“But . . . I mean . . . won’t they find out about The Awful Year?”
She dropped the letter and froze, her hand in midair, then lowered it and turned. Her face had blanched. With a barely perceptible shake of her head she said, “Don’t go there, Paige. . . .”
I retrieved the piece of stationery without meeting my sister’s eyes and pretended those last seconds had not occurred. Sometimes bad memories, the worst ones, couldn’t be dealt with in the middle of a fresh crisis. So we placed both letters with their envelopes in a clear ziplock bag (not that they weren’t already completely covered with my fingerprints), and we drove to the hospital.
HENRY
Of course Libby took Jase to church on Sunday morning, like always. Wanting people to feel sorry for us, was what I told her. We didn’t need pity, like I saw on Miz Garrison’s face when she looked over her glasses at me. I didn’t want pity for my son; I wanted an operation that would fix him. Why didn’t they hand me some money for that instead of a scrunched-up forehead and a whispered “We’re prayin’ for Jase.”
I stayed home and read more of Miz Bourdillon’s book. I figured maybe reading would calm my mind a bit.
The book said interesting things that I hadn’t thought about in a long time. The main character was a boy about fifteen or sixteen, I reckoned, who had gotten into trouble. Then he met up with an old woman who half the time seemed crazy and half the time seemed really wise. She said things like “You don’t have to accomplish everything at once. Life isn’t a fifty-yard dash, boy. Life’s a cross-country adventure. Don’t rush it.”
Sounded like my ma. Before she passed away, she said things like that. “Henry, you got all your life to figure that out. Don’t you be in such a hurry.”
Thing was, Pa didn’t agree. If he ever said, “Take your time, boy, take your time,” it was when I was looking through a site finder on a rifle, and he meant that I’d better concentrate real hard on pulling that trigger and I’d better not miss or else. I never doubted Pa’s “or else.” To him, showing love to his family came with a lot of slapping around and beatings and other things I’ve tried my best to forget.
But on that Sunday morning, reading Miz Bourdillon’s book, I started feeling all satisfied and warm, like when Libby fixes her barbecue pork and it makes the whole trailer smell welcoming. Something was seeping into my spirit—that’s how the pastor at Libby’s church would have said it—something was seeping in that made me think. On just about every page something was happening that meant more than you thought was happening, if I could put it that way. Reading it, I felt like I had stepped right into that young boy’s shoes, and I was walking around in them so fine and comfortable I didn’t even hear Libby and Jase come home from church.
At lunch there was a prescription bottle sitting by my plate. “When you get this?” I asked.
“After church at Walmart.”
“Well, I was gonna get it.”
“I know. But you’ve been busy, and I thought if I could help. . . .” She was watching me now, and I knew the look—fear. Always fear.
“Okay.” I managed a glance her way. “I’ll start back up on the meds. I will.”
Libby’s face, her beautiful face, melted into a smile. Man, I liked to see that smile. I reached for the bottle, opened it, slid out a light blue pill and threw it in my mouth. Made like I was swallowing it down, but I didn’t.
Libby put her hand on my shoulder. I almost thought she was gonna start bawling. But she just said, “Thank you, babe. You keep taking them, every day. No more starting and stopping.”
After lunch Jase went to his room for a rest, and Libby came over to where I was sitting. She got that funny little tinge in her voice, the one that comes when she has to bring up something unpleasant. “Do you think you can come with me to talk with the surgeon tomorrow? He moved the appointment.”
I shut the book. “What time is it?”
“Four.”
“I should go back to work. Boss won’t like it if I’m gone much longer.”
“So go on back, and just get off a little early. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
“How you aim to get there if I have the pickup?”
“We’ll be okay on the bus.”
Jase didn’t like riding the bus if it was crowded. Sometimes it got him all panicked. “Naw. I’ll take the bus in to work. You come by and pick me up before the appointment.”
“All right.” Libby leaned over and kissed me softly on the mouth. She smelled like that lavender oil she sometimes used. “Thanks, babe.”
PAIGE
The Mission Hospital took up several city blocks and comprised St. Joseph Campus, Memorial Campus, the Rathbun House, and the Cancer Center. In short, it was a maze of buildings near the downtown area. Momma was on the fourth floor of the Memorial Campus, in the Neuro Trauma ICU.
“No reporters at the visitors entrance,” Hannah said.
“Thank goodness. Yesterday morning they followed me all the way into the parking garage. I guess Momma is old news now.”
Up on the fourth floor, at the entrance to the ICU, we were greeted by two policemen. I had met one of them, Detective Blaylock, the day before. Stocky, midthirties, balding, with a black beard and what I’d call a cynical smile. The other officer was a crisp-looking woman, short, big chested, dyed-red hair, maybe forty. Officer Hanley. They nodded at us as we headed to Momma’s room. Daddy was sitting in his chair by her bed. Same tubes, same machines.
“Mamie and Papy called. They send their love. I told them you would call them back later.” He gave a half nod, and I kissed him on the cheek. “Any change?”
He shook his head. “None that I can tell, but the surgeon is coming by in a few minutes to talk with us.”
“We’re going to show the detective those disturbing letters Momma received recently. Is that okay?” I tried to sound casual.
Daddy didn’t respond.
I asked again. “Would that be okay, Daddy, to show him the letters?”
He gave a little jerk, as if awaking from a dream, and nodded. “Good idea. Good idea, girls. Thank you.”
“And if he wants to see anything else?”
Daddy barely looked up. “Yes, of course,” he mumbled. “He can look through anything he wants. I’ve already given the detective permission.”
I leaned over the bed rail and kissed Momma on the bridge of her nose. “I love you, Momma. Everyone is praying for you. And Drake will be coming tomorrow.”
When I explained my story to Detective Blaylock and showed him the two letters, he asked, “Mind if keep these?”
“Not at all.”
“And can I take a look at the rest of your mother’s fan mail?”
“Sure. That’s fine.”
“Good. I’ll be coming by your house this afternoon. Can you read over all the emails before I come and flag any that might be suspicious?”
“That’ll be a cinch,” I said under my breath, but he heard me.
“Excuse me, Miss Bourdillon?”
“My mother has received almost seven thousand emails since she was shot—seven thousand—and hundreds of Facebook messages. And,” I added, “I haven’t looked at any of it.”
Detective Blaylock lifted one bushy black eyebrow, poked out his lower lip, and said, “All right, then. I’ll put Officer Hanley on it full-time. She’ll come over to your house later. Anything the slightest bit suspicious, we need to see it. Anything at all.”
At one thirty the surgeon, Dr. Moore, a wiry little man with thick-rimmed glasses, escorted us into his office. “Think of a brain injury like real estate,” he said, almost enthusiastically, as if we were actually considering purchasing a house. “What matters is location, location, location,” and he smiled.
Daddy’s face darkened, and I thought he might punch the little man. Dr. Moore must have caught on because he added, “And your wife’s extremely lucky that the bullet hit at the least dangerous location—the right frontal lobe.”
&n
bsp; He took his hands out of his lab coat pockets and moved to a poster containing a detailed diagram of the brain. With his pen he began pointing out regions in the brain. “The bullet entered and exited the brain—first positive sign—nothing still stuck in there. And as I said, it penetrated only the right region, not both regions—second positive sign. Much less damage. And lastly, the bullet was narrow and fast. Think of it like a football pass.”
Again Daddy growled at the surgeon’s unsympathetic analogy.
“A tight spiral pass gives a lot less resistance going through the air than one that wobbles from side to side. It’s the same with a bullet. The shooter used a handgun from fairly close range. The smaller and faster bullet created less damage as it passed through the brain than if it had been slower and wobbly. The combination of velocity and bullet dynamics and the location that the bullet entered the head determine the extent of the injuries. As I said, we are hopeful. Each day brings a little brighter outlook.”
Then he frowned. “But I won’t kid you. Ninety percent of victims of headshot wounds do not survive. Many who do are permanently disabled. We don’t speculate because we’ve seen the gamut. One patient has severe trauma and survives, another has a less serious brain injury and dies. Only time, and great patience and perseverance, will tell.”
He reached out a hand, which Daddy shook reluctantly, and then added, after glancing down at a chart in his other hand, “But her score is up.”
We looked at him blankly. I wondered if he was still talking about football.
“The combined Glasgow and Rancho score has moved from a four to a six in only twenty-four hours. That’s progress, really important progress.”
“But what does that mean, Doctor? What has changed?” I’d studied both of those charts on the internet the night before. “When she first arrived at the hospital she had no eye opening, no verbal or motor response, right?”
He nodded. “Correct.”
“Well, she’s still got her eyes closed and hasn’t moved or said a thing.”
“Good observations and good questions. The attending nurse in the night noticed a slight twitch in her eyelids, and one of her hands jerked.” As we left his office Dr. Moore repeated, “That’s progress.”
“You hear that, Daddy? He said it’s progress.”
Daddy simply nodded. With Hannah and me on either side of him, we made our way back to Momma’s room, where he slumped into the chair by her bed and buried his head in his hands.
“Daddy, go on home and get some rest. Hannah and I will stay here with Momma.”
He finally lifted his head, gave a weary smile, and said, “All right, girls. I’ll come back by five so you can meet Officer Hanley at home and go over the fan mail.”
Well, at least some things had registered with him. I stepped out of the room and watched him leave. From the back he looked composed, a lanky middle-aged man in a tailored blue suit, pushing open that heavy steel door marked ICU and disappearing in the distance.
While Hannah set up the CaringBridge account on her phone, I sank into the other chair by Momma’s bed and thought about a wobbling football and a house sitting in the perfect location on the beach. Once, as I rambled on and on to Momma about who knows what, I thought I saw a flicker of her eyelids. But when Hannah called the nurse over, nothing.
Nothing for the next three hours that we sat by her bed.
JOSEPHINE
1970 . . . The choir was singing that song again, “Just as I Am,” and the church was so crowded—every pew and in the balcony too. The ladies wore the most beautiful hats. Josephine especially liked Mrs. McBurney’s hats, a different one each week, bold and bright with a long feather, or small and lacy and pastel. She liked even more to sit in Mrs. McBurney’s Sunday school class and hear her talk about Jesus.
Ever since Josephine was really young, no more than three or four, she’d liked to talk to God, especially out in the woods behind the house with the stars shining down. That was easy, like talking to a friend who listened and helped when the dark thoughts crowded in.
As the choir sang she stood and made her way to the aisle. The sapphire blue carpet ran smooth under her patent leather shoes, but her knees trembled. She wanted to “go forward”—she wanted everyone to know she loved Jesus. But she was scared. What if she didn’t do it right? What if it didn’t work?
———
1971 . . . The first time Josephine found Kit with Daddy’s whiskey bottle she was eleven, and Kit was thirteen. Kit was on the floor, leaning against her bed, sound asleep. Josephine carefully lifted the bottle from her sister’s hands and hurried downstairs, where she set it back on the shelf. Maybe Daddy wouldn’t notice it was only half-full.
The next time Kit was awake, sitting in their walk-in closet. “What are you doing, Kit? Are you drinking Daddy’s whiskey?”
“None of your business,” Kit snapped, then cursed. Then she frowned and said, “Sorry, Sis. Sorry.”
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t care. He drinks himself to oblivion. I thought I might like to see how it feels.”
“Oh, Kit.”
———
1972 . . . Mrs. Schaeffer, the eighth-grade English teacher, stood in front of the class, beaming. “Students, you have all done a fine job with your short stories. A very fine job. However, there is one story that is exceptional. I believe we have the makings of a novelist in our midst.”
Josephine looked around at the other students. A novelist! She hadn’t known that another of her classmates loved writing the way she did. Who could it be?
“Josephine? Josephine, would you be willing to read us your story?”
Josephine jerked her head around. “Mine? You want me to read my story?”
Mrs. Schaeffer was smiling and holding out the manuscript. All fifty pages, written in Josephine’s loopy cursive on loose-leaf paper, skipping every other line. She swallowed hard and stood beside Mrs. Schaeffer, who handed her the stack of papers. She felt her face go red. A voice in her head chanted, But what if they don’t like it? What if they don’t like it?
I had to write this story, she answered it. I had to.
But what if they don’t like it?
CHAPTER
4
SUNDAY
PAIGE
Daddy came back to the hospital at five as he’d said, and I spent Sunday evening in Momma’s office with Officer Hanley, going through all 7,603 emails and the thousands of likes and messages on Facebook. So far not one had seemed threatening. All encouraging, all expressing shock and concern. By nine I was seeing cross-eyed. Hannah had literally fallen asleep as soon as we got home, and I’d sent her to bed for a nap.
I had just let Milton out—for the fourth time in three hours—and woken Hannah up and come back into The Chalet when Officer Hanley called me over to Momma’s laptop. “Have you seen this one before?”
The email had a bright floral background and the font was a pretty cursive. It read, I just knew something like this would happen. Anytime someone is courageous enough to challenge the status quo, well, what do we do? We murder him or her! Old as history. That’s what they did to Jesus. . . .
The diatribe went on and on and on, venting about gun laws and the downfall of the US and the call for Christians to stand up and fight.
“She sounds a bit extremist, doesn’t she?” I noted.
Hannah walked into the office at that moment and stood looking over my shoulder, reading the email. “Extremist maybe, but she makes some good points.”
Officer Hanley simply starred the email and asked, “Do either of you recall ever seeing this background or font on an email before?”
“No,” Hannah said. “But I haven’t been looking at my mother’s fan mail for several years now.”
“Not at all,” I said. “I think I’d remember something like this. It’s a bit unusual. And the content—it doesn’t sound like she’s written to Momma before, does it?”
I pondered that, then shrugged. “Maybe, but she wasn’t trying to remain anonymous. She signed the email with her first name, and her email address is her first and last name. She even has her street address under her signature with a fancy little pumpkin emoticon beside it.”
Officer Hanley was staring at me.
“What? Did I say something wrong?”
Her face actually relaxed into a half smile. “Not at all. You’re observant, Paige. It’s a good trait. Helpful. Keep observing.”
Hannah and I returned to the hospital late that night. Hannah was sitting by Momma’s bed in the ICU, holding her hand, whispering to her, trying unsuccessfully to make her voice sound soothing, when she said, “I think she just moved! Her hand twitched!”
Daddy and I rushed over to the bed, along with the nurse.
Momma’s fingers jerked again, and we stared at them, watching the faint movement as if it were as big a miracle as Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead.
“Maybe she’s in pain,” Daddy said.
Momma didn’t move again all that evening, but the nurse upped her morphine. Hannah sat there holding Momma’s hand, and I opened her email account on my phone and began reading aloud to her the messages that had come since the shooting. Nearly every single one ended with something like I’m praying for you, Mrs. Bourdillon.
JOSEPHINE
1973 . . . She was not going to cry! She would not. But all those red marks on the paper? She had worked for hours and hours and hours, in the middle of the night. What had she done wrong?
“Josephine, this is an excellent story,” Mrs. Nixon said. “You are a gifted writer. But you didn’t follow the instructions! No matter how creative and well-written the story, I cannot give you a high mark when you didn’t do the assignment. I believe a C+ is actually quite generous.”
When I Close My Eyes Page 5