Monument to the Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  “Great. I’ve got to get going now.”

  “Give my love to Jimmy, and tell him to follow doctor’s orders. And yours. Bye!”

  Showered and dressed, I started throwing clothes and other necessary items into a bag to take along. For how long? It wasn’t as though I was leaving my house forever, just long enough to get James back on his feet. After that? That was still open to negotiation, for both of us.

  I drove into the city and parked near the hospital, easy to do on a Sunday. As I walked toward the entrance, I had to admit I was a little jittery. I’d put on a brave face with Marty, but I had little experience with nursing or caregiving. I couldn’t even keep a plant alive, because I couldn’t remember to water it. I was blessed with a strong constitution, so I rarely got sick, and when I did I usually recovered quickly; like James, I had no experience with afflictions that required hospitals. Now I’d volunteered to take care of a man who had been stabbed and had nearly split his head open, who was being released by the hospital into my care. I wasn’t sure that was a smart thing for the hospital to do.

  But I’d promised, and I kept my promises. I walked into the hospital, took the elevator upstairs, and approached James’s door, my pace slowing the closer I came. The door was wedged partway open, for ventilation—or had he asked, so he could watch for me? Why was my heart pounding?

  I got as far as the doorway and then stopped. There he was, still on the bed but at least more or less dressed, like he was waiting. For me. Marty must have brought him some clothes to replace the blood-soaked ones, because the sweats he was wearing looked familiar. James turned as soon as he heard me, and our eyes locked for an endless minute.

  “You came.”

  “Of course I did. Did you expect me to change my mind?”

  “I would have understood if you did. This won’t be easy.”

  “I know. I don’t expect it to be easy.”

  I crossed the distance between the door and the bed in two strides. I would have flung myself into his arms, except I didn’t think that was a good idea given the number of stitches he’d received, so I stopped at the bed. But he wouldn’t accept that, and pulled me into his arms—gingerly. I realized I was crying when I saw tears splashing on his sweatshirt. I pulled away and scrubbed at my face.

  “I don’t know why I’m crying.”

  “It’s okay.”

  I fumbled in my bag for a tissue, not to blot tears but because I really needed to blow my nose. We were off to a great start.

  “Did you see the article in the paper?” I asked.

  “I made some unlucky orderly track down a copy as soon as I woke up. It really puts you in a good light.”

  “Thank you. I was channeling some strong and wise woman who wasn’t me. But I agree—no complaints. Are they still going to let you go this morning?”

  “They’re willing to discharge me as long as there’s someone around to look after me. That would be you, for the record. They are going to hand you a stack of instructions and prescriptions and I have no idea what else and make you swear you will do what they tell you to do or they’ll wash their hands of any responsibility. And I will complain and moan every step of the way and do it anyway. I hurt. I’m hungry and thirsty and I want a shave. But we will get through this.”

  I believed him.

  We started the long and convoluted process of discharge, signing documents left and right, and after what seemed like a week later we were ready to go. The hospital insisted that James leave in a wheelchair, and he was looking kind of strained anyway, and I had to go get my car. The attendant promised to wait with him on the sidewalk while I pulled around the building, and then when I arrived he helped James into the front seat and went back inside with the wheelchair. James was lying back against the headrest, his eyes closed.

  “James,” I said carefully, “how many steps are there up to your apartment?”

  “Shit,” was his only answer. I remembered at least two flights. “Just go, will you?”

  I drove carefully to University City, where he lived, avoiding potholes—no easy task in Center City. At least there was a parking space in front of his building.

  Somehow we made it up the stairs. It took fifteen minutes, and by the time we reached his apartment James’s face was grey and he was sweating. I think my face was red, and I was sweating, too. His balance was definitely not all that it should be, but at least he hadn’t fallen down the stairs.

  “Keys?” I said.

  “Left pocket,” he said, making no move to retrieve them. He leaned against the wall while I fished in his pocket, then opened the door.

  He made it a few feet in from the door, then stopped and stood swaying, like a tree ready to fall. I slipped under his uninjured arm. “You’re doing fine.” We made it to the bedroom, and he toppled on the bed. As far as I was concerned, that was more than enough exertion for one day, so I told him to rest, then pulled his shoes off, and threw a light blanket over him. He was asleep before I tiptoed out of the room, pulling the door partway closed behind me.

  I was exhausted myself, and I couldn’t begin to imagine how he felt. I had no idea what to do next. I supposed I should check to see if Marty had delivered the promised food: a quick peek in the refrigerator confirmed that. I should go retrieve my own bag from the car, but it wasn’t exactly urgent. I should read through all the hospital materials in a more leisurely and focused manner—but I’d left them in the car, too. In the end I said the hell with all of it, and lay down and took a nap.

  It was late afternoon when I woke up with a start and immediately felt guilty. Fine caregiver I made. I listened, but didn’t hear any sound coming from James’s room. Or rather, no unusual sound; a light snoring let me know he was alive. I should jump up now and make chicken soup or something. Was he supposed to eat lightly, or had he already passed that stage of things? I needed the hospital’s instructions. With a resigned sigh, I looked for the keys that Marty had said she would leave for me. They were in plain sight on the kitchen counter, but they were holding down an envelope with my name on it. A sticky note, in Marty’s handwriting, read, “Louisa sent this over this morning.” Somehow I didn’t think it was a get-well card. I opened the envelope—nice, heavyweight stock—and pulled out the single page inside, written in a strong, slanting hand. I read it, and then I reread it, since I had trouble taking it in.

  Martha has conveyed to me the difficulties you encountered on behalf of members of the Forrest Trust. I believe I can speak for the remaining trustees when I offer you the most sincere thanks for what you have done.

  As you have reason to know, the trustees have decided that the time has come to dissolve the trust and distribute its assets, since it no longer serves Edwin Forrest’s original intentions. We have already drafted a tentative list of proposed recipients, but I believe that it would be appropriate, under the circumstances, to offer the Society the items for which it is already custodian, including the monumental statue of Edwin in the role of Coriolanus, along with sufficient funds to catalog and maintain the collection. If this gift taxes your resources, you may feel free to decline the offer. In any event, please accept our heartfelt appreciation.

  It was signed Louisa Babcock.

  Oh, my. I stared at the note in my hand, reread it, and began to laugh. When I’d been fending off Nicholas’s attack and fighting to save James, collections acquisition had been the furthest thing from my mind, yet here was the result. The world definitely moved in mysterious ways. And I’d get to keep Edwin’s statue at the Society, which pleased me ridiculously.

  Still laughing, I picked up the keys, went down to my car, and retrieved everything I hadn’t brought upstairs already. I let myself in, but apparently not quietly enough, because James called out, “Nell?”

  I dropped my bags and papers and hurried to the bedroom. “Are you all right?”

  “I thought you’d gone.” He was only half awake, and he sounded like a little boy. It broke my heart. I crossed to the bed and ca
refully lay down on his uninjured side. “I’m here, James. I’m not going anywhere.”

  He wrapped one arm around me and went back to sleep.

  I laid my hand on his chest, over his heart. Strong and regular.

  This might actually work.