Mercy Me

by Margaret A. Graham

  I took a bath, put on fresh clothes, and fed the birds. I was ready to drive back to the hospital when the phone rang. It was Beatrice. I didn’t have time to tell her the whole story, so I just told her I was sitting in the hospital with a friend she didn’t know. She didn’t press me, because she was too excited about what she had to say.

  “Esmeralda, Carl said he would go to church with me Sunday. What do you think?”

  “Well, I think that’s fine.”

  “I know, but you know how people are—they’ll be looking at us and whispering and asking me to introduce him.”

  “Well, go to church a little late, sit in the back, and leave fast.”

  “But if we go late, all the back-row seats will be filled up.”

  I sighed. That woman could not think for herself, and I was too tired to do her thinking for her. “Beatrice, you’re just going to have to do what you think is best. I have got to get back to the hospital.”

  “Wait! Just one thing more, Esmeralda. When he brings me home, do I invite him in or just let him go on his way?”

  “Why don’t you invite him for dinner?”

  “For dinner! It won’t look right, me bringing a man in the house with nobody here but me.”

  I tell you, I was put out with her. “Well, then ask somebody else to eat dinner with you.”

  “I never thought of that. There’s lots of people hungry after church.”

  “Well, you do that, Beatrice. I got to go now. I’ll talk to you later.”

  As I drove back to the hospital, I figured I’d been short with Beatrice. But for the life of me, I just didn’t have it in me to feel bad about that. There she was, hanging on the phone like she was the only person in the world who had a care, and there I was, facing so many problems I couldn’t keep my head above water. If I hadn’t cared about her, I would’ve told her, “Beatrice, you are on your own!” But I knew I was thinking that way only because I was tired. When the whole mess was over, I’d be there for Beatrice, like I’d always been.

  When I stepped on the elevator, there was Dr. Elsie. She did not mince her words. “Esmeralda, we need to talk.”

  When we got off at the third floor, she took me to a deserted waiting room, and we sat down.

  “I hate to tell you this,” she said, “but the hospital is going to dismiss Maria Lopez. With all these emergency patients, the administration is going to put two beds and two cots in Maria’s room. Even if I could persuade them to keep her, Maria is too sick to be in a room with three other patients. Besides, the administrator told me her records are incomplete and that it’s against all the rules of the company to admit a patient, much less keep one, whose paperwork is incomplete. In fact, he says he’d like to dismiss the nurses who allowed this to happen, but he can’t do without them right now because of all these emergencies.”

  “Well, thank you for telling me,” I said.

  Dr. Elsie peered at me, maybe wondering why I was taking this news so well. “What will you do, Esmeralda?”

  “I’ll take her home to my house.”

  15

  Dr. Elsie had us get a hospital bed and other equipment for Maria. She also got in touch with a hospice center, and a worker there agreed to visit and help out. But mainly the nursing was left up to me and Lucy, who was the only person who could communicate with Maria.

  When I had a chance to leave the sickroom for a few minutes, I organized how we would handle the situation. I put Clara in charge of running errands, shopping for groceries, all that kind of thing. I knew she would ask the W.W.s to furnish meals for us and whoever else happened to be in the house. Thelma could be a backup for Lucy or me when one of us had to catch a few hours of sleep. I also would ask her to find someone to take care of Mrs. Purdy on Fridays, since I wouldn’t be able to do that for a while. With all the diarrhea Maria was having, I knew the laundry would get out of hand. If I couldn’t handle it, Mabel Elmwood had a maid who could help out.

  I didn’t want to lose my garden, but I knew I could count on Elijah to take care of it if somebody would give him transportation. I wrote myself a note to ask Boris to go for him and take him home. Matter of fact, my beans were coming in, and Boris’s young people could help Elijah pick them. They could also keep the grass cut. I didn’t have to worry about canning the beans or whatever produce came in; the W.W.s were so anxious to help, they’d can the stuff the day it was picked.

  I put in a quick call to Thelma, told her what I needed people to do, and asked her to pass the word. I also asked her to call Beatrice and tell her the whole story of what was going on with us now. By the time I put the phone down, help certainly was on the way—the next day things were buzzing around my place.

  The hospice people were in and out, offering every kind of service you could imagine. They were wonderful people, I tell you. Lucy and I couldn’t sing their praises enough. I wish they’d been around when Bud was sick.

  But the backbone of our operation was Dr. Elsie. She came every day and whenever I needed her, day or night. Another one we couldn’t have done without was Pastor Osborne. That dear man would slip in, sometimes late at night, and we’d find him kneeling beside the bed, holding Maria’s hand and praying. He came every day, sometimes more than once a day. I was certain he’d come if I needed him in an emergency.

  And an emergency was what we had on our hands one afternoon, not long after I had brought Maria home with me.

  Well, it wasn’t a life-or-death emergency, but Maria was wild-eyed, in a frenzy about her children. I watched her a few minutes as she grabbed at Lucy and jabbered in that unknown tongue.

  Lucy told me what she was saying. “She keeps asking over and over for Angelica.”

  “Angelica? That must be her little girl.” I didn’t think Maria was in any condition to have the children visit her. But then again, maybe it would calm her down if she saw them.

  Sometimes you just don’t know what’s best.

  I went to the phone and called the Osbornes. “Betty, this is Esmeralda. Can you get those children over here right away?”

  “Right away? You’re not going to put them in foster care, are you?”

  “No, their mama needs to see them.”

  “Oh. Well, the boys are outside playing catch with my husband, but I’ll get them in here. Bob will take them and the little girl to you as quick as he can.”

  After I hung up with Betty, I went back in the room to report what she’d said. Lucy was trying to get the bedpan under Maria, but we soon found out she was too late. What a mess we had to clean up! I was on my way to the laundry room with the dirty sheets when Pastor Osborne drove up.

  I tell you, those children never looked so good. They were scrubbed clean, their hair was cut and combed, and the clothes they were wearing would’ve made any discount store proud. Those were three beautiful children.

  I looked in on Maria, and she seemed limp as a dishrag. “Bring ’em on in here,” I told the pastor.

  Seeing their mother, the boys dashed across the room and jumped up on the bed. “Oh, now, see here,” I said, but I hushed when I saw it was okay. Maria looked dazed, and the boys calmed down a bit. Feebly, she lifted her arms to hug them. The boys kept kissing her face and talking a mile a minute.

  Lucy whispered, “They’re asking her when she will get well.”

  Maria was too weak to do more than murmur through her pale lips. The boys started laughing and pointing at the pastor. Lucy explained. “Now they’re telling her about eating ice cream and playing catch and the pastor splitting his pants!”

  Pastor Osborne smiled. “Lucy, tell them it’s their sister’s turn.” When Lucy told them, both boys flung their arms around their mother’s neck, hugging and kissing her, not wanting to let go.

  I took hold of one boy’s arm. “Leggo,” I said, tugging at him. Reluctantly, he let go, and then his brother did too. The boys scrambled to the foot of the bed, sat crosslegged with their chins resting on their fists, and waited to see what Angelica would do
.

  Pastor Osborne lifted the little girl over the side rails, careful not to get her tangled up in all the intravenous stuff, and gently placed her in her mother’s arms. Well, you just never know what a child is gonna do. Angelica burst into tears! And poor Maria was helpless to comfort her. The frightened child just got louder! The boys moved quickly to pacify their sister, but it was no use. She just kept right on screaming.

  The pastor had to lift Angelica back over the rails and stand her down beside the bed. Only then did she stop screaming. Now she was sobbing and clinging to the pastor’s leg. Pastor Osborne stroked her head and did the best he could to comfort her, but as he looked across the bed to me, he mouthed the words I guess we better go.

  Still, he just stood there, not having the heart to take those little things from their mother.

  After a while, Angelica quieted a bit. Pastor Osborne took out his handkerchief and helped her blow her nose. Then, with her thumb in her mouth and still leaning against the pastor’s knee, she stood staring at her mother.

  Maria’s sick eyes were fixed on that beautiful little tear-stained face. Reaching with her finger, she touched the ringlets of Angelica’s hair, touched her cheek, her lips, and murmured softly. The child sniffled, a sob catching in her throat.

  Before a fresh flood of tears could start, I gave Lucy a sign, and she told the boys to say good-bye to their mother. They began planting big wet kisses all over Maria’s face. Finally, I beckoned to them, and they crawled off the bed.

  Pastor Osborne gently herded the three of them to the door. I watched Maria as her eyes followed them. When the door closed, she turned her face to the wall.

  I asked Lucy if she had gotten the names of the boys from Maria. She had; they were Rios and Carlos.

  I hurried outside to catch the pastor before he got away. He was standing on the porch, Angelica in his arms, her head nestled against his neck and shoulder. The boys had run ahead and jumped in the car.

  “Pastor,” I said, waving my finger, “one of them boys is named Carlos and the other one Rios. You’ll have to figure out which one is which.”

  He smiled. “That won’t be hard.” He called after the boys. “Carlos?” The older one poked his head out the window. “Muy bien,” Pastor Osborne said. He turned to me with a sheepish smile. “Those are the only two Spanish words I know.”

  As I watched the pastor and the children pull out of the driveway, I couldn’t help but grieve for Maria. I tell you, to think of that dying mother leaving those precious babies was more than I could take. I went back in the kitchen and tried to get hold of myself. I guess it was because I was so tired, but I started crying and couldn’t stop. I cried and cried.

  In an effort to get control of myself, I made a cup of tea and tried to think of other things.

  I stood at the sink and looked out the window at Elijah talking to the young people and showing them how to pick the beans. I thought about the tiller. Unbeknownst to me, Clara had asked the class if she could use the carpet money to pay for the tiller, and they had all agreed. Now I needed to ask somebody to bring it up to my house and put it in the shed until I could find Elijah some way of hauling it around town. But there was too much going on, and I was too wore out to figure that out.

  Boris was cutting the grass. I stepped outside and hollered to him. He shut off the mower and came to the porch, wiping his hands on his blue jeans. My eyes must’ve been all red and puffy, because he put his arm around my shoulders. “Oh, Miss Esmeralda, I’m so sorry. Can’t I do something for you?”

  Well, he didn’t do nothing for me but bring on another flood of tears. I had a tissue in my pocket, so I blew my nose and got hold of myself before I said, “Let’s go inside.”

  He held the screen door for me and followed me into the kitchen.

  “Boris, the ladies have brought so much food in here, I don’t have room in the refrigerator to keep it. See here.” I pointed to the food crowding my countertops. “Now, it’s almost lunchtime; you get a couple of the girls in here to make the tea and fix barbecue sandwiches. But do tell them to keep it down. Where there’s sickness, we have to have quiet. There’s plenty of ice, and somebody brought paper cups, paper plates, and napkins. Elijah can come in here, but the rest of you can have a picnic out there under that live oak.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I understand.”

  I gave his arm a squeeze and sent him back outside. Before going into Maria’s room, I splashed a lot of cold water on my face.

  Lucy was sitting beside Maria’s bed, looking tuckered out. The odor wasn’t good in the room, so I raised a window and sprayed around with disinfectant. A breeze stirred the curtains and kept them kind of dancing. They were some white ones I’d bought on sale several years before, and I still think they were the prettiest I ever had.

  “Lucy, Maria is sleeping. Why don’t you go in my bedroom and lie down?”

  Lucy stretched and yawned. “I think I will.”

  The sound of the lawn mower started up again.

  Left alone with Maria, I watched her sleep, her mouth open, her breathing irregular. It reminded me of Bud’s last days; the only difference was that his breathing had been loud and raspy.

  It had taken me a long time before I could think of Bud any way but sick. Now I could think of him healthy like he once was, but tending a sick person brought back all those bad memories.

  I heaved a big sigh, but the heaviness hung in my chest worse than the pain of heartburn.

  I wondered how much longer Maria could hold out. I folded the newspaper and fanned her face. “Lord,” I whispered, “for the sake of those precious little ones, won’t you spare this mother’s life?”

  I could hear the girls tiptoeing in the kitchen, closing cabinet doors, talking quietly. I’d let them finish before I fixed a plate for Elijah.

  Some young voices singing in the garden floated through the window, sounding sweet, like so many little birds waking you up of a morning. Hearing sounds of life being lived outside and at the same time waiting for a spirit to leave a body made the heaviness I was feeling even heavier. How much we take for granted . . . how soon the living is over.

  I heard a car drive up, and I looked out the window. It was Pastor Osborne. I didn’t get up—he always let himself in.

  A moment later, he eased into the room and pulled up a chair beside mine. We nodded to each other, and I began fanning Maria again. She looked too worn out ever to wake up.

  “Pastor, is she all right—is little Angelica all right?”

  “Yeah. On the way home, with that little thumb in her mouth, she nearly fell asleep. As I left the house just now, Betty had her and the boys out at the picnic table, getting ready to eat watermelon.”

  We sat at Maria’s bedside, not saying anything for a long time. I was wondering why he’d come back so soon. I figured he must’ve known how I was feeling and just came back to be with me.

  “You know, Pastor Osborne,” I finally said, “it just don’t seem fair for this young mama to die and leave those three babies. Why don’t he take me? I’ve almost lived my three score and ten.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “We’ve all prayed for Maria to live, but to tell the truth, I don’t think she will.”

  He still didn’t say anything. Some preachers would’ve ripped out a sermonette about how we must have faith, and that if we didn’t have hope, then we didn’t have faith because faith and hope go together. All of which I have understood since I was knee-high to a grasshopper.

  But Pastor Osborne isn’t like that. He’s not what you would call a professional preacher with a fancy D.Min. behind his name, out hobnobbing with the country-club set. As much as I look up to the man, I feel as close to him as I would to the son I never had. I can dump on him my worst feelings and know he’ll only talk to God about me.

  “Pastor, you know about my husband, Bud, getting wounded in the war and all?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, when he went off to war, I pr
ayed my heart out that no harm would come to him. It was a bitter pill to swallow when he come back a basket case. But I didn’t give up. Every day and night I prayed with faith and hope that God would give us a miracle. But we never did get one.”

  Pastor Osborne knew I was asking for help; still, he didn’t hurry to oblige. He took the newspaper out of my hand and swatted at a fly. “Did I get him?”

  I didn’t know, or care. I wanted him to go ahead and tell me what he thought.

  He handed the paper back to me. “ Esmeralda, these things are hard to understand. . . . My daddy always told me that we must let God know some things we don’t know. . . . He said if we knew everything the Lord knows, then he wouldn’t be God.”

  “I’ve thought of that,” I said. “But . . .”

  He shifted in his chair to see me better. The way the sun was coming in the window, the light was circling his head and I could hardly see his face.

  “You know what’s helped me, Esmeralda? Jesus. He never performed a miracle just for himself . . . never used his power for his own advantage . . .”

  I’d thought of that many times too. I’d thought about him fasting forty days and then the old devil coming to him, tempting him to turn stones into bread. As a child, I’d wished he’d shown the devil a thing or two, just up and made hot rolls for himself—with butter and jam!

  I wasn’t sure what Pastor Osborne was getting at, but I was beginning to see a glimmer.

  “Esmeralda, I know you know this—you know that Jesus could’ve called down legions of angels that night in the garden when they were arresting him, but he didn’t. He just never used supernatural means to escape suffering. I hope I’m making sense.”

  “No,” I said, “but go on.”

  “Well, what I’m trying to say is there were purposes to be served by the things Jesus suffered, and that’s why he didn’t interfere by using supernatural power.”

  I still didn’t see where he was going. Maybe I was just too tired to think.