by Kristin Gore
“I just need to use the ladies’ room,” Jean said to Walton, and whoever else might be listening.
Near Jiminy’s chair, she stumbled and nearly fell. Jiminy leapt up and caught her shoulder. Jean was embarrassed.
“I don’t do well without sleep,” she explained. “I’m feeling so drained.”
“Let me help you,” Jiminy replied.
Jean leaned against her, and the two of them made their way to the restroom door.
Inside, Jiminy heard Jean sobbing in her stall and worked to hold back her own tears. She felt raw and fragile, worried ragged.
The toilet flushed and Jean emerged, red-eyed and sniffling.
“This is just too much for her, you know,” she said.
There was accusation in her voice. Jiminy braced herself.
“She told me on the phone,” Jean continued. “She could barely speak, but she said to me, ‘I’m not strong enough for this. I’m just too tired now. I don’t want to disappoint her, but I’m just too tired.’ ”
Jiminy stayed quiet, watching Jean’s trembling lips.
“She couldn’t take the stress of what you’re bringing down on us. Maybe if it was five or ten years ago, maybe then. But she’s exhausted now, and you’re forcing her to relive the worst experience of her life. You’re forcing all of us to do that. Why? Is it really worth it?”
Jean flung these questions through the air like so many quivering daggers. Before Jiminy could address them, or raise her shield, there was a knock on the door.
“The nurse wants to see you,” Walton called.
It felt strange to Walton to be back in the hospital he’d presided over for fifty-plus years. He was surprised at how many young people were now in positions of authority. He’d begun when he was in his twenties, but now that he was aware of how little he’d really known during those years, he was alarmed that the world was still letting youngsters take it over. It made everything feel very unstable. It made him feel unsafe.
Sitting in the waiting room comforting Jean was not where Walton wanted to be. He’d have prefered to be in the operating room, with his medical coat and surgical tools, making life-or-death decisions. His strongest memories of the waiting room were all about telling people bad news. He’d also given people good news here, but good news in an emergency room was relative. It was good news that your loved one was going to live, but more than likely, just a short while before, it hadn’t crossed your mind that there was any alternative. This room was about sudden accidents and bad luck. Walton didn’t care to linger here.
Remembering his doctoring days did afford him a uniquely clinical frame of mind, which came in handy amid all the emotions running wild. He felt he could analyze the situation better than his companions, and he put this talent to use as he checked in on how they were all faring.
He found it a little peculiar that Lyn was still waiting. He wondered if it was out of a sense of obligation, or paralyzing concern, or simply inertia. She’d spent most of her life waiting on Willa in some form or another. Perhaps she couldn’t see her way out of the pattern.
He didn’t question that she was genuinely worried. He understood there was real affection between Willa and Lyn, and he knew Lyn’s life would be seriously impacted should Willa pass on. But Walton wondered whether it wouldn’t also be a release of some sort. He wondered whether or not Lyn was quietly struggling to keep from acknowledging a dark wish for the worst, as she sat silent and frozen in her corner of the room, where she was still gripping her great-nephew’s arm.
The young man really did look uncannily like Edward. He was lighter skinned, but otherwise a spitting image. Supposedly, he was studying to be a doctor.
Walton hadn’t recognized the nurse who strode through the doorway, but he’d recognized the look of purpose on her face. She’d come to tell them something. Walton had crossed to the bathroom door and knocked.
As Jiminy was led to see her grandmother, she glanced sidelong at the doctor whom Walton had mistaken for a nurse. She was only a few years older than Jiminy, but she appeared considerably more weathered and drawn. And more accomplished, clearly. Her name tag read “Dr. Connors,” which made Jiminy wonder if she was any relation to Suze. Everyone in Fayeville tended to be related one way or another. The doctor opened the door to Willa’s room.
“We need to monitor your grandmother very closely for the next forty-eight hours. She’s sedated, so she probably won’t wake up, but you can talk to her. She can hear you.”
Visitors liked being told that patients could hear them, even when this wasn’t necessarily true. The doctor had no problem comforting people with harmless fiction. So often, she had to hurt them with unavoidable, cruel facts.
Jiminy nodded and crossed the cramped room to the bed, breathing carefully to control the panic she felt at seeing tubes snaking in and out of her grandmother’s body. The doctor lingered for a moment to check Willa’s heartbeat before leaving grandmother and granddaughter alone.
“Hi,” Jiminy said softly, taking Willa’s hand in her own.
They both had small hands. Willa’s felt thin and papery, like a breeze might blow it away. It reminded Jiminy of the onionskin transcript Carlos had found. She traced the lines of her grandmother’s palm with her finger, trying to remember what they represented. One was her lifeline, she knew. The other was for love. And the number of children could be divined, or so people claimed. All of Willa’s lines were short, deep creases. Jiminy covered them with her palm.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, keeping her voice soft and hopefully soothing. “I know we haven’t been particularly close, but I love you. And I’m sorry if I did this to you. I didn’t mean to. I really didn’t.”
Jiminy bowed her head and let her tears have their way.
Half an hour later, Willa fluttered her fingers. Jiminy looked up, startled.
Willa’s eyes were closed, her lips parted. She had oxygen tubes inserted in her nostrils to help her breathe, but Jiminy saw that she was inhaling and exhaling through her mouth, reclaiming her life on her own terms.
“It’s not your fault,” Willa said.
Jiminy felt relieved and humbled. In Willa’s state, fighting to come back, she was still attempting to comfort another.
“You were doing it for Jiminy, I know.”
It was a quick trip from relieved and humbled to confused and concerned.
“I’m Jiminy, Grandma,” Jiminy said.
Willa kept her eyes closed but squeezed her hand.
“No, no, dear, Jiminy died. I’m sorry. You were so young, you didn’t understand. I know you loved her. There was so much you couldn’t understand.”
Before Jiminy could argue or investigate further, the doctor entered the room.
“She woke up?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Jiminy replied. “Sort of. She hasn’t opened her eyes but she’s talking and moving a little.”
The doctor examined Willa and checked the machines to which she was hooked.
“Miz Hunt?” she said loudly and clearly. “Miz Hunt, can you hear me?”
Willa didn’t stir. She again appeared to be sleeping.
“She wasn’t making any sense,” Jiminy replied. “I think she may have thought I was my mother.”
The doctor frowned.
“She had multiple strokes. We won’t know the full damage till I do some more tests. Even if she comes out of this completely fine, it would be very normal to have disorientation after a trauma like this. It happens in people a fraction of her age, so I would certainly expect it to happen to her. Excuse me a moment.”
The doctor glanced down at her pager then back up.
“If she moves or speaks again, will you press that button?” she asked Jiminy, as she hurried from the room.
That was something Jiminy felt sure she could do. Pushing people’s buttons had become a specialty.
When Roy Tomlins pulled into the driveway of Brayer Plantation, he was surprised by the activity on the
sprawling front lawn. Travis Brayer’s son Bobby, the state senator and candidate for governor, formed the epicenter of a mini-tornado of action. Roy saw cameras, cords, boom microphones, sunglasses, clipboards, water bottles, and large shiny discs that a man and a woman were angling and adjusting in different directions. Bobby appeared unfazed by it all, cool as usual in blue jeans and a button-down shirt tucked snug by a large American flag belt buckle. He was talking into the camera, until the noise from Roy’s truck proved too distracting.
“Cut!” a man with a bullhorn exclaimed with exasperation. “Who is this? What’s going on?”
He was glaring at his crew, who were all shaking their heads that they didn’t know. Whoever had failed to stop this intruder at the gate and instruct him to wait for the all-clear sign between takes was clearly in trouble.
If the director had targeted his accusatory questions toward Travis’s perch on the veranda, Travis would’ve been happy to tell him that the truck belonged to his friend Roy, who was coming to visit him at exactly the time Travis had instructed, smack in the middle of the shoot.
Travis was pleased to watch the cloud of dust from Roy’s truck descend on the group surrounding his son. It was the first break in a bad mood that had been worsening ever since he’d been rolled out onto the veranda earlier that morning.
“How ya doin’, Dad?” Bobby had called back then, in his booming, good-natured, people-are-observing-me voice.
Travis had nodded at him, wishing he didn’t have a blanket on his lap. Only the old or infirm needed blankets on warm days. Travis knew he was both, but he preferred not to dress the part if he could help it. The nurse had put the blanket there, and he’d forgotten. But of course then all the people on the lawn had turned to look at him, and he had recognized the indulgent condescension in their eyes. It was the same look his wife had given the mentally challenged bird feeder salesman that used to come around—so encouraging of someone from whom she expected so little. To these people, Travis was sweetly pathetic. Their simpering smiles disgusted him.
“He’s adorable,” the makeup lady had exclaimed.
Travis had heard this distinctly. His ears were two of the only body parts that had yet to betray him.
So Travis was now pleased to have these people’s work disrupted by Roy’s arrival. Roy continued driving straight up to him, aware that the dust and noise made by his truck were sending the bullhorn blowhard into paroxysms. He even drove a little faster than he needed to and gave a couple honks for good measure. The chairs in the back of his truck were strapped down tight enough, and the smile on Travis’s face made it all worth it.
“Mornin’, Trav,” Roy called as he climbed out of his truck.
“Morning, Roy. You got the chairs?”
“You bet.”
Roy was thrilled to be there. He and Travis had been friends for seventy years, but they’d never been equals. Roy was more sycophant than confidant, which suited Travis just fine. He valued deference in his companions.
Travis could see his son striding across the lawn. This walk wasn’t for the cameras, which were being reset for another take. Bobby was headed for them.
“Mr. Tomlins, I thought that was you,” he said to Roy as he took the porch steps two at a time.
He was taller than Travis by several inches, and he’d inherited his mother’s untapped athleticism. He moved well, Travis admitted, aware that he should take some pride in this.
“Well, hi there, Bobby,” Roy said, shaking hands with Travis’s son. “You sure got yourself into something these days.”
Bobby laughed deeply and turned to a short man with curly brown hair and glasses who’d been trailing him.
“David, I’d like you to meet one of my dad’s oldest friends, someone who’s known me since I was a baby,” Bobby said to the curly-haired man.
“Since before you were a baby,” Roy said.
Bobby laughed again.
“Since even before,” he agreed. “David Eisen, meet Mr. Roy Tomlins. Mr. Tomlins, meet David Eisen. David’s a writer for Esquire magazine, doin’ a profile on up-and-comin’ Southern leaders.”
In truth, Bobby had been apprehensive about letting any journalist too close to his father or his father’s friends, but his press secretary had convinced him that they’d get a much better story if they allowed a more intimate level of access. Bobby prayed she was right, and decided to mask his worry with aggressive good cheer, willing everything to go well with the sheer force of his winning demeanor.
In the glow of Bobby’s thousand-watt smile, Roy looked David Eisen over before shaking his hand. He didn’t particularly want to shake it, but he realized it was the thing to do. He noticed that the writer was holding something small and gray that he brought close to Roy’s mouth when Roy started to speak, which made him step back.
“It’s just a digital recorder,” the writer explained.
“Oh,” Roy said, hesitatingly stepping forward again.
He didn’t know whether to direct his comments to the writer or the machine. He was supremely uncomfortable.
“Well, Bobby’s a leader all right,” he managed. “Always has been.”
Bobby beamed and clapped Roy lightly on his shoulder as David Eisen looked Roy straight in the eyes. The sunlight reflecting off the writer’s glasses was blinding. Roy blinked in irritation.
“What do you have there?” David asked, pointing to the back of Roy’s truck.
It was Travis who answered, grinning all the while.
“Some stolen property he recovered for me. Let’s get a look, Roy.”
Roy walked to the back of his truck and struggled to put his foot on the bumper. He felt like his body was growing stiffer and creakier by the day. Still, at least he wasn’t wheelchair-bound like Travis yet.
“Here, let me help ya,” Bobby boomed. “Wanna get a little dirty, David?”
David did not.
He stayed put while Bobby launched himself into the bed of Roy’s truck and began undoing the straps.
“These are some purty chairs, Mr. Tomlins. Dad, you said they belonged to you?”
Travis nodded.
“Had ’em made special,” he replied. “Haven’t seen ’em in thirty some years.”
Bobby hoisted one of the chairs over his head unnecessarily and jumped to the ground with it, then placed it in front of his father.
“They look good as new,” he said.
Roy watched the Esquire writer run his fingers over the wood and resisted the urge to slap his hand away.
“K.S.O.,” David Eisen read. “Is that someone’s initials?”
Roy saw a look of surprised alarm cross Bobby’s face. Saw him check the label himself and turn back toward the commercial shoot, ready to lead David Eisen away.
“It’s just an old name,” Bobby answered. “You know what? I’d like nothin’ better than to keep sittin’ here and jawin’, but I think we gotta take advantage of this weather and finish up. Know what they say: ‘Make hay while the sun shines!’ ”
He grinned as he placed his big hand on the writer’s shoulder.
“Well, it was nice to meet you, Mr. Tomlins,” David Eisen said. “And these are beautiful chairs, Mr. Brayer. You say they were stolen from you?”
“That’s right,” Travis replied. “By some good-for-nothin’ spics.”
David Eisen looked up quickly.
“Dad, you don’t mean that,” Bobby said sharply.
There was panic and reprimand in his voice. Roy looked from son to father and back again. Travis seemed completely calm, which made Roy love him all the more. He already had quite a story to tell the boys. He was recording it in his memory for later, just as carefully as David Eisen was recording it on his little machine.
“He doesn’t mean that,” Bobby said to the writer.
“What do you mean, exactly?” David asked Travis in a quiet, curious voice.
Travis waved a hand in front of his face.
“I don’t mean that all wetbacks
are good for nothin’,” Travis clarified. “I just mean the ones that sneak in here to steal jobs and such, which is most of ’em. They take whatever they can get their dirty hands on. They’re just as bad as the nig—”
“That’s enough, Dad,” Bobby interrupted sharply.
Roy had never heard Bobby speak that way to his father, though he’d also never heard Travis speak quite the way he was speaking either, at least not in this sort of company. Travis was usually quite careful around Bobby and his political friends. He wasn’t an old man unaware that the times had changed. He knew exactly what sort of impact he was capable of having by saying such things in front of such people.
“He’s not well,” Bobby said to David Eisen. “He’s had some serious health problems that have damaged his body and brain. I hope you’ll respect that fact and keep all this off the record. Out of decency. He’s just a fragile, dying old man who doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“Don’t talk to me like that, boy!” Travis bellowed.
He stood up from his wheelchair, which was something that had been deemed medically impossible in his condition. To Roy, it didn’t seem that Travis’s legs were supporting him at all. He appeared to be empowered by a pure, undiluted rage. His face was flushed purple, and outsized veins in his neck were throbbing as he pointed a crooked finger at his son.
“You respect me, understand? You show me some respect!”
Before any of the others could reach for him, Travis Brayer toppled hard onto his side and slid headfirst down the veranda stairs to the gravel driveway below. He gave a groan as his head hit and the rest of his body piled after, like a Slinky made of worn-out old man.
Lyn knew people who crossed themselves or folded their hands in prayer whenever they heard the sound of ambulance sirens. For most of her adult life, she’d felt resentful toward them for doing this. The fact that whoever was injured was being rushed to the hospital and tended to seemed like prize enough. The prayers were just rubbing in how privileged they were. No sirens had raced to her husband and daughter, and no strangers had prayed for them, as far as she knew. To her, ambulance sirens were an elusive luxury.