Color the Sidewalk for Me (27 page)

I checked on Daddy. It was time to get him out of bed, have him sit in the wheelchair for a while. After supper we would embark on our second therapy session of the day. When he was settled in the wheelchair, I pushed him out to the living room to watch TV. “Will you be okay here for a while?” I asked. “I need to go back in my bedroom and work on a logo.”

His eyes pierced mine. “Taaawkk,” he reminded.

As if I'd forgotten. “We will, I promise. Just . . . give me this little bit of time.”

An hour later supper time was approaching. Mama worked in the kitchen, frying the pork chops, which I wasn't sure I could eat. In Little Rock I never touched fried food anymore. I knew she did not want my help cooking.

I had put off the dreaded talk with Daddy as long as I could. He sat in his wheelchair, pretending to watch television while he waited. His patience—and determination—shot remorse through me. Inwardly I chided myself. I was making too big a deal out of this.

I went back to the living room, turned off the television, and pushed him into their bedroom, out of Mama's earshot. Relating to him about the day I left Bradleyville would be hard enough; I could not stand the thought of her listening, too. No telling in what tortuous new ways she would use the information against me. I sat on my parents' bed, parking Daddy in front of me. “Well, here goes,” I said with a shrug.

He smiled crookedly in reassurance. “Guuud.”

As factually as possible I told him about leaving Bradleyville—the cab ride to Albertsville, the bus, the hotel room, eventually finding an apartment. Once that part was over, the story became easier. I told him about my attending college, my first disastrous job at Grayland, meeting Quentin Sammons. I explained to him what I did at work; I talked about my house, my cats and neighbors. Briefly I mentioned Roger and Michael. Daddy drank in my words, enthralled, as though he were living with me all the events of our separation. I had the sense that I was pouring forth my life and filling hollow places deep within him. But I never would have guessed how well he understood what I hadn't said. When my words finally trickled to a stop, he gestured for his notebook and pen. I waited in silence while he wrote.

You left God behind.

I raised my eyes to him in surprise. My immediate desire was to deny it, but his gaze told me he would not be fooled.

“Yes,” I whispered.

He wrote again.

Must be lonely.

I knew that he meant lonely without God, but I didn't want to dwell on that. “Yes, Daddy, I missed you. But it's been far worse for you; I see that now.” I placed a hand on his knee. “I'm so sorry I left you. I can't say that enough. I shouldn't have hurt you. Or Mama. But I just couldn't face things. She hated me after what I'd done.”

“Naaa.” His voice was strong.

I closed my eyes. “Sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

He shook his head, then wrote again.

Mama doesn't hate you.

“Okay, all right. I didn't mean it anyway.”

You did mean it. She does not.

“Daddy, I believe you; it's okay.”

Why do you think she hates you?

I couldn't help but frown at him. “I don't want to talk about this.”

He tapped the question with his pen. I looked at him helplessly. Daddy, passive all his life. Now stroke-ridden and displaying such resolve. I steeled myself. Might as well go all the way with this.

“All right, Daddy, if that's what you want. She's never liked me, period. She's always been cold. She hardly ever hugged me when I was little, and I can't remember one time hearing her say ‘I love you.' Not one time in my whole life. There. Are you satisfied?”

“Naaa.” The pen met paper.

I'm very sorry about these things. But you're thinking of something else.

His single-mindedness was exasperating. “Well, maybe I am.”

He waited.

I blew out air. “You know, Daddy; why are you making me talk about this? It's . . . what I did.”

What?

I rose from the bed and paced toward the door, hands on my hips. “Daddy, this isn't fair! Why are you doing this to me? This wasn't part of my promise!”

I stayed behind him purposely, knowing he could not turn in his wheelchair to face me. I leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Breathing hard, I watched the slump of his shoulder as he once again began to write, slowly, firmly. When he was finished, he held up the pad and waited until I reluctantly crossed the room to take it from him.

Mama doesn't hate you for anything. And God wants you back.

When will you let go of the past and see the truth in the present?

chapter 30

W
hen will you let go of the past?

My conversation with Daddy weighted my thoughts. When supper time rolled around, I still smarted from his words.

“I'm going to go for a little drive this evening,” I told Mama after we'd eaten. She was at the kitchen sink, her back to me. She did not turn around.

“Fine. Go ahead right now, if you want; I'll clean up.”

I didn't argue. My need to get out of the house was too urgent.

I drove up Minton, away from Main Street and Bradleyville, and turned right on Route 347. I chose that road thinking it was the least likely to stir up thoughts of the past, but in spite of myself I found my car slowing as I neared the Taylor's mansion.

The memories that house held for me.

Tears bit my eyes as I gazed at the house. Daddy was right; I couldn't let go of the past. It seemed to loom before me no matter which way I turned. Pulling to a stop on the side of the road, I waited for the old emotions about Danny to pass.

“You can love again, you know,” Carrie once said to me after I'd finally told her about Danny. I'd shaken my head in despondence. That conversation had been two years ago, fifteen years since I'd lost Danny. Roger and Michael had entered and faded out of my life. Michael was now married; his recent wedding had been a large social event. Roger also was married, and his wife was pregnant, I'd heard. Carrie had now met Andy, her man of instant chemistry. People got hurt, they loved and lost, but they moved on. Why couldn't I?

I sat in my car, willing the swell of old pain to subside. When it finally passed, I chided myself for being so self-centered while my own daddy was at home, unable to even turn around in his wheelchair.

Too much free time to think—that was my problem. I had to find some project to keep me busy between Daddy's therapy sessions.

I pulled back onto the country road, wondering what that project could be.

An hour later I pulled into my parents' driveway with renewed determination to hold my emotions in check and focus on Daddy's health. Just as I reached the front porch, John Forkes rolled up to our curb.

“Hi, Celia.” He stepped out of his car, carrying his black bag. “I was on my way home and thought I'd take an extra look at William. How's he doing?”

“Pretty good,” I said, nodding. The setting sun behind Dr. Forkes threw a halo of light around his hair. “I'm pushing him to do the exercises and he's willing.”

Dr. Forkes crossed our short sidewalk and halted before me, the elongated shadow of an oak dancing across his shoulders. He waited for me to continue. In the momentary silence something shimmered between us. I raised my eyebrows and tried to shrug it off.

“Guess that's about it.”

He studied me. “You look like something's worrying you.”

Was I that transparent? Quickly I sorted through my observations of Daddy, searching for a safe response. “Not really. But Daddy's sort of . . . different.”

“What do you mean?”

Immediately I wished I hadn't opened my mouth. Explaining what I sensed in Daddy involved explaining how he had been in the past. How our household had always been run. But the memory of my argument with Mama in front of Dr. Forkes compelled me to continue.

At the least he deserved some sort of context for that little altercation. “When I was young,” I said slowly, “Mama was always the dominant parent, and Daddy just went along with whatever she wanted. Now he's had a stroke yet he seems stronger. He's pushing himself, and he's pushing me like never before. He's downright demanding.”

John Forkes smiled. “Well, you're certainly not telling me any bad news.”

“Oh no, I didn't mean to say it was bad. Just surprising.”

“Sure, I can see that.” His gaze grew intense, as though he were trying to see deep within me. “So,” he prompted, “what is he pushing you to do?”

I eyed him back squarely. That same barest hint of amusement that I'd seen yesterday played around his mouth. His question was no doctor's need-to-know. It was merely a man's curiosity about a woman. I felt the familiar guards rise inside me. Then, inexplicably, they melted away.

“He's pushing me to face some things that I don't want to face,” I replied.

“I see.” He processed the answer as if surprised I'd answered at all. Then the amusement faded, his professional manner returning. “Well. What you're noticing is not uncommon. Many times when people are struck by physical trauma, their inner strength rises to the surface. That's the wonder of being human. We don't know what we're made of until the going gets roughest.”

Some of us perhaps, I thought. When my going got roughest, I had run away. I glanced at the shadow of the oak leaves on John's shoulder, and suddenly the picture reminded me of Danny under our tree canopy. Once again pain shot through my chest. My eyes slid to the sidewalk.

“We'd better go check on Daddy,” I said, turning away.

chapter 31

F
riday night I slept poorly. The next morning I felt groggy and tired, having to work much harder than I had the previous day to summon an energetic, cheerful face. Daddy performed his exercises with grim determination but was upset that his abilities were even less than they had been the day before. “It's okay,” I told him glibly. “This is to be expected. Your muscles are just tired.”

The speech lesson, however, went faster than it had before. Daddy had quickly learned the routine. I began prompting him to put sounds together in short words.

“Say ‘sat.'”

“Ssaa.”

“Uh-uh, no good. You can say that t.”

“Ssaaathh.”

“Better. Say the t by itself.”

“Thh.”

“Raise that tongue of yours a little bit.”

“Tss.”

“Better. Now make it short. ‘Tuh.'”

“Tuh.”

“Yes! Put it all together. ‘Sat.'”

“Ssaaatuh.”

“Great!” I raised a fist in the air. “That was so good, let's do another one. ‘Day.'”

After ten minutes Daddy grew impatient and I allowed him to stop, wheeling him to the living room to sit with Mama. She and I had continued to keep our distance, our conversations strained.

“Well, William,” she remarked, “sounds like your daughter just about did you in.”

“Yaaa.” He affected a pained expression and she laughed, pecking him on the cheek.

“Want me to read you the paper?” she asked.

“Kaaa.”

My heart softened a little at her gentleness toward him. It seemed a good time to take care of other business I had to attend to. “I'm going out again for a while,” I announced. “Daddy, don't forget your red ball.”

Mama didn't respond, too busy reaching for the newspaper. Daddy produced the sigh of a martyr. “Yaaa.”

The day was cloudless and sported daffodils—quintessential Kentucky spring before summer's humidity. I walked the short distance to Melissa's old house, thinking of the countless times my small footsteps had crossed that sidewalk. How many times had we spent the night together, watched Saturday morning cartoons, caught fireflies at twilight? I could still see her small figure on the porch, hear her calling me. Who would have guessed that her last words to me would have been full of such bitterness?