The Possible World

by Liese O'Halloran Schwarz

  She had other children? Whom she had kept with her, while sending Leo away? I revised my opinion of her at that moment; my previous sympathy for her maternal sacrifice evaporated. This is not my home, Leo had cried the last time I’d seen him. He must have been thinking of his mother, believing that he had a home with her. Apparently he’d been wrong.

  I closed my eyes, called up the memory of the burning roses to remind me: this is what you risk. This is what he’s capable of. Instead I saw bald Leo, humming down the cemetery path with the sun behind him. I opened my eyes.

  “I’ll take him.”

  “It’s very good of you,” said Prior Charles with relief.

  “I want to be sure you know what you’re taking on.” Silas’s brown eyes stayed on me as he spoke. “What could happen.”

  “I’m willing to risk it.” I thought he meant the contagion, but as I looked from one grave face to the other, I understood. “You mean he could die.”

  Both men nodded.

  “Well,” I said, looking back into the room, at the sheeted corner. “Then he’ll die at Roscommon, with me.”

  * * *

  NOWADAYS, AS YOU may know, scarlet fever is nothing. A gnat among illnesses, a mere pebble on the path of childhood. A few days of rash and fever, some antibiotics, and it is done. But it was not so in 1958.

  Brother Silas brought Leo over to Roscommon, bearing him in his arms like a bundle of laundry. We put him in my bedroom, into my bed, which I had stripped and covered with rough St. Will’s linens. All the bedding he used would have to be burned later; everything he touched, and everything that touched him, would have to be burned. I made up a bed for myself on the settee in the main room.

  He was sour smelling from the streets and the fever-sweat. He didn’t flinch as I washed his chest and arms and neck and dried them. I sat him up like a doll and washed and dried his back. Put a nightshirt on him and laid him down again, layering blankets over his torso and leaving his lower half outside the covers so I could pull off the filthy trousers and wash the rest of him. He was so pale in the lamplight. When I got the dirt off his feet, the bluish veins there were like dark lace. When I was done I tucked his legs back under the pile of quilts. He’d never awakened.

  What to feed a sleeping person? I boiled down bones for broth and fed the thin fragrant liquid to him in slow dribbled spoonfuls, hoping it wouldn’t choke him as it went down. He swallowed automatically without opening his eyes. The quick frost after the fine weather had made icicles along the eaves; I chopped one down and hammered it into chips that I fed to Leo one by one, slipping them between his lips and pressing a cloth against his chin to catch the melted water that seeped back out.

  It was like caring for a gigantic baby. Leo weighed very little—he must have starved the whole time he was away—but it was dead weight. It took an hour to change his bedclothes; an hour to change his clothing; another hour to get an ounce of fluid down his throat. I would finish a task only to begin another; feeding him necessitated washing him and changing the bedding; then it would be time to try to feed him again, and when that was done he’d be shivering, having soaked his sheets with sweat. Every four hours it was time for another dose of crushed aspirin. I wasn’t very successful at that; he drooled it out of the corners of his mouth, pill fragments clinging to his chin. I wiped them away. Who knows how much got into him? His fever was unrelenting, and he tossed and moaned.

  One night, the metal spoon I had been using for a makeshift latch on the front door fell out of its place with a clatter. I was in the kitchen pulverizing more aspirin and looked up to see the farmer standing in the doorway. I strode over and pressed the door closed in his face. There was a grunt of surprise on the other side.

  “Scarlet fever,” I said through the wood. “You don’t want to come in.”

  “You’re ill?”

  “Not me. Leo.”

  “Oh.” Then, “Do you need anything? Can I help?”

  “No,” I said. Then, “I don’t know.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Are you gone?” I asked.

  “No,” he said.

  I put my forehead against the door.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whispered. “He’s getting sicker.”

  “Have you had the doctor?”

  “Brother Silas comes every morning. He says there’s nothing really to do.” God’s will will prevail was what he’d said. “I can’t get him to swallow the aspirin.”

  “There’s always something to do,” said the farmer with an uncharacteristic vigor. “Do you have any books?”

  “What?” I said.

  “Children like to be told stories when they’re ill. It comforts them.”

  “He’s sleeping. He can’t hear me.”

  “There’s comfort for the reader too,” he said. His voice was sad; I wondered how he knew this. “Also applesauce.”

  “What?”

  “Crush the aspirin tablets into applesauce.”

  I stayed like that against the door for a long time, listening to the crunch of his boots going away through the snow.

  Leo was talking to himself when I went back into the room, an uninterrupted slush of sounds, no words that I could make out. I took the cloth from his forehead and freshened it in the basin of water by the bed, brushed the hair from the ivory skin above his eyebrows, laid the cool cloth back down. He didn’t seem to notice any of it; he was still dream-babbling. After a moment I went to the trunk at the foot of the bed and took out a parcel. For Leo from Clare, I had written on the paper. Merry Christmas. I tore the paper and ribbon off and went to the chair beside the bed. I opened the heavy science book, tilting it so that the lamplight fell onto the page.

  “Any body completely or partially submerged in a fluid is acted upon by an upward force.” Leo continued to mutter and I raised my voice. “Which is equal to the weight of the fluid being displaced by the body.” This was no good: I needed a story. I flipped through the pages. “Listen, Leo,” I said.

  I read about the mathematician who got into his bathtub and observed how the water level rose. I added details that weren’t in the book: the long curly beard of the man, how it floated on the surface of the bath, and how when he leapt from the tub with his famous cry, eureka, he’d slipped on the water that sloshed on the floor. How his youngest child, putting his curious head around the doorframe, had been just in time to catch his father’s arm and steady him. If not for the boy, I invented, the discovery might have been lost. I was not sure Leo was hearing any of it, but he definitely grew quieter while I talked, his chest rising and falling more slowly.

  When I got to the end of the story, my throat was dry and Leo was asleep, the kitten curled at his feet. I tiptoed from the room.

  The next night, I made up another story from a different chapter, about a seed dropped by a bird, then inadvertently buried by the paw of a passing squirrel, lying asleep for a season before pushing up and bursting through the soil, unfurling its leaves wide to drink the power of the sun.

  “See the layers inside?” I said, holding up a picture of a botanical cross-section. Of course he could not see; his eyes were closed.

  I had forgotten the power, the beauty, of words. I savored them as I sounded them out, naming things I hadn’t even known existed: cambium, xylem, phloem. So much intricate design went into something as simple as a stem. If God took that much care with even the humblest piece of each living thing, it seemed evidence that He must know, and have a hand in, every thing that happened to every bit of creation. For the first time in a long time, I found comfort in the thought.

  * * *

  “THE INFECTION HAS moved into his joints,” I told the farmer through the door a few days later. “Both knees are swollen.”

  How much I anticipated this half hour each day, his visit the only light in the long, grim hours. As the sun went down my spirits lifted, knowing he’d soon be trudging up the hill after his chores were done. Today I had put a chair out
side. When I saw him coming up the path, I opened the door, set a steaming mug of cocoa on the seat, then closed the door again.

  He said nothing about the chair, but I heard the creak as he sat down.

  “Silas says he could be crippled,” I said. “But the real worry is injury to his heart.”

  “His heart,” repeated the farmer.

  It was inexplicable: what had started as a sore throat was now creeping into his knees, and from there might marshal an attack on his heart.

  “Silas gave him another injection.” Leo’s thighs were mottled with bruises.

  “Good cocoa,” said the farmer.

  “It’s your milk,” I reminded him. “How’s Evangeline?” One of his cows had mastitis; he’d been up hours the other night, massaging out the blockage.

  “Better,” he said. “I won’t use her milk for a while yet, though. Best to be safe.”

  He had only six cows; Evangeline was a great producer. I knew this was a significant loss to him.

  “You don’t have to bring me milk if you can’t spare it,” I said. “Leo’s not eating anything anyway.”

  “You need to keep up your strength. You can make it into butter or cheese. I make a nice soft cheese with pepper. I’ll show you how.”

  “After Leo gets better.” Or after he died. In any case, there would be an after; these visits reminded me of that. This long, difficult time would come to an end.

  There was a silence, and for a moment I thought he’d left.

  “You’ve, ah, left something outside here,” said the farmer.

  “What is it?” I asked, and then when his answer didn’t come, I realized what it must be. “Sorry,” I said, horribly embarrassed, and also trying not to laugh. “It’s just the most convenient place.”

  The bedpan had been one of the most difficult things to manage. Leo jumped each time he rolled back onto the unyielding shape and felt the cold ceramic kiss on his buttocks. I had tried keeping the thing by the fireplace in order to warm it up, but the cat took an inordinate interest in it. Finally, I had settled on leaving it outside in a snowbank and dousing it with hot water from the kettle right before I took it into the bedroom. I would bundle up while the kettle hissed, stand on the porch and pour, then watch the steam rise from the smooth white shape for a minute before bending to pick it up, throw the water out of it, and carry it back inside. All of that three times a day, and usually for nothing. Leo hadn’t much in him.

  Now the farmer must be staring at it where I’d left it, jammed into the snowbank beside the porch, not four feet from the leg of the chair he was sitting on.

  “Are you all right?” He sounded concerned. My laughter must have sounded like tears.

  “Yes,” I said. I couldn’t stop laughing. How long had he been staring at the bedpan, wondering if he should say anything about it? I put my arms around myself and laughed until the tears ran down my face.

  “I’m sorry,” I said when I had gotten control of myself. “I haven’t been sleeping much.”

  “You have a nice laugh.” He was probably blushing out there at his forwardness. His voice became businesslike. “I have to get back to Evangeline. What should I bring tomorrow?”

  “Just yourself,” I said, a little forwardness of my own. “Thank you.”

  I heard the chair creak as he got up. I stayed seated, waited a full five minutes until he was surely away and out of risk of contagion, before I opened the door. When I did there was a package on the seat of the chair, wrapped in brown paper. Books. I took them, and the chair and the bottle of milk and the empty cocoa mug back inside. I left the bedpan where it was.

  * * *

  SPEAKING OF WHICH.

  Hm? Oh! Let me call the nurse.

  What can I do for you, Miz Pereira? Oh. All righty. I’m going to put the bed down a bit, and then we’ll roll onto our side.

  I’ll be back in a while, all right, Gloria?

  Take your time.

  I’ll come get you when we’re done, Miss Clare.

  * * *

  THOSE OF US who have reached a delicate age have dispensed with modesty; it’s a pleasant frippery, like cut flowers. With time, both wither and die. Not a one of us here has not known the indignity of a bedpan or a nurse’s efficient washcloth. Gloria’s in the nursing unit now, and has a catheter in; the bedpan is reserved for her more solid efforts. She was moved to the unit a week ago; the staff delivers my trays here, so we can have meals together.

  It is my long life’s greatest surprise: I have found best friendship again, in that holding-hands-on-the-playground, save-a-seat-beside-me, choose-each-other-first-for-games way. I would have said it couldn’t happen, a meaningful connection at my age, much less with Gloria, considering the difference in our ages and experience. Maybe it has been partly the sharing of my life, the hours that I have talked and she has sat listening, the recording device between us drinking up the things I’ve never said to anyone. But it’s not just that; we don’t record every day, and after shutting the recorder off we linger and talk, both of us, about anything.

  When the aide calls me back into the room, Gloria’s in good spirits.

  “That was like childbirth,” she says.

  “How would you know?”

  “Extrapolation.” She aims the remote control at the screen bolted up near the ceiling. “Guess what time it is.”

  I find television slightly overwhelming; many of the programs seem to concern themselves with extremely unpleasant subjects. Gloria likes the program that has people bringing their old things to experts to be valued. Objects they have cherished as heirlooms turn out to be cheap copies, while the neglected item that has been serving years as a doorstop or paperweight or moldering away in a closet is revealed as a priceless wonder. How reverently people regard their old doorstop when they’ve been told it’s valuable. Gloria likes to guess what the expert is going to say.

  Her intravenous line disappears under the top of her bedclothes, and from the foot of the bed another tube snakes out. I am grateful for the anonymous medication that is keeping her alive. She has an infection in her leg, a red angry tumescence that started as a scratch.

  “I knew it,” she tells the screen. “That thing was too darned ugly. It had to be worth a bundle. Just look at that woman’s greedy face. Beloved family heirloom my rear end. She can’t wait to hear how much she can sell that thing for.” She lies back against the pillows, a bit breathless. “Do you ever wonder where all that stuff goes? Those things we had in our houses all those years?” She spreads her arms to indicate the room we are in. “And now we’re here, and there’s nothing left. Where does it go?”

  “Well, at least some of it ends up on the television.” I am trying to joke.

  “But everyone had a pitcher like that,” she says, indicating the screen, where the man in the jacket is turning an enamel jug to show the mark on its bottom. “Everyone. And only one shows up on TV. Where did the others go? How did they all disappear?”

  “They didn’t disappear. They wore out, got damaged, were thrown away. There are probably lots in attics and basements.”

  When the program is over, Gloria puts her thumb on the remote to shut off the power. Then she fiddles with the tray table until the top slides back, revealing the drawer inside.

  “Goodness,” I say. “It’s as bad as your purse in there.” I see a comb and a denture case and a box of tissues and at least three rolls of mints before she finds what she is looking for and slams it shut again.

  “Happy birthday,” she says, placing an envelope flat on the surface. “You don’t look a day over ninety-five.”

  “It’s not my birthday.”

  “It will be sometime. The way things are going here, better safe than sorry.” She nudges the envelope toward me.

  I take it up. It’s bulky; something other than a card is inside. I tear open the flap, then turn the envelope over and an object falls out onto my palm. It’s a Monopoly piece: the car.

  “I’ve hired you
a driver,” she says. “Two hours, to go to Roscommon and back. Saturday at 9 a.m. You’re gonna put your feet on that ground one more time.”

  I stare at the car. “Gloria.”

  “I hoped to go with you, but—” She lifts the arm with the trailing IV. “You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

  “It’s a lovely thought,” I say.

  “You should see your face. What’s the problem?”

  I turn the car over between my thumb and index finger. It’s the style from my youth, the open touring car.

  “You’ll have to give that back,” she says, putting out her hand. “I stole it from the common room.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  * * *

  Lucy

  I SLEEP FOR A FEW HOURS after my shift, then pop awake at 10 a.m. as though an alarm has gone off. I shower and dress in regular clothes, jeans and a long-sleeve shirt, and take the elevator down to the psych floor. I badge myself in, nod hello to the unit coordinator.

  “How is he?” I ask.

  “Not great,” she says. “Honestly, I think this hypnosis is doing a number on him. It must be bringing up some stuff.”

  “He’s remembered the murders?” What a terrible burden. It might be preferable to have no memory at all. “Does he still want to be called Leo?”

  “I don’t know. He’s kind of stopped talking.” The phone rings and she puts her hand on it. “You can go back.” She lifts the receiver. “Six West, this is Connie.”

  He’s in his room, coloring in a book. He looks up briefly when I come in.

  “Hey, buddy,” I say. “How are you?”

  He doesn’t respond.

  His room is so spare, not like any of the other rooms I passed coming down the hall. Those rooms are filled with color: toys on the beds, cards and posters on the walls. The anorexic girl sitting on her bed texting had been doing so from a landslide of stuffed animals.

  “What are you coloring?”

  Still nothing.

  I’m used to the silent treatment from pediatric patients, but with them I have a guiding purpose, an acute problem to solve. I’m not here to examine him; I have no medical goal. I’m not quite sure what to do.