by Rhonda Riley
About six, I left and went back to the house to pick up clothes for the girls to wear to school the next day. I ate supper with them at Bertie’s. “Your dad’s fine. Just a little bang on the head,” I told them.
“When will he be home?” Rosie asked.
“Probably tomorrow,” I lied and tried to keep my face neutral, confident.
Neither she nor Gracie seemed convinced, but the dinner table crowded with the chaos of Bertie’s kids distracted them.
“Are they going to shoot the horse?” Lil asked.
“They shoot horses only when they hurt themselves, not when they hurt people,” Gracie told her.
Sarah’s face darkened and she began to cry. “That’s not fair.”
I assured her that Wallace was taking care of the horses and none of them were being shot.
After dinner, I returned to the hospital and stayed by Adam’s side all night, watching his face, hoping for change, fearing for the worst. “Wake up, wake up,” I prayed over and over.
Near dawn, they came in to take his blood pressure again. “Go home,” one of the nurses told me. “There’s nothing you can do. Go home and get breakfast. Get your mind off of it.”
As I left Adam’s room, the lack of sleep bitter in my mouth, a young doctor strode up to me. “Mrs. Hope, I’m glad I caught you. This accident may have been a blessing for your husband. His injuries don’t seem to be severe, but he is a very sick man. There’s an abnormal growth in his chest.” He waved a large white envelope, “The X-rays also show abnormalities in the brain, but we can’t be sure. It could be a tumor. No swelling from the head injury, but the lobe formation is unusual. Has your husband recently had problems breathing or speaking? Doing simple math? Walking or working with his hands? Has he been moody or erratic in his behavior?” He talked faster and more excitedly with each question.
I shook my head stupidly at everything he said, barely able to hear him for the pounding in my chest and ears.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before. No impediments at all on his part? Nothing unusual?”
Again, I shook my head.
“Dr. Rumsted will be in soon. He’ll look at these immediately. I’ve already talked to him. Your husband is a priority for us, Mrs. Hope. A priority. The nurses need you to sign some paperwork. You need to go by the desk first.” He was a little boy with a new bug for his collection. He shook my hand, then walked away, disappearing into Adam’s room.
I ate breakfast alone, standing up in the kitchen, then hurried back to the hospital.
I found Adam’s bed empty, the sheets stripped. I ran to the nurses’ station and slapped my hand on the counter to get her attention. “Where’s my husband? Where is he? What have you done to him?”
She shoved more papers across the counter. One was a map. They had transferred him. The doctor would be right out if I would just calm down. I looked at the map: Duke University Research Hospital.
“They’re the best for rare cases like his. He regained consciousness for a little while, so that’s a good sign. They’ll be able to anesthetize him for the surgery. The surgery will be scheduled as soon as possible,” she assured me. “Just have a seat, Mrs. Hope, the doctors can explain more. Just wait here.”
“I have to go to the restroom,” I told her.
She pointed me down the hall and smiled. I dashed around the corner and ran to the car.
On the road, every light turned red at my approach, every driver took his time. I drove back to the house, threw up my breakfast, brushed my teeth, combed my hair, tossed a set of clothes and Adam’s hat into the station wagon. I had to calm myself, keep my voice even as I lied, assuring Wallace that Adam was okay.
The drive sharpened me and pulled me back into myself. The snow had melted and the day began to warm. I’d never been to Duke University. I passed farms and houses and towns. People drove to work. Children played in school yards. By the time I got to the hospital, a hard calm had come over me.
I parked the car and grabbed Adam’s clothes. When I asked for his room number, a nurse handed me more papers. I pretended to read them till the nurse turned her head, then dashed for Adam’s room. Two young men in hospital uniforms pushed an empty gurney out of the room as I reached the door. “My husband,” I volunteered, stretching a smile across my face. “Just want to see him for a minute.”
The taller one answered, “You won’t have much time. They’ve prepped him already. They’re in a hurry on this one. He’s pretty dopey.”
Adam slept propped up in bed, pale yellow against the white sheets. The bandages on his head were new and smaller, but no hair stuck out above them. He had been completely shaved. I took his hand, the one not attached to the IV bag, rubbed it, and called his name. His eyes half-opened. He looked drunk, drugged, his eyes bloodshot and glassy. He garbled my name.
“Ya here,” he said and closed his eyes. “Th’ X-ray me ’gain.”
“Are you okay?”
“Thin’ so. The’ don’t. Won’t let m’ sleep, eat, walk. Lots o’ doctors.” He stopped and looked at me, his eyes half-open. Then, slowly, his head drooped forward. He passed out again.
My heart raced. I balled my hands up and pressed them into my stomach to stop my trembling. I held Adam’s chin and gave him little slaps till he opened his eyes again. “Adam, I’m taking you home.”
He grinned sloppily, but did not open his eyes. “ ’Ood, ’m hungry.”
I peeked out into the hall. Then, quickly, I untaped Adam’s IV, slipped the needle out, and started dressing him. He mumbled incoherently. I got the gown off and his shirt on. Then his pants. He was almost too tall and heavy for me, a bigger, looser version of the being I’d dragged out of the mud years before.
I supported his head and shoulders as I slid him sideways into the wheelchair. Only once did he seem to be in pain—when he went down hard into the chair. The bandages would give him away. After belting him into the chair, I perched his hat gently on his head, then slipped his shoes on.
I surveyed the hall again quickly. A nurse strolled around a corner. We made it past the nurses’ station and to the elevator. Two orderlies maneuvered a gurney out past us. I tried to make it look like affection as I held Adam’s head up steady with one hand.
On the ground floor, I wheeled him across the lobby as fast as I could without being conspicuous. Adam slumped like a rag doll. I chattered away to him as if he could hear me.
No one grabbed my shoulder, no one shouted from behind us.
Outside, I wheeled him straight to the car. I got in the backseat and quickly, gently as I could, pulled him into the car and onto the seat. Then we took off.
As soon as we were out of sight of the hospital, I pulled over and checked Adam. He slept curled up on his side, seemingly oblivious. I stripped off my jacket and wedged it under his head.
I drove just under the speed limit all the way home with the rearview mirror angled so I could see most of Adam in the backseat. The nervous stink of my own sweat filled the front seat. The metallic taste of panic filled in my mouth. I wanted Momma. All the way home, I felt the memory of his limp weight in my arms.
The sky had dimmed to twilight by the time we pulled into the backyard. Wallace jogged out of the stable to help us. He and I carried Adam in, his feet dragging between us at each step up to the porch. Wallace glanced at me over Adam’s head. I saw the question on his face. He thought I was crazy to be bringing Adam home.
“It’s just the dope they gave him for the pain,” I said.
Wallace was no fool. I’m sure he smelled my fear. He shook his head, then bent over, gently picked Adam up, and carried him down the hall in his arms like a child. I followed close, supporting Adam’s head. Wallace paused in the kitchen. I pointed to the hall and told him which bedroom. Wallace eased sideways down the hall.
Adam came to consciousness on the way in, knew he was at home, and asked for food. But he was out again before we had him settled on the bed and rolled over on his side.
I brought fresh bandages and a basin of hot water into the bedroom. Carefully holding his head, I unwrapped the swaths of gauze. A smaller, square bandage centered on the back of his head. A faint blue line started at his crown, just past his hairline, and disappeared under the bandage. Slowly, I peeled the square bandage off. Centered in a blue-green bruise the width of a tablespoon was a cut about an inch and a half, a check mark with nine crude black stitches on the long part of it, five on the short end. I picked up the bedside lamp and held it over his head. The clean edges of the cut were pink, not red, already a scar as much as a wound. Very little swelling. His head remained smooth and rounded there, no dent in the bone.
I ran my hand gently over the back of his head. He moaned softly. His baldness and the intent behind the blue line that divided the crown of his head into a neat rectangle were as disturbing as the injury. I washed his head—the blue came off with a gentle scrubbing—and rebandaged the cut. I didn’t swathe his whole head, just wrapped it once in a clean white strip of sheet and tied it at the side.
I rolled two towels up into tubes and lay them on the bed behind him. Then I carefully rolled him onto them, one to support his neck and the other for the top of his head. The cut on his shaved chest, just to the left of his breastbone, formed the wide, shallow U-curve of a horseshoe. Fifteen stitches, and the same pink scarring, but the bruising around it gleamed darker and larger. The same blue line paralleled the length of his breastbone. Two perpendicular lines crossed it just above the U.
The cleanness and size of his injuries were a relief. The blue lines unnerved me. The map of someone else’s work on my husband’s body. Cuts to remove the essence of him. Washing the blue lines from his chest, I knew with an iron conviction he would be gone if they had operated on him. He didn’t need surgery.
But I wasn’t certain what he did need.
I left him there on his back, chest unbandaged, and dashed into the kitchen. I poured myself a whiskey, straight, and took it back to the bedroom. The burn in my throat and belly helped steady my hands. I rebandaged Adam’s chest, rolled him onto his side, and covered him up. He slept peacefully.
Bertie brought the girls home, sniffing on her way in so I knew she had caught the scent of the whiskey. I tried to act as if nothing was wrong, but felt completely transparent. Bertie, the girls, and I walked single-file down the hall and stood crammed in the doorway. I pressed my finger to my lips, as if it were possible to disturb him. Sarah grinned up at me, her happy-Cheshire-cat grin.
Gracie stood behind me, her chin digging into my shoulder. “He looks okay, Momma,” she said softly, but her voice sounded thick.
Rosie passed her hand over her own head, as if feeling for injuries.
“He doesn’t smell bad,” Lil said. She must have been remembering Momma’s last days.
“Oh, he’s not sick.” I pulled Lil farther into the room so she could see better. “They shaved his head so no hair would get in the stitches. About a dozen stitches here and fifteen here where the horse kicked him.” I touched Sarah on the back of the head and Lil on her chest. I kept my hand there a second, feeling the movement of her breath.
For a moment, we all watched Adam sleep. Then one of the girls farted. They turned accusing looks on each other. Lil hissed and soft-punched Sarah. Bertie wheezed a suppressed laugh.
“Enough. Dinnertime,” I whispered and shooed them out of the room.
“No beans though, Momma. Lil’s already tooting,” Rosie said.
“No, I’m not. That was Sarah.”
It is not possible to take four daughters quietly down a hall after one of them has farted. But for a moment they did not think of their bald father.
Later, I paid Wallace for his week’s work and took him down the hall to see Adam again. Looking bigger in the dimness of the bedroom, Wallace bent silently over Adam and touched him lightly on the wrist. “He went down so hard and so fast. I couldn’t bring him to. You think he’s gonna be all right?”
“Yes,” I replied and told him how good the wounds looked, then we tiptoed out of the room. Before that morning, Wallace had never been down the hall and into the bedrooms. He looked relieved when we were back in the kitchen. With Adam down, we would need extra help. He would work longer hours, he assured me.
Somehow I got through the evening. I prepared a light supper for the girls and checked to make sure they did their homework and chores. I held myself tight and kept myself in line. As soon as I got the girls in bed, I called old Dr. Raymond, the man who had been our family doctor when I was a girl. He had been retired for years. I called his home.
My hands shook when I dialed. He seemed surprised to hear from me at that hour but he was cordial. I told him what had happened to Adam, as if it had just occurred. I didn’t mention the hospital. He asked about the bleeding. The chest injury would be sore for a while, but if Adam’s pain did not increase when he took a breath, we could assume there were no broken ribs. He should be fine, Dr. Raymond said, just keep the wounds clean. He explained what to look for, the signs of concussion or brain injury—dizziness, nausea, different-size pupils. Then drowsiness. “If you can’t keep him awake, take him over to the hospital, Evelyn. You don’t want to mess with a head injury. I thought I’d already heard something about your Adam—that he was sent over to Duke for something pretty rare. That wasn’t him, huh? Wonder who it was.” I didn’t correct him, just thanked him and hung up. My sides felt sticky with sweat.
I went back to Adam. Rosie sat on the side of the bed, holding his hand. She put her finger up to her lips and whispered, “He’s asleep again.”
“He woke up? Did he say anything?”
“He was hungry and he wanted to know how we were. I told him we were fine. Then I think he asked for some corn bread. Something about a ‘damn horse,’ too.” She smiled and wrinkled her nose up at me. “His scalp feels weird. He’s going to be okay, Momma?”
I made myself smile back and led her to the door. “Of course he will be. But we’ll need your help, okay?”
She kissed me and went back to bed.
My last remnant of calm dissolved. I needed to move. I wanted to run, scream, cry, or fight. Instead, I paced the front porch outside our bedroom window. Each time I checked on Adam, he slept peacefully. Finally, I poured myself another whiskey and took it to bed. I cried, my face pressed into my pillow, until I fell asleep.
I woke in the morning still curled on my side next to him, clutching my pillow. Adam’s hand cupped my head.
“Adam?” I rubbed his hand and patted his cheek. “Wake up.”
He moaned and turned over on his side. “A little longer, Evelyn.” His regular sweet, sleepy voice!
Almost giddy with relief, I got the girls up and off to school. They waved happily as they left. They were halfway down the road to the bus stop when I saw a sheriff’s car clear the curve and start up our road. I waited on the corner of the back porch. Wallace’s voice carried from the barn, accompanied by the snort and impatient paw of the horses.
The car pulled deep into the driveway, almost up to the house. The local deputy, Harley Brown, stepped out, the leather on his policeman’s belt creaking loudly as he shut the car door and leaned against it. I’d gone to school with his younger brother, Clifton.
“Morning, Evelyn.”
I nodded. “It is a pretty one all right.”
“You don’t look like a woman who is missing her husband.”
“I’m not, Harley. He’s right in there, in our bed.” I pointed back toward the house but stepped down toward him. “They doped him up pretty good at the hospital, but he’s okay. He wanted me to make him some corn bread. But he’s sleeping now. It was a pretty good kick he got.”
“Well”—he consulted a piece of paper
he pulled out of his pocket—“it seems Duke University Hospital and the CDC down in Atlanta didn’t know he was going home and they’re worried about him. Wanted to make sure that at least you know where he is.”
“I do, Harley. You want me to wake him up? You need to come in and see him?”
He got back in his car and shrugged. “I don’t know why I’m here. I should be out catching bad guys, but they wanted me to come by, said it was important. Wanted me to come by last night after supper. But Alice heard from Bertie that he was home and safe, so I waited until now. Adam is all right, you say?”
“Tired and banged up, but already cussing the horse that got him. You sure?” I pointed back toward the house again.
He laughed, shook his head, and started backing his car up. As soon as his car rolled out of sight, I ran and checked on Adam. I shook his shoulder.
“What?” he muttered.
“How do you feel?”
“My head hurts. Let me sleep.” His voice was still normal, his color good.
“Does it hurt bad?”
“No.” He rolled over to face the wall and went back to sleep.
Neither Addie nor Adam had ever really been sick. They both slept a lot if they did not feel well. Remembering that made me feel better. He was healing quickly, too. The bruising visible around the bandage on his chest had lightened overnight.
I’d chosen a path. They could not be allowed to take from him what they thought to be abnormal. I could not let them have him. If they discovered how different he was, would they want to examine the girls, too?
I was sorting clothes on the back porch, preparing to wash them, when I heard another car come up the drive. I looked around the corner of the house. A big car, one I had never seen before, shiny and black, had stopped midway up the drive where people parked when they were coming to the front door. I went back inside and paused at the hall mirror to smooth down my hair. I looked tired, but not half as crazy as I felt.
The sheriff and another man knocked and called my name at the screen door. I didn’t know the sheriff or any of his kin, but I recognized him from pictures I’d seen in the paper. He took his hat off but the sunglasses stayed on. The man beside him, a meat-faced older man, wore a dark suit. The one in the suit held a briefcase and a large white envelope. “Mrs. Hope?” the sheriff asked.