Cracks in the Sidewalk

by Bette Lee Crosby

  Without signaling, Jeffrey made a sharp U-turn and headed for the McDermott house. He screeched into the driveway, climbed out of the car, and angrily marched to the door.

  “Where are the kids?” Claire asked when she saw Jeffrey standing alone.

  “They’re not coming!” he said. “I’m here to see Liz.”

  “She’s sleeping, and I don’t want—”

  “I don’t give a crap about what you want!” Wild-eyed, Jeffrey jostled Claire aside and headed for Elizabeth’s room. Before she could stop him, he slammed the bedroom door open.

  Charlie heard the commotion and came running. He entered the room just as JT grabbed Elizabeth’s shoulders and began shaking her.

  “Wake up!” Jeffrey screamed angrily. “Wake—”

  In an explosion of anger, Charlie threw his right arm around his son-in-law’s neck and yanked him away with a force that propelled both of them backward into the wall. The nightstand went flying and a sprawl of medicine bottles scattered across the floor.

  “I’ll kill you if you touch my daughter again!” Charlie shouted.

  “Are you crazy?” Jeffrey screamed, driving his shoulder hard into Charlie’s chest. “She’s practically dead! You’re keeping her alive, but she’s a vegetable!”

  Charlie punched Jeffrey to the floor, then jumped astraddle his chest and began hammering his face with blows. He hit him again and again, bouncing his head against the floor, bloodying his nose.

  “Stop it!” Claire screamed. “Stop this craziness!” She rushed to Elizabeth’s bedside and eased the blanket up around her daughter’s bared shoulders.

  Her voice halted Charlie’s barrage and allowed Jeffrey to break free. Scrabbling to his feet, he screamed, “You broke my nose, you idiot—”

  “That’s not all I’m going to break if you don’t get out of here!” Charlie answered. “Get out and don’t ever come back, or so help me I’ll—”

  “Oh, I’ll get out,” Jeffrey said mockingly. He turned toward the door with his hand clasped to the rush of blood cascading from his nose. “But take a good look, ‘cause you ain’t never gonna see me or my kids again!”

  “I’m warning you!” Charlie roared.

  Jeffrey hesitated, gave Charlie a look that promised the worst was yet to come, then turned and walked away, kicking aside a stray medicine bottle.

  Claire still hovered over her daughter.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. “Daddy and Jeffrey had words, but that’s all over now so don’t you worry.” She smoothed back a lock of hair that had fallen across Elizabeth’s face.

  Eleven messages waited for Judge Brill when he arrived at the courthouse on Monday morning—five from Jeffrey Caruthers, three from Noreen Sarnoff, two from Dudley Grimm, and one from his sister-in-law, Ida, saying that she and Harold planned to come for a visit. Sam Brill pocketed Ida’s message, then spread the others across his desk. What now? he wondered as he began to dial Dudley’s number.

  “The McDermott family is asking for a restraining order to keep Jeffrey Caruthers away from their daughter,” Dudley explained.

  “Last I heard the man had no interest in even seeing his wife.”

  “Well, apparently that’s changed, because yesterday he stormed into the McDermott house and attacked Elizabeth in her bed.”

  The image of Jack Wallner immediately flared in Sam Brill’s head. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No, but Charles McDermott had to forcibly eject him from their house.”

  “Not good,” the judge mumbled. “Not good.” He said he’d have a conversation with the other side and get back to Dudley.

  Judge Brill called Noreen next. “Counselor, are you aware that the McDermotts want a restraining order against your client?”

  “For what?”

  “They claim he attacked their daughter.”

  “That’s not true, Your Honor. The only thing my client did was try to discover the truth, which to the best of my knowledge is not considered a crime.”

  “During this supposed quest for truth, did he attack his wife?”

  “Attack, no. He did, believing her asleep, give a gentle shake that was intended to simply wake her.”

  “Explain.”

  “David, the eldest of the Caruthers children, complained the grandparents were not allowing him and the other children to see their mother. Every time they came for a visit, they were told she was asleep. My client, understandably concerned about the welfare of his children, went to check it out and discovered his wife, Elizabeth, was in a coma. Naturally, he was upset because he hadn’t been notified.”

  “Did he behave aggressively toward Charles McDermott?”

  “On the contrary, Mister McDermott attacked him!”

  “Elizabeth’s father?” Judge Brill asked with astonishment.

  “Yes! He broke Jeffrey’s nose and—”

  “And I suppose your client also wants a restraining order against the McDermotts?”

  “No. In light of the mother’s current condition, he’s asking the court for relief on the existing visitation order.”

  Judge Brill heaved a sigh. “Have him in my office at three this afternoon, and I’ll listen to arguments.” He hung up, tossed all five of the messages from Jeffrey Caruthers into the wastebasket, and telephoned Dudley Grimm and instructed him to bring the McDermotts at three o’clock.

  Judge Samuel Brill had a full docket and a desk piled high with the folders of people waiting for decisions. He pushed back his chair, closed his eyes and once again remembered Jack Wallner. If only he could trace things back far enough, he might somehow discover where he went wrong.

  Sam Brill was never late, so when he failed to appear his clerk hurried back to chambers and rapped on his door. When she got no answer, she called out his name and eased the door open. He sat behind his desk, his head tipped back as if sound asleep. When she went to wake him, he wasn’t breathing. On his desk lay a brochure depicting the serenity of the Grand Canyon.

  Claire McDermott

  The pain of giving birth is nothing compared to the pain of watching your child die. Birth is a joyous pain that brings promise, but this is a hell worse than anything you could possibly imagine. Some days I can actually feel my heart being cored from my soul and shredded into confetti. I want to scream and cry out, but I don’t. I can’t. I have to stay strong for Elizabeth. So I push back the ache in my heart and listen for the sound of her breathing. I pray that something will change, that the Lord will have mercy on my child.

  I believe Elizabeth hears my voice and understands what I’m saying, so I talk to her all the time. I read aloud for hours on end—magazines, books, and quite often the Bible, Psalms mostly. I tell her I understand this terrible thing she’s going through and try to sound convincing when I say it’s a temporary setback. But I can’t even fathom what it’s like to be trapped inside the prison of your own mind. I worry she might be frightened, and I try to ease her fears by acting as normal as possible. I want to take her in my arms and comfort her as I did when she was a child, but that time has gone.

  We haven’t seen or heard from any of the children since the day Charlie and Jeffrey had the fight. I miss the kids more than words can say. But right now I’ve got to focus on Elizabeth—she’s the one who needs me most.

  I’m tired to the bone, but I seldom sleep. I doze off for a few minutes from time to time, but I always wake startled and anxious to make certain Elizabeth is still okay. I’ve heard her speak words twice. The first time she called for her daddy, and the second time she talked about David. It wasn’t actual conversation, just loose words like the rambling of someone caught up in a dream. That’s partly why I don’t sleep: I’m hoping she’ll call for me, and I want to be there to answer.

  The nurse comes once a day. She monitors Elizabeth’s condition, checks her feeding tube, things like that. She’s generally here less than an hour but during that hour I rush upstairs, shower, and change my clothes. The minute she leaves, I hurry back to sit
beside the bed.

  In situations like this Charlie acts as if he has five thumbs and no fingers. Seeing Elizabeth hurts him as much as it does me. The only way he can cope is to shield his eyes, turn away and not look directly into the bright light of truth. I wish I could tell him what to do, but I myself don’t know. Nobody does. We’re the blind leading the blind, cripples leaning on other cripples, lost souls praying for guidance.

  Visitation Revisited

  In the wake of Judge Brill’s death the case of Caruthers v Caruthers was assigned to the Honorable Margaret Thumper, a newcomer to the bench and a woman determined to prove herself by making quick work of the sizeable caseload dumped on her desk. She zipped through the files of troubled teens and violent spouses, giving little more than a cursory glance at documents that told of malicious behavior patterns and mental instability. Within two weeks of the tragedy, she had begun to hear cases.

  Although given only two days’ notice, both Dudley Grimm and Noreen Sarnoff were informed that Judge Thumper would hear arguments in her chambers at three o’clock sharp on Wednesday. Margaret Thumper was determined not to be tagged “the junior judge,” so to compensate for her youthful appearance she wore her blond hair slicked back in a tight chignon and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She aimed her words like spears, and she had developed her stern demeanor to the point where she could go for days without smiling.

  “Sit,” she said when the two attorneys entered the room. Without looking up she opened the file folder in front of her. “You’ve each got five minutes, so get right to the point and state your case quickly. I’ll hear from the plaintiff’s attorney first.”

  Dudley said, “Your Honor, this request for a restraining order against Jeffrey Caruthers is entered on behalf of my client, Elizabeth Caruthers, and the parents with whom she currently resides. On April nineteenth, Jeffrey Caruthers physically attacked his wife while she was lying in a sickbed. Based on this behavior, we ask that the court prohibit him from entering the McDermott house when he delivers the children for their weekly visit.”

  Dudley glanced at his watch and began to speak faster. “We are also asking for sanctions against Mister Caruthers, because for the past three weeks he has failed to present the three minor children for their court-ordered visitation. And this is the third time we have had to take Mister Caruthers back to court because of failure to abide by the specified visitation orders.”

  “Rebuttal?” Judge Thumper said, glancing at Noreen.

  “Yes, of course,” Noreen answered quickly. “In response to the first complaint, my client did not attack his wife. He saw her in bed, believed her to be asleep, and used a gentle shake to wake her. Unfortunately, Elizabeth Caruthers was in a coma. My client had no knowledge of her condition when he approached her. I find it ludicrous that the plaintiff should be requesting a restraining order since it was Mister McDermott who attacked Jeffrey Caruthers. He suffered a broken nose and needed six stitches to close the gash in his chin!”

  “Two minutes,” the judge said, again checking her watch.

  Noreen began to speak more rapidly. “The reason Jeffrey Caruthers has not delivered his children for visitation is because he believes it not in their best interest to see their mother in such a deplorable condition. The visitation ordered by Judge Brill applied only to the mother. It explicitly excluded the grandparents since they have no custodial rights in the state of New Jersey.”

  Margaret Thumper tapped the face of her watch and Noreen ceased talking. The judge looked at Dudley, “At the time of the alleged attack, was Elizabeth Caruthers comatose?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Is she still comatose?

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Has the husband made any further attempts to approach or harass his wife or her parents?”

  “Well, he hasn’t been bringing the children—”

  “No long-winded explanations, just yes or no.”

  “No.”

  The judge turned to Noreen. “Is your client requesting anything other than relief of the visitation order previously issued by the court?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Very well, petition granted.” She turned to Dudley. “I’m giving you the restraining order you requested but denying sanctions against the defendant. And I suggest that you don’t waste the court’s time with any further motions for visitation.”

  “But, Your Honor,” Dudley stuttered. “There is a distinct possibility my client will come out of this coma, and if she—”

  “How long has she been comatose, Counselor?”

  “About seven weeks, but she shows signs of—”

  “If she snaps out of it, you can re-file.” With that Margaret Thumper stood.

  A stunned Dudley Grimm walked slowly down the hall while Noreen hurried to call her client with the good news.

  The Long Hot Summer

  Summer came early that year with a blast of heat that sent people in search of air conditioners and oscillating fans. Claire pushed back the curtains and opened the windows in Elizabeth’s room hoping to catch a cross breeze. In the fourth week of June the air hung hot and heavy as an August day.

  Claire lifted her daughter’s head and slid a fresh, cool pillow beneath it. Elizabeth’s face and hair were damp, her eyelids fluttering.

  It’s this heat, Claire reasoned, as she folded back the sheet and the lightweight blanket. She telephoned Charlie and asked him to bring home an industrial-sized fan so they could get the air in the room circulating. Afterwards she went into the kitchen and returned with a large bowl of ice water and a soft square of terrycloth. She dipped the cloth in water, twisted it lightly to remove the falling droplets, then ran the cloth across her daughter’s face, neck, and arms. Elizabeth’s skin grew cool and comfortable to the touch.

  “Doesn’t this feel refreshing?” Claire asked rhetorically, using the same gentle tone she’d used for nearly two months. “With the weather as hot as it’s been, there’s little else we can do to keep cool. Daddy is going to bring home…”

  She continued for hours with a steady stream of conversation to accompany the gentle sponge bath. Each time the ice melted, Claire went back for another bowl. Eventually Elizabeth seemed to settle into a more restful sleep.

  That night Charlie stood a huge fan in the corner of the room, stretched an extension cord across the room, and turned it on. “How’s that?” he asked.

  “Better,” Claire answered, grateful for the darkness that cooled the room to a tolerable level.

  When the sun rose the next morning, the heat was worse and the humidity so thick a person could feel it crawling across their skin. Claire had fallen asleep on the day bed, but when she woke Elizabeth seemed more restless than the previous day. Her fingers twitched from time to time, and she jerked her head from side to side. Claire felt her brow, which was clammy and damp with perspiration.

  She adjusted the fan so that it moved a flow of air across the room but did not blow directly on the bed, and then she went for another bowl of ice water.

  Throughout the long hot day Claire continued to wipe her daughter’s skin with icy cold cloths. When night came she continued until the air cooled to where a person could breathe comfortably. After she emptied the last bowl of water, she stretched out on the daybed.

  When a person’s soul is as weary as their body, sleep overtakes them—so Claire slept. And she dreamt. In her dream a little Elizabeth ran, played, called out to her…

  “Mother?” The voice sounded weak and far away. “Mother?”

  Claire jumped to her feet, startled.

  Elizabeth’s eyes were open. “Mother?”

  “You’re awake!” Claire gasped, folding her daughter into a joyous embrace. “Thank you, Lord,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes darted about, and she looked confused. “Where’s—”

  “I know it’s a bit bewildering,” Claire said, tracing her hand along the contour of El
izabeth’s face. “You’ve been asleep a long time.”

  “Oh.” Elizabeth closed her eyes again and drifted off to sleep.

  Claire watched and waited for her daughter to wake but she slept silently through the day, through the night, and through two more days. Claire continued the sponge baths, crediting them with the miracle. On the fourth day Elizabeth again opened her eyes, slowly, sleepily, and for less than a minute.

  Claire felt certain Elizabeth would soon regain consciousness, so she filled the room with bright, colorful flowers. “I want Liz to see something pretty when she opens her eyes,” she told Charlie and reminded him that once Elizabeth could sit up they would need to have Dudley file a new petition for the children’s visitation.

  Charlie said, “I think you’re being overly optimistic.” He knew the truth. The first time Liz opened her eyes and spoke a few words he’d been every bit as excited as Claire, but then he’d spoken with the doctor. He spoke with Doctor Sorenson once a week, sometimes more often.

  “Elizabeth is wavering on the shallower edge of a comatose state,” Doctor Sorenson had explained. “It’s not at all uncommon for a patient in that state to drift in and out of consciousness. It can happen any number of times. Enjoy it for what it is—a few extra moments of time with your daughter. Believe me, it is not a harbinger of what is to come.”

  Consciousness came and went throughout the sweltering summer. Elizabeth opened her eyes dozens of times, although seldom for more than a minute or two. She spoke a few words here and there, generally slurred and confused in thought. Nonetheless, Claire’s spirits soared, and she continued to feel encouraged. Confident the icy sponge baths had caused the improvement, she insisted Charlie replace the large fan with an air conditioner that kept the room as cold as the inside of a refrigerator.

  “I’m certain it’s helping Liz,” she said, bundling herself in an alpaca sweater.

  On the last Sunday of August Elizabeth’s eyelids fluttered as Charlie bent to kiss his daughter good morning; Claire said, “Say good morning to Daddy.”