the rest of the parking lot and the lawn beyond. Gretchen always closed the blind. She was probably afraid that if anyone passed by, they’d call the police, or the investigative reporter on News 9, and she would be turned in for torturing helpless, infirm people.

  I pictured Gretchen in handcuffs, trying to avoid TV cameras, pursued by a hoard of reporters with microphones, as the police dragged her out the doors.

  I heard myself laughing, an odd, chugging sound like an old car sputtering on a cold morning.

  I was instantly sad. That wasn’t my laugh. That wasn’t anyone’s laugh. It was only a strange, uneven, embarrassing tangle of noise. I wanted my laugh back. Edward always loved it. I suppose I did, too, but I’d never thought about it. You never imagine that you’ll wake up one day, unable to do such a simple thing as laugh, missing such a basic part of who you are.

  Claude passed by in his wheelchair and noticed that the window blind was down. “Well, hey there, Birdie. Who come along and closed the drape?” He always called me Birdie. I wasn’t sure why, because my name was there on the door.

  Claude went on talking as he scooted himself across the room, his feet shuffling, then slapping with each step, like the flippers of a seal, pulling its body along behind. “Why’d they close yer window blind, Birdie? That’s no good. You won’t be able to see if someone drives up.” Bracing a hand on his chair, he stretched upward, his legs folding under his weight like wet toothpicks, the chair teetering dangerously on one wheel as he tried to reach the little plastic pole that would swivel the blinds open.

  If the nurses came by and saw him doing that, they would have a fit.

  “Ooh-oh-o-o,” I forced out, watching the wheelchair tilt further to one side. I could picture him collapsed on my floor.

  “Don’t worry. I can get it.” He extended his thin fingers as far as he could, still six inches from the plastic pole.

  “Nnnooo-o-o,” I said again, the word so clear it shocked me. Claude glanced over his shoulder, still teetering above his chair. Hope soared in a part of me that had been hopeless, and I felt momentarily triumphant. You’ll fall, I added, but the words were just gibberish. It sounded like “Ooogllall.”

  I closed my eyes and started to cry.

  “Don’t cry, Birdie,” Claude soothed, and I heard him sink back into his chair. “We’ll just pull this cord and raise up the whole thing. That’ll work.” I heard the slats slapping together. Sunlight flooded the room and blanketed the bed, turning my eyelids yellow and soft pink. I imagined that I could feel the sun, warm and soothing on my legs. I imagined the sunlight melting away the lingering twinges from Gretchen’s ministrations, strengthening muscles, repairing nerves.

  For a moment, I thought I could feel it.

  “Well, blame it!” The light faded, and I opened my eyes. Claude was struggling to raise the blind again. “Darned thing’s broke. It won’t lock in up there.” He sat holding the cord. “Guess I could tie it to my chair, but then I’d probably forget and take the whole shebang with me when I go.” He grinned at me, his faded blue eyes twinkling. “Back in the day, I’da hopped right up there and fixed it, but I guess for now I can just sit here and hold it awhile. Reckon that’d be all right, Birdie? Say, did I ever tell you I was over fifty years with the Angelina and Neches Railroad? Drove them lumber trains back and forth to Chireno in Nacogdoches County, down in the Piney Woods. . . .”

  A tickle began in my stomach, and I couldn’t help it, I started to laugh. For a fraction of a second, it sounded like my laugh, then it turned back to the chugging sound. I let myself keep laughing anyway.

  Claude glanced over his shoulder, bemused. “You see something out . . .” He paused to check outside the window. “Well, would ya look at that? Ole Gret’s got a flat tire, way down to the other end of the lot. Reckon that’s good cause for a laugh.”

  From where I was lying, I couldn’t see the end of the parking lot because of the forsythia bushes, but I laughed anyway.

  “Looks like she’s gonna change that thing herself,” Claude went on. “Probably won’t have any trouble.
She’ll just haul that car up with one hand and slap the tire on with the other. You ever wonder if she’s always been a woman?”

  I coughed and gasped, then choked on a swallow of air.

  “Well, she’s got the jack, and she’s a-lookin’ for a place to put it. I could give her some ideas about that.”

  My body convulsed with laughter, until somewhere in the melee of strange sounds I heard an occasional fragment of my own giggle. A sense of joy, and hope, and possibility spun around me.

  The blind zinged downward suddenly, banging the windowsill with a thunderous smack. “Oh, darn, I think she seen me watching,” Claude gasped. “Come tomorrow, she’ll fold me like a paper wad, chew me up, and spit me out.”

  Peeking carefully through the broken slats, he continued the play-by -play of the activity outside. When Gretchen finally drove off, he began the train story again. “Did I ever tell you I was over fifty years with the Angelina and Neches Railroad? Drove them trains down in the Piney Woods. . . .”

  Somewhere far into the forests of deep East Texas, where the smell of pine, coal smoke, and fresh-cut lumber was thick in the air, I fell asleep. I dreamed I was on the train, the windows open, the breeze caressing my cheeks, the sun high and hot. At the front of the car, Teddy was just a little boy, pretending to drive. Teddy loved mechanical things of all kinds. Clinging to the window frame, he stood on his tiptoes, trying to see out.

  “Be careful,” I said, but he couldn’t hear me. Stretching my arms, I tried to move closer, but I was trapped in my seat, pinned by something heavy and solid I couldn’t see. “Come sit with Mommy,” I pleaded, but the engine and the wind were too loud. The train rushed faster. Teddy inched higher, pulling himself up on the window frame.

  “No, Teddy. Don’t do that. Get down,” I called, careful not to startle him, remembering the time I’d hollered at him for climbing impossibly high in a tree at the playground. When he saw me below, he let go and fell all the way to the ground. It was the first time I’d ever allowed myself to fully comprehend that Teddy might never be able to see to his own safety. How could a child almost eight years old not understand that a fall so far would be dangerous?