She pushed off from the window and sighed. She should return to the room. The nurses, nurses’ aides, orderlies, even the Spanish-speaking woman who emptied the rubbish bins twice a day had gotten accustomed to her presence. They worried if she spent too much time away from her chair. She found their concern touching and hated to worry them.
Yet she’d never minded worrying her mother.
The thought brought her feet to a halt. Guilt swooped in, dark and nagging. She sagged against the wall. What if Mother never came out of the coma? What if Diane didn’t get the chance to apologize, to ask forgiveness, to tell her mother she loved her? If she’d lost her chance to make things right with Mother, she might wither away and die, too.
Why had it taken something so awful to make her realize how much Mother meant to her?
But at least the surgery and subsequent coma had given her a chance to view their relationship from another angle. At least she’d gained an understanding of Mother’s obsessive worry over her. Maybe that’s what Reverend Raber meant when he said God had a purpose in suffering.
She entered the room and crossed to her chair. As usual, music flowed from the CD player. Soft. Soothing. Not quite loud enough to drown out the beeps and tweets from the equipment in the room, but loud enough to distract from it. Diane recognized the melody, and words began singing in the back of her mind.
“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me…”
June 1974
Little Rock, Arkansas
Diane gripped her pink Bible with both hands and gathered her courage. The preacher stood down there in front, waiting. He said if anyone wanted to be saved, they should walk to the front of the church and tell him. All around her, people were singing what the preacher’d called the hymn of invitation. That’s how it felt—like it was inviting her to step out of the pew and go to the front and tell the preacher she wanted Jesus to take all her sins away.
She had lots of sins. She’d stolen a dollar from her friend Cindy Regier’s piggy bank when Cindy wasn’t looking. She’d copied some spelling words from John Esslack’s paper last Friday in school because he always got one hundreds. She’d told some fibs, too. All those sins sat so heavy on her. She wanted them gone, and there was only one way to do it.
“…And grace shall lead me home…”
Diane stepped into the aisle. Mother gasped and grabbed Daddy’s arm. They both looked at her, joy on their faces. Would they come, too? Then Mother flicked her fingers at her. Daddy mouthed, “Go on, honey.” And she went. Straight to the preacher. And she knelt next to him beside a padded bench and told Jesus she wanted Him to save her from her sins. All those bad feelings tumbled right off her, and when she stood she knew she was all clean and shiny, like she’d had a bath on the inside.
She raced back up the aisle to Mother and Daddy, and they hugged her and told her how proud they were of her. She told them, “I’m so happy. I’m more happy than I’ve ever been!”
Mother cupped her face and smiled through her tears. “That’s the joy of the Lord, honey, and it’s better than happiness. Happiness is fleeting, but the joy of salvation is forever. You walk with Him now, and you’ll never lose that joy no matter what comes.”
Present Day
Las Vegas, Nevada
Sometime after Daddy died and Mother’s hold became so fierce it threatened to choke her, Diane had buried her joy under a blanket of resentment. She’d let her hurt over Daddy’s dying, her anger at Mother’s obsessive protectiveness, Kevin’s abandonment, even her frustration with church people who’d turned up their noses at her steal away the joy her mother said would be hers forever. Was it still available to her? Or had God given up on her? There was only one way to find out.
She bent forward, folded her hands, and closed her eyes. God, I’m sorry for pushing You away. Please forgive my selfishness and my foolish pride. Please restore my joy in You. And if…if Mother goes to You instead of coming back to us, please tell her how much I love her, and tell her I’ll see her again soon.
“He will my shield and portion be, as long as life endures…”
The words crept through her memory and brought a fresh sting of tears. Tears not of loss but of renewal. She’d wasted so much time in anger and childish resentment, but with her confession to her heavenly Father came a wave of peace so real it effused from every pore of her body. A sweet essence filled her nostrils and she inhaled deeply, allowing the aroma to cleanse every foul stench of bitterness, regret, and displaced anger. In its stead came joy. A joy only the Lord could provide.
She might still be stuck in her ash pile, but she wasn’t alone. And she would trust God to lift her from it when He deemed the time right.
Meghan
Grandma’s friends Punk and Rachel picked up Meghan from the airport when she arrived in Las Vegas at eleven o’clock in the morning on July twenty-ninth. The kind couple embraced her as if they’d known her forever, and hugging them was almost as good as hugging Grandma. Not quite, but almost.
Rachel rubbed Meghan’s tense shoulders while Punk retrieved her suitcase. “We’ll get you to Hazel’s so you can rest up a bit, and when you’re ready, we’ll grab lunch somewhere and then take you to the hospital.”
“Honestly, I’m not tired, and I’m really not all that hungry, either. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to go straight to the hospital instead.” Desire to see Grandma, even if Grandma couldn’t see her, made Meghan’s insides hum. She had something important to tell her, and she wouldn’t be able to rest until she’d said the words directly into her grandmother’s ear.
Punk strode up pulling Meghan’s suitcase, and Rachel repeated what Meghan had told her.
Punk smiled. “All right, then. Straight to the hospital it is.” He set off, and Rachel and Meghan followed him.
Rachel lightly held Meghan’s elbow. “We’ve been watering Hazel’s plants and taking in her mail since your mama’s been reluctant to leave your grandma’s side. Now that you’re here, maybe you can convince Diane to spend a night in a bed instead of one of those hard chairs.”
“I’ll do my best.” Meghan forced a light tone, but underneath emotion tightened her chest. She would never have imagined her mother camping at Grandma’s bedside. The image filled her with the desire to cry tears of both joy and anguish.
She settled into the back seat of their sedan behind Rachel. The seat belt held a lunch-sized cooler in place behind the driver’s seat. She chuckled at the sight. “You all take safety to a totally different level than anyone else I know.”
Punk bounced a grin at her. “We didn’t want that rolling around and upsetting the contents.”
Rachel peeked over the back of the seat, her eyes sparkling. “The airplanes don’t feed you like they used to. Pop the lid on that thing and help yourself.”
Meghan unsnapped the lid and peeked inside. Two cans of Dr Pepper and a box of Junior Mints rested on a bed of ice. Tears blurred her vision. She’d said she wasn’t hungry, and she’d been truthful, but she couldn’t leave those Junior Mints in there. She sent a wobbly smile at the gregarious pair. “Thanks so much.”
She opened the box and popped one in her mouth as Punk pulled the vehicle into the flow of taxis, limos, and other cars. Riding in the back seat with the strong mint flavor on her tongue reminded her of the limo ride to Grandma’s. Was it possible she’d arrived in Las Vegas just over two weeks ago? She felt as though she’d lived years’ worth of emotions in the span of seventeen days.
When they arrived at the three-story red brick building shaped like a giant L, Punk dropped her and Rachel off at the front doors, then went to park. Rachel had visited the hospital before, so she guided Meghan to the second-floor hall reserved for hospice patients. When Mom told her that Grandma was going into hospice, Meghan’s heart had nearly shattered. Hospice had always meant the last stop before death. But according to the sign near the double doors separating the hall from the activity of the elevators, the area was for lon
g-term palliative care. The definition gave her hope.
They waited outside the doors until Punk arrived, and then the three of them went together to Grandma’s room. Mom was there, sitting in a vinyl-covered chair next to Grandma’s bed. She rose when they entered, held out her hand to Meghan, and beckoned her forward.
Meghan froze six feet from the bed. She stared at Grandma, her pulse thudding and gooseflesh breaking out all over her body. How could someone change so much in such a short period of time? Grandma looked like a skeleton with skin draped over it. How much weight had she lost? A puckering line marred her neck, the pink scar almost neon against the pallor of her skin. She’d wanted to tell Grandma something important, but now that she’d seen her, fear gripped Meghan. She couldn’t approach the bed holding what seemed to be only the shell of her dear grandmother.
“Meghan?” Mom’s voice barely carried over the piano music playing from somewhere in the room. “Aren’t you going to give your grandmother a hello?”
Rachel gave her a nudge on the spine. “Go on, honey. Greet your grandma. She needs to hear your voice.”
Meghan shot a panicked look at Rachel. “Will she hear me? She looks…She looks…”
Rachel’s eyes glowed with sympathy. “I know she looks grim, but she’s still in there.”
Punk stepped behind Rachel and put his arm around her waist. “Rachel’s right. While Hazel’s heart beats, there’s still hope. Don’t stay back now. You’ll only regret it later.”
Mom’s hand waited for Meghan to take hold. Meghan drew in a breath, sent up a silent plea to the heavens for help, and moved forward. Mom curled her hand through Meghan’s elbow and leaned in, bumping shoulders with her. She whispered, “Talk to her. Trust me, you’ll be glad you did.”
Puzzled, Meghan gazed into Mom’s face. The stern V between her eyebrows was relaxed, and her eyes seemed clearer and less strained than they had in years. Meghan gave a little start as she recognized the expression in her mother’s face. Peace. Mom looked peaceful. Exactly what Sean had prayed for. Exactly what she had found during her week in Cumpton, thanks to Sean’s gentle guidance.
Meghan’s heart fluttered. “Mom, have you—”
“Shhh.” Mom turned her toward the bed. “Talk to me later. Right now, talk to Grandma. Tell her everything you want her to know.”
Meghan understood the part Mom didn’t say out loud—in case you don’t get another chance.
Meghan nodded. She blinked back tears, leaned as far over the bed as she could, and whispered into her grandmother’s ear. “Grandma? It’s Meghan. I need to tell you something important.”
Forty
Hazel
“High, Hayzoo Mae! Push me high!” Maggie’s squeal carried all the way across the school’s play yard. They had it all to themselves, unusual for such a beautiful Saturday afternoon. Hazel had given Maggie rides on the merry-go-round, the teeter-totter, and now the swings.
Hazel caught the squeaky chains, pulled back, and let go. Maggie swung forward, her bare feet pumping the air. Her giggles rang. Hazel couldn’t help smiling. She’d fussed when Mama told her to keep Maggie occupied so she could finish canning beets, but Hazel was glad they’d come. Maggie’s joy was contagious.
The swing slowed and Maggie kicked, her little feet flailing. “Again, Hayzoo Mae! Way up high!”
Hazel caught the chains and pulled back. “Okay, way up high. Ready?” She stretched on tiptoe and released the swing with a push that sent Maggie sailing.
“Wheeeee!” The wooden seat detached from the chains, and Maggie turned circles in the air.
Hazel gasped in horror and darted forward, hands reaching. The chains slapped her as she ran under the swing frame, but she didn’t care. “Maggie! Maggie!” Her sister continued to somersault against the background of blue sky, becoming smaller with every turn until Hazel couldn’t see her anymore.
Hazel stared for long minutes at the sky, her heart pounding, her eyes desperately seeking. Then her knees gave out. She dropped into the grass, a grass so thick and green it could swallow her up, and sobbed. She’d lost Maggie. What would Mama and Daddy say?
Someone tapped her on the shoulder. Margaret Diane stood over her, puzzlement creasing her youthful face. “Mother, what are you doing? Dinner’s going to burn.”
Hazel looked around in confusion. Pots and pans, two and three high, covered every burner on the stove. Steam rose from the pots, and belching bubbles flowed over the edges and onto the stove’s enamel top. She pushed herself to her feet and scurried across green speckled linoleum to the stove. There were too many pots, too many things cooking. She should take some off. She should stir the burbling brews. Where were her hot pads? Where were her spoons? Panic built in her chest. Her hands flew around helplessly.
“Grandma, guess what?” A little pigtailed girl appeared next to the stove. The freckles dotting her nose glowed like new pennies, and her dark-brown eyes sparkled as if diamonds were imbedded in the irises.
The smell of mint surrounded her, a delightful scent. A calming scent. It emanated from the child. Hazel leaned toward her, eyes closed, senses seeking.
“I found Him. In Cumpton, at the cemetery, I found Him. Now He’s mine, and I’m His. Are you happy, Grandma?”
Joy exploded in Hazel’s chest. The stove, the pans, her worry about Maggie…Everything slipped away and only joy remained. She pulled in deep breaths of the wonderful aroma. Peace fell around her, as comforting as a warm quilt on a winter night. She sighed. “Mint…”
Startled gasps exploded.
Hazel frowned, confused. Had she said something inappropriate? What had she said? Oh, she remembered. The spicy scent still lingered in her nostrils. She sampled the word again. “Mmmminnnt.”
Diane
Diane gently pushed Meghan aside and leaned in, searching her mother’s face. “Mother, say it again. Say ‘mint.’ ”
Behind her, Meghan and Rachel crowded close. Punk hurried to the door and called, “We need a nurse in here! Hurry!”
Diane gave her mother’s shoulder a gentle shake. “Go ahead. Say ‘mint.’ Say ‘mint.’ ”
Mother scrunched her face like a child being forced to swallow medicine. “Mmmmm…”
The day nurse, Charlotte, clattered to the opposite side of the bed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong!” Joy laced Meghan’s voice. “Everything’s wonderful. Grandma is talking!”
Charlotte’s face lit. “She’s talking?”
“She said ‘mint’!” Meghan laughed, and the scent of peppermint and chocolate from her breath reached Diane’s nose.
Diane laughed—a flow of happiness. “And I think I know why.” She turned her hopeful gaze on Charlotte. “One word can hardly be called having a conversation, but it’s a start, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am, it certainly is.” Her smile bright, Charlotte backed toward the door. “I’m going to go let the doctor know she’s showing signs of waking.”
Diane threw her arms around Meghan. Rachel and Punk joined the embrace. While “Victory in Jesus” played on the CD, Punk led them in a prayer of gratitude.
Less than an hour later, the doctor confirmed that Mother showed small signs of responsiveness. He gently cautioned them not to expect miracles—“Mrs. DeFord has been in a state of unconsciousness for seven days. There could be cognitive or physical impairment even after she fully wakes.” But Diane clung to hope. Mother had been aware of the mint on Meghan’s breath and reacted to it. She hadn’t slipped completely away. She would come back to them.
Of course, Diane wanted a quick and dramatic return, as immediate as the departure had been. But instead of leaping, Mother crept back. By the end of the day, she’d opened her eyes briefly. The next morning, she kept her eyes open for several minutes and seemed to track Diane pacing at the end of the bed. Two different times she spontaneously squeezed Meghan’s hand. On the first day of August, because her breathing had regulated, they removed the oxygen tube, and she wrigg
led her nose so exuberantly Diane and Meghan laughed until they cried.
On August third, Meghan took Mother’s hand. “Grandma, I’m going to ask you a question. If the answer is yes, squeeze my hand once. If it’s no, squeeze my hand twice.” She licked her lips. “Do you have a daughter named Margaret Diane?” Diane and Meghan held their breath, and after a pause of three seconds Mother’s fingers closed around Meghan’s hand. They cried in joy, and over the day they played the question game with Mother once every hour. She rewarded them each time with the appropriate answer.
Midmorning August sixth, a full two weeks after Mother’s surgery, Charlotte came in with a cup of broth and a spoon. She raised the head of the bed and put a very small amount—perhaps a fourth of a teaspoon—of broth into Mother’s mouth. Mother’s eyes flew open. She swallowed and opened her mouth for more. For half an hour, the nurse sat by the bed and slowly spoon-fed Mother the broth before she grew weary and drifted off to sleep. The nurse rose, triumphant. “If she can keep that up, we’ll be able to wean her from the IV feedings. Then she’ll be able to put some weight back on.”
For the rest of the week, they kept track of Mother’s awake minutes—when she kept her eyes open and watched them as if memorizing their every move. To Diane’s delight, the awake and the sleep hours nearly matched, minute for minute during the daytime hours. Doctors, nurses, aides, even medical students stopped by the room at various times during the day to check Mother’s reflexes, ask her questions, and quiz Diane and Meghan on their observations. It thrilled Diane to witness their excitement at her mother’s progress.
Sunday, while Mother’s congregation gathered for worship and Meghan and Diane sang to the CD player’s music, Mother opened her eyes and made soft noises along with them. Diane took her hand. “Mother, are you singing?”
Mother squeezed. The hardest squeeze yet. And she wheezed, “Siiiiiiing.”
Three weeks after her surgery, hospital orderlies transferred Mother from the hospice unit to the regular-care section. Nurses clapped and cheered as the bed wheeled past, and tears stung Diane’s eyes. When Mother was on her feet again, the three of them would come back with flowers and chocolate to thank the kind souls who’d given her such wonderful care.
Bringing Maggie Home Page 32