Cracks in the Sidewalk

by Bette Lee Crosby

  For what was probably the twentieth time, Claire ran through her mental list of things to prepare for Elizabeth’s homecoming. The bedroom was ready and waiting: redecorated with fresh paint, cheerful curtains, a peony comforter, a brand new twenty-one inch television with a large button easy-to-use remote, a bedside bell to summon people, and portrait-sized pictures of David and Kimberly on the dresser.

  The Christmas presents waited to be put under the tree Charlie would buy. Weeks ago Claire scoured the stores and carried home an armload of gifts: nightgowns, a bathrobe, slippers, talcum powder, perfume, and nail polish. She’d wrapped everything and tagged it with Elizabeth’s name.

  By ten minutes after nine Claire was on her way to the hospital. Normally the drive took seventeen minutes but today, stuck behind a Buick that had rear-ended a garbage truck, it took twice as long. Claire sat drumming her fingers against the steering wheel, trying to figure out what the new jitteriness inside her chest was telling her. By all accounts she should be feeling good about things. Elizabeth seemed to be doing better, and she was coming home. So what, Claire wondered, would cause her to be jumpy as a cat in a thunderstorm?

  She left the car on the second level of the parking garage and hurried to the hospital. Halfway there she remembered the magazine she’d brought for Elizabeth, laying on the back seat of the car. For a brief moment she considered turning back, but something made her feet move forward. Across the street, past the glass door entranceway, through the lobby, and into the elevator, all the while still thinking she should go back for the magazine.

  Claire pushed the fourth floor button and waited. When the elevator doors opened she stepped into the hallway and walked by the nurses’ station. Suddenly she saw a number of nurses rushing in and out of room 416. Claire broke into a run.

  Elizabeth sat in the chair sobbing, her yellow nightgown torn and covered with cabbage-sized crimson stains. Even if Claire had mistaken the source of the stains on Liz’s nightgown, she could not mistake the dry blood crusted on her daughter’s face and arm. Nor could she miss the blood splattered across the floor and patterned with rubber-soled footprints. Cyndi, the nurse on duty, and four other people bustled about the room. One of them, a candy-striped aide, hurriedly tugged blood-stained sheets from the bed and tossed them to the floor.

  “Oh, my God!” Claire shouted. She tromped across the sheets and knelt alongside Elizabeth. Cyndi was sponging streaks of blood from Liz’s arm.

  “What happened?” Claire asked.

  “I’m sorry,” Cyndi said apologetically. “Elizabeth got out of bed and fell.”

  “Wasn’t anyone here to help her?”

  “She didn’t call for help.”

  “Or you just didn’t hear!” Claire replied angrily. “Elizabeth understands her paralysis. She wouldn’t try to get up by herself!”

  Before Cyndi could explain, Elizabeth sobbed, “I did forget, Mom. I did.” She began to tremble.

  “It’s my fault,” Claire said. “I should have been here.” She wiped away the tears on Liz’s cheek. “Don’t cry. Everything’s okay now.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Elizabeth replied sadly. “Nothing’s okay. Look at what I’ve become.”

  “Don’t talk like that, Liz. Yes, you’re sick, but you’ll get better. And then—”

  Elizabeth looked at Claire with the expression of a hurt child trying to understand. “Then what? Then I’ll be able to remember I’m paralyzed?”

  Claire wrapped both arms around Liz and held her close. At a time like this even a mother could only whisper words of comfort and offer hopeful promises.

  After a long while Elizabeth’s sobbing subsided, and she succumbed to weariness. Leaning heavily on Claire’s arm, she climbed back into bed and before long was asleep.

  “What really happened?” Claire asked.

  “It happened just as Elizabeth said,” Cyndi answered. “Her short-term memory comes and goes. She needed to use the bathroom and tried to get out of the bed. It was instinct. She probably didn’t remember being paralyzed.”

  “If it was only a fall from the bed, then why was there so much blood?”

  “Because of the blood thinner she’s taking, even the smallest cut bleeds profusely.”

  “Why is she taking—”

  “She needs it to prevent a second embolism.” Cyndi shrugged. “It’s unfortunate, but what helps one thing sometimes hurts another. When Elizabeth fell the IV was pulled from her arm, the vein punctured, and the injection site lacerated.”

  “All that blood from the IV coming out?”

  “Yeah,” Cyndi answered. “The IV wasn’t just removed; it was ripped loose from her arm. Most of the blood Elizabeth lost came from the punctured vein. She was lucky we found her just a few minutes after she fell.”

  “If you hadn’t come in right away…”

  “She could have bled to death.”

  When she heard that, Claire decided Elizabeth would never be left alone again. What Liz couldn’t remember, Claire would remember. When Liz couldn’t call for help, Claire would. Never again, she vowed, would her daughter be without someone to lean on and a hand to hold.

  Claire kept her word. That same day she had Elizabeth moved to a larger room with space for a reclining chair. All night, every night, Claire sat in that chair. Sometimes she slept; often she did not. If she did sleep, she kept one eye open and her ears perked for the slightest sound of movement. When it became necessary to return home for a quick shower and change of clothes, she hired Loretta, a private nurse, to sit in the chair. Even though she was gone for just a few short hours, thoughts of Elizabeth crowded her head and urged her to return.

  When the yellow chrysanthemums died Claire decorated the window sill with a tiny Christmas tree, and she placed Elizabeth’s gifts around it. On Christmas morning when people all over town opened presents she sat beside Elizabeth encouraging her to open one gift after another. On the last day of the year when the grandfather clock in their hallway at home chimed midnight, Claire didn’t hear it. She drank bubbly ginger ale from a plastic glass as she and her daughter toasted each other.

  “Here’s hoping nineteen-eighty-five is a better year,” Elizabeth said.

  “Amen,” Claire replied. “Amen.”

  Claire McDermott

  I don’t trust Cyndi. Don’t ask me why, because I can’t say. Sometimes you just sense people are up to no good. That’s how I feel about Cyndi. Most of the nurses take time to chat with Liz—about the weather maybe, a television show, their kids, things like that—but not Cyndi. She walks in and out, all business. Never looks me square in the eye. She’s like a scrub brush, all bristle and no bend.

  It could be that I’m misjudging her. Maybe she’s got her own problems. People like Cyndi tend to believe their problems are worse than anyone else’s, so they’re long on self-concern and short on sympathy.

  Personally, I doubt anyone has it as tough as Elizabeth. All the joys of life have been taken from her, but she manages to smile. Cyndi ought to thank God she’s up and walking around. All Elizabeth can do is lie in bed and pray this new drug therapy works.

  Liz is braver than I’d thought possible. It kills me to watch her going through this. If I could change places with her, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Believe me, it’s far worse to watch your child suffer than to bear the pain yourself.

  Charlie doesn’t say it all the time, but I know what he’s thinking. I can practically see the thoughts pressing up against his forehead when he pretends to read Business Week and stares at the same page for hours. He struggles with saying what’s on his mind, especially when he’s talking to Liz. That’s because he can’t give her what she needs to get well.

  Charlie’s used to fixing things. Give him a problem that’s fixable, and he’ll get it done. But this is something he can’t fix. So he hides inside himself to keep from facing the God-awful truth.

  He has plenty to say about Jeffrey and, trust me, not one word of it is good. If Jeffrey’s name pops up
, Charlie spends an hour going over his umpteen shortcomings. Last week down on Main Street, Charlie saw the padlock and the sheriff’s notice on the door of JT’s store and came home happier than I’ve seen him in months. It’s hard to imagine how he’d react if he knew what I know.

  Jeffrey is having an affair. Despite what he thinks, Liz is still his wife. I’ve struggled with whether to say something and finally decided not to. If I told Liz or Charlie, what good would that do? Charlie couldn’t possibly hate Jeffrey any more than he already does, and Elizabeth is too sick to care. On second thought, I guess she does care but she’s too sick to do anything about it, so why torture her with the truth?

  Last week was Valentine’s Day, a day when husbands generally give their wife flowers and candy, but Jeffrey didn’t even send Liz a card. You’d think he could muster up enough love to send a card! Or at least send one from the kids. He didn’t. Liz watched the aides pass by with bouquets for other patients, but she never said a word about how disappointed she was. She didn’t have to; I could see it in her face.

  While she was napping, I called Melanie down at the Garden Patch and ordered a dozen pink roses sent to the hospital. Pink roses are Elizabeth’s favorite. Put in a card, I told Melanie, one that reads “We miss our Mommy,” and sign it “With lots of love from David, Kimberly, and Christian.” I said Kimberly, not Kimmie, because that’s what Jeffrey calls her, and I wanted Liz to think he was the one who sent the flowers.

  The roses weren’t delivered until almost dinnertime, but when the aide brought them in Liz beamed.

  “That was sweet of JT, wasn’t it, Mom?” she said.

  “It certainly was,” I answered, but that’s not what I was thinking.

  March 1985

  In early March the weather turned unseasonably warm, and tiny green buds suddenly appeared on the branches of winter-ravaged trees. Claire put her parka in the closet and began wearing sweaters. For almost two weeks, every day was as warm and sunny as mid-May.

  At the same time Elizabeth had a string of good days. Days when her memory was sharp and the brain-rattling headaches disappeared. She still had little ability to move her left side, but after only six treatments of the wonder drug Elizabeth looked and felt better than she had in months.

  ~ ~ ~

  The previous month, two days after her third treatment, the CT scan indicated Elizabeth’s tumor had stopped growing. The technician checked the film several times, then reported his finding. The tumor measured the same size as the previous week.

  Doctor Sorenson raised a dubious eyebrow. “Repeat the scan.”

  He did. The second scan confirmed what he’d seen on the first.

  “This could be a fluke,” Doctor Sorenson told Elizabeth. “Let’s see what happens next week.”

  They waited. Liz received another treatment and then another CT scan.

  “Excellent, this is excellent,” Doctor Sorenson mumbled, as she slid the latest film onto the light box. She turned to Elizabeth with a smile. “It looks like your tumor is starting to shrink.”

  She slid a second film alongside the first. “Right here.” She pointed to the outside edge of the dark mass. “It’s almost, but not quite, a millimeter smaller.”

  Elizabeth gave a lopsided smile from the right side of her face.

  “I knew it,” she said. “I just knew it.”

  “There’s definitely been improvement.” Doctor Sorenson found it hard not to smile back. “But we still don’t know if it’s a long-term solution.”

  “I don’t understand,” Elizabeth said. “You can see it’s working, my memory is better, the headaches are gone and—”

  “Yes, and as we move ahead with the treatments, hopefully you’ll continue to improve,” the doctor said. “But right now we’re looking at a millimeter of shrinkage. A millimeter is about one-twenty-fifth of an inch.”

  “It’ll keep working, I just know it,” Elizabeth answered. She happily leaned back into the pillow.

  On that same morning, a morning so sunny and warm even a sweater wasn’t necessary, Claire stopped at the Garden Patch and bought two purple hyacinths on the verge of blossoming, one for her kitchen window and the other for the hospital.

  “Spring is officially here,” she said, setting the hyacinth on Elizabeth’s tray table.

  “It’s beautiful,” Liz answered. “Too bad I won’t be here to see it bloom.” She feigned a look of sadness.

  “What—what are you talking about?”

  The alarm in her mother’s voice made Elizabeth give up the charade. “Doctor Sorenson said I can go home Friday.”

  “Wonderful!” Claire shrieked, hugging her daughter without regard for the hyacinth crushed between them.

  “I still have to come back for treatments,” Elizabeth said. “Two days every other week.”

  “Two days, that’s nothing! It’ll be wonderful to have you home, where I can take care of you. We’ll have a chance to do things together. And wait until you see your old room! It’s completely redecorated. Lots of pink just like—”

  The look on Elizabeth’s face diffused Claire’s explosion of happiness.

  “The stairs!” Claire smacked her hand to her forehead. “Of course I know you can’t go up and down stairs! What I meant is your new room! Daddy and I decided to turn that useless old living room into a guest suite.”

  “Mom—” Elizabeth twisted the right side of her face into an expression of doubt, but Claire continued.

  “There’s no sense discussing it, the decision has already been made. The living room is going to be a girl’s dorm. There’ll be a place for you and for me. That way I can sleep downstairs with you any time I want.”

  The “any time” sounded casual, but in truth Claire already knew she’d sleep in that room with Elizabeth the first night, the second night, and every night from then on. And on those nights when Elizabeth returned to the hospital for treatments, Claire would return to the recliner alongside Elizabeth’s hospital bed.

  Later that afternoon while Elizabeth napped, Claire called the Goodwill Thrift Shop.

  “I’ve got a lovely living room set for you,” she said. “Sofa, chairs, tables, lamps, everything, but it has to be picked up tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s not possible,” the volunteer answered. “Our pick-up schedule is set weeks in advance.”

  “It has to be tomorrow,” Claire stated firmly. “If you don’t want it, just say so and I’ll give it to the Salvation Army.”

  It took several minutes of negotiation before the volunteer finally agreed to have their truck there the following morning. Still determined to have the last word, he added, “In the future, call earlier.”

  Next Claire called a medical supply house and made arrangements for rental of a hospital bed, a walker, and a wheelchair.

  “Make certain,” she added, “it’s one of those portable wheelchairs that will fit in the trunk of a car.”

  Her third call was to George Gardener, a handyman skilled at everything imaginable.

  “I need the living room painted and some bedroom furniture moved down from upstairs,” she said. “Can you do it tomorrow?”

  “Not tomorrow,” he answered.

  “It has to be tomorrow.”

  “Can’t. You gotta get somebody else.”

  “I don’t have anybody else. Please, George,” she begged. “Liz can’t climb the stairs, and we’re bringing her home from the hospital on Friday. We’re turning the living room into a downstairs bedroom, and it’s got to be ready.”

  “I still can’t do it tomorrow.” He paused a moment. “It’s for Liz, huh?”

  George had known Liz for almost twenty years—ever since, as a freckled-faced kid, she’d knocked on people’s doors asking if they’d buy a box of Girl Scout cookies.

  “Okay,” he conceded. “I’ll start tomorrow evening and finish up the morning after.”

  When Elizabeth awoke, Claire sat in the recliner smiling with satisfaction.

  “I’ve
got a number of things to take care of at home,” she said. “I probably won’t be here tomorrow and most of Thursday, but I’ll get Loretta to spend both days with you.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t need a nurse looking after me every minute of the day.”

  “Maybe not,” Claire answered. “But Loretta has two kids going to summer camp, and she needs the money.”

  Loretta arrived bright and early Wednesday morning. “Be sure to take good care of my little girl,” Claire said, happily dashing out and disappearing down the hospital corridor.

  By the time Elizabeth arrived home on Friday afternoon, the McDermott living room had been transformed into a larger version of her bedroom. The walls blushed with a rosy hue, and a gossamer cascade of curtains replaced the damask draperies. Gone also were the sofa and overstuffed chairs, the bookcase, and a clutter of end tables. In their place was an arrangement of familiar furniture—gracefully carved oak nightstands, a dresser with an oval mirror, a tall chest with stacking shelves, and drawers enough for everything.

  Elizabeth had grown up with this furniture, and it held memories of happier times. In the center of the room sat the hospital bed, its practicality disguised by the peony-covered comforter and a cluster of throw pillows. Discretely pushed against the far wall was the small day bed for Claire.

  Leaning into the rented walker, Elizabeth looked around the room from one thing to another—Girl Scout awards hanging on the wall, the giant-sized television, the bouquet of flowers on the night stand, pictures of her children on the dresser. “Oh, Mom,” she sniffed tearfully, “it’s beautiful!”

  Because his daughter was returning home, Charles telephoned the bank and said he wouldn’t be coming to work. It had been a long while since he’d spent time with Liz, since he’d sat beside her and talked without awkwardness. In hospitals there seemed so little to say, shallow little courtesies, the kind that left an aftertaste in his mouth. After hello and how-are-you, all he ever did was fumble with his keys.