by Ann Tatlock
But the fact was--and I knew it even then--in spite of the man's impressive knowledge, the best that Dr. Rawls could offer us when faced with such a question was, "I don't know."
Mother must have been just as disgusted with the doctor as I was because when he left, she said, "Well, we'll have to have Harold interpret all that mumbo jumbo when we see him."
At regular intervals throughout the day, we were interrupted by the sudden appearance of doctors, interns, nurses, technicians, orderlies. Papa's temperature was taken, his pulse checked, his respirations counted, his blood pressure measured, and the results dutifully recorded in the chart at the foot of his bed. His eyelids were lifted and his eyeballs assaulted with lights. His one good leg and his one good arm were repeatedly thumped, his reflexes measured. His heart and lungs were listened to, his chest tapped. The bandages around his thigh were cut away, the wound checked, fresh bandages applied. The same was done to his head. His nostrils and ears received fresh coats of iodine. His ice cap was carted away and brought back bulging with fresh ice. Once or twice he was given an injection of this or that. There seemed an endless parade of white-clad people coming in and out of the room, working over Papa the way all the king's horses and all the king's men tried to put Humpty together again.
I prayed these people would be more successful with Papa than all the king's men were with Humpty-Dumpty.
During those moments when Mother and I were left alone with Papa, we talked almost constantly, sometimes to each other, but mostly to Papa. And all the while we talked, we watched for any small movement--a pressing of the hand, a fluttering of the eyes, a twitching of the lips--anything to tell us that Papa was there, and that he was trying to make his way back to us.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mother allowed me to miss one more day of school so I could stay with her at the hospital. We arranged for Charlotte to drop off my lessons at the nurses' station in the afternoon, which would enable me to remain caught up with my homework.
That second day was even longer and more tedious than the first. Mother and I went on talking with Papa about everything we could possibly think of: family news, updates on his patients from Dr. Hal, tidbits of interest from the newspaper, what I was studying in school. I even recited for him some of the Thomas Campion poems I'd memorized that summer as punishment for cutting my hair. Never in my life had I prattled on so much, and the fact that I was speaking to someone who wasn't even conscious made it all the more tiring. About every hour or so we interrupted these strained ramblings to read long passages to Papa from his Bible. While this saved me from having to think of anything original to say, it was almost even more emotionally taxing than the forced monologues. Papa's Bible was crowded with notes he'd written in the margins in his cramped but tidy script. Dr. Hal often kidded him about his handwriting, saying he ought to work on making it more illegible if he wanted to be respected as a doctor. I used to laugh at that joke, but now it fell flat as I gazed at Papa's Bible notes and wondered whether he had written the last of them.
Throughout that long day the doctors and nurses came and went, the former looking stern and professional, the latter casting us sympathetic smiles. Still, no one could tell us anything definite about Papa's prognosis, and I sensed an aura of apology hanging about these professionals, a silent and embarrassed apology to Mother and me for their inability to predict the future.
There was no change in Papa's condition. He went on sleeping and gave us no indication at all that he could hear us, or that he knew we were there.
Dr. Hal came around in the late afternoon shortly after Charlotte dropped off my homework. I was sitting on the floor with an open book in my lap, almost relieved to have this connection to the normal world, my former life, when Dr. Hal entered the room. With some reluctance, I shut the book while Dr. Hal took Papa's pulse, listened to his heart, shined a light in his eyes, and did a few other of those medical things. It was time to return to Papa, to listen to what Dr. Hal had to say. When he finished his cursory examination, Mother motioned him out into the hall. I followed.
"I've gotten the opinions of Dr. Rawls and Dr. Murphy--more or less," Mother said evenly, "but I want to know what you think, Harold."
Dr. Hal shuffled uneasily. "Well, Lillian, I have to agree with what those two have already told you. We can't make any predictions at this point. We just have to wait and see. I know that's frustrating--believe me, I know. Waiting is the hardest thing to do. But right now, thankfully, things don't look too bad."
"Then why isn't he waking up? I can't believe it's a good sign when a man's been unconscious for two days."
"Actually, Lil, with a head injury like Will's, several days of unconsciousness can pretty much be expected. A coma is a body's way of healing itself. It's not necessarily a bad thing."
Mother's shoulders lifted and settled again. "If you say so, Harold. But I can't stop thinking of all those terrible things Dr. Rawls said might still happen--edema and blood clots and brain hemorrhages and meningitis. And, Harold, what about permanent brain damage? Dr. Rawls said nearly half the people who survive this kind of injury end up damaged for life, while ten percent are totally incapacitated. Totally incapacitated, Harold! Just what is William going to wake up to be? What--"
"Lillian, listen to me. For your own sake, don't pay too much attention to Dr. Rawls' statistics. His numbers just don't mean that much--not when it comes down to the bottom line, anyway. And, you see, the bottom line is this: Every head injury case is unique, or, as one of my medical professors used to say, `a law unto itself.' There isn't one case that's exactly like another, which makes it almost impossible to predict what's going to happen. Just because some people are left with permanent damage doesn't mean that Will is going to end up one of them. It's possible, yes, but let's not assume anything until we have more to go on."
Mother's forehead wrinkled, and she lifted sad eyes to Dr. Hal. "But it's also possible, isn't it, that he won't wake up at all? He won't die and he won't get better--he'll just go on sleeping."
Reluctantly, Dr. Hal agreed. "Yes, it's possible. But right now, in William's case, it doesn't appear probable. Chances are good he'll start to come out of the coma in another day or so."
"And the longer he sleeps?"
Dr. Hal sighed, as though he'd just been checkmated. "The longer he sleeps, the less likely it is he'll wake up. But listen, Lillian, at this point we might as well keep expecting the best. For William's sake, keep your hope up."
Mother gave a brief and tentative smile but then asked timidly, almost like a child, "But, Harold, can't you just tell me--"
"Doctors aren't God, Lillian," Dr. Hal interrupted, anticipating Mother's question. "You, of all people, know that."
Mother gazed at Dr. Hal in silence, probably wishing as I was that she could pull a definite forecast out of him. Wishing that he would say, "Just a day or two more of sleep and he'll be fine. All the tests indicate there won't be any permanent damage." Even if he couldn't say that, even if he had to say instead, "He won't be waking up again," it would be better than the not knowing. If we knew he was going to remain comatose, or even to die, then we could begin to adjust to our loss. But this not knowing, this dangling in suspense between hope and despair, was almost unbearable.
But as Dr. Hal said, he wasn't God. And there wasn't a doctor in the world who was. Only God was God. And only God could decide what would happen to Papa.
Dr. Hal laid a hand on Mother's upper arm. "Why don't you and Ginny come home with me now? It's been a long day for both of you."
Mother looked at me for my opinion. "Let's stay awhile longer, Mama," I said. It was hard to be there, but it was harder to think about leaving.
Mother nodded. "Would you mind coming back later this evening, Harold? I know I'm completely neglecting everything at home, but I'd rather stay here with William just now."
"Of course," Dr. Hal said.
"The children--are they all right?"
"Everyone's fine. Well, a
little sad and a little confused. Molly keeps asking where you and Will are. It's tough explaining it all to a three-year-old without telling her too much. Claudia seems more accepting of the situation than Molly. In fact, she tells Molly not to worry because you'll be home soon and maybe you'll bring them some candy if they're good." Dr. Hal smiled wistfully at the thought.
"And how do you think Simon's holding up?" Mother asked.
"Harder to tell with him. He doesn't say much, but I think he's scared. You kind of have to expect him to be."
"I know they need me at home, but--"
"Will needs you here, Lillian. Don't berate yourself for wanting to be with your husband."
"Yes, well, maybe I can spend a little extra time with the children tonight, or tomorrow morning. Just to reassure them."
"All right," Dr. Hal said, shrugging, "but you've got Sally and me to help take care of them, too."
"Yes, I know, and I thank you, Harold. It just seems everyone is overburdened right now. You, trying to hold down the practice by yourself--"
"Don't worry about that, Lil--"
"--and Sally taking care of the children and the house. How's she doing, do you think? Is she managing all right on her own?"
"Of course, but then again--"Dr. Hal paused to smile--"she's not really on her own. I mean, the neighbor ladies are starting to bring food around and offering to help with chores, and the menfolk are stopping by to see if there's anything that needs fixing. I think Sally's going to have all the help she needs for a while."
"Oh!" Mother said. "How kind of everyone to help out. I must make a point of thanking them when all this is over." She paused a moment, then added, "Is Sally finding the time to visit Jim?"
"She spent an hour with him just this afternoon. The Mobleys volunteered to watch the girls while she was gone."
Mother nodded, satisfied. "They've always been good to us, the Mobleys. Is there any news about Jim?"
I felt a momentary twinge of guilt whenever anyone mentioned Uncle Jim. From the moment Papa was hurt, very few of my waking thoughts were centered around my uncle. He was still in jail, his future still uncertain, but at least he wasn't hurt, and he wasn't in danger of dying. I couldn't afford to expend any of my energy worrying about someone whose situation seemed relatively safe. All my worrying was done for Papa.
Dr. Hal shook his head. "Nothing yet. The lawyers are still working on it."
"Poor Sally. I hope we know something soon."
"She told Jim all about Will, of course." Mother nodded. Dr. Hal went on. "Jim's taken it hard. Broke down and cried right there in the jail cell in front of a dozen other men. He said being behind bars had been almost bearable until it was those same bars keeping him from Will's bedside. He said he'd sure like to be here, but since he can't, he sends his love."
Mother smiled weakly. "And we send ours to him."
Once we had all been together in one big house that seemed small and crowded at the time. Now all I wanted was for us to be there again, crowded or no, instead of having to send messages of love to places like the city jail and Mercy Hospital.
"Well, Harold." Mother sighed. "Why don't you pick us up around eight o'clock or so tonight?"
"I'll be here," Dr. Hal assured her. "And don't worry. Try not to worry about anything."
We were all talked out, I guess, by the time the first shadows of dusk fell. I was on the floor again, cross-legged, my geography textbook cradled in my lap, my other books scattered on the floor around me. Mother sat in the chair beside Papa's bed and said nothing. She simply sat, holding his hand. Every so often I looked up from my book to take in the scene across the room--my father lying silently on the bed, my mother sitting silently beside him.
Mother's face was a mask, offering no clue as to the thoughts running through her mind. I tried to imagine her feelings by picturing myself sitting beside the bed of a wounded Charlie Chaplin or Charles Lindbergh. It was as close as I could come to knowing what it would be like to be in danger of losing the one you loved. And though I knew it wasn't really the same at all, because they were only a dream to me, while Papa was very real to Mother, it gave me some idea as to the depth of Mother's personal tragedy. "Will and Lil," she had written all over her school books. "Will and Lil." And there had never been anyone else for either of them. Should Papa die, the largest chunk of Mother's life would fall away, and she'd never get it back. It made me dizzy to imagine the wide open space that would enter Mother's life with Papa's absence. A space so large you could get lost in it and never find your way home again.
Out in the hallway beyond the open door of Papa's room, the members of the hospital staff passed by in blurs of white. Medicine carts that needed oiling squeaked by, wheelchairs rolled past, stretchers rumbled along. All the hurried movements beyond the door presented a stark contrast to the dimly lighted hush of Papa's room. We were the theater patrons, Mother and I, watching life playing itself out upon the stage, wishing that we, too, could be a part of it. But we were consigned to this place of watching--and waiting.
The thin blanket spread out across Papa's chest lifted and fell with his every breath. "We have to watch for changes in respiration," one of the nurses had explained to us earlier. "It could be cause for concern if it speeds up or slows down, or especially if it becomes stertorous." When I looked at her blankly, she smiled and said, "That is, it becomes loud or labored, kind of like snoring. That's a bad sign." Since her warning, I'd been intermittently watching Papa breathe. It made me feel that I was doing something to help take care of him.
Mother's eyes moved from Papa's face to the slightly opened window and back again.
I stared down at the book in my lap, but I didn't read. My mind drifted elsewhere, out of the hospital room and through the city streets toward home. Home where Simon and Claudia and Molly, Aunt Sally and my cousins, and Dr. Hal were. Life was going on there, too. Real life, like the happenings out in the hall. Every day Aunt Sally cooked and cleaned, the older children went to school, the younger children played. Dr. Hal saw patients. The same as always. I missed home. I missed the routines of our lives, all the otherwise unnoticed customs--meals together around the kitchen table, and evenings together on the porch or around the radio, all the untroubled hours of work and play and rest. How sweet all those simple things seemed now. How much I longed for that completely unromantic but loveliest of lives.
And how central Papa was to all of it. Papa sitting at his desk in the morning taking care of the first order of the day. Papa whistling as he shaved, as he worked, as he waited for his warm milk at night. Papa sitting beside me on the porch swing, listening patiently to all the small details of my life, as though I was the most important person in the world. It was Papa's love and his joy and his presence that colored all my days and made them beautiful.
If it were all to end now, I thought, it would be a bitter ending. If Papa never awoke, if he were to die tonight, or tomorrow, or the day after that, his last conscious feelings for me would be of anger and disappointment. After all the years of resting secure in his love, I couldn't bear the thought that our relationship would end at such a point. I saw him as he was the night of the raid, peering down at me through narrowed eyes, his face crimson with anger. "Why didn't you tell me?" he had demanded as he shook me. "Why didn't you tell me?" I wanted to defend myself now, to point to his wounds and say, Because I love you, Papa! Because I love you and I didn't want this to happen. I was trying to protect you. I wanted to hear him say it was all right, that he loved me too, that he understood why I didn't tell him about the raid on Soo City....
In spite of my determination not to cry, I felt the tears pressing against my eyes. I kept my head bent over my geography book so Mother wouldn't see. I peered hard at the open pages, but they suddenly appeared as disjointed as a kaleidoscope in motion. Then two tears slithered down my cheeks and landed with a splash on the map of the United States in my lap. I thought that in another moment I would have to give up and simply give in to the g
rief, but before I could break down completely into uncontrollable sobs, my sorrow was interrupted by an unexpected commotion. The sound came through the partly opened window, from out on the hospital grounds. All at once there was a blur of voices, people talking in low tones, a ripple of laughter, then the blaring of instruments and a chorus of off-key voices. Mother straightened up as though someone had called her name, and she looked over at me. We frowned at each other across the room.
"Now, what on earth--" Mother began, but before saying more, she settled Papa's hand gently on the bed and rose from the chair. I brushed away the tears on my cheeks, pushed my geography book aside, and scrambled up from the floor to join her at the window.
We stood there motionless, not quite believing what we saw. Out in the pale evening light, gathered on the leaf-strewn grounds, was a picket line. A whole string of people milled about, carrying signs and singing, but it wasn't a picket line like the one that had marched and sung about solidarity in front of the grain mill. It wasn't a picket line like the ones that gathered in cities across the country to demonstrate against hunger and unemployment and low wages and unfair working hours. No, this was something altogether different from the uprisings that had plagued our nation for months.
"It's some of the people from Soo City, Mama," I whispered. "That's Joe blowing on the harmonica and Oscar playing the guitar. And the man playing the accordion--they call him Bellowing Bob. Down at the camp they sit on cinder blocks while they play, and sometimes Bob gets to pumping so hard he falls right off the block. Oh, and the woman there holding the baby--that's Mrs. Everhart, and the little baby is Caroline. You remember, she's the one Papa delivered not too long ago. And that's Mrs. Everhart's two boys and her husband, too. Standing right behind them is Sherman Browne--he's the one who pulled stork duty when Caroline was born because Mr. Everhart was too nervous to come himself. And there's Dick Mason--he came to the house when his brother-in-law was run over by the train. Remember, Mama? He was the first one ever to come to our house from Soo City. And look, there's Shoes and Longjohn and Mr. Lucky, and that's Mr. Lucky's dog, T-Bone." The very people who, by staying quiet, I hadn't stepped forward to help.