by Mary Tribbey
Chapter 4
Even after all the years, Joan remembered she had felt like she'd been kicked in the stomach by the news. She remembered screaming and sobbing. The men had been very uncomfortable, and soon they had left her alone. After they were gone, Joan sat down, staring at the letter that arrived that day from Larry. “I love you, babe. I can't wait to get home to you,” he'd written. Her tears fell unnoticed onto the paper as the letter faded from her view.
After that the days seemed to blur together. She worked longer hours, trying, in vain, to forget the awful emptiness inside her world. She couldn't eat food; it just wouldn't go down. There was too big a lump in her throat. Unless she was totally exhausted, she had trouble sleeping.
To top everything off, there was a paperwork snafu at the Army headquarters and the allotment checks stopped coming. Joan called and called, but she was met by red tape and indifference to her problem. Without the checks, she struggled to make ends meet. Before long, her savings were depleted. She had to work longer hours just to pay her rent and utility bills. She longed to have Larry there to make things better, but that thought just made her feel emptier. As time went by, Joan began to feel more and more tired. She drug herself to work each day.
Late one Saturday night while she was working at the truck stop, she started feeling hot and dizzy. The next thing she remembered, she woke up in a strange white room. The people around her were all dressed in white, and the place smelled like alcohol and the people working on her, to her fevered mind, looked white also. She drifted in and out of awareness as the doctors and nurses battled a high fever that ravaged her body. When she finally came to, she felt smothered in the whiteness. There were tubes leading into her arms, and she heard noises coming from machines that surrounded her bed. She felt terribly weak and confused.
“Welcome back, Mrs. Walker, we’ve been very worried about you,” a nurse crooned.
“Where am I? What happened?” she asked groggily.
“Try to rest, dear. You’ve been very sick. We were afraid for while that you weren’t going to make it, but the fever finally broke yesterday. You are going to be all right,” she answered.
“I don’t understand. How long have I been here?” she asked.
“Nearly a week Just rest. The doctor will be in later to see you,” she murmured.
When Joan awoke later that day, a man that she assumed was a doctor was leaning over her. He checked her blood pressure and temperature and smiled.
“How are you feeling today?” he asked.
“I’m tired, very tired,” she mumbled.
“I can understand that. You were in terrible shape when you came in. You haven't been taking very good care of yourself. You were so rundown and malnourished; we were scared you wouldn’t make it. With a week of rest, lots of medicine, food, and fluids, you're on your way to recovery” he added.
“My baby? What about my baby?” she asked.
“You’d better get some more rest. We’ll talk about it later,” he said.
“No, tell me now. What about my baby? Why won’t you tell me?” Joan cried.
“Nurse, you’d better give her a sedative. We can't let her get so upset,” he ordered.
“Please tell me what's wrong!” June cried struggling against the shot.
“Later, later. Rest now,” the doctor said, hurrying out of the room.
In a matter of minutes, the medicine took effect. Joan drifted into a nightmare world that was all white and sterile. She wandered around looking for her baby, for Larry, her father, or for anyone who would help her find her baby. She moaned and cried in her sleep. When she came to, a nurse was there bathing her forehead.
“Please tell me about my baby,” Joan begged again.
“The doctor will tell you,” she answered rushing off to find him.
By the time he came in, Joan was nearly hysterical. He shook his head as he watched her thrashing and pulling at the IV tubes. “All right, if you stop struggling, I'll tell you.”
Joan stopped fighting and looked at him. He averted his eyes and shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another. “You were very sick when you were brought in by the ambulance. Your fever was terribly high. Your resistance was extremely low. We did everything we could, but the baby miscarried. If we'd seen you sooner, when you were stronger, we probably could have saved him. We tried, but it was too late,” he admitted slowly.
Joan turned her face away from him; she shut her eyes against the awful whiteness of the place. She realized with terrible guilt and pain that she had let her baby die. Because of her actions, her son was dead. Larry’s son was dead! She mourned her loss in silence. For a long time, she lay there unmoving, unable to face herself and what had happened. She didn’t cry. She didn’t move. She barely responded to her surroundings. She longed to die, but her body was too young and strong, and it would not let her die.
Several days later, Joan walked out of the hospital alone, in debt for the hospital bills that had piled up, and filled with terrible guilt for not having taken better care of Larry's baby. Like a zombie, she returned to her apartment. She forced herself to go on.
During that time, the only thing that saved her sanity was writing. She had always liked writing. Now she wrote until her hands ached. She poured out all the pain and guilt in floods of words. Finally, the pain passed and numbness settled in. She forced herself to go to work; then she came home and survived. She carried a notebook with her all the time. When the pain and guilt returned, she poured it out on paper and began slowly to pick up the pieces of her life.
She realized her old life was over. She knew she could never be happy where she was living. There were too many ghosts and memories of Larry and the baby. After weeks of delay, the Army allotment checks began coming again. With the back pay she finally received, she moved to Austin, Texas, and enrolled in a small business college. She studied hard and did well in her classes. When she graduated from the program, she got a job working in a small business office.
Her life was empty, but, at least, she had a job that paid enough for her to live in a small apartment not too far from the university campus. She took a few classes at night in journalism and writing. Slowly, she began creating a new life for herself. It was in one of the writing classes that she'd met Suzy Morris. Suzy was a very helpful and efficient writing partner, and they became close friends. Two years ago, she met Suzy again; they became roommates, and they had moved to Los Angeles to find better jobs.
The accumulation of memories was too much for Joan to handle. She felt inside her purse for her notebook, but it wasn't there. She grabbed a stack of papers, sat down at her typewriter, and began writing. As the words poured out, she began to calm down. When she felt exhausted, she stripped off her clothes and collapsed on her bed. She slept fitfully, waking at the insistent ringing of the alarm. For a moment, she lay there trying to sort out what had happened. Had it all been a dream? No, she remembered the events of the night before.
She dressed quickly and rushed to work in the auto parts store. While she was taking her lunch break, she reached in her purse for her wallet. Tucked inside the wallet was a ticket for the Los Angeles Rams football game on Sunday. She stared at it as if it was written in a strange language. All day she thought about the game. She debated whether to go or not; but, in the end, she decided she would go. She had promised Lyle she would. Lyle had been so kind and gentle with her. He protected her from the crowds that had swarmed around her like killer bees. She knew she would keep her promise. She shuddered as she remembered how trapped she had felt as the people surrounded her. It brought back too many painful memories, but she had felt safe and secure in Lyle’s arms. He was a kind man and could be trusted. She decided she wanted to go and see the game.