Graceland

by Lynne Hugo

  I pray he’s grown up since then, because the big test is coming. I guess I’ll find out what John meant by abiding love.

  At the river, I can tell he saw me first; his face is expectant, alive, though not with the joyousness I once knew to be there when his eyes found me. He opens his arms and like a ninny, I walk right into them and put my head on his chest as I did so many times so long ago. Contrary to all plans, I break into tears.

  “Lydie. Lydie. Shh, I’m so sorry, Lydie…sweetheart.” The last word is almost a whisper, tentative but real.

  “I can’t lose her. You don’t understand, I can’t lose her.”

  “Shh. Shh. It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here.”

  Now here comes the utterly irrational part. John, Claire’s father, the man who loved me and I loved, who wasn’t there for five minutes that counted when it counted; he says I’m here, and I melt like chocolate on this flame of words.

  I know I can’t give in to it, not for myself, not now.

  “Do you mean you’ll do it?”

  “Well…can we talk about it? About the implications, I mean.”

  “I thought you wanted to think those through on your own. You said, you said, let me think about the ramifications and then we’ll talk.” I step back from him. A sudden anger like a black thread surfaces in the neutral fabric of my voice and I try to compose my face, do nothing to put him off. I look down at my feet to get control and then look up, directly at him. When I do, I see him notice the earrings and I know I’ve hit home. Behind him, the sun glints on the river, the light fragmenting into a strew of diamonds across the top. There was a time when something beautiful like that mattered to me. Not now, not anymore, not unless it’s a sign.

  “I did. Now I want to talk to you about them.”

  “It seems simple enough to me. She’s in the hospital, on emergency hemodialysis. A machine is keeping her alive. I’ll bring her home and she’ll do peritoneal dialysis every four hours. I don’t even know yet all the things that can go wrong. She was going to go to Wessel in the fall, she got scholarships and we saved money. She can’t go now, don’t you see? How hard is this to understand?”

  John reaches and takes my hand from its clenched position at my side. “Come on, let’s walk a little,” he says, pulling slightly, and I yield. My foot slips, awkward on the slope where gravel and uncut weeds are ragged, above the bank, which is muddy and now, brief and steep. John tightens his grip and catches me up. The river level is still high; later in the summer, it will diminish in generosity like a desperate heart. A barge heads toward us.

  John leads me a little lower where the footing is better but out of the shade. I squint in the glare and almost immediately begin to feel too hot.

  “Lydie, Lydie. Can we get to know each other again?”

  “Not if you’re going to say no.” I am wary.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to say.”

  “What does getting to know each other have to do with giving Claire a kidney?”

  “Well, maybe a lot. You know, my mother’s death hit me very hard.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry I didn’t know….”

  “I thought you might have seen it in the paper.”

  “No, really, I didn’t know. And I am sorry.” I feel guilty because I’m less sorry than I should be, not wanting him to digress away from the subject of Claire.

  But John continues. When he starts, I counsel myself to breathe slowly, practice patience. Think of it as labor. “You know, she drove me crazy for years. After Dad died, I felt like I had to take care of her for him, but it wasn’t something that came…easily, you know, something you do because you want to. I don’t think I realized how close I was to her while she was living. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, I guess, that I wanted to call you. You were the person who came to mind, you were the person I felt I needed, even though, well, I was surrounded with people, and ones who loved me, knew her and loved her, the kids, Barb, the whole ball of wax. But it was you I wanted.”

  I look at him, but he keeps looking ahead at the approaching barge. “Why?”

  “Why indeed. I decided it was because I really loved you, differently and more than I understood when we were together. Anyway, I wanted to call you then.”

  “But you didn’t.” I am sweating now, the sun magnified by the river, the humidity of the day mounting. I pull my hand from his to push my hair off my face, wipe my forehead with the back of my wrist.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Because?”

  “It wouldn’t have been fair to you.”

  I shake my head no, glad he doesn’t have my hand at the moment. This isn’t smart, it flashes to me, but I blurt it out anyway. “I doubt it. I’d guess that you didn’t call because you didn’t have the guts.”

  I expect him to respond defensively, but he seems to consider this notion, turning it around in his mind like a found object—an interesting leaf, or rock, or shell. He shakes his head no, but responds with a yes.

  “Maybe that’s exactly right. I guess so. Doesn’t say much for me, does it?”

  Then I want to put my arms around him and say it’s all right, even after all these years, it’s all right. Right then, I know that I love him. It makes no sense, but I do. At the same time, I’m thinking, it’s not all right, it’s not all right, but you have a chance to make it right. A chance to redeem yourself.

  “I know I didn’t have the guts when it counted.” John speaks more slowly than he used to. “Back then, whatever I said about my obligations, maybe I thought it was true. I hope I thought it was true. But really, you’re quite right, I didn’t have the courage, and I didn’t have the faith.”

  “Faith in me?” In spite of myself, I am being drawn into his stream.

  “That too. But first, not enough faith in myself, that I might know what I was doing even if it was…radical, unacceptable socially, whatever.” He pauses, a silence I don’t fill. “And I didn’t…believe, or understand maybe, that that kind of love really is that important. I thought I could get along without it, I guess, because it was a whole lot easier and less messy.”

  “I guess you thought it was easy for me.”

  “Before you were pregnant, yes, I guess I did. No children, and all.”

  The barge is almost to us. I swear I will not let it pass before I force him back to the tests that he needs to have. I’m determined to tell him about the IVP, the renal arteriogram, the MHC complex on human chromosome six. I have what the initials stand for and a little explanation of each one all neatly written out in my pocket. John dips a little as he walks, sidestepping a hole in the ground, and as he straightens, he picks up my hand again. A breeze ruffles the leaves slightly and cools my face some. Just breathe, take your time, but do it, I counsel myself.

  John tightens his grip on my hand and stops us, faces me square on and says, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was wrong…you got it a lot quicker than I did, the love part, didn’t you?” It’s a rhetorical question.

  Two, three, four seconds. Five, six, nine, ten. I make myself. “Please, we have to talk about Claire. She’s on dialysis, she needs a transplant. I have a list of tests….”

  “Lydie, I am talking about Claire, don’t you see that? Is there any chance for us to try again?”

  “Then once, live it. If you love me, do this for me. If you won’t do it for your daughter, do it for me.” I pull my hand loose; the gesture feels angry.

  John is very quiet. I am giving him nothing, I know that, and I know that no matter what I feel, that I’ll give him anything I have to to get the best chance for Claire. But I’m trying to give him nothing, because…I’m not sure. And what about Wayne? All these years of loving Claire, of claiming her, of protecting her from history? I have no idea what anyone’s rights are now. Claire’s life, that’s all I’ll think about now.

  “Fair enough. Fair enough,” he says. “I see your point. Why would you believe me?”

  “So you’ll…?”
I can’t take a chance that I am only hearing what I want to.

  “Yes. I’ll be tested. How do I go about it?”

  The moment is an eggshell, blown and painted by hand in twenty-four-karat gold, sky-blue and green, that fragile, that precious. I pull Dr. Douglas’s card out of my skirt pocket and hand it to him.

  “This is Anna Claire’s doctor. She knows…about you. She’ll make the arrangements at the hospital. Here’s the tests, I’ve got it all here….” While I’m unfolding my list, I do that much for John. I give him Claire’s real name, which, like the size and color of her rich, earthy eyes, comes from his side of our lost family.

  CHAPTER 20

  “The whole thing works on gravity, see? Really, you’ll be amazed at how efficient it is. It’s like you’re a car getting your oil changed four times a day every day.”

  Ellie is looking at Claire instead of watching the nurse the way she’s supposed to, so she sees Claire roll her eyes. Lydia is intent on the nurse’s most minute gesture, and interrupts every three sentences to ask another question.

  “Now watch this, carefully. Remember from the video, the first thing is to set the IV pole up, you should be able to just have a place at home where you keep it in place. Here’s the Y set, see, you connect one of these tubes into your catheter and one into the bag of solution….” The nurse runs on and on, her manner as cheery as a television commercial.

  It’s their third training session, and supposed to be a review. Ellie feels sick when the nurse is demonstrating again how the titanium iodine cap twists onto the tube that snakes out of Claire’s abdomen, “…to kill any bacteria on the outside. Sanitation is essential, you know, we’ve talked about that.”

  “I’ve taken baths all my life,” Claire says, “once a week whether I need it or not. Does this mean I’ll have to kick it up to twice?” She laughs, just a little, but Ellie thinks the nurse, whatever her name is, might be getting on Claire’s nerves as much as on her own. Either that, or Claire doesn’t want to do this. Ellie’s never been one to know what goes on in someone else’s mind.

  They’re on the dialysis unit in the hospital. Big, modern-style paintings of geometric shapes in bright blue, yellow and green decorate the walls. When Lydie first complimented the nurse on how attractive they’d made the unit, Claire said she likes paintings of oceans and mountains better, and the nurse said, “Well, at home, you can look at whatever you want while you do your exchanges.” A tube has been surgically inserted so she can do peritoneal dialysis at home and won’t have to come into the clinic three times a week.

  How can Lydie just get her face right in there that way, studying what an occluded tube looks like? The catheter looks like it just pokes straight into Claire’s flesh. It has to hurt; it’s not possible that it doesn’t. This almost seems like the opposite of when Claire was on hemodialysis after the accident, with all her blood draining out of her as if the machine were a giant metallic leech. Now, the image in Ellie’s mind is of all that solution pouring into Claire, and how Claire would have it inside her—the world’s most serious premenstrual bloating is all Ellie can imagine—and then drain it back out into another plastic bag that would itself get drained into the toilet.

  “We can handle this, we’ve got it now,” Lydie says to the nurse, “don’t we, honey?” The last part to Claire.

  “Of course you do,” says the nurse, who looks grandmotherly, in her bright manner. “Can you see all right, Eleanor? Have you got this part?”

  What Ellie sees is that the nurse’s gold-blond hair is dyed that way. A half inch of gray is visible at the roots when she puts her head way down. “I’m fine, yes,” Ellie lies. “I get it,” she adds before the nurse has a chance to question her.

  “Remember, the most important thing we have to avoid is peritonitis.” The nurse’s name tag says Joann McCalley, R.N., Training Director, but she’s not wearing nurse clothes. Who’s this we, Kemo Sabe? Ellie thinks, and reminds herself that it’s definitely not her problem. Lydia’s the Tonto to Claire’s Lone Ranger act here. “It’s very, very important that the diallite solution is never heated higher than ninety-eight point six, and that your body doesn’t get overheated by something like a swimming pool. Hot tubs are out, for example.”

  “Damn. And I was just about to have my Jacuzzi moved to my dorm room,” Claire says. Ellie sees Lydie’s head swing to check Claire’s face, but she doesn’t say anything.

  “Peritonitis is the main danger, and it can and will make you very, very sick. And don’t miss any exchanges. There won’t be any symptoms initially, but remember that poison is accumulating in your system.”

  “She won’t miss any, but can you run through the symptoms of peritonitis again?” Lydie asks, her forehead furrowed, but her voice calm and factual. Lydie’s always calm and factual, Ellie thinks.

  “Two different things, remember. But peritonitis? She’ll know. Your temperature goes way up, you can’t move, well, the whole body malfunctions. Patients say it feels like the worst grippe you’ve ever had. It’s very important to get to the hospital right away, any symptoms.”

  When Ellie tunes in again, Joann is reviewing diet. “…and no bananas, either. Lean red meat is good—emphasize protein, remember that. I gave you the list of sodium and potassium levels in foods, right? It’s best to keep a careful watch on processed foods, especially. No fast food… Watch for your ankles and feet swelling.”

  Ellie thinks she remembers that swollen ankles are a symptom of pregnancy.

  “Could you explain the nephritis symptoms again?” Lydie asks a minute later. Ellie pats her bangs and the white bow at the top of her head. The humidity from the rain this morning made her hair flat, in spite of extra hair spray. She smoothes her skirt, a blue Vista fabric that just refuses to wrinkle, over her thighs. It’s from a line the store is pushing and Ellie gets a nice employee discount, fifteen percent. When Elvis did the Hawaiian concert it must have been really humid. How would she have fixed her hair there?

  “So there’s no cure for that except a transplant,” Lydie is saying, and Joann says, “Unfortunately, no. But don’t worry about that. I can’t imagine that Claire won’t be a good candidate for transplant. I know they’ve been doing the workup on you, honey. You’ve talked with the social worker, right?” When Claire nods assent, Joann goes on. “Well, see? That’s one of the last things we do. You’ll be on the UNOS—did I already tell you? That’s the United Network for Organ Sharing—waiting list. The social worker went over all of that with you, didn’t she?”

  Ellie glances at Lydie and sees there are tears in her eyes.

  “He asked me about my sex life,” Claire says, and there’s no telling from her voice what she thought of that. “I’m going away to college pretty soon,” she says then. At the moment, Ellie doubts it big-time, what with that tube thingie and all the rules. She doesn’t get the connection to the sex life question either. What sex life? she wants to know. Does this have some connection to the swollen ankles? She doesn’t dare ask.

  “Well,” Joann starts to answer Claire, but hesitates. Then she starts up again and says, “It’s a lot easier to monitor diet and rest and fluid intake when you live at home. Your urologist will probably tell you—”

  “No,” Claire says. “I want my life back.”

  “I know it would be a disappointment…” Joann begins again, but seeing Claire’s face, stops and leaves it to her doctor to go into that. Ellie notices that Lydie’s face looks like it’s carved out of granite while she listens to Joann and Claire and says nothing.

  CHAPTER 21

  Madalaine blows out a sigh as she gives herself over to the air-conditioning. She tosses her purse on a kitchen chair and opens the refrigerator to see if Jennifer has left any iced tea in the pitcher. An inch sloshes on the bottom. Madalaine sighs again and as she turns to the cabinet for a glass, she jumps in fright. Wayne stands like a specter on the other side of the refrigerator. It seems impossible that she didn’t see him before, yet his body has
the posture and quietude of someone who has long been right where he is.

  “Wayne! God, don’t do that. You scared me to death.”

  “Didn’t mean to. What’d she say?”

  “Hi to you, too.” Madalaine sets the glass she’s taken out down on the counter with more force than necessary. “You want some tea? I can make up more. Jennifer always puts the damn thing back empty so she won’t have to wash it. Brian always did that, and…” She breaks off there, fighting tears that surface like an underground stream whenever and wherever they want.

  “No. What’d she say?”

  Another sigh from Madalaine. “Will you stop badgering me? Are you just worried that I don’t have enough on my mind?” She deliberately turns her back to pour the inch of tea from the pitcher; it becomes two inches in the bottom of a tall glass.

  “Sorry,” he mutters, yet doesn’t move a fraction to relieve the relentlessness of his gaze. It is sheepish, but a demand all the same.

  “Look, I couldn’t stop her.”

  “That’s it? What’d she say?”

  “Do I look like a damn tape recorder? She just said no, she’s going to do what she’s going to do.”

  “What’d you say to her?”

  “Oh, God, I don’t remember. Told her you deserved better, that it would all work out with Claire if she’d just back off, there’ll be a cadaver. Just ask me, hey, there’s cadavers all over when you least expect them. And Wayne, before you jump off that rock onto my back, yes, Brian had been gone too long before they knew Claire’s kidney was damaged.”

  “I wasn’t going to say that.”

  “Oh, so now you’re Mr. Sensitivity suddenly? When’d you get religion?”

  Madalaine sits down at the kitchen table. This is how she used to talk to Bill, anger rising over any decent impulse she had, like tolerance or forgiveness. It took her over, was what it did. Just took her over. It’s worse now, too, since Bill left again. “I do not want to think about that,” she says aloud, meaning Bill.