Is she okay? Will she greet me with a smile? Will she be awake? In surgery? Alive?
I tried to ignore the racing morbid thoughts and shoved them deep inside. It didn’t pay to think like that. Everything would be okay.
Grandpa’s brow furrowed as he concentrated on the impossible drive. We rounded a sharp corner and a large figure loomed in the road. Grandpa slammed on the brakes. I braced myself against the dashboard and the car swung fishtailed wildly through the mud.
Finally, the car stopped. Breathing hard, I turned to face a young moose whose nostrils were level with my eyes. The car had slid sideways, placing it perpendicular to the direction of travel and putting my window inches from the animal’s muzzle.
A rivulet of rain drizzled down his snout and dripped in a constant stream from his large, fuzzy lips. He lowered his head, looked with confusion into the car, then swung away from us and lumbered into the woods.
After several tries, Grandpa straightened the car and continued on, more slowly now. By the time we reached Waterville, beads of sweat were rolling down his face. He’d been silent since the moose incident, forcing himself to concentrate on the drive.
We stopped at a red light on Washington Street. Several people were out on the road, running beneath folded newspapers or wearing rain gear.
A man in a dark green slicker jabbed at the walk button on the pole. A hood shielded his face from our view. Aggravated, he began to cross the street just as the light turned green. Grandpa hadn’t seen him and accelerated.
“Watch out!” I shouted.
The car jerked when Grandpa stomped on the brakes, swearing under his breath. The man in the raincoat slammed his hands onto the hood of the old Buick, glaring angrily as he backed up onto the sidewalk. We eased forward again.
As we passed him, we exchanged looks of surprise. It was Frank Adamski.
My mouth dropped open in stunned silence. The car moved forward. I spun around to be sure it was him, and found him grinning cruelly, drawing his forefinger across his throat in an unspoken threat. An electric shock ran through me. Memories of the cabin, the fire, and the smell of him hit me hard. I took a deep breath and looked back. He’d disappeared in the rain.
“Damned lunatic!” spat Grandpa, turning down the road toward the hospital.
I sat back in my seat, shaking. Clasping both hands to keep them still, I sat without speaking, digesting the fact that my intended killer was still in the neighborhood. I glanced at the troubled face of my grandfather and decided to tell him later.
Chapter 46
The hospital parking lot was jammed. A parking attendant in an orange slicker held up his hands to stop us. My grandfather rolled down his window.
Wind and rain snatched the words out of the attendant’s mouth. “...pileup up on Route 95— Twenty-one people hurt. You’ll have to park up the road a ways.”
I looked at the long line of parked cars spanning the roadway, wondering how far we’d have to walk. An ambulance careened past us, red lights flashing as it headed back up to the highway to pick up the next victim.
“Can the boy get out here?” shouted Grandpa through the rain, gesturing toward me.
The attendant grimaced, but soon gave in, pointing to a parking spot near the entrance. Grandpa backed around and pulled up to the door.
I looked at him nervously.
“Go ahead, sport, don’t be afraid. I’ll meet you in the Emergency Room as soon as I park the car.”
I hesitated, then opened the door. Bracing myself, I pushed out into the wet night and ran across the sidewalk to the glass doors for the Emergency Room. Although I remembered very little from my episode after the fire, I’d been in the ER last summer when my father slipped on a wet tree root and twisted his ankle. I was familiar with the layout. I knew how to get to the waiting area, the rest rooms, and the vending machines. I had gobbled two Almond Joy bars and downed several bottles of Coke that day while we waited hours for the orthopedic surgeon to examine my father’s X-rays.
The admitting area was mobbed. I froze, searching their bloodied faces. Fear welled in my throat. My stomach flipped as I stared at the number of injured people standing in line or sitting on chairs, holding towels or bandages to their wounds. A child ran past, screaming for his mother. He darted in and out of the crowd, then disappeared.
I felt a connection with the little boy and had to control an insane urge to scream out for my own mother. I fell back against the wall and tried to get my bearings. Suddenly, a hand touched my arm. I looked into the shocked face of my father.
“Gus? Oh my goodness. What are you doing here, son?” He pulled me out of the chaotic room and brought me to the far end of the waiting room. When we’d reached a quiet spot, he pulled me to him and held me for a long, long time.
“Dad?” I mumbled into his shirt, aching for news of my mother.
He led me to a row of hard plastic seats and we sat down, facing each other. He continued to hold my hands, gazing at me with an expression of doleful sadness. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face gray and gaunt.
Fear rumbled in my belly.
Why isn’t he talking? What’s he hiding?
Finally, he swallowed hard and began to speak in a halting soft voice. “Son? I’m afraid I have bad news.”
I stared at him, mouth working in anticipation of the terrible news he was about to reveal.
“We lost...” His voice tightened and faltered. He turned his head away, rubbing at the tears trickling along his cheeks.
My world turned upside down as I mentally finished his sentence. He’s trying to tell me we lost my mother. My mother’s dead. My mother’s gone.
My face twisted. “Mum? We lost Mum?”
His dark eyes widened. “What?”
I began to sob. My shoulders shook and tears poured down my cheeks.
He bolted upright. “No! No. Your mother is fine. We lost the baby, son. We lost our baby.”
I stopped and stared at him in disbelief. My chest heaved. “What? Mum’s okay?” I suddenly laughed hysterically as my emotions switched instantly from despair to relief. Tears continued to flood my cheeks and my whole body shook under the weight of the tumult. I was sick with relief, but saddened by the loss of my little brother or sister. My father’s expression troubled me further when I realized how deeply losing the baby had affected him.
“Yes, son. She’ll be fine. I guess the baby just wasn’t meant to be.”
His voice caught in his throat. Feeling confused by my raging flood of emotions, I threw my arms around his neck. “I’m so sorry, Dad. I’m really sorry.”
Chapter 47
I woke at six o’clock Friday morning in my grandparents’ cabin, where it was decided I’d sleep while my mother was in the hospital. Stretching, I stared bleary-eyed at Shadow, a warm lump on my feet, and at the unfamiliar patterns on the knotty pine walls.
Then I remembered.
My mother. The hospital. The baby brother or sister who was “not meant to be.”
“Not meant to be?” Why would God give a baby like that and then take it away?
I was confused and saddened, and I felt terribly guilty about my previous uncharitable thoughts of sibling resentment.
I dressed quickly and ran down the porch steps to the dining room and into the kitchen. For the past few days, my grandparents had spoken with a comforting sense of normalcy, grounding me with everyday topics and giving me chores to keep busy. My grandfather was already at the stove, stirring oatmeal in a big pot, preparing it ahead for the guests who would arrive for breakfast soon.
My grandmother was folding napkins at the table. She motioned for me to sit, then walked to the stove to get a covered plate from the oven. “Here you go, honey. I made ‘em special for you. Eat up. You’ll need your strength today. You want to get your cabin ship shape for your mother, don’t you?”
“You bet. Thanks, Gram.” My smile faltered, but I managed not to gag. Poached eggs weren’t my favorite. I hated the gooey par
ts, but got through it by dunking my toast in the sloppy yolk and trying not to look before I took a bite. Orange juice worked well to wash it down.
I dawdled for a while, finally finished, then was excused from the morning chores so I could prepare for my mother’s homecoming.
“Watch for us sometime around noon,” my father had said. “She should be released as soon as the doctor examines her. But there is always lots of paperwork to fill out, so I can’t be sure when we’ll actually get home.”
He’d been at her side since the day she was admitted. My grandparents had ferried clothes and personal items back and forth to the hospital for several days.
I ran down the hill and got to work, sweeping the Wee Castle deck for the first half hour. Not one pine needle remained. I viewed it proudly while Shadow snoozed on the top step, but was discouraged when I realized how much time I had to kill. It was only seven-thirty.
After putting away the dishes that had been sitting in the drying rack for the past several days, I took another tour around the cabin, adjusting a crooked lampshade and straightening the rug in the living room. By eight the tension of waiting was unbearable.
Four hours to go. At least.
The bathroom occupied my time for the next hour. With my mother’s big rubber gloves, I scoured the toilet and sink and even polished the steel drain pipe beneath the sink so it shone. I swept the floor, mopped it, and brought the stepladder to reach the cobwebs that had started to form in the ceiling corners. A few daddy long legs escaped my broom and scurried away through invisible cracks between the floor and ceiling.
When I finished, I poured myself a tall glass of cherry Kool Aid and sat at the kitchen table, feeling lonely. I moved to the porch and sat next to Shadow. He woke, lapped my hand, then returned to his doggy dreams. The lake was glassy and calm. I stared for a while, watching fisherman troll past the docks.
A mockingbird settled into the balsam tree beside the porch and began to deliver the most amazing repertoire of songs. I recognized most of his calls: the black-capped chickadee, red-winged blackbird, mourning dove, cardinal, goldfinch, killdeer, and meadowlark. There were a few more that sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place them.
Scenes from “To Kill A Mockingbird” flashed before me, with Scout, Jem, and Dill racing through the garden at night, Jem’s pants getting caught on the fence, Calpurnia chastising Scout when she was rude to her young guest after he poured maple syrup over his dinner, and the look on Tom Robinson’s face when Mayella Ewell accused him of accosting her. I thought about the evil that spread through that little town, the mob of men who wanted to lynch poor Tom Robinson, and the bravery Atticus Finch showed in the face of their evil.
He reminded me of my father. Quiet. Principled. Full of wisdom and integrity. I hoped that someday I would be a good man, like him.
I watched the bird sing his heart out and wondered if he had a song of his own. Who in their right mind would want to kill a mockingbird, anyway?
The bird entertained me for another ten minutes before flying away. Finally, I drained the glass of Kool Aid and went back inside.
My parents’ bedroom had been scoured by two of the cabin girls. It now smelled of fresh linen and faintly of ammonia. The curtains billowed in the window, lying to me, telling me that none of this had happened. My mother didn’t lose the baby. There had been no blood on this bed, this floor.
I shook myself, then smoothed out the wrinkles on the bedspread one more time and looked around the room. The clock on the nightstand ticked. The curtains blew some more, playing in the sunlight. The loons’ tremolo wafted on the breeze into the house.
I looked at my watch.
Only eight-thirty.
A brainstorm hit. Flowers! She loves flowers.
Running around the camp, I spent a long time looking for clumps of orange tiger lilies, white daisies, Queen Anne’s lace, buttercups, and ferns. Unsure what to put them in, I finally chose a chipped white enamel pitcher and filled it halfway with water.
I spent a long time trying to arrange the stems like my mother did. Whenever she was done, her wildflowers looked like a painting, neat, tidy, and artistically arranged.
Mine looked like a two-year-old had stuffed them into the container.
I sighed and looked at the clock again. Not even eleven.
Resigned to make time fly, I opened up the utility closet and took out the broom again. It couldn’t hurt to sweep the cabin one more time.
The rest of the day was torture. Lunch came and went. The twins were conspicuously absent. I suspected that their father insisted they stay away, knowing my mother was due home today.
Mrs. Jones rocked on her porch and waved to me a few times. She seemed sadder today. It was something to do with the way she rocked and stopped, rocked and stopped.
My heart went out to her. Although I was tempted to visit her, I didn’t want to impose without an invitation and also wanted to stick close to Wee Castle.
When they hadn’t showed by two o’clock, I gave Shadow a much-needed bath in a tin tub behind the cabin. He smelled like he’d rolled in something rotten, so I soaped him up well and rinsed him clean. Afterwards, I groomed him with a soft brush and put some of my father’s hair tonic on him. It seemed to do the trick.
Finally, when I could think of nothing else to do, I picked up my comic books and read them. Superman. Little Lotta. Richie Rich. Five times each. I tried to read my father’s mystery, but the words were too hard and I gave up after a few chapters.
Frustrated, I cleaned off the refrigerator one more time, swiping the white metal surface with a moistened dishrag.
By four-thirty that the afternoon I was about to accept the fact that my mother would never come home when the Oldsmobile rumbled into the parking area at the top of the hill.
I ran as fast as I could to greet them.
With some difficulty, my mother emerged from the back seat and leaned on my father until she got her balance. She saw me, beckoned, and hugged me tightly until my father broke it up and insisted that she get indoors to rest. I shadowed her until she dropped into bed at just after six.
∞∞∞
Early the next morning, I leaned over to pluck another flower from the patch growing next to the steps. The wildflowers had begun to wilt, and I wanted to freshen up the bouquet before my mother woke.
Tall, fuzzy stems rose three feet, exploding in sunny yellow flowers that bloomed all summer. My grandmother called them Helianthus, or false sunflowers. I’d thought of them as the helicopter flowers for years. I gathered the flowers and brought them into the kitchen, pulled out the wilted flowers from the old bunch, and added the Helianthus.
Afterwards, I went over to listen at my parents’ door again. A soft stirring came from within.
She’s up.
The door opened slowly. She had brushed her hair and put on one of my father’s flannel shirts. Lumberjack snoring came from behind the bedroom door, signaling that he was still asleep.
“How’s my boy today?” she whispered, leaning down to give me a gentle hug.
“I’m okay,” I said. “How are you?”
She smoothed my hair and looked into my eyes. Her color had improved. “I’ll be good as new in a few days, honey.” With a chuckle, she took a second look at my hair. “Oh my goodness, you really need a haircut.” She tugged playfully at my hair, and then noticed the flowers on the table. “Gustave, oh my goodness. Did you pick those?”
“Yup.” I nodded, grinning up at her. She hadn’t noticed them yesterday, she’d been in such a fog.
My father had said it was due to the medicine. She’d slept for almost twelve hours.
“They’re just beautiful, honey. Thank you.” She hugged me again and then headed for the stove, reaching for a fry pan.
“What’ll it be, son, pancakes or eggs?”
I looked up in surprise. “Really? Are you up to it, Mum?”
She walked to the Frigidaire and opened the door, looking inside. “Yes, ho
ney. I’m up to it, now don’t you worry about me any more, okay?”
I walked over to the cabinet and reached for the flour. “Okay, pancakes, then. Can I help?”
She looked at me as if she didn’t recognize me for a moment, then answered. “Sure you can, sweetheart. Why don’t you get the milk out of the fridge for me?”
I basked in the presence of my mother. I’d almost lost her, and had faced the horrible fact of her mortality. The nagging thoughts creeping around in my brain were upsetting. If I could lose her, I could lose Dad, too. My insides twisted when I remembered the horrible pain of that one moment when I misunderstood my father’s statement. “We’ve lost—”
I stirred the batter harder and swallowed, wanting so badly to tell her everything.
She sprinkled a few drops of water into the cast iron skillet. They sizzled and popped.
It was ready.
She cupped my chin in her hand, lifting my face to hers. “Honey? Are you okay?”
Tears welled in the corners of my eyes. She knew me so well, even better than Siegfried and Elsbeth. I choked out the words. “Yeah, Mum. I’m okay. I’m just so glad you’re home.” I threw my arms around her waist and hugged her, pouring out my deepest feelings as she soothed my fears. I felt five years old again, but didn’t care. Finally, the smoking skillet drew us back into the here and now. I wiped my eyes and we resumed the enjoyable task of making breakfast together.
Chapter 48
Four pleasant days passed. The twins and I caught crayfish, dug worms, swept the decks, and helped William with chores. We watched in awe as he completed his model. The metallic green paint was astonishingly beautiful. I ached with envy when he finished, displaying it on his shelf in the bunkroom.
I visited Mrs. Jones and Ivanhoe several times, enjoying the attention and delighting in stories about the President’s childhood antics. Although I knew she was really Mrs. Kennedy, I found it easy to think of her as Mrs. Jones. I enjoyed the clandestine nature of our relationship. Her guards relaxed a little, or seemed to. They even joked with me as I came and went.
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