Love, Carry My Bags

by Everett, C. R.

  “Oh my god!” I screamed and laughed and oscillated with the ride. My stomach was intact, but my arm throbbed.

  “You really squished me,” I said. I tried to feign hostile perturbation while I lifted my sleeve looking for damage.

  “Oh, man!” Reese chuckled with astonishment. “I can’t believe I did that.” A giant purple bruise replaced my skin. It was no ordinary blemish, but an arm-width oval contusion extending from nearly my shoulder down to my elbow.

  “You tried to kill me,” I playfully shrieked. I reached for Reese’s head to tousle his hair in payback. My hand clipped his nose on the way up and opened the bloody floodgates, again. A kind lady handed him some tissues along with the embarrassment of being noticed. Laughing hysterically at our comedy of errors, we were unable to speak. So, together we bird called, adding busted guts to our list of carnival traumas.

  * * *

  “I hear you tried to break Reese’s nose yesterday,” my dad said, opening conversation as I assembled the ingredients for homemade ice cream.

  “It was an accident.”

  “Maybe if you quit hurting him we could have his family over for dinner one evening.” My face lit up. Father, inviting my friend’s parents over socially? My friend, who happened to be a boy? The implications were significant. He already knew Reese and his family to a degree, being their pastoral support when Reese’s grandmother was terminally ill and living with them in her last days. Father had been impressed with Reese for carrying his grandmother up and down the stairs.

  I mixed the cream, sugar, eggs, Milnot, and vanilla together in the steel cylinder, then placed it in a larger cylinder filled with cold salt water and crushed ice. I used the same ice cream freezer we used years ago when our original family was whole. The vintage ice cream maker churned better ice cream because love seeped in during the freezing process. I cranked away. Father looked on as I alternated fatigued arms.

  “Do you want me to take over for a while?” he offered.

  “Sure.” I walked around in the opened garage where I had been sitting. “Looks like it might rain.” Gray thunderheads formed in the distance. An ominous crack ripped across the sky, the kind that often makes the lights go out and a household go silent. A rumbling boom followed. I shook, feeling vulnerable and small. Father ignored it. He kept his arm moving. Every now and then, ice jammed up the rusted handle and he busted it loose, until the brine melted enough for an easy rhythm.

  Frost began to form on the outer cylinder, a piece of crushed ice trailing down the side, having escaped through the overflow hole and into the drip pan. Each revolution disturbed the saltwater slush, a comforting, homey melody. “I’ll share some with Reese when it’s done; fresh ice cream is best.”

  “Mmm hmm.” Father nodded.

  “I’ll tell him you invited them over, but they can’t come until he’s back from vacation,” I said with my back turned, watching the first, huge rain drops polka dot the driveway. “He’s leaving tomorrow.” Father noticed the sadness in my voice, just looked at me, saying nothing. Must have been biting his tongue. “I’ll crank,” I said, relieving my dad. I sat back down on the little wooden ‘ice cream’ chair, a remnant from the days when Sunday school had been taught in our basement way back when—ancient history, before my time. My dad patted my head and retired into the house, leaving me to churn.

  * * *

  “Reese,” his mother called, “Camryn’s here to see you.” Mrs. Dahlgren seemed flustered. “Come on in out of that rain,” she said, letting me in. Reese hurried to the door.

  “Hey, fancy seeing you here. I was just thinking about coming over to see you.”

  “Great minds think alike,” I said, smiling. “I brought you some homemade ice cream.” Reese looked pleasantly surprised. “It’s melting,” I said, holding up the plastic bowl.

  Reese grabbed two spoons, led me outside to the covered front porch, and said, “It is way too crowded in there. Let’s sit out here . . . fresh air.” Rain poured through the darkness, creating a cacophony on the rooftop. “My parents had a fight,” Reese said, nearly shouting over the rain. I had noticed Mr. Dahlgren, zoned, in the living room recliner next to the curio cabinet filled with elephant figurines. Basketball blared from the TV. Reese’s mom, sitting down at the kitchen table with a lit cigarette in hand, had wiped her finger under one eye as we passed through.

  “What are they fighting about?” I wasn’t sure it was my business, but figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

  “Health stuff. Drinking.” The concerned look I gave Reese nudged him to elaborate. “My dad had a heart attack a while ago and doesn’t take care of himself. Mom doesn’t want him to drink,” he said. “He drinks more than he should.”

  Lightening electrified the night sky in a loud flash. I scooted closer to Reese.

  “Oh.” Not knowing how to respond, I picked up a spoon and fed Reese a taste of ice cream. His pleased expression asked for more. I gave him another bite. Flash tree-shadows appeared on the house. Thunder resonated throughout our chests.

  “Yummy, isn’t it?” I yelled, rain still pouring down.

  “The best.” Reese lifted the other spoon and fed me. We quietly exchanged spoonfuls while listening to the rain, just our eyes talking, until the ice cream was gone.

  “Write to me while you are away, okay?” I said.

  “Okay.”

  “And have fun.”

  “You have fun too.”

  I thought I’d have more fun being seared with a branding iron than being without Reese for three weeks. I didn’t say anything, but looked down, thinking about what was on my plate while he’d be gone: an outbound Rotary exchange student conference in preparation for the big trip, and work. Not a pretty picture.

  The deluge gave way to a light breeze. Only sparse drops fell through the summer rain-scented air. “I’d better go,” I said.

  “Do you want me to walk you home?” I didn’t answer right away even though Are you kidding? I want you to walk me home every night of my life ran through my head. Reese answered for me. “I mean, I’d like to walk you home.”

  “Okay.” My happiness shone through my shy words.

  “Mom,” Reese opened the front door and hollered, “I’m walking Camryn home.”

  We headed down the front porch steps, kicking twigs felled from the storm. “Why do you have to go?” I asked solemnly, even though I knew there was no answer that would satisfy me.

  “Goofball . . .” Reese said, a term of endearment. His voice, inflection, and melody conveyed I wasn’t making this any easier and he was sad too, even though he was looking forward to the trip. He followed up by gently pushing me off the sidewalk. Leisure walking became a contact sport too. I returned the shove. We broke into laughter.

  “Thanks for the ice cream.”

  “I’m glad you liked it.” A warm, cozy, comfort feeling came over me as I thought of our shared moments, sheltered from the rain. Then we arrived at my doorstep. I looked at Reese not wanting the evening to end, but knowing it had to. “Have a safe trip and come back soon,” I said. “Don’t forget to write.”

  “I won’t . . . forget to write, I mean. I’ll come back soon . . . safe.” Reese felt awkward, as did I. “I’d better go,” he said, unable to draw the inevitable out any longer. I opened the screen door, stepped in, and then turned around to wave goodbye. Reese waved back; then he was gone. My cup no longer runneth over. It was half-empty the instant Reese left.

  * * *

  My emptiness was temporarily displaced the fourth day of Reese’s absence.

  “They told me to come and get you,” a stranger standing in front of my register said feverishly.

  “What?” I looked at my boss, seeking help. He left his post at the fry station, stood by my side, listened.

  “The ambulance came and took him to the hospital,” the lady carried on, clearly distressed.

  “Go,” my boss said, understanding the message before I did. I hesitated, confused, worried about fin
ishing my shift.

  “It’s okay, go. I’ll clock you out.” I gathered my purse and jacket then hurried off with the lady.

  “Who is in the hospital?” I asked, still in an urgent fog about why I was in this odd circumstance. We hopped into her car.

  “Your father.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “The Bible complicates mankind for the better.”

  —Mr. Laughtus, Sunday school Teacher

  I saw the gravity of the situation in Jo’s tearful eyes when I walked into the emergency room. Jo stood up and hugged me. “He almost didn’t make it,” she said, sniffling into my hair. “Mr. Robbins gave your dad CPR until the ambulance came. If it weren’t for him . . .” Jo shook her head, words caught in her throat.

  “What happened?” I asked, leading her back to the chairs.

  “Your dad was in a meeting and just slumped over at the table. He wasn’t breathing. No pulse.” Jo dabbed her eyes with a tear-soaked Kleenex. “Mrs. Warner ran over from the church and got me. The paramedics said it was a heart attack.”

  “Heart attack?” I repeated even though I knew what I had heard. Didn’t Grandpa Johnson die of a heart attack when Father was sixteen?—I’m sixteen.

  “Mrs. Johnson?” Dr. Gilmore jolted me out of my reverie. Jo was on her feet as soon as he said missus. “Your husband has had a massive heart attack. We lost him twice, and got him back but he’s not out of the woods yet.” Dr. Gilmore looked grave. “We’ve sent for a helicopter.”

  Jo nodded. “Will he be okay?” she asked.

  “Pray, and hope for the best,” he said. “Rockford is better equipped to handle severe cases.” His non-answer left us abandoned, but the whir and chop of the helicopter coming in overhead somewhat filled the void.

  Dr. Gilmore excused himself. As he disappeared through the swinging emergency room doors, Sarah and her parents arrived, offering moral support along with the other concerned parishioners who appeared out of nowhere. Word traveled at an amazing speed in cow town, a blessing in times of need. Mrs. Stone hugged Jo. Mr. Stone gave her a comforting peck on the cheek. When Sarah hugged me, tears dripped down my face. Just her being there was enough, her loss for words, unnoticed.

  Jo and I stared at each other for a moment with a what next look on our faces. “I’ll meet you there,” Jo said with a wearied sigh. “Bring some clothes.” While Sarah’s parents drove Jo to the hospital, forty-five minutes away, Sarah and I went to the house to gather Jo’s and my things for a couple overnights.

  “Come on, Whiskers,” I called. Whiskers came running, jumping around, knowing a car ride was in store just by the sound of my voice.

  “Let’s take my car and then you can ride back with your parents,” I said.

  Whiskers bounced from window to window in the back seat, glad for a ride no matter what the reason.

  Uncertainty about Father’s condition loomed. Is he still alive? hung, unspoken, in the air.

  “Too bad Reese isn’t here,” I said, the first sound we made aside from Whiskers licking my ear.

  “You miss your playmate, don’t you?” Sarah’s reference to Reese as my playmate brought me a moment of happiness.

  “I do.” I leaned my head against the cold glass window, lifeless.

  * * *

  Jo was sitting in a small room lined with blue cloth-covered armchairs. In the corner, a television hummed low. Another woman spoke softly into a telephone while she anxiously twisted the cord around her finger and then off again. On again, off again.

  “Any word?” I asked, handing Jo the overnight bag.

  “They let me see him briefly. He’s in intensive care and doesn’t respond.”

  Sarah looked down. Her parents had just returned from the vending machines and handed Jo a coffee.

  “Do you want to see him?” Jo asked me. I did, but I didn’t.

  I started to answer “yes” but my voice squeaked out tears instead. Jo went to the nurses’ station, said a few words, and they looked my way. The nurse nodded.

  “Only two visitors at a time and you won’t be allowed to stay long,” the nurse said.

  “Sarah, you go ahead with Camryn. I’ve already been,” Jo said. Sarah looked worried, but followed along. The nurse led us into the intensive care unit, which was largely silent except for the heart monitor blips. It smelled like a cross between hospital and death.

  “Grant, Camryn is here to see you.” The nurse spoke to the unconscious stranger in the bed as though nothing was amiss, holding his hand. The man in the bed could not possibly have been my father. The man in the bed had a blue plastic tube stuffed down his throat secured with tape to his face. The man in the bed had oxygen wisping over his nose through a clear plastic mask. The man in the bed lay helplessly still, while liquid ran through synthetic tubes connected to needles stuck in both his arms. The man in the bed had wires taped all over his chest hooked up to a seismograph. I stood paralyzed, taking it all in while tears welled in my eyes and spilled over my cheeks. I turned to leave and literally bumped into Sarah. She had an awkward look on her face as if she’d seen nakedness she shouldn’t have.

  The Stone’s left around eleven. “Keep us posted,” they said, hollow and bewildered. What else was there to say? Jo moved two waiting room chairs together and settled into her makeshift bed. Even though I was exhausted, my mind would not sleep. I kept writing letters to Reese in my head.

  Dear Reese,

  I wish you were here. My father’s in the hospital and I’m scared. Massive heart attack. My brothers and sister still don’t even know. It’s past midnight. I can’t sleep. Mother freaked out when I told her—yanked her intercessory prayer chain like she was still his wife. Whiskers and I are staying at her house tonight, something I swore I’d never, ever do again. Come home soon.

  Love, Camryn

  * * *

  “Karla? It’s Camryn.” I started making calls to the siblings.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Father had a heart attack and he’s in the hospital.” I started to choke up again.

  “What?” Karla shrieked on the other end. “Do I need to come?”

  “No, wait until I find out more. I’ll call you back.”

  The phone call to Mark went the same way, but filled in with details and ended with my answer to Mark’s question. “No, I don’t know if he’ll make it.”

  I sent Brad, who was sailing on the Nimitz, halfway around the world, a cryptic telegram with only the very basic information. It was the best I could do.

  * * *

  “Your pop stirred,” Jo said, encouraged. “You can see him, but he’s hallucinating.” The nurse escorted me in.

  “Hi,” I said to my dad. He was lying there, eyes open, staring at the wall.

  “Ada, is that you?” he said to me. I didn’t know how to respond when he called me by his sister’s name. “Do you see those cars up there?” He pointed near the ceiling where there was nothing.

  “How are you?” I asked, ignoring the car comment.

  “Ada, could you get my pants?” Father asked. I looked at the nurse. She said some calming words, put a syringeful of something into his IV, and he was out. I was out too—freaked-out and out the door.

  “Jo, he’s not making any sense. He called me Ada.”

  “I know. They have him sedated. He woke last night and tried to climb out of bed and leave. Dr. Mayer says his heart is so damaged and arteries so clogged that he’ll need surgery when he’s strong enough. In a couple of months.”

  He’d likely make it, but after a long arduous road. A couple of months. I was supposed to go to Australia in a couple of months. It was too much to think about.

  Brad received the telegram while standing watch, TWA Flight 847 hostage crisis in full swing. After some detective work on his part, eliminating the other institutions, he found Grant Johnson admitted to SwedishAmerican Hospital. I had forgotten the small details in the telegram message, such as exactly how bad it was and which hospital he was in. The hos
pital operator patched him through to ICU and they sent his call to the waiting room telephone.

  “Is Jo Johnson here?” Another distraught lady answered the phone and called out across the room. Jo took Brad’s call, filling him in on Father’s condition. She told him not to come right then, but to wait and come for Father’s surgery.

  I went home to an empty house. Father wasn’t coming home any time soon. Jo stayed at the hospital. The depressing stillness drove Whiskers and me out of the house, walking the neighborhood, searching for solace, only to end up at Reese’s home wishing he was there. I let myself in the back gate and sat down at the Dahlgren’s picnic table, visiting with no one. My quiet tears dripped onto the table and slowly soaked into the paint-chipped wood. Reese, why aren’t you here? I talked to him in my head as though he was with me. My dad needs major surgery. I’m supposed to go to Australia soon, but . . . Why is this happening? I miss you. Calmed by my illusory conversation with Reese and his comforting response, I headed back home, closing the gate behind me. I stopped at our front curb and checked the mailbox. Three days’ worth of neglected mail waited inside. Mail rarely came for me, but this day a postcard had my name on it. My heart leapt at the sight of Reese’s handwriting.

  Dear Camryn,

  How is my goofball doing? I hope well. I’ve already been shooting hoops and had pizza with Michael Jordan and my brother in Jordan’s dorm room. Next week is the beach and then back to the armpit of America, I mean Harvard. At least I will get to see you again. Love, Reese

  It was short and sweet, just the pickup I needed. He called me his goofball. And he signed it Love, Reese, not just Reese. I couldn’t wait for him to come back.

  The next two agonizing weeks revolved around work and visiting Father in the hospital. But Mother and I attended the weekend exchange student prep conference too. Hundreds of outbound exchange students from the Midwest discussed current world politics and how to pack for a year in two suitcases. Parents formed empty-nest support groups. I still wanted to go abroad, was excited to go, but I would have been very excited to go if I hadn’t been friends with Reese and my father wasn’t flirting with death.