Color the Sidewalk for Me (16 page)

My thoughts were cut short when I gazed through the living room curtains to see a man striding up our sidewalk, black bag in hand. It had to be Dr. Forkes. I looked at him more closely, not sure I would have recognized him. He was surprisingly tall and broad-chested, with a straight nose and rugged jaw, exuding masculinity even from a distance. Although he was wearing a suit, I could easily have imagined him in jeans and a T-shirt, chopping wood for a campfire. His hair was salt-and-pepper, wavy. I crossed the room to open the door before he knocked. Our eyes met, his a light hazel, almost opaque, against tanned skin. Briefly we studied each other.

“You must be Celia.” He held out a hand.

“I remember you, John. Though I suppose I should call you Dr. Forkes now.”

He smiled, his fingers in mine across the threshold. “John is fine.”

While Dr. Forkes examined Daddy in the bedroom, I watched his hands, struck by their gentleness and strength. There was a certain grace to them as he listened to Daddy's heart, pulled a blood pressure cuff from his bag and placed it around Daddy's arm. When he was finished with the examination, he tapped Daddy on the cheek with affection. My heart tugged at the gesture.

Afterward he took the time to sit with Mama and me at the dining table, patiently answering my nonstop questions, his suit coat hanging from the back of his chair. Daddy's bedroom door was closed so he could rest. Dr. Forkes' manner was easy as he leaned his arms on the table, hands clasped, watching me attentively. With therapy Daddy could recover, he told me, but he wasn't sure to what extent. Only time would tell if the recovery would be complete enough for Daddy to return to work.

“That's taken care of,” Mama said casually. “William's sixty-two, only three years from retirement. His boss, Mr. Sledge, said they're thinkin' of replacin' him.”

“Replacing him,” I repeated in wonderment. “Just like that?”

“It's not just like that, Celia,” Mama retorted. “He had the stroke over two weeks ago. Someone has to do their books. Business goes on, you know.”

“But he worked there all his life.” My voice rose. “How can they just throw him away so quickly?”

“They haven't thrown him away,” she insisted. “For now the job is there. Mr. Sledge has hired a temporary in the meantime. But he said they could only hold your daddy's job for eight weeks, and if he can't return by then, they'll give him an excellent package for early retirement, plus their medical insurance will continue for the next three years.”

The old tension between us fizzed. “Does Daddy know this?”

“Of course not.” Her tone was edgy. “It would only upset him, and there's nothin' he could do about it anyway.”

Indignation blazed within me. “Maybe he can't but you certainly could! You could fight for him! You could remind Mr. Sledge that he's never had a more loyal worker and that your husband deserves better!” “I can't do that, Celia; it's Mr. Sledge's company.” Mama threw an embarrassed glance at the doctor.

“You'd do it if you wanted to,” I pressed, accusation on my face. As long as I could remember, she hadn't liked the idea of people leaving her. I was convinced she just wanted to keep Daddy home for her sake. “When do you plan to tell him? When he's on his way out the door to go back to work?”

“That's enough; we'll talk about this later.” Mama turned to the doctor, color mottling her cheeks. “Please forgive my daughter,” she said tightly. “She's still tired from her trip.”

I clenched my teeth. I was tired all right, tired of her never ending need to control our lives. I couldn't imagine someone snatching my job out from under me. To think of Daddy losing his, when he'd worked at Sledge's since before I was born . . . I could easily imagine his enjoying at work the appreciation and respect he never got from Mama at home. I knew I was breathing too rapidly. I knew John Forkes was beginning to wish he were anywhere other than between us at the moment. Still, I could barely rein in my disgust. Swallowing hard, I forced my eyes from Mama back to him.

“You were talking about therapy,” I said with utmost control.

“Right.” He cleared his throat, probably wishing he could clear the air as well. “I was going to say that a therapist should come daily to work with his left arm and leg and to work on speech. In time the therapist can help him relearn things like getting himself dressed. There's a woman in Albertsville who's very good. I've already mentioned your father to her, and she's able to fit him into her schedule.”

“No,” I heard myself declare.

He hesitated. “Is there someone else you'd rather have?”

Angry as I was with Mama, I didn't think twice. “I mean no to anybody,” I said firmly. “I'll do his therapy myself. Now that I find we're working under a deadline”—I emphasized the word with a tight smile—“I can't trust his therapy to anyone else. Eight weeks hardly seems like enough time, does it?”

“Well.” Dr. Forkes seemed nonplussed. “Even so, I don't know if I'd advise your trying it. The regimen must be followed closely, and you have to know what you're doing. You need to understand speech patterns too. It would be better for a trained professional to handle it.”

“I'm not a professional but I've worked with stroke patients before.”

“Then you know that the therapy should be consistent.” He paused. “Forgive me for asking but William is my patient. Are you going to stay long enough to see this through?”

My first thought was ridiculously beside the point. Under the circumstances it was a question the doctor was entitled to ask, but for some reason I sensed that John Forkes, the man, was posing it. Then, as the realization of what I'd just committed myself to do set in, the thought vanished.

Eight weeks.
I cringed. As I'd driven away from my house and work—my life—I couldn't have imagined being in Bradleyville for so long. Yet when I really thought about it, how could I have expected Daddy to recover quickly after such a serious stroke? Just what had I expected—that Daddy's problems would magically disappear at my return? That after a week or so I could leave once again without looking back, filled with piety over having performed my filial duty?

But still. Eight weeks. What was I doing? How could I ever be in that house and around Mama for so many days? How could Sammons Advertising manage without me for so long?

Worse, what if they did?

Without looking at Mama, I could feel her cool appraisal as my mind raced.
She'll back out,
I could hear her thinking.
She's far more concerned with her own life than with her daddy.
I ignored her, trying to imagine Daddy recovering in time to return to work without my support. But I couldn't imagine it. Mama would never push some therapist to make it happen. No way around it; I was Daddy's only chance.

I took a silent, slow breath and focused on Dr. Forkes. “You must know enough about the therapy to teach me,” I said with quiet determination. “I'd like you to do that.”

He held my eyes. “Are you sure? It's a big commitment, Celia; you don't have to do this.”

I drew myself up, mouth firm. “Yes, I do. Because I'll do a better job than anybody else. And that's because I care more than anybody about getting him back to work.”

Mama was silent, but I knew she understood that my statement included her. Dr. Forkes undoubtedly understood it as well. I gazed at him challengingly but he seemed almost amused. “Estelle?” He turned to Mama. “What do you think?”

She spread her hands. “What does it matter? Celia always gets her way.”

“Look.” His expression darkened. He'd had enough of us both. “Ordinarily any argument between the two of you would be none of my business, but I repeat, William is my patient. In order to agree to this, I have to believe you're both going to do your part to make it work. So. What do you think about Celia's offer, Estelle?”

Mama slid me a look. “I think you ought to let her do it, since she's so insistent. One thing I know about my daughter—when she puts her mind to something, it happens.”

Her words hit me in the chest. My fingers curled around the seat of my chair.

“All right, then. But Celia, if it's too much, we can hire the therapist at any time. And if I think William's not getting the care he should, I'll insist on it. Understood?”

I met his eyes. He'd just offered me a way out if things got too rough, and I was grateful for it. “Understood.”

“Good.” He drummed his fingers against the table. “When I get my last patient out the door tonight, I'll come back and we'll go over things. Okay?”

“Sounds good to me,” I replied.

“We'll see you then, John.” Mama stood primly, formally ending our meeting with all the dignity she could muster after I'd made a spectacle of us both. It wasn't until after the doctor left and I recognized the smug look of satisfaction on Mama's face that I wondered if she hadn't orchestrated the entire exchange.

chapter 18

A
n hour later, gazing down at Daddy's hopelessly crooked face, I wanted to cry. His eyes were bleary.

An “Have a nice nap?” I summoned a grin.

“Yaaa.” He smiled lopsidedly.

Feigning energy, I pulled a chair near his bed and plopped into it. The cheerful attitude I'd glued to my features had been well honed through my years of volunteer service. Patients didn't need melancholy; they needed humor, laughter. It had to be balanced, however, with understanding of their struggles. More than once I'd cried with them over their tragic stories. One thing was certain—I could empathize with another's pain, having carried my own for so long.

“Would you like a small TV in here, maybe on your dresser? It would give you something to do.”

He screwed up his face, then shook his head slowly.

“Okay. Would you like me to read to you, then? I could buy some books.”

“Naaa.”

I shrugged at him, smiling. “Then what am I supposed to do with you? When I'm not helping with your therapy, that is?”

Questioningly he pointed at me.

“Yeah, that's right,” I announced. “You're looking at your therapist. And I'm mean as an alley cat too, so you'd better do what I say.”

His right palm beat the covers in a one-handed clap.

“I'm glad you approve,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Tell you the truth, though, I don't know how much the doc likes it. But we'll prove him wrong, won't we? We'll show him up good!”

“Uh huh!” he exhaled. I watched as he struggled to say more, then finally gave up. He waved his right hand in the air, thumb against fingers. It took me a moment to understand.

“You want to write something?”

“Yaaa.”

“Really?” My eyes grew round. “I didn't know you thought you could do that. Mama's at the grocery store; have you told her?”

His head rolled back and forth.

“So what then, you been practicing while she's asleep?” I teased. “You been doing cartwheels too?” My eyes traveled around the room. “Is there some paper in here? We'll just have to give this a try.”

He pointed to Mama's dresser.

I walked over and began opening its drawers, feeling uncomfortable at such intimacy with Mama's possessions. In the bottom left drawer I saw a stash of cards, pens, and spiral notebooks of lined paper. “Perfect.” I picked up a notebook and opened it to a bare page, placing it on his lap and putting a pen in his hand. He began to print laboriously. “Amazing,” I whispered. After a moment he stopped, turning the notebook toward me.

I want you to talk to me.

Within the core of me I felt a sudden chill. “Of course I'll talk to you,” I replied lightly. “Haven't I been chattering enough already?”

He shook his head and printed again.

I mean talk to me.
What have you been doing all these years?

I smiled ruefully at the earnestness on his sagging face, hiding my dismay. This could go no further. “But Daddy, I came here to help you, not talk about myself. It's not very exciting anyway.”

You talk.
That will help me.

He'd laid the trap perfectly and I felt myself falling in. It was too much, too fast. I'd not yet recovered from pledging to handle his therapy; now this. My work at Sammons Advertising, my volunteer duty, Roger, Michael—all were in one way or another connected to my past. How could I tell Daddy about my life without dwelling on the emotions that undergirded it?

“Oh, I see what you mean,” I said, pretending to understand. “You just want to hear lots of words so you can practice imitating the sounds. It would probably just be easier if I read to you.”

He bounced the pen against the paper with impatience, as if he saw right through me. Writing again, he pressed deeply into the page.

Iwant to know about you. We never talked much before. It's not too late. Please.

His fingers gripped the pen, frustration at his slowness shooting across his brow. I placed my hand over his. “Okay, Daddy. Okay. I'll tell you what I've been doing.”

My weak promise failed to satisfy him. He went back to writing, then turned the paper toward me.

Start when you left B.

“B? Bradleyville?” The very thought rooted me to my chair. I never wanted to relive that trip again. “No, Daddy, I can't. Surely you don't want me to start on that day.”

His eyes held mine until it was all I could do not to drop my gaze. Then he reached for the notebook again, his movements deliberate. When he swiveled the paper back to me, he lay the pen down.

Yes, I do. That's when you left me.

The last word shot through my heart like an arrow. I'd hurt Daddy terribly when I left, far more than I'd realized. Without a word, without a backward glance, I'd disappeared from his life. How could I have done that to him?