“I’m going to stand by you, young man. I won’t let you take the blame for something Cissy’s father did. I’ll handle whatever legal fees you might incur.”
“I thank you for your concern, Mrs. Clayton. But I’d just as soon not hear from you again. I can’t shut off my brain like Miss Cissy can, but I’d like to try my hardest to never think of this again.”
Getting out of the booth, he nearly knocked over the waitress who’d come to refill their cups.
“Ma’am, you all right?” The young woman glared at Lucien’s back.
“Yes,” Janelle lied. “But could you get me a fresh cup? This one’s gone cold.”
* * *
She and Ruth had been living in the motel room for the better part of a week. They’d not been allowed to visit Cissy, although they showed up every day to the state hospital and sat in the uninviting waiting room. Apparently, patients rarely received visitors, which made the room’s purpose moot. It was theirs for the taking.
Ruth brought some knitting to keep her hands and mind occupied. When she grew bored of that, she read aloud her favorite parts of the Bible. After reading the few out-of-date issues of Time magazine resting on the coffee table, Janelle just picked a random object to stare at and timed how long it could keep her attention. One day she stared at a dusty leaf on a plastic plant for close to half an hour. Ruth’s good humor kept Janelle’s temper in check and she became as docile as a lap dog under her housekeeper’s care. No use angering the people who held the power, Ruth had said. Before long even the ill-tempered nurse at the front desk melted like butter and began fetching them Styrofoam cups of coffee and toast or saltines from the cafeteria.
“What’s different now?” Janelle asked when Dr. Guttman called to say he’d acquiesced.
“Nothing’s different now and that’s what concerns me,” he said. Cissy’s condition hadn’t changed. They fed her intravenously and changed her position every two hours so she wouldn’t develop bedsores. “I originally thought seeing family would be a major stressor and detrimental to her recovery. But you’ve been the one person to stand by her these past weeks. Perhaps she’ll respond to you.”
Ruth said she worried Janelle would be disappointed beyond consoling if Cissy didn’t speak to her. She was right, as usual. Yet, Janelle would gladly risk the disappointment for the precious minutes she’d have with her granddaughter, a chance to possibly help in her healing.
Diner food at the Howard Johnson’s coffee shop lay heavy in their stomachs most mornings, so Ruth decided to go to the store to get fresh fruit they could keep in the motel room. She dropped Janelle off at the hospital with a promise to return in a few hours.
That morning, Janelle had taken an inordinate amount of time primping for a child who’d likely remain in her shut-off world. Still, it calmed her nerves to put on makeup and a nice suit. If anything, Janelle wanted Cissy to recognize her as she’d been before getting sick. The girl needed no other change in her life. When Dr. Guttman descended the stairs of the hospital to greet her, he complimented her appearance and she thanked him for noticing.
The infirmary stood empty except for Cissy’s lone bed, tucked in the far corner of the narrow room. It reminded Janelle of wartime hospital wards, where the cot-like iron beds held soldiers trying to heal both physical and emotional injuries—just like Cissy.
A white fabric curtain on ceiling rails enclosed the area around the bed for privacy, although it proved unnecessary on the vacant ward. Dr. Guttman didn’t follow Janelle in, but asked that she inform the nurse on duty should Cissy show any signs of awareness. As much as Janelle wanted to see Cissy, the curtain filled her with dread. Her hand shook to think of what lay behind it. “Calm down, Janelle,” she whispered. “She’s your grandchild.”
When she pulled back the curtain, she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. Cissy looked like a much younger child taking a nap after a summer afternoon of raucous playtime. The nurse had turned Cissy on her side and tucked both hands under her flushed cheek. Had she been posed for Janelle’s benefit, or had the woman acted gently, subconsciously, to make Cissy appear as serene on the outside as perhaps she was in her internal world? Janelle pulled up a chair and sat close to the bed, careful not to block the sunlight streaming from the high windows onto her granddaughter. Aside from the freckles amassed across the bridge of her nose, Cissy’s face remained flawless. Janelle couldn’t remember ever seeing a blemish on her skin. The girl seemed to have escaped that teenage rite of passage while her peer group pricked and popped and squeezed and covered up their acne with Clearasil and Cover Girl. Right beneath Cissy’s chin line, though, a thin purplish scar remained from a fall down the stairs as a three-year-old. It’d grown almost as faint as Janelle’s memory of Caroline calling her from the emergency room, afraid the stitches would mar her toddler forever. Janelle now thought to herself, Yes, Caroline, she’s marred forever, but only because you did nothing to prevent the damage she’s suffered at her father’s hand.
For a short while, Janelle told Cissy about her and Ruth’s adventure living together in a cramped motel room. Lord, they’d both become stubborn in their old age. When they’d arrived, they staked out which bed and which side of the vanity they wanted, each desperate to maintain some independence. Janelle didn’t feel very independent, though, when Ruth chastised her for keeping the light on too late at night or for not saying prayers before going to bed or for keeping the window AC unit on too cold. Ruth also insisted that the travel-sized shampoo and lotion in the bathroom were hers since she’d packed Janelle an overnight case with her own fancy facial and hair products.
Janelle waited for a weak laugh or a smile from Cissy, or even the rate of her blinking to vary, but nothing changed, even when Janelle pulled one of her hands free to hold.
“Cissy, Cissy. Dear girl, please talk to me. You’re not alone. Nothing can separate us but death, and just let that coward try to claim me before you and I can have a good chat again.”
She sat with her motionless granddaughter until noon when Ruth showed up with lunch. Janelle met her down in the waiting area. Ruth had bought egg salad and ham salad sandwiches, but apologized they wouldn’t be as good as the kind she made. Janelle smiled at her pride.
“At least they used homemade bread,” Ruth said, mouth full. “Nowadays everyone’s using that gluey white bread. Let me tell you, Mrs. Baird doesn’t know a thing about baking.”
They ate in relative silence as Janelle had little to share of the morning. Ruth patted her knee a couple of times to let her know she was sorry Cissy hadn’t responded.
“I’m going to sit with Cissy until the end of the day, Ruth. If nothing changes, we should go home for a spell. I’ve grown tired of the Howard Johnson.”
Ruth nodded her agreement, but weariness filled her eyes as if she feared Cissy might live in that state indefinitely. While Ruth cleared the leftovers, Janelle asked if she could borrow her Bible. Ruth had one with her wherever she went so as to not waste idle moments with daydreaming or napping. Ruth’s eyebrows rose with mock suspicion at the request.
“What? It’s for Cissy,” Janelle said. “I thought I might read to her a bit.”
“It wouldn’t hurt you either, Mrs. Clayton,” she said, eyes clear and bright again. “Seems you and God have had some words lately and need to have a talk to straighten things out.”
“Old woman, best not to step in the middle of the business I have with God. I’ll see you back here around five p.m.”
“Well, then, I’ll just have to pray for you myself.” She walked away from Janelle and lifted her arms to the heavens, perhaps already summoning God’s attention.
Janelle read to Cissy from the New Testament because Janelle didn’t care much for stories of banishment from paradise, floods and famine, treks into the desert, or parting of seas. Even as a child, she’d thought the Old Testament too full of itself with its exaggerated lessons and heroic and villainous characters. Ruth’s Bible told a story of its own: w
orn and dog-eared pages marking much-loved or much-needed passages, rippled watermarked pages where tears had dropped, her family tree scribbled on the last page and spilling over onto the inside back cover.
Janelle’s mouth soon grew cottony from the reading and she asked the nurse to bring some water. As soon as she left the room, Janelle stood on the tips of her toes to look out the window, but the sill remained out of her reach. Confident she was alone, she stood on the wooden chair and took in the views of the hospital lawn and gardens. The skies had turned overcast, but the muted light made the greens seem more vibrant. Janelle peered hungrily as a toddler would, aching to climb over his crib railing and run free.
“I’m tired of Jesus stories for right now. Would you read to me about David and Goliath instead?” Cissy murmured.
Janelle toppled from the chair and landed with a thump on the floor, her mouth still open in surprise. Surely the Lord had intervened because she hadn’t broken a bone. Cissy continued to stare straight ahead, not moved enough to comment on her grandmother’s indelicate fall, but she had spoken.
Janelle pulled the chair back over to the bed. “Let me turn to that page right now.”
She read and read about the larger-than-life characters she had once loathed, hoping they’d bring Cissy back to life.
* * *
Janelle should’ve contacted the nurse or Dr. Guttman right away, but she couldn’t risk leaving Cissy in that precious moment. If Cissy wanted Old Testament stories, by damn Janelle was going to read them to her. She read long into the afternoon until Cissy’s eyes closed and Janelle was confident she slept. Without permission from the nurse, she rolled Cissy to her other side. Cissy may have looked frail in that state, but Janelle found her weight almost too much to move and she puffed from the exertion. After tucking the sheet up around her granddaughter’s shoulders, Janelle stood, catching her breath and rubbing her hip and tailbone, sore from the fall.
When she arrived at Dr. Guttman’s office, an orderly informed her he was with a patient, so she paced outside the door, too exhilarated to sit still. When his session ended and he caught sight of Janelle, he could tell from her smile that a breakthrough had occurred.
“She spoke!” Janelle strode past him and over to his desk. He hurried behind her to sit down at his notepad.
“Tell me everything,” he instructed. He swiped at the wild strands of hair that crept over his glasses and hampered his sight.
She relayed the story, leaving out the bit about tumbling off the chair. She spoke so quickly that twice he had to ask her to slow down and repeat herself. Janelle waited for him to join in celebration, but he remained reserved.
“She just said those two brief sentences? Nothing else?”
“What else did you want? She spoke after being mute for a week. She showed she could hear us, understand what’s going on around her.”
Dr. Guttman apologized for upsetting her. He’d hoped that Cissy would have had a physical response, moved or asked to be moved, or spoke about where she was and why she was there.
“That’s asking a lot, Doctor.” Janelle’s cheeks burned with anger. “I’ll take the miracle I was given and you should, too.”
“Yes, it’s progress,” he said. “If you’re sure she said what you said she did.”
She imagined Ruth with one hand on her shoulder, which allowed her to bite her tongue, to count to ten instead of lunging across the wide cherry desk and grabbing Dr. Guttman by the hair he seemed unwilling to cut or tame or wash.
“I’m seventy-two, not ninety-two. My hearing’s just fine. And yes, I was desperate for her to speak. But I didn’t imagine it. Now let’s get down to business.”
“What business? I don’t understand,” he said.
“Cissy’s not going to carry . . . I won’t allow the pregnancy to go forward. I want to arrange for an abortion. Can you help?”
Janelle stared, unblinking and unyielding, until he looked away and coughed.
“I agree that it’s not in her best interests to carry the child,” he said. “She’s physically capable, but I’m concerned about the emotional risks. Her current state is a clear indication of her inability to process what’s happened to her.”
Janelle sighed with audible gratitude.
“Mrs. Clayton, do you understand what you’re asking?”
“I guess I don’t by the look on your face. You’d better explain.”
“Roe v. Wade has galvanized most Mississippians’ fervor against abortion,” he said. “People have very strong feelings on this subject despite what the government tells them is legal.”
“But even in Mississippi, rape and incest seem to be the two exceptions that make abortion more palatable,” she said.
“I’d have to take your request to the hospital board,” he said. “They’re a conservative bunch. It would be a hard fight.”
“You could convince them.” She steeled her features to mask her doubt.
“The procedure won’t guarantee Cissy will get better emotionally.”
He needn’t have reminded her of that. Janelle’s goal was to protect her against nine months of a daily, physical reminder of her father’s actions followed by the searing pain of childbirth and the equally painful decision to give up the child. Caroline would never take the child in, and neither of them could risk Cissy actually wanting to keep the baby. The girl’s gentle, loving spirit might just be capable of the ultimate act of forgiveness, but the rest of them were not. Janelle was not.
They could rid Cissy’s body of those miniscule cells, but they could never rid her of the acts that set those cells multiplying. Dr. Guttman seemed certain Cissy would one day be able to reconcile that the one person who should’ve been her greatest protector was the person she most needed protection against. He seemed certain that with time and therapy, Cissy could be a happy young woman, capable of love and laughter and a normal life. Janelle hadn’t come close to that level of certainty.
“Perhaps after the abortion, she’d be better off somewhere else.” She didn’t know what she’d meant. The words just spilled out. Everything she said or thought about Cissy came from a primal protective place, a place over which she had no control. If that place said Janelle needed to take Cissy away from there, she’d find a way to do it.
Dr. Guttman appeared perplexed. “What do you mean by somewhere else?”
“Maybe being at a psychiatric hospital reinforces that something is wrong with Cissy,” she said. “Maybe she’d get better faster if she were with family.”
“Well, the courts have answered that question for you, haven’t they? Perhaps you’d best leave me to decide the proper way to approach the hospital board.”
“Yes, of course. Please forgive the musings of an old woman.” She offered a small smile to mask the resolve building within her.
Chapter 24
After leaving Dr. Guttman’s office, Janelle had gone straight to the reception desk to ask for the list of trustees on the hospital board. The nurse gave her a quizzical look, but offered the information quite easily. Janelle’s long stays in the hospital waiting room may have softened the woman’s doggedness for rules.
When Ruth picked up Janelle that evening, she gloated that the Bible and her God had been the instruments leading to Cissy’s breakthrough. Ruth never considered that Janelle’s presence and her voice had eased Cissy back to the world, but Janelle let it drop, allowing Ruth to stay in a blissful state of gratitude. Janelle, too, was grateful, but not to God.
Ruth had seemed surprised by the decision to return home to Biloxi considering Cissy finally spoke, but didn’t question Janelle’s thinking.
“I’ve work to do,” Janelle said, stuffing her belongings into a suitcase. “I’ll be back soon enough.”
Ruth had no patience with her and butted her out of the way so she could fold the clothing properly. While Ruth organized their departure and prayed aloud, Janelle sat down at the table in the motel room and began making notes on the list the nurse had
given her. Six women and three men comprised the board at the Greater Mississippi State Hospital. The women held the power over Cissy’s future.
Over the next week, Janelle drove a thousand miles in four days. Ruth knew her itinerary, but had been sullen and unwilling to accompany her. She opposed the idea of abortion, and her convictions overrode the fear that Janelle was not well enough to drive alone.
During her travels, Janelle called on all six women who were quite familiar with Judge Beau Clayton and his family’s legacy in Mississippi. Spread across the state, these trustees had graciously accepted her into their homes based on her husband’s reputation and allowed her to tell them about a precious girl whose childhood had been stolen away. Five of them were grandmothers themselves, and it took little description of Cissy’s situation for them to imagine their own granddaughters in a similar predicament. Janelle carried a photo of Cissy at age twelve, one where she looked away from the camera, no smile, no light in her eyes. All six women had been in tears when she thanked them for their support and bid them goodbye.
When an elated Dr. Guttman called to give her the good news, she let him think his skills of persuasion convinced the trustees that his recommendation for the abortion was sound. As she expected, they’d voted six to three to allow Cissy to be transported to Riley Community Hospital for the procedure. Even the lone Catholic on the board had voted yes, which was a miracle in itself.
“May I be there for her?” Janelle had asked Dr. Guttman.
He had cautioned that they wouldn’t know Cissy’s mental state, and that perhaps it was best for Janelle to wait to visit until Cissy was transferred back to the psychiatric hospital. Janelle had assured him she wanted to see Cissy right after the procedure.
“I’ll let the hospital know you’ll be waiting to see Cissy when she’s in the recovery room,” he had said over the phone. “It should take no more than fifteen to twenty minutes. She’ll be able to leave the hospital the same day.”
Forgiveness Road Page 19
