Color the Sidewalk for Me (15 page)

No response. Her eyes had risen to the height of my knees beneath my long casual skirt. Automatically I leaned over to brush off any remaining dirt. Then she was studying my face for the second time, noticing the red puffiness of my eyes. “Where you been, Celia?”

I could not meet her gaze. “I made a quick stop on the way. It didn't take long.”

She swallowed, nodding. “It's a nice marker, isn't it?”

I couldn't respond. Would she feel vindicated, I wondered, to hear of the guilt I carried? Suddenly I was filled with the strong knowledge that I should speak of it at that moment, and that I should plead with Mama for the cancer between us to be removed so together we could help Daddy heal.
This is the time, Celia,
declared a voice in my head.
Do it now.

I froze, marveling at the voice. I had not heard it in a very long time. I opened my mouth, summoning the words from across a chasm of seventeen years. But they would not come.

“Yes,” I whispered. “It's very nice.”

A curtain of silence draped between us, heavy and black.

“Well.” Her tone turned unnaturally light. “You must be exhausted. Go on and rest now; you'll be in your old room. Tomorrow is soon enough to see your daddy. I'm goin' off to bed myself. I'm tired.” Swiftly she left me on soundless, slippered feet. I blinked at her abrupt departure, feeling terribly alone in the house of my childhood.

Before the weight of it could settle upon me, before I berated myself for letting the moment pass, I forced myself into action, carrying my suitcases down the hall and into my darkened bedroom, flicking on the light. I sucked in a breath. Nothing had changed. There was my bed, my old wedding ring quilt upon it. My desk, with the same books and lamp. My dresser, the silver brush and mirror on its center. Open closet doors displayed the remnants of a teenager's wardrobe. The baby blue walls were empty, my pictures of oceans having long ago been ripped to shreds as I sobbed. I could see dozens of marks left by the thumbtacks.

Pulled by an unseen hand, I backed out and crossed the hall toward the two empty bedrooms. They beckoned and mocked me with their memories, and I felt a sudden urge to give them their heed. View them and be done with it. Granddad's door was closed and I opened it furtively, reaching to turn on the light. The room was spare, silent, the furniture gathering dust, like my heart. I stared at Granddad's bed; then my eyes trailed to his bookcase. I pictured it as it used to be, polished and sporting his medals in a meticulously straight row on the top. Next to them had rested his sandalwood box, which held sleeve patches from his uniforms, his unit crests, and a few military pay certificates. One shelf down, a little cracked blue cup from an ancient play tea set had held Jake Lewellyn's black and silver marble. A German canteen that Granddad had plucked from the enemy camp at the Volturno River had been slung over his straight-backed chair.

I could stand no more. Quickly I turned and left.

Feet gliding, I watched Kevy's room draw near. The knob smooth in my palm, I pushed the door back. Expecting to find it preserved like mine, I gaped at the stripped room, no trace of him remaining. I couldn't bear the sterility of that vacuum, as if my little brother had never lived here. How could Mama have done this to her darling Kevy, I wondered, and left my room untouched?

Closing the door, I asked myself bitterly what I was doing in that house, whose very walls held memories that threatened to crush me. A deep tiredness washed over me as I returned to my room. The day's long drive had me spent and I felt my senses dulling. For a short while I busied myself unpacking by rote, hanging up shirts, opening drawers. Besides clothes, I'd brought the same few precious items that had been so carefully packed in my boxes when I fled Bradleyville. First, Granddad's three war medals in their velvet containers, plus his battered sandalwood box. These I placed in the bottom of my dresser, where Mama could not see them. Second, my ancient teddy bear, Cubby, whose face had once reminded me of baby Kevy. I set him on the desk. And third, I'd brought the letters that held my life, tied in a stack with blue ribbon. Even as I hid the letters under clothes in my dresser, I wondered at my own morbidity in bringing them. As if simply being in that room wasn't enough reminder of the pain.

I heaved a deep sigh. At the moment, Little Rock and ad campaigns and my house seemed very far away. Suddenly longing for the familiar, I tried to recapture the pulse of my hectic pace at Sammons, but the beats were already feeble beneath the hushed rhythm of my old room. In bed I fingered the familiar stitches on my quilt, gazing out my window at Minton Street bathed by the corner light. How often in my teenage years had I lain there looking at that light, wishing . . . waiting . . . regretting . . .

Forcefully I pushed the thoughts aside, reminding myself that I had to get up early the following morning to see Daddy. Remorse washed over me as I pictured him waiting that evening, fighting his own weakness. I wanted to focus my energy on him; he was the one who needed healing. I had no right to steep in my own past hurts. But I wondered if rest would come; my mind was teeming with emotion. Mentally I tried to prepare myself for a restless night, even as exhaustion began to weight my eyelids and blanket my limbs.

Sleep was a smothering black velvet.

chapter 16

T
he next morning I clicked open Daddy's bedroom door to see early sunlight spilling weakly across his bed. He was already awake and propped against pillows. I moved quickly to his side. “Daddy!”

His drawn face, that of a man ten years his senior, jumped to life. “Saaaa.” I hugged him gently, feeling his slightness. His left arm did not move; his right one slipped around my back. “Saaa.” The sound was low in his throat, followed by a chest-deep bark of sad laughter. “Saaa.”

Mama stood in the doorway. “He's tryin' to say your name,” she explained. “That's very good, William.”

I frowned at her. My volunteer work at the nursing home had taught me never to speak to a stroke victim as if he were a child. “Daddy. Let me look at you!” I placed palms on his cheeks, drinking in the wrinkles and lines, concealing my dismay. The right side of his face held animation, while the left could only attempt it, pulling to no avail at the sag from his eye to his lips. His eyes were bright with happiness as he gazed at me, but I could see a well of sadness beneath the sheen. I blinked at tears. “You look wonderful.”

His mouth trembled, eyes filling. “Saaaaa.” My ill-formed name ended in a choke.

“Oh, Daddy, don't.” I pressed his head against my chest, stroking the fully grayed hair. “Don't cry. You're going to be fine. I'm here to help you now.”

The guttural sounds turned high as he sobbed, the fingers of his right hand pressing into my arm. “Saaaa. Saaaa. Maas aaa.”

I was cut to the heart. I hadn't expected this. What I had expected I couldn't say, but it wasn't my daddy crying as I never knew he could. Helplessly I looked to Mama.

“‘I missed you.' That's what he's sayin'.” The accusation in her voice was unmistakable.

My eyes squeezed shut as I realized he was crying not over his sickness but over my absence. Could I have broken his heart more than the stroke had broken his body? “I missed you, too, Daddy. So much. But I'm here now.” I swallowed hard. “And I'm not going anytime soon, I promise.” I held him until the tears ebbed and he fell against the pillows, exhausted.

Mama still had not moved from the doorway.

“Tell me everything, Mama. What's going on with his therapy? Can he get out of bed yet? What does the doctor say?” After seeing Daddy, I was still beside myself over his condition.

She was in profile at the kitchen sink, her waist-length hair pulled into a scraggly low ponytail. “It depends on how hard William works at it. He's got to have physical therapy for movement and speech. I haven't started any of that yet; he's only been home two days. I figured you'd talk to the doctor about it. He's supposed to stop by this mornin'.”

The response angered me. It seemed to me she had taken the easy way out, waiting to place on me all responsibility for finding a therapist. Not that I was sorry to take it on, for a hot determination to help Daddy was already bubbling within me like lava. I didn't know how to fix the emotional pain I had caused him, but his weak arm and leg and his tattered speech were tangible challenges. It was not the work that angered me; it was Mama's undertone. While I may have viewed nursing Daddy as my due penance, Mama's alleging it was something else again. I kept my voice steady. “Is Dr. Richardson still around?”

“Land sakes, no, he retired,” she replied. “You remember John Forkes, Mona Tesch's cousin? He went to the University of Kentucky when you were about eleven. Married a Lexington girl and settled there, but she died of a brain aneurysm after they'd only been together a few years. When Doc Richardson retired, John moved back here and took over the practice. He's engaged now to a teacher in Albertsville, a real sweet Christian girl.”

I stared out the kitchen window at our old oak tree, the swing from which I used to jump long gone. Briefly I wondered what had happened to Mona, Melissa, Barbara, Mary Lee, and all my other friends. What had ever happened to Bobby? In the conversations I'd had with Mama and Daddy over the years, I hadn't found the courage to ask, the very thought of hearing their names stirring up memories I'd tried to avoid.

The scent of homemade strawberry jelly rose from my toast, and I pushed the plate aside. “Well, I hope he can lead us to a good therapist. We've got to get that started right away. Plus we've got to get Daddy out of bed. I don't think he needs to wear those awful diapers; I'll bet you could get him to the bathroom.”

“It might take two of us to get him up. Besides, I haven't wanted to push him.”

She, who'd pushed him around all their married life. “He needs to be pushed, Mama; it's the only way he'll get better. I've volunteered with enough patients over the years to know that.”

The dishwater gurgled out of the sink. “You've volunteered to help people?”

I ignored her obvious surprise. “For over ten years now I've worked at a nursing home, even longer than I've worked at the ad agency. The patients there are so grateful for anything you do; they just need their days brightened a little.”

“Does it make you feel better?”

Her simple question was laden with such complexity that for a moment I couldn't respond. Did she fully grasp my guilt; was that it? Was she accusing me of coming home only to help myself “feel better”? Or was she saying, “Celia, you've never done a thing in your life for anyone but yourself, so why should your volunteer work be any different?”

“Sure,” I said evenly. “It makes me happy to see them happy, and it makes me feel . . . useful.”

“Mm.” She sniffed. “Speakin' of old folk, Eva and Frank want to see you.”

Oh great.
I searched for something pleasant to say. Seeing Mr. B. would be a pleasure, but I cringed at the thought of his wife.

“How are they?” I asked.

“Pretty good for their age. She's eighty and he's eighty-two. He's fairly spry and still drives. Eva can walk all right, but she can't drive 'cause her hands are terrible with arthritis. Frank does most of the cookin' and housework.”

“All the more time for her to stick her nose in other people's business,” I commented snidely. The moment the words were out of my mouth, I could have kicked myself. Some way to try to get along with Mama. “Sorry, I didn't mean that.”

Mama looked disgusted. “I can't understand why you never liked her; she's been my support all these years.”

“What do you mean, your support?” The edge in my tone matched hers. “What about your own family? Why wasn't Daddy your support?” Her eyes drifted to the window, a dishwater-red hand against her hip. “He was the reason I needed her support,” she said quietly.

As I stared at her, incapable of summoning a response, she picked up a dish towel and began to dry a plate.

chapter 17

A
fter reading the newspaper to Daddy, I placed a lengthy call to the ad agency, discussing Cellway, Southern Bank, and the other accounts in progress. Not much had happened since I left, but then I'd only been gone a day. It seemed more like a week. I did hear good news about Partners, however.

“Celia,” Matt cried, “Gary Stelt loves your slogan! You're a gem for helping me out.”

“That's great,” I said, a warmth spreading through me. Matt's appreciation was a wonderful reminder that I was still needed. “Wish it worked that easily all the time.”

After dealing with the client issues, I checked with Monica, who said my cats were faring well, but how often was she supposed to water that fern in the kitchen? By the time I hung up, I felt renewed by the call, basking in the familiarity of my colleagues' voices and their daily problems, picturing my desk at Sammons, my house and patio. For a moment I lingered by the phone, my hand still on the receiver and my throat tight with longing.