“I’ll get us where we’re going!” Baby said. “I can be the guide.” He pulled his plastic compass from his pocket.
“That’s all we need?” I asked. The needle wiggled in the middle but I wasn’t sure it worked.
“I got this, too!”He grinned and handed me a rumpled sheet of paper. It was the number for St. Mary’s, plus the word Miss Addie had written down that night we carried up her cake. Enceph—— I hadn’t seen it since I took it from her trailer.
“Where’d you get that, Baby?” I asked.
“I found it on the floor,” he said. “After you took it from Miss Addie. I’ve kept it for my evidence. So we could find Old Finn.”
“Oh, Baby, you’re just brilliant!” Nightingale cheered. Somehow Baby’s plans always made her happier than mine. No one ever told me I was brilliant. She took the paper from his hand, moved her finger slowly past the letters. The word was long; I could never say it, but Nightingale had the patience to sound her way through syllables. “In-seff-a-light-us.”
“What’s that?” Baby asked.
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “It’s just a word Miss Addie scribbled down.”
• • •
The minute we saw the wide, black stretch of water out the dirty window, we knew that we were almost to Duluth. Baby pressed his nose against the glass. “It’s Superior,” he said. I thought about the first time Old Finn showed us that great lake, how he’d wanted us to memorize all five—Superior and Michigan and Huron, plus a couple others whose names just didn’t stick. That first day Lake Superior made me think of California and the ocean Mama took us to once when we were small. I remembered asking Old Finn if Lake Superior went all the way to California and Old Finn saying no. Then his asking if we’d ever had geography. And afterward he bought that boring book Your Land and made us study colored maps of North America, and later on the world.
I still hated geography, but I knew now we were far from California. And Duluth was a city in northern Minnesota. And somewhere in this city, I would finally find Old Finn. Tell him that I loved him. Maybe I didn’t know Ecuador or the equator or how to say Old Finn’s infection, but I knew all I needed to get the three of us this far.
42
SOMETIMES YOU’RE
JUST WRONG
It was a long walk to St. Mary’s, but nothing like the miles we’d had this morning before Bernice drove us into town. And every step was easier knowing we were closer to Old Finn. People helped us out along the way, pointed out the streets. I took the job of asking for directions, Nightingale listened, and Baby led the expedition with Nightingale keeping us on track.
Even in the summer a cold lake breeze blew between the buildings, whipped my hair into a wild ball of frizz. By the time we’d made it to St. Mary’s and stepped into the lobby, all my morning looking good was gone. “Michael Finnegan?” I asked at the front desk.
Compared to St. John’s Hospital in Goodwell, St. Mary’s Hospital was huge. No wonder they had special doctors here to help. I licked my thumb and scrubbed dried oatmeal from Baby’s cheerful cheeks, made sure Nightingale’s feet were still in shoes. I tried to picture the surprise on Old Finn’s face, how shocked he’d be when we told him we’d made it in alone, with hardly any help. Self-reliant, just the way he taught.
“Three-oh-three.” The woman pointed toward the elevator. I was glad she wasn’t another pretty girl like Suzy, another model-girl to mock the mess that I looked now. “Ask at the front desk.”
I wished we could just see Old Finn instead. I didn’t want another desk nurse asking questions about Mama, and I couldn’t tell another lie, not with Nightingale right here, standing watch. I just wanted to rush into Old Finn’s room, give him a big kiss, find out what he thought should happen next. Where he kept the money for electricity and groceries. What we ought to say to stay steer clear of the county. How long before he’d be home with us again.
“Maybe I should do the talking,” I said just before the elevator stopped. “You better leave it up to me.”
“You?” Nightingale folded her arms over her chest, stuck her chin up in the air the way she did when she was mad. “You can’t be the only one talking to Old Finn. You’re not the boss here, Pride.”
“I’m talking to Old Finn!” Baby firmed his hands against his hips.
“I know,” I said. “I just mean I ought to be the one to answer questions. And maybe tell Old Finn the things he missed. ’Cause we shouldn’t mention Nash or Sage. Or the travel magazine. Or the business that we’re running. Or any of the things Old Finn wouldn’t like.”
“Or all your lies,” Nightingale added like she saw straight into my mind.
“Or those,” I said. “Not while he’s getting well.”
“We won’t,” she snapped. “We know what we shouldn’t mention.”
“Yes, we do!” Baby stuck out his lower lip. I didn’t want them mad at me before we saw Old Finn. We’d come this far together; I didn’t know why they were fighting with me now.
“No one ever tells you, Pride,” Nightingale said, making that ever sound accusing. “It’s always you giving out directions. Stepping in as boss. And sometimes you’re just wrong.”
“You get to be the teacher. You take charge of our lessons.” I waited for Nightingale to soften but she wouldn’t. “You do. And I let you. I just want a happy visit with Old Finn.”
“Me, too.” Nightingale stiffened back her shoulders. “And I’m smart enough to know what can’t be said.”
• • •
The desk nurse said to wait there in the lounge, just beside the elevator doors until the orderly returned Old Finn from OT. “I’ll have Henri bring him in just as soon as therapy is finished.” I didn’t understand OT or orderly, but I couldn’t wait to see Old Finn again.
In the small side lounge beside the elevator, we crowded on a bench next to a coffee cart with extra packets of Swiss Miss and Lipton tea. “You want some cocoa?” I asked Nightingale and Baby, but neither of them said a single word. I poured Old Finn a cup of steamy coffee, dumped in streams of sugar the way he liked at home. Then I pulled the cookies from my knapsack, arranged them nicely on a napkin so I could serve Old Finn a snack. There were plenty there for Nightingale and Baby, but none of us would eat without Old Finn.
Nightingale walked over to the corner, turned the television down so Old Finn wouldn’t have to hear it; Old Finn could never stand the sound of a TV. It’s why he never lingered long in Miss Addie’s little trailer.
“I know why it’s historic,” Nightingale announced in her too-smart teacher voice. “Today. I know why Bernice told us today would be historic.”
“Why?” I said to be polite, but I didn’t care. All that I could think of was Old Finn.
“Nixon is resigning,” Nightingale said. “Tonight. Which means he won’t be president. And I want to be the one to tell Old Finn.”
“Okay,” I said. “You tell him that. That ought to make him happy.”
“What can I tell?” Baby moped.
“I know!” I said. “Tell him that you got your stitches out!”
“That isn’t hysteric.” Baby kicked his cowboy boots together, back and forth just to make new noise.
“Historic,” Nightingale corrected. “And it is, Baby. Historic can be anything that happened and has passed. It doesn’t have to be a president resigning. Your stitches are historic. And our trip into Duluth.”
“So would my birthday be historic?” Baby grinned. “Because that was back in March?”
“Yes.” Nightingale smiled; she loved to teach a lesson. “Your birthday would be historic, too.”
“But Old Finn knows about your birthday,” I corrected Baby.
“I’m just teaching him historic,” Nightingale said. “It means more than what we’re telling to Old Finn.”
The
two of them kept up with their list—Baby asking if this or that could be historic, Nightingale mostly saying yes. I didn’t join in or take my place as Nightingale’s student. It was one thing to do her lesson on Alaska, but I was tired of Nightingale trying to tell me how every little thing worked in the world.
43
SLOW, BUT SURE
All three of us were staring at the elevator the second those doors opened and Old Finn was wheeled out. Old Finn slumped sideways in a wheelchair, his strong head drooped low to his shoulder, his mouth half hanging open so we all could see inside. His thick pink tongue draped over his dry lip as if Old Finn were just too lazy to close his mouth up proper. It was Old Finn in that chair and still it wasn’t. His bleary eyes just stared like he wasn’t even certain who we were. He tried to lift one hand in a weak wave, but the other rested like a dead fish in his lap.
“Old Finn,” I creaked, if any words made it out my mouth.
“Old Finn!” Baby shouted like that strange tongue didn’t matter. He rushed across the lounge to offer the first hug. Nightingale followed stiffly, but she didn’t say a word. I looked up at the ceiling, blinked my tears back quickly before they made it to my cheeks. I’d learned in the shelter to keep my tears inside. A couple hot tears fell, but I knew Old Finn didn’t see them. I walked over toward his chair, pinched my cheeks, swallowed down my sadness. “It’s Pride,” I whispered near his ear in case he wasn’t sure. I waited for an answer, but he didn’t even give a nod.
The three of us stood there in a huddle with Old Finn slouched down in the middle, too weak to wrap his big arms around his kids.
“Someone sure is loved!” the orderly said kindly. Henri. He had a giant Afro and an accent that made me think of Grace, the best bread baker at Serenity, who’d grown up in Jamaica. Henri set his hand on Old Finn’s shoulder like the two of them were friends. “These must be your grandkids.”
Old Finn lifted up his hand again, moved it back and forth like he was trying to write. “Hold on,” Henri said. “I’ll get your pad and paper.” He reached behind his chair, pulled a clipboard from a bag with a fat blue pencil connected by a string. The kind of learner pencil Old Finn used to teach Baby how to print. “Until he gets his speech,” Henri said, “Michael first will write. Whatever sounds he can. Right now, he only has a couple letters, but he tries. We like to see him try.”
“A couple letters?” Baby said, confused.
Old Finn reached for the pencil, made a fist around it the way a child would, drew a line down on the paper, then let the pencil drop.
“We brought a snack,” I said slowly to Old Finn. My heart sank to my stomach. Old Finn couldn’t hold a pencil, couldn’t walk or talk; he wasn’t going to tell me what to do, how to take care of our family, get more money to buy groceries. He wasn’t the great bear who saved us from the shelter; he couldn’t save us from a shelter now. “I baked your favorite cookies. Oatmeal with extra chocolate chips.” I pointed toward the napkin on the table. “And there’s coffee with all those heaps of sugar like you like.”
“I’m sure you want those cookies,” Henri said, like he was cheering up Old Finn. “You’re a lucky man, Michael. You got some real nice children here.” Henri didn’t even ask us about Mama; he just rolled Old Finn up to the table, locked two metal brakes so the wheels would stay put. “You help your grandpa with the cookie,” he said to me like I was old enough to do his job. “Most everything’s a lesson for him now. And be careful with that coffee so he doesn’t get a hot splash in his lap. Everything for him is slow, but sure.”
Old Finn gave a weary nod. I could tell Henri’s lessons weren’t the kind Old Finn wanted to learn. Same way I felt about geometry. And fractions. And decimals and adverbs. And Old Finn didn’t like the sound of slow, but sure.
Henri crouched close to Old Finn and smiled at him warmly. It seemed strange to see a man so tender with Old Finn. Or anyone. Old Finn was always fending for himself. “You remember, Michael, slow, but sure. And don’t get down with the troubles. You’ve got your helpers here.” Henri gave a quick pat to Old Finn’s calf, straightened one loose spongy slipper.
I’d never seen Old Finn wear slippers—just baggy wool socks in the winter, boots outdoors all year round. We should have brought his flannel pajama pants from home, his hooded breakfast sweatshirt. Cabin clothes like Old Finn liked. He wouldn’t get strong dressed in cotton sick clothes—like the horrible patient smocks we sometimes had to wear at Dr. Clark’s.
“You’ll be okay?” Henri asked him.
“I’ll take care of Old Finn,” Baby said, bouncing up on his boot toes.
“Good man.” Henri winked. “You can help him with his ABCs. Telling time. Counting. But best of all is love. Good love goes a long way toward getting well.” He put Old Finn’s clipboard back into the chair pouch. “Isn’t that right, Michael. We men all need good love.”
“ABCs?” Nightingale said, like she was angry. “He knows his ABCs.”
“Sure.” Henri nodded. “But some things he’s going to have to learn again.”
Henri smiled at me, like he hoped I was old enough to understand Old Finn needed help. Old Finn’s lessons would be long; I saw it in his eyes. Not just addition and subtraction, but getting Old Finn back to who he used to be. Doing ordinary things—but none of it seemed ordinary now. “Michael doesn’t have much more than ten minutes; after that we’re on the dance card down at Speech.”
“Ten minutes?” I nearly shrieked. “Ten minutes? But we came to spend the day.”
“Oh no,” Henri said. “All day isn’t possible. Your grandpa has his therapy. Therapy and rest. Lots and lots to learn. But you come back tomorrow; give him love again. After dinner would be better. His work is done by then.”
I couldn’t believe Old Finn just sat there silent. Here we were from Goodwell and Henri was making us head home. Old Finn hadn’t seen us once since he’d been sick. If he could speak, he wouldn’t let Henri be the boss. But all his words were trapped inside his brain. In all my worries of today, I’d never pictured Old Finn so beaten down or small, weaker than Miss Addie.
“Is this in-seff-?” Nightingale started. “In-seff-a- . . . ?”
Baby took the paper from his pocket and handed it to Henri.
“Encephalitis.” Henri nodded. It sounded like an insect or a disease an elephant would have. He showed it to Old Finn. “I believe that’s right. And he’s just fresh from the fever. So Michael’s starting new.”
Old Finn drooped a tired nod like encephalitis was correct.
“But what exactly does that mean?” Nightingale said. “What’s encephalitis? And when will he come home?”
“Ah, well.” Henri gave the slip of paper back to Baby. “I’m just here as an orderly. But I can tell you your grandpa’s going to need a lot of help to get back home.”
“But we can teach him all those things,” I said. “How to walk and talk and read. Tell time. Nightingale can do his lessons. I’ll help him carve his birds.” I said it clear and strong like I believed it, but deep down it wasn’t in my heart. I didn’t know how I’d help a giant like Old Finn learn how to walk. Or how I’d make a word come out of his mouth. Or teach him how to tuck his tongue back behind his teeth where it belonged. All this time of learning self-reliance and I didn’t have the gifts to save Old Finn.
“So, ten minutes then,” Henri said as if he hadn’t heard me. I hoped he wasn’t counting the time we’d wasted talking. “Ten minutes. Then I come back for Michael.”
Old Finn didn’t want the coffee or the cookies; he didn’t even seem to wonder how we made it to Duluth all by ourselves. Or what we did for money. Or if the county had come to put us in a shelter or farm us out to fosters. He just sat there staring, shaking his droopy hangdog head like he was sad, lifting the fingers on one hand like it was his only way to talk.
Finally Baby laid his he
ad on Old Finn’s leg, close enough for Old Finn to rub his one good hand on Baby’s bristles. “I got my stitches out.” Baby lifted up his face and pointed to the pink path on his chin. “And now Pride has to smear cream on me so I don’t get a scar.”
“Neosporin,” I said, but I didn’t add the part about Dr. Madden’s questions or the social-someone coming to our house.
“Nixon is resigning,” Nightingale said. Old Finn snorted out a sniff of air, nodded. He knew what she was saying; I could see it in his face. He blinked a sad, slow blink. Then he finally moved his lips to form a word. “G . . . ,” he moaned, the g sound hard and slow. “G—d.”
“Good?” Nightingale guessed.
“Good,” he said again and it was clear. And then he added, “Rid.”
“Good riddance!” Nightingale clapped like she’d just won another round of Twenty Questions. “Good riddance, Richard Nixon!” she said proudly. I wished it had been me to make that guess.
Old Finn tried to force a smile, but the right side of his upper lip just barely lifted. Still, it was the first I thought he could be Old Finn again. Good riddance was exactly what he’d say if he were well.
I put a straw into his coffee and held it to his lips, waited patient while he took a couple sucks. Then I held the cookie to his mouth and let him nibble bit by bit. “We’ve done fine,” I said so Old Finn wouldn’t have to struggle through another sound. It was too hard for me to wait for his couple words to come—all that wondering what he’d say, when he could only make a moan. “Miss Addie, too. We’re all right there at Eden where you left us, waiting like you said, and everything is good. Woody Guthrie’s standing guard. I’m taking care of Atticus and Scout. Nightingale’s teaching lessons.”
“Good,” Old Finn moaned again. A look of sad confusion washed over his lost face, like maybe he’d forgotten he sent us to the trailer or told us to stay put until he came home from St. John’s.
Keeping Safe the Stars (9781101591215) Page 15
