Dolores boiled water in a battered kettle one of the girls had given her years earlier for a Christmas present. She made herself a cup of Lipton tea. She bobbed the Lipton tea bag in a cup and stirred in a scant spoonful of calming honey. Dolores took her tea into the silent living room and sank onto the couch. The phone rang.
Jarred out of her fragile reverie, Dolores got up to answer it. Standing in the kitchen next to the wall phone, she struggled to make sense of the stranger’s voice on the line.
“Terrible accident … badly injured …”
“I’m sorry?”
“This is the home of Alberto Rodrigues?”
“Yes…”
“I’m so sorry. He’s at O’Connor Hospital, ma’am. Critical condition. Are you his next of kin?”
“I … yes, I guess so …”
“Ma’am? You should come right away.”
Dolores hung up the phone and grabbed her car keys off their peg. She raced out of the house. She left her calming tea to grow cold on the end table in the living room.
As she drove, she clutched the steering wheel and leaned forward as if that could make her go faster. Dolores tried to remember what the person on the phone had said. Car accident. Alberto badly hurt. That part she understood. She parked in the first place she could find and rushed into Emergency.
A calm, competent nurse sat behind the counter. She greeted Dolores with a serene smile. “How may I help you?”
“Alberto Rodrigues? I got a call?”
“Yes, I’ll get the doctor.” She disappeared into the bowels of the hospital but returned soon.
The doctor’s blue scrubs were wrinkled, and he looked tired. He’d been here all day while she celebrated her thirty-fifth birthday with her family. “Mrs. Rodrigues?”
“Yes.” No sense clarifying.
“Did they tell you what happened?”
“I … don’t know.”
“Come with me.” The doctor led her through the Emergency Room doors. Machinery whirred and clicked. Seriousfaced nurses and doctors and orderlies rushed about. The doctor led Dolores to a room, but stopped her before she went in. “Your husband was in a car accident. He was drunk and piled into a semi-truck. Never even hit the brakes.”
Dolores’s heart clenched to stone. She gasped for air. Drunk. Yes, he’d been drunk. And she’d angered him and chased him away.
“Mrs. Rodrigues, he’s badly injured. The impact of the crash pushed his truck’s engine well into the passenger compartment. The steering column crushed his chest. He’s bleeding internally. Severed his liver, ruptured his spleen, and fractured a femur.”
“Oh …”
“One ambulance driver assumed he was dead, but the other one gave him oxygen. That’s what got him here, but—”
“Will he live?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Can I see him?”
The doctor motioned to the open doorway. Dolores stepped inside. Stainless steel machines beeped and flashed. Four people hovered over the bed, a cloud of urgency surrounding them. A crucifix hung above the bed, and Dolores fastened her eyes on it as she pressed herself against the wall. She crossed herself. Between the doctors and nurses, she glimpsed white blankets, white bandages. Only Alberto’s eyes were visible, and they were closed.
“Would you like a chair?”
Dolores turned. A nun indicated a chair near Alberto’s head. “Thank you.”
Immediate crisis averted; the tension leaked out of the room like water through a sieve.
“We’re right outside if you need anything,” the nun told Dolores. She left a rosary on the bedside table.
Dolores pushed the chair as close as possible and sat down, her eyes fastened on the man in the hospital bed. Maybe it wasn’t Alberto. Maybe they were wrong. She focused on the gnarled brown hand nearest her, a hand used to hard work. Dolores picked up the rosary and clutched it, cold beads warming in her hands. She crossed herself and whispered the Apostle’s Creed. “I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth. I believe in Jesus Christ, God’s only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried; he descended to the dead. On the third day he rose again; he ascended into heaven, he is seated at the right hand of the Father, and he will come to judge the living and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting. Amen.”
Dolores stopped before moving her fingers to the next bead and starting the Our Father. Her thoughts shifted to aloha, and in silence she prayed, “Aloha welcome; what I have I share with you. What I say comes from my heart. I am happy to serve with humility and meekness. Near or far, you are always in my heart. Aloha, my love.”
Slowly, her brain started working again. He’d left her house … their house … drunk and angry. This would never have happened if she hadn’t confronted him about his drinking. He would have passed out on the couch and all would be well. She shook her head to dispel the image. No, if it hadn’t happened tonight, it would have happened tomorrow. Or next week. It wasn’t like Alberto had just started drinking. He’d been drinking beer since his uncles had slipped it to him as a child.
She pictured Manolo’s brothers, their wives and children. The sprawling Medeiros brood drank heavily, but they took care of each other. Here in San Jose, even among her daughters, she and Alberto only had each other. Only the two of them understood the aloha of the native Hawaiians deep in their soul. Dolores frowned. Maybe the fight was such a disturbance in their aloha spirit that he’d been injured. She could almost feel her Christian God flinch. In a Catholic hospital she should pray only to Him.
The noises in the hallway blurred. The voices and footsteps and rumbling gurneys became background noise to the rhythmic beeping that told her the man in the bed was still alive. Her heart knew it was Alberto. She reached out and laid her hand on his, careful not to disturb the intravenous lines. “You’d better not die on me, Alberto.”
THIRTY
1950
Dolores stared at the motionless body in the bed. She tried to visualize Alberto underneath the tubes and machines and bandages and splints. “Please, Lord, let him live,” she whispered, crossing herself. “I don’t care if he drinks. I want him to live. He can drink as much as he wants if he comes home.” She rubbed her eyes so tears wouldn’t fall.
“Can I get you anything?” The nun was back.
“Sister…?”
“Sister Anne. And you are?”
“Dolores.” She hesitated. “I’m not his wife. I’m …” She wanted to say she was the love of his life as he was of hers.
“You are here for him. That’s what matters most. Those chairs can get really uncomfortable. Let me get you a pillow, and we’ll say a rosary together.”
Dolores nodded. Sister Anne went out to the nurse’s station and returned with a pillow that she fluffed and put behind Dolores as if she were the patient. Then she leaned against Dolores and put an arm around her shoulders. With her other hand, she took the rosary from around her neck and began to pray, “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth; and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord …”
Comfort settled over Dolores. She joined in the prayer. By the time it was complete, she felt a great deal more in control.
“Is there anyone I can call, Dolores?”
“He’s got all the help he needs, I think.”
“For you, my child.”
“Oh. Yes, could you call my daughters?” Dolores dug in her purse for the numbers of her daughter’s friends and wrote them down for the nun.
How long would it be before Carmen and Betty arrived? Carmen would cry. Betty would be angry at Alberto for being so stupid as to drive drunk. Dolores let the whirring machines lull her into a moment-to-moment confirmation that Alberto was still alive.
Dolores heard he
r daughters in the hallway before she saw them. They came in arm in arm. Carmen reached out one hand toward her mother. “Mama?”
“I’m here, Carmen.” Dolores reached for her daughter’s hand. Squeezed together into one chair, the three of them tried to comfort each other.
“Why was he driving drunk?” Carmen asked. “He doesn’t do that often, does he?”
Dolores heard the underlying fear of drinking that dominated her own life. Her daughters had been touched by their father’s drinking, too. “He’s a hard-headed man,” she said. “No one can tell him anything.”
The anger in her mother’s words surprised Carmen. “Mama? Had you been fighting?”
Dolores flinched. Carmen knew her innermost feelings. “It’s my fault,” she whispered. “He was drunk on his own, but he never would have left the house if I hadn’t made him mad.”
“Oh, Mama, I’m sure he is to blame, too,” Betty said.
Carmen’s face twisted in shock and grief. She never could hide her emotions. Dolores suspected it was because she couldn’t see how other people’s faces gave away their inner thoughts.
Nurses came in to add medicines to IV drips, to inspect dressings. One of the nurses brought in a second chair, and Carmen and Betty huddled together in it. Dolores never left Alberto’s side. If she left, he’d die.
The girls left to return home with the neighbor who’d brought them. They had homework to do, and they’d manage dinner. Their lives continued to be driven by normal daily tasks. Dolores’s life had shattered. What would she do if Alberto died? The house would be so lonely. Alberto’s apartment could be rented out. She’d have to put a lock on the door that connected it to her kitchen. She’d never needed that before. Her shoulders slumped, exhaustion taking its toll.
“Dolores? Have you had dinner?” Sister Anne was back, a cup of something in her hand that sent curls of steam into the air.
Dolores straightened her back and sat up. Stretching felt good. “No. No, I’m not hungry.”
“You’re not hungry because you haven’t taken time to think about dinner.” The nun’s tone gently admonished her. “Try this broth. You can drink it like tea.”
Dolores took the cup and held it in both hands. The warmth seeped into her, warming hands and arms and heart. She smiled. “Thank you, Sister.” She sipped the broth.
Sister Anne sat in the chair vacated by the girls. She adjusted her habit around her legs and said, “So tell me about this man here.” She gestured toward the bed.
Dolores’s brain sorted through possible ways to begin. A nun represented the Church, represented God. She could never lie to God. “He’s not my husband, but I love him more than my husband.” Dolores’s face crumpled. That was maybe too bald of a start, but Sister Anne just waited with no frown of judgment on her face. “I met him when I was sixteen,” Dolores nodded toward the other bed. “Both of them, Alberto and my husband. They were part of a big Hawaiian family, a loving family like I’d never had. Lots of cousins and aunties and uncles … They were fun.”
“You met them in Hawai‘i?”
“Yes, Honolulu.” Dolores thought of Kaua‘i, her dead mother, her absentee father and brother. Her life had so much background. “I married Manolo, and we had two daughters. You saw them earlier, right?”
Sister Anne nodded. “Lovely young ladies. We said a prayer together in the waiting room before they left.”
“Oh, how nice.” Dolores smiled. “We all lived near each other in Honolulu—the whole family I mean. Alberto was there every day. And when my husband began to drink too much, Alberto was there. We came to California after Pearl Harbor, and Alberto followed. He helped me raise my daughters, helped me do everything. He’s my life.” She stared at the bed and tried to envision the vitality and humor of Alberto at his best.
The nun reached for Dolores’s hand and clasped it in her own. “Marriage ties a man and a woman together for life, but it doesn’t mean you can’t love other men in your family. Alberto’s a relation, right?”
“My nephew,” Dolores said. “He hates me calling him that.”
“God will reward you for staying by your nephew’s bedside when the rest of his family is in Hawai‘i.”
Dolores nodded. The weight of notifying family members in the islands crashed over her. It would have to wait until tomorrow. Sister Anne began to pray. “Our Father, who art in heaven….”
Dolores listened, in tune with both the prayer and the medical machines keeping Alberto alive.
DAY after day passed in a monotony of nurses and doctors with nothing positive to report. Carmen and Betty spent long hours after school at the hospital and even lured Dolores down to the cafeteria. She dozed in the chair next to Alberto’s bed. She never slept deeply and never got enough rest. By the end of the first week, the nurses had stopped suggesting Dolores go home for a few hours each day. Except for the night nurse. Louise never had time to talk beyond the usual polite greetings, but she was efficient. She even brought a fresh pillow for Dolores each night. But on the seventh night, she crossed her arms and stood in front of Dolores.
“You can’t stay here tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
“This man will be here months, if he makes it through these first weeks. There is nothing you can do for him, but plenty you can do for yourself. Go home. Eat a good meal. Get a good night’s sleep. Come back in the morning. The night shift is my job. I will call you if anything changes, good or bad.”
“You could have been a nun,” Dolores said, trying to smile.
“I work in a Catholic hospital.” Louise smiled, but didn’t move.
“I can’t leave him,” Dolores said, but she felt her protest weaken.
“Go.” Louise pointed to the door.
Dolores nodded. Her presence here wasn’t necessary to Alberto, only to her. She doubted that she could eat or even sleep but didn’t want to argue with the nurse. She picked up her purse off the small shelf, blew Alberto a kiss, and left the room. All the way down the hallway to the elevator, tears trickled down her cheeks.
She returned in the morning, and Louise greeted her. “Good morning. Alberto had a good night. I’m going off shift in a while. I’ll see you tonight just before you leave to touch base.”
“Thank you, Louise, I needed that.”
The nurse nodded and hurried off to her own bed.
When the doctor came in, he commented on how refreshed Dolores looked.
“Thank you, doctor. The evil night nurse kicked me out.”
He grinned. “Louise? She’s great that way.”
Dolores’s attention had already returned to Alberto. “When will he wake up?”
“We need to be patient. When his brain heals enough to allow it, he’ll wake.”
“He’ll be able to talk?”
“We’ll have to wait and see.” The doctor reassured her with a smile and left the room.
Dolores swallowed the dread that threatened to overwhelm her. Would Alberto want her there? After all, she was the one who’d indirectly caused the accident. Of course, it wasn’t her fault he’d drunk too much beer. It wasn’t her fault he’d driven away from the house. But it was her fault he’d been angry. Drunk and angry, he’d made a bad decision. She’d had time to think about it. What would he think?
She took his hand in hers. She stroked his calluses from years of working construction. It was odd to have his hand warm but motionless in hers.
Just before noon, the day nurse came in. She bustled with efficiency and morning perkiness. “Time to go for the X-ray.”
Dolores knew it made no sense to follow as the orderlies wheeled Alberto’s bed out of the room. Her presence wouldn’t change anything about the procedure or its outcome. She waited in Alberto’s room, silent without the medical machinery. She must have dozed off because it seemed as if they were back in only a few minutes. The orderlies positioned the bed and reconnected the machines. Nurses chatted and the machines resumed their steady whir.
&nbs
p; The doctor came in a few hours after everything returned to normal. “Looks good,” he told Dolores with the nurse standing at his side. “It may take a while to see results,” the doctor said, “and he may not want to wake up. Hearing your voice will help. Talk to him.” He and the nurse left the room.
Dolores took Alberto’s hand again. Feeling self-conscious, she spoke. “Hello, Alberto. Time to wake up, my darling.” What should she say? It wasn’t necessary to look at his closed eyes. He just had to hear her voice. She sat back in her chair, still clasping his hand, and let the past run pictures through her head.
“You’ve been a beach bum your entire life, Alberto, haven’t you? I remember the first time I saw you at Hanauma Bay. You were such a part of the ocean, the waves, the sun, the sand. I was born in Hawai‘i too, but I was never that much at home in the water. All the Medeiros boys were there, but you shone brighter than any of them. Yes, I know it was Manolo who attracted me first. He was older, more mature. You were so carefree. Maybe I was looking for a father and found Manolo. You were the bad boy on your motorcycle with your gang of friends.”
Dolores paused to smile at the memory. “I guess I always had a thing for bad boys. Who knew? Yet you were the angel underneath, and Manolo the bad boy. I never could have lived through those years of my marriage without you. Have I ever told you how much I loved you even then? You were always there when I needed strength, my rock, my heart.”
Her eyes lifted to the crucifix above the bed. “Our faith keeps us going in tough times. That’s what God teaches us. It’s true my faith gives me strength of mind, but your physical presence gives me daily strength. Manolo and I married in the Church. The Bible says God joined us together in marriage as one flesh and no man can separate us. God is faithful to us and desires us to be faithful to each other. I never knew it would be so hard, that I would be tested so.”
The Aloha Spirit Page 29