Billie Standish Was Here

by Nancy Crocker

  When he stood his chair tipped and slid into the wall. I barely glimpsed the pure shipwreck of his face before he grabbed me. Bones crunched in my back as he squeezed. Then we were on the floor, me on his lap, his head on my shoulder. I don’t know how much time passed before he found his voice.

  “I—I’m so sorry,” he rasped.

  “So am I,” I told him. I smoothed his perfect black hair. “But I’m okay now, and it—”

  “No!” he yelled. “I—should have . . . I didn’t protect you.”

  Well. That made absolutely no sense. But I had drunk from the well of unreason often enough to think I understood the taste in his mouth.

  “It’s okay, Harlan,” I said. “You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known.” We rocked back and forth, a solitary unit.

  The words fought past something in his throat. “No,” he said. “It’s not okay.”

  “No, you’re right, it’s not,” I agreed. I remembered how I had felt upstairs in Curtis’s room earlier and shuddered. “But . . . he didn’t get away with it, Harlan. Remember. He paid.”

  “Goddamn BASTARD!” He yelled so close to my right ear it started a dull ringing.

  Then I understood. Curtis had been punished, but not by Harlan’s hand. And Harlan loved us so much, Miss Lydia and me, of course he would own part of our pain. Curtis’s account wouldn’t be cleared until Harlan exacted some payment of his own. Even if it was only to wish damnation on a man no doubt already in hell.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  B  y the time we got Miss Lydia in and settled we were all exhausted and Harlan and I were exchanging looks. I wondered if this was what it was like to bring a new baby home and finally be left alone. Just the two of you and a bundle of endless need. It felt like stepping onto a carousel that wasn’t going to stop and let us off anytime in the foreseeable future.

  But it turned out like anything else. You establish a routine, that’s what life becomes, and you do what needs to be done. And Miss Lydia, she fought to do what she could for herself.

  Some mornings she was already dressed when I got there. Sometimes she needed help. I told her that first day I had seen naked girls before and she was no more impressive than the rest of them.

  She could pack more into half a face than most people with all their features and she learned to fix her good eye on me in an “I’ll get you” stare that cracked me up. She could barely lift one corner of her mouth to smile, but she could still laugh and we did plenty of that.

  It was an effort for her to form words, so she made them count. Mostly she said “thank you.”

  I’d check on her in the morning—see that she’d eaten and made it to the bathroom, finish dressing her if necessary. I’d go back home and catch up with our house, then I’d bring home the mail and start cooking. I made so many trips across the street that after a few days I combined the pantries and did all the meals at her house. If I planned well enough, in a couple of hours’ time I could have lunch and dinner taken care of for everybody.

  “Everybody” was Miss Lydia and me at lunchtime, us two plus Harlan for dinner, and Mama and Daddy when I saw their truck pull in. Harlan’s mother started sending a big casserole or pie every few days too. I rained blessings on her for that.

  Harlan would do his morning chores at home and show up after lunch to save me some little effort in the kitchen. Then he’d stay until time for me to put Miss Lydia to bed. He did all the dishes and most of the laundry and gave me a break whenever I needed more time at home. He’s a good team player.

  Miss Lydia shuffled her walker between the bed, the bathroom, the kitchen, and her TV chair. It was a full-time job. A lot of people would have packed it in and stayed in bed. Not her.

  Most of the time we understood her, but some words had just gotten out of her reach. She worked at it. Lord, did she work. One day she said something that sounded like, “cheese ’n die,” over and over until we were both frustrated.

  I finally ran across the street and came back with the Ouija board that had gathered dust under my bed for years. Laid it across her lap and put a pencil in her left hand.

  She labored after those letters, pointing to them one by one. “G . . . E . . . S . . . U . . . N . . . D . . . H . . . E . . . I . . .” I announced. When she pointed to T, she dropped the pencil and wobbled her cup of tea into the air.

  “Gesundheit?”

  Her good eye twinkled.

  “You’ve been trying to tell me ‘GESUNDHEIT?’ ” We’d worked for so long I’d forgotten the sneeze that came before. I laughed so hard I cried.

  About a week after we brought her home the refrigerator was empty and utility bills were piling up. I didn’t know what to do and asked Harlan.

  He said, “Ask Miss Lydia.”

  Well, sure.

  She was nodding even before I finished the first sentence. “Eel,” she said, then shook her head. “Wool,” she got out second try. She mock-spat to show her disgust.

  “Hold on,” I told her. I spent a few minutes trying those two words out to see what they felt like in my mouth. “Will?” I ventured.

  “Ding!” she cried. She’d taken to using that in place of “yes.” “Up,” she told me, looking toward the stairs.

  There was a two-drawer oak file cabinet in her bedroom. I asked if that was what she meant and got “dinged” again.

  The instant I opened the top drawer, I saw. On top of the manila envelope containing her will was a whole book of signed checks. Fifty of them.

  Pretty thorough planning. I had to wonder, though, what went through her mind the day she sat signing check after check, building a hedge against the day she might not be able to. Bravery has a lot more faces than I used to think.

  Every couple of weeks she had a doctor’s appointment and Harlan came along to help. We all slept well those nights, I’ll tell you. Dr. Strunk, amazed as he continued to be, had to admit she was doing fine.

  So went the days, the weeks, a month, and then two. I was plenty tired by bedtime every night but couldn’t think of anything I would rather be doing with my summer. Once in a while my stomach tightened at the thought of school starting up again, but Miss Lydia was okay for a few hours on her own. I could always run home at lunchtime. We’d get by.

  Tuesday morning I knew something was wrong the second I opened the back door. The air was charged. I felt that energy even before my nose picked up on bad news. I counted ten deep breaths before I went on in.

  She was still in bed and the good side of her face was tight with fear. “It’s okay,” I heard myself say. I smoothed back her hair. “It’ll be all right.”

  A tear formed in the corner of her eye.

  “Can you talk, Miss Lydia?” I crooned. “Can you tell me what’s going on?” I was panicking on the inside but resolute not to let it show. Facing someone you love who is terrified will let you do that.

  She tried but no sound came out. Not that it was necessary—it was obvious what had happened. Another stroke had come for her in the night.

  I laid a hand on her forehead. Willed myself not to shake. “Don’t you worry, Miss Lydia. It’ll be all right. I’ll go call for help right now.”

  “AAAHHHW!” is what it sounded like she said, but her intent was clear. She was saying no.

  “Oh. Well, okay, we’ll have to see.” My mind was racing too fast to form a meaningful thought. Slow down. One thing at a time. “First things first.” I’m pretty sure I said that out loud. “Let’s get you some fresh clothes.”

  I was glad she couldn’t lift her head to be mortified by the mess she was lying in.

  I went to the bathroom for a washcloth, towel, and basin of warm water. “May as well sponge off a little while we’re at it,” I said. Tried to keep my tone light.

  How could I not call for an ambulance? I thought. A doctor at the very least? Then I told myself again to slow down. One thing at a time. And just then the most important thing was trying to preserve any remaining dignity this woman was holdin
g onto.

  I rolled her side to side, slipping the sheet underneath and replacing it with a thick towel. Folded the mess inside a bundle as I worked. Took it straight to the washer and dumped it in.

  I scoured my mind for a song. One she loved. While I bathed her and pretended it was the most natural thing in the world, I sang. “Casey would waltz with the strawberry blonde and the band played on. . . .” I smiled up at her between lines.

  I had never understood how mothers could change dirty diapers and keep their good humor, but now I did. When it’s someone you love you do what needs to be done. Period.

  If it’s possible to show both sadness and gratitude in a face that close to immobile, she did.

  I got her into a clean nightgown and rolled her side to side onto clean sheets. Tucked her in and asked if she wanted some tea. She blinked a few times and squinted her left eye. Trying to smile.

  I chewed all ten nails down waiting for the teapot to whistle. I would call Harlan first chance. I couldn’t see what else there was to do. I could ask if she was sure she didn’t want to call for help, but I knew what that answer would be.

  If she went to the hospital she’d never come home again. She knew that.

  I sat on the edge of the bed and tipped teaspoons of warm, sweet tea into her mouth. Then I remembered I had laid out a chicken for today’s lunch because she had been doing better with finger food than utensils. Time to rethink that. Besides, her dentures hadn’t fit all that well after the first stroke. They were useless now.

  It took half an hour to finish the cup. I kissed her cheek and told her to get some rest. She was snoring little kitten sounds before I got to the kitchen.

  I sat and watched her sleep the rest of the morning. Prayed to every deity I had ever heard of to show me the way. None of them did.

  I thought Harlan might be in his house at lunchtime. He was. I answered his hello with, “Oh, thank God.”

  He said, “What is it?”

  I tried to back up and soften it. “We’ve got a bit of a problem here, Harlan.”

  “I know!” he snapped. “Quit dinking around and tell me what it is!” So much for tap dancing. Harlan is like a watchdog, always one snapping twig away from high alert.

  “Miss Lydia’s had another stroke,” I told him.

  “When?”

  “Sometime in the night. I don’t know exactly.”

  “Are you calling from the hospital?” he asked. If Harlan has ever lost his ability to track coherent thought I’ve not been a witness.

  “Nooo,” I said. I was one sentence away from feeling stupid.

  He said, “The ambulance is on its way then.” Yep, there it was.

  “Uh, no. She didn’t want me to—”

  He pounced. “Billie Marie, are you nuts?” I heard him breathing. Trying to stand down. He switched to a tone you might use with a dog that may or may not be rabid.

  “Sweetheart,” he said. Blood rushed to my face. He had never called me that. “You’ve got to call for help. You just—”

  “I can’t!” I felt like stamping my foot. Like that would be effective. Especially over the phone. “This is Miss Lydia’s house!” I went on. “It’s her life! She’s still in there, Harlan!” and he knew I didn’t mean in her former dining room.

  One, two, three breaths. “Okay,” he said, “I’m on my way.”

  She roused a little when we walked in together. Harlan had only seen her in bed at the hospital, but he jollied right up to her with his best bedside manner.

  “Well, now,” he said, taking her hand between both of his. “Billie Marie tells me you’ve had another adventure.”

  She puckered her lips in displeasure.

  “I know, I know,” he nodded. “Not the kind you ordered. Well, you know, I think the first order of business is to take inventory. Can you talk at all, Miss Lydia?”

  Her mouth opened to emit an “aaauuuww.” Mine dropped open too. Assessing the damage. It should have been the first thing I thought of.

  “Uh-huh,” Harlan encouraged. “Anything else?” But her next attempt sounded much the same.

  “Okay.” He seemed to have a mental checklist. “Obviously you can blink. You can swallow?” he asked. We watched her Adam’s apple bob.

  “Can you turn your head for me, Miss Lydia?” You could read the determination in her eyes, but she just couldn’t do it.

  “Okay!” Harlan said, as though this was progress. “How about your arm, Miss Lydia? Can you lift it?”

  We stared at her left arm with the concentration of a couple at a séance trying to levitate a table. After much too long, her fingers started flexing. Out and back. She couldn’t quite make a fist.

  Harlan said, “All right! Some fine motor movement, not so much on the large muscle groups.” I looked at him in wonder.

  He loosened the sheet at the foot of the bed. “This little piggy?” he said, pinching her big toe.

  Her left eye squinted. Her new smile. She could wiggle her toes, but her foot and leg stayed put.

  Harlan pulled up a chair and smiled at her. Then he said, “Well, Miss Lydia, I know the hospital’s not your favorite hotel but I really think we ought to let Doc Strunk know what’s going on.”

  “AAAAAW!” she said. Tears started down her left cheek.

  Harlan looked stricken. I gave him a look that said “I told you so,” but there was no satisfaction in it.

  I stood and smoothed Miss Lydia’s hair like before. “It’s okay,” I cooed. “It’s gonna be all right.” I caught Harlan’s eye, then told her, “You rest now, okay? We’ve got you all worn out.”

  We retired to the kitchen and flung furious whispers across the table. “I can’t do it,” I told him. “Maybe you can, but I won’t have it on my conscience.”

  “Don’t make me the bad guy!” Harlan hissed.

  Deep breaths. One, two, three. “There is no bad guy,” I said. “There’s just an old woman who . . . who wants to die at home.”

  My eyes welled up and Harlan’s mirrored them. It was intimate as a hug.

  “Sweetheart,” he said. My tears overflowed. “Your parents are going to call town when they find out, you know that.”

  I said, “I won’t tell them!”

  “Sweetheart.” It wasn’t so affectionate this time. “She can’t be left alone anymore. Think about it. You can’t go home. Don’t you think they’ll notice?”

  But I hadn’t thought ahead at all. If I had, I would have realized I was already beaten. It wasn’t fair. I shouldn’t be in this position, let alone feel like a failure.

  This was Miss Lydia. She deserved so much better.

  My chin came up and I wiped my face. “Well, then, I’ve at least got until dark,” I told him. “I need you to go to town for some supplies—maybe there’s some way to get this under control. . . .” I was already reaching for a notebook and pen.

  Harlan took the list when I finished. “Bedpan?” he asked. His eyebrows shot up.

  “It’s better than diapers, don’t you think?” I hadn’t meant to sound angry and tried to soften it a notch. “Medical supply store, Folger and Aldrich.”

  He went on. “Drinking straws, the kind that bend. Baby food.” He stared like the words made no sense. Looked up. “What kind of baby food?”

  I felt my confidence wilt. “An assortment, I guess. I don’t know.”

  He wrapped his arms around me and laid his cheek next to mine. “Hang on, Billie Marie. Hang on. Right now we’re just talking about the rest of the day and you already know you can do that.”

  I can do this. I can do this. It became my mantra after he left.

  Miss Lydia had wet herself while we talked in the kitchen. This time I changed her and the bed to the tune of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” The tension in her face lessened a little. But not as much as I’d hoped.

  Her television was on a rolling cart in the living room. I moved it so she could see it and turned it on, then set her glasses on her face and went to the kitchen.
A few minutes later I came back with a tray. Said, “Hey, you know what? I forgot to make you breakfast! So here you go, oatmeal for lunch.” I pretended to be engrossed in her soap opera while I spoon-fed her.

  I can do this. I can do this.

  We got through the afternoon. After some trial and error, we settled on “ee” as a signal for the bedpan, and Harlan made up work to do in another room often enough she never had to say it in front of him.

  By the time shadows started stretching dark fingers across the room we had found something of a rhythm and I dreaded the conversation with my folks that was coming. When their headlights panned the room and turned into the driveway across the street, Harlan and I inhaled in unison.

  I can do this. “Time to take my folks dinner, Miss Lydia,” I lilted. “I’ll be back in a bit.” But her face was full of fear and Harlan gave me a grim little smile.

  Before Mama could head for the living room with her plate, I said, “I need to talk to you two,” and they both froze. It would have been funny under other circumstances. I folded my hands on the table. In slow motion, they took their old spots.

  I told them how I had found Miss Lydia that morning, minus the laundry problem. Described the rest of the day as a recitation of fact. Finished with no question, no demand, no call to action. Just waited.

  Daddy spoke first with, “You can’t do this.” He didn’t say, “. . . and you know that,” but it was in his voice.

  I said, “That’s exactly what Harlan said until he told her we had to call for help and heard her answer.” I looked them in the eye, one after another. “I can’t do it. He can’t do it. If you’re gonna do it, you’ll have to go over there and tell her yourself.”

  They held one of those eyes-only consultations married couples do. Then Mama spoke. “Billie,” she said. “You’ve already done far more than you were called on to do. And this is too much for anybody. Why on earth would you even try?”

  “Because it’s the right thing to do.” How could a parent argue with that? I gave each in turn a steady gaze that dared them.

  They partnered in another long look. Daddy reminded me, “School starts in less than two weeks.” Logic always trumps emotion in his hand.