Color the Sidewalk for Me (18 page)

We talked about her relationship with Andy for another five minutes or so. I warned her to be cautious, remembering the pain that Michael and Roger had ultimately brought in my life. She was the last person I wanted to be hurt.

“Don't worry,” she responded softly. “It's in God's hands.”

How I envied her trust.

Before we hung up, Carrie demanded that I call every few days, even if it had to be late. “You're going to need someone to talk to,” she said. “I'm proud of you for calling tonight, for not retreating like you usually do. So promise me.”

I shrugged in resignation. What else could I do? Usually I had work and clients and the nursing home and my house—all sorts of distractions. Here I was completely exposed. “I promise.”

I replaced the receiver quietly, wondering what to do with myself. I wasn't yet ready to sleep. Wandering over to the television, I turned it on to a late-night talk show, keeping the volume low. Then I stretched out on the couch, fussily arranging a pillow under my head. In the darkened room the flickering pictures cast a haunting gray glow. The front window was slightly open, and a humid breeze, heavy with the scent of rain, played with Mama's curtains. My thoughts drifted from Carrie and Andy to Mama . . . Daddy . . . Dr. Forkes . . .

When the patter of rain awakened me well past midnight, I shut the window and went to bed.

chapter 19

A
fter breakfast the following morning, Mama informed me with ill timing that Mr. and Mrs. B. were coming over to visit in an hour. It was all I needed at the moment. I was trying to gather energy for Daddy's first therapy session after a fitful night's sleep. Besides, visitors—any visitors, but especially Mrs. B.—meant conversation for which I was hardly ready. I could imagine the questions about my life in Little Rock, the careful sidestepping of delicate topics from the past.
Sure,
I thought,
let's all have a delightful conversation as we ignore the elephant in the living room.
It would have been different had I expected any sensitivity from Mama. Instead I was convinced that she relished the opportunity to see me put on the spot, just as she'd secretly relished my volunteering as Daddy's physical therapist. From her point of view these events were merely the beginning of many required acts of contrition. Problem was, I kept adding to my sins. She still hadn't forgiven me for arguing with her in front of Dr. Forkes.

Mama made her announcement as I was pushing the empty wheelchair into Daddy's room. For the first time since he'd come home from the hospital, he would be getting out of bed. “They're coming already?” I turned to her with impatience. “You should have asked me first. I've got to start things with Daddy.”

“Well, you know Eva.” Mama wouldn't back down. “She's dyin' to see you. Besides, you should be done with your daddy by then. I don't want you overworking him the first day.”

I bit my tongue at a retort, then said evenly, “I'll keep that in mind.”

Her eyes flicked to my face, searching for the unspoken sarcasm. She compressed her lips. “Eva and I visit about every other day, you know, so you might as well get used to it.”

I had no polite response to this further piece of news. With a sigh I resumed pushing the wheelchair.

“Do you want me to help get him out of bed?” she asked.

“No, thank you, I can do it.”

I had exactly ten steps to put my irritation behind me. By the time I reached the master bedroom doorway, I'd pulled my cheery face from my pocket.

“Okay!” I sang to Daddy. “Time to get you up. You ready?”

“Yaaa.”

I placed the chair by the bed so it was near his left side, and locked the wheels. Earlier I had pulled him to a more upright position against his pillows so he wouldn't feel so dizzy when he stood. “Okay. First I'm going to raise you up completely straight. Then we'll swing your legs over.” My arm slid between him and the pillows and lifted. Carefully I eased his left leg over the side of the bed. He was able to follow with his right leg. I let him get used to the position for a moment. “All right. Here goes.” Bracing myself, I pulled him to a standing position, turned him, and eased him into the chair almost before he knew it. “Ha!” I cried. “You didn't know I was that strong, did you? I've done this lots of times.”

“Uh. Guh.”

“Yes, it is good; it put me in practice for you. Now let me put some pillows behind your back.” I fussed about, getting him comfortable and pulling his left leg onto the footrest. “Here, you can do your right one, can't you? That's great.” I moved to his side. “Now, the best part is first.”

For the next ten minutes I gently massaged his left side from shoulder to ankle. His eyes, clearly adoring, never left my face. Under their gaze I felt both self-conscious and bathed in love. It had been years since someone had looked at me like that.

“Okay, Daddy,” I said, standing up. “Enough spoiling. Time for your exercises.”

“Kaaa.”

His agreeableness panged my heart. I pushed his wheelchair to the center of the room, aware that Mama had appeared in the doorway. “Haaa,” Daddy called, but I did not acknowledge her presence. Following Dr. Forkes' instructions, we began at the top, looking for the smallest of movements. A shrug of Daddy's shoulder, a lift of his elbow, a rotation of the wrist, a flex in the fingers. All these things he could do to some extent, and I praised him at each accomplishment. At some point during our work Mama disappeared, but Daddy and I were concentrating too hard to notice. Whatever Daddy could do, I had him repeat five times. For some reason his forefinger could wiggle more than the others, and I commented that this was so he could point the way to the door if Mrs. B. stayed too long. He laughed gutturally. Next I placed the red ball on his lap beneath the palm of his left hand. “Show me what you can do with this.”

He focused on it like a good pupil, willing his fingers and thumb inward. They curved, but not enough to touch the ball. He stopped, then tried again with no better success. Air whooshed from his nose and his eyes closed in frustration.

“That's okay,” I soothed. “You've got some movement; it'll get better. We have lots of time.” I had not told him of our eight-week deadline.

He gazed at me like a child seeking assurance.

“It's true. I told you I'm not going anywhere, didn't I?”

One side of his mouth smiled.

Next we struggled through leg exercises as I urged him to lift his foot, rotate his ankle, flex his toes, with five repetitions. When we were finally through with that, Daddy was tiring, but I pushed him to do everything once more, starting back at his shoulder. Then we turned to speech.

“Let's try the vowels first,” I suggested. “Now, we know you can say ‘ah.' How about ‘ee'? Don't worry about moving your tongue; make the sound at the back of your mouth.”

He tried, the sound closer to that of a short i.

“That's very good. Now make an ‘ah,' then an ‘ee.'”

He obeyed.

“Good.”

We continued through vowel sounds, then progressed slowly through the alphabet. Consonants like band m that required the lips to meet were impossible; others like t or s were muddled but understandable. By the time we reached z, Daddy was exhausted, holding up his right hand to gesture, “Enough.”

“You've done great.” I bent down to hug him. “I'll put you back to bed so you can rest now, but eventually you'll have to learn to sit up. And”—I tapped his nose with a finger—“we get to do this all over again once more today.”

He affected a convincing groan.

chapter 20

C
elia!” Mrs. B. clasped her misshapen hands as she greeted me. “I'm so glad to see ya!”

Her appearance shocked me. Her red hair had turned completely white, her freckles faded to near nonexistence. Her nose had widened, small blue veins at the end, and I couldn't help but notice the dentures. Her fingers were awkwardly bent, their joints gnarled like an ancient dwarf tree. I thought of her years of processing mail and was sorry for her crippling.

“Hi, Mrs. B.” My smile was wide enough to satisfy both her and Mama. I had willed myself to be gracious. “Mr. B.” I took his outstretched hand with pleasure. Even now, years after he'd retired as foreman at the sawmill, his fingers showed the wear of hard physical labor. “It's really good to see you.”

His watery eyes traveled over my face, the expanse of years in their trail. He had aged, too, but not as dramatically as Mrs. B. His jowls had fattened and hung below his chin, reminding me of Jake Lewellyn. The rounding of his shoulders lent him a stooped, worn stance. Patches of scalp shone through thin gray hair.

“Lord love ya, chil',” he said in a trembling voice, “it's wonderful a you to come back. Your daddy was so happy to hear it.”

“Thank you.” I released his hand, feeling suddenly exposed. It occurred to me that Mr. B. would understand the pain of a man who had lost his children, for he and Mrs. B. had lost their only son, Henry, in the Korean War. I had heard little of the story. I did know that Henry had just turned eighteen when he and Granddad enlisted together. Henry, I'd imagined, must have had dreams of glory in his head as he was ushered out of Bradleyville by Granddad, who'd already been decorated twice for his bravery. If Henry had lived, he wouldn't be much older than Mama.

Hiding my self-consciousness, I busied myself playing hostess, serving iced tea, explaining to Mr. B. that Daddy was too tired to visit at the moment. At Mrs. B.'s insistence I went over in detail our exercise and speech routine. She oohed and aahed numerous times, shaking her head. “How wonderful. Ain't you a sweet thing.” Once we finished that topic of conversation, I longed for a reason to excuse myself but could think of none. I answered a few questions from Mrs. B. about my work in Little Rock, but my responses were brief and did not invite further investigation. With a little sigh she gave up and launched into talk of the town. We heard all about old Mrs. Zimmerman's hernia operation and how a teacher at school planned to marry a man from the mill. “But they're Baptists,” she added, “so the weddin' won't be at our church.” The IGA had the biggest tomatoes she'd ever seen. And did I remember Mrs. Pennyweather? That lady who used to sing so loud in church? Well, she died years ago, of course, but her daughter in Albertsville was still living and she'd up and left her husband.

“Mrs. B.,” I prompted, “tell me about Jessie and Lee.”

“Oh, they're fine, fine.” She waved a hand. “Kids all married, and with kids a their own. Gretchen and Grant live in Albertsville. Gretchen stays home with her two little ones, a course, and Grant works in construction. Kim's here in town. She's got three children, and when the littlest starts first grade next year, Kim's gonna start workin' in her mama's sewing shop. Right good seamstress she is herself.”

“Who did she marry?” I wondered. “Someone from town?”

“Why yes! You remember Reid Brown, don't you?”

Reid Brown.
Kevy's best childhood friend. Married to Kim Harding. I wanted time to sift this information as it deserved, to mentally separate the pleasant from the lost potential. But Mrs. B. rattled on, bragging about Miss Jessie's grandchildren, how one sang like an angel and another was bound to be an artist. And did I know that Lee's younger sister, Connie, had three children and two grandchildren? Thanks to God that he'd provided Connie with a husband so soon after the birth of her first child. Jason had been such a wonderful husband to her all these years. As for Lee, he was still managing the mill, and the owner, Dustin Taylor, still lived in that mansion out on Route 347. And speaking of houses, did I see them flimflam things on Route 622? “Some a those pretty farms between us and Albertsville are gone,” she sighed. “And we got outsiders livin' in those tiny houses—with a bad influence on our town. Our kids're runnin' around, boys and girls together; it's just awful.”

“No more comin' to call?” I'd hoped to suppress the bitterness in my voice but did not completely succeed.

Mama threw me a sharp glance. “No, not much of that anymore, Celia,” she said tightly.

Mrs. B. looked uncomfortable. She'd wandered too close to things no one wanted to discuss. “Well,” she muttered, “let's see. I s'pose you heared the sad news about Melissa. Sometimes it's just hard to understand the grief Christians go through. Her family lives next door to us, you know, have ever since she got married. The oldest is such a sweet thing, looks just like her mama at that age. She takes good care a her siblin's, plus has supper waitin' for her poor daddy every night.”

A shift had occurred in the air around Mama, and I flicked my eyes to search her face. “What about Melissa?” I pressed.

Mama hesitated. “I haven't had a chance to tell you, Celia.”

“Oh my,” Mrs. B. exclaimed as if she'd jumped out of the frying pan into the fire. “I didn't mean to be the bearer of bad news!”

“What about Melissa?” I said again, my voice tightening. No one wanted to answer. “Is something wrong with her? Is she sick?”

“She died of stomach cancer six months ago,” Mama said finally. “She went in less than a year.”

The unexpected news weighted me to the couch.
No,
I thought.
Not Melissa.
Dainty Melissa, bubbly, full of life and giggles and motion. How could such animation be stilled? When I found my voice, I could only ask more questions. “And she left three children?”

Mrs. B. cast me a funny look. “That's right. Jackie's fifteen now, Robert's eleven, and Clarissa's eight.”

Fifteen.
That had been my age during my first summer with Danny. For a moment I tried to imagine myself on the other side of the fence. The mother of a fifteen-year-old, fighting with her daughter over a boyfriend. Then I realized Melissa would have had to marry soon after I left Bradleyville to have a daughter that old. “Who's her husband?” I looked from Mrs. B. to Mama.