Eye of the Storm (14 page)

"Oh. I've turned it over to a consignment
company. Maybe we'll get something back on it." "I wished you had left it. I'd much rather have
had that precious old bed than this."
"Nonsense, my dear. It wouldn't have been half
as practical. Why make things more difficult for you
than they already are?
"Of course. I've discussed most of this with
Grant. I wanted to talk to Megan and get her involved
in the events and actions that concern you, but she's
now worse than ever when it comes to facing
difficulties. She couldn't stand even hearing about
you," she gleefully reported. "Grant's beside himself
about it all, of course. As a matter of fact. I was just
on the phone with him. He may even come here and
pay you a visit. By himself?" she added.
"What for?" I asked quickly.
"What for?" She laughed, "Why, to do the
responsible thing. He feels he has to take up the slack
Megan has left and continues to leave."
She smiled, really very happy about all this. "I'm surprised to hear he would worry about
me." I said skeptically.
"Don't be. You know that vow husbands and
wives take when they get married-- that for better or
worse one? Well. Grant is the type of man who takes
such things seriously. He's inherited Megan's mistakes
and he's not the sort who runs away from obligations. "Mistakes? If I heard that word used one more
time in reference to me. I'll scream loud enough for
my mother to hear," I threatened.
"Sometimes." she said ignoring me and running
her right forefinger along the top of my wheelchair. "I
wish my father would have had a son like Grant.
Why. if I had a brother with those qualities Grant
possesses, the family business would be so much
greater than it is. It's not easy for a woman in the
business world, no matter what sort of facade I
present.
"My mother was right about that." she said
looking up quickly. "but
I
didn't want to admit it so I pretended I was having no problems when I was always fighting an uphill battle. I really needed
someone like Grant at my side."
"Didn't you ever have anyone at your side?" I
asked her, half out of curiosity and half out of a desire
to press a needle into that self-contented smile. She stopped moving her finger, straightening
up, the soft, wistful look flying off her face as if I had
seized her shoulders and shaken her.
"No. But not because I didn't want to," she
added firmly. Her expression soured. "While my sister
was off playing with her rebellious college friends. I
was helping my father. He had far more health
problems than anyone knew, especially Megan. He
wanted it that way. It was always. 'Don't tell Megan.
Protect Megan-- precious. fragile Megan.
"Do you know where she was the day he died?
Modeling clothes for a charity at a yacht patty. She
knew he was seriously ill, but she wouldn't accept it. I
had to call her at that party and get her back here.
Grant was in court, but he came as soon as he was
able. I was there at my father's side when he took his
last breath. not Megan, not his favorite.
"And then all of it fell on my shoulders. Who
had time to develop romances?
"But why are we talking about all this?" She
cried, realizing she was being too honest and
revealing. "Let's talk about your situation and what
has to be done now." she insisted and began to rattle
everything off in her usual indifferent manner of
cataloguing.
"First. I've contracted with a private therapy
company and they are sending their best man over
tomorrow. He should be here by ten and he will know
your condition thoroughly before he arrives. Second.
I've spoken with Jake about the Rolls-Royce. It's
superfluous and ostentatious now. Actually. I thought
it always was. but Mother liked to hold onto those
vestigial organs of high social standing.
"Jake is going to see about trading it in on a van
that we'll have specially equipped for you."
"I don't want us to sell that car. It's
Grandmother Hudson's car. It's -"
"Rain, dear," she said smiling. as painful as it is
for all of us continually to face it, the fact is my
mother is dead and buried. There's no point in holding
onto the car. I thought you were set on a more
reasonable road these days. Why do you want to hold
onto a car that you will have to be carried into every
time you want to go somewhere, not to mention carried out of. How will that make you feel to see people watching you delivered like an infant from
place to place?
"Well?" she pursued.
"You're right," I said reluctantly. She was, of
course, especially when I envisioned myself being
held like a baby or guided into my chair at street
corners and curbs and parking lots.
"Good." She walked to the closet and opened it
for me. "Third, as you can see, all of your clothing has
been brought down for you. Everything you need is
here, shoes, undergarments, everything."
She turned and looked around, nodding with
pleasure. "Is there anything else you'd like in your
room?"
"I don't have a telephone. I noticed," I said. "Oh. That's right.
I
didn't think of that. I'll look
into it ASAP. I wasn't sure if you would be too tired
to discuss business with me, so I left the papers at the
office. I'll bring it all around by the end of the week.
How's that?"
"Fine," I said.
"Okay. I'm going to go talk with Mrs. Bogart to
make sure she understands what's expected of her. I
don't want the upstairs to go to pot just because you're not using it," she said. "I'll check on you again
tomorrow,"
She gave me a flashbulb smile and left. I
finished my sandwich and sat back, my mind flooding
with regrets. I wanted to defy everything in this room:
the mechanized bed, the equipment, the railings, all
that reaffirmed my state of invalidism, but whatever
rebellion was left in me was muted and cowering in
some dark corner of my tired heart.
Instead. I reached for the television remote and
like a good veteran of hospital wars. I turned on the
set and let the screen light up with distractions,
images and words, music and stories to keep me from
thinking about myself, video Valium to ease the pain
of reality and welcome me to some cloudlike
existence in the Land of Forget.
My first day at home was close to being over.
Netted like some wild bird. I was now left to perch in
my cage and look out at the world through bars,
wondering what I had left to look forward to and how
I would ever retrieve the song that had once come so
easily from my now silent tongue.
Mrs. Bogart had a way of keeping me aware of
her proximity. From time to time. I could hear her
moving things about in
other rooms, clanking dishes and silverware as if we had just finished serving a houseful of guests, vacuuming, polishing and dusting. Even when she was upstairs. I could hear her feet thumping into the rugs and on the wood. Furniture squealed when she moved it. Drawers were banged so
hard, they sounded like they had exploded.
Periodically, that first day and night, she looked
in on me. Sometimes, she just appeared in the
doorway, glanced at me and moved on. Sometimes,
she asked if I wanted something to drink, had gone to
the bathroom, needed help in moving about, anything,
it seemed to keep her voice in the air like some kite
that looked like it was losing wind and would float
down if it wasn't jerked and pulled.
I requested very little. My curiosity about the
house, my initial desire to wheel myself through the
downstairs, gazing at the rooms and the furniture
dissipated like a balloon with a slow leak. I felt myself
fold up in bed, close my eyes, and with the television
running a stream of low noise and flickering shadows
on the walls. I'd fall in and out of sleep until the first
light of morning trickled through the curtains, parting
the darkness as if I was being unearthed and
discovered once again.
Who'd want to be discovered like this? I
thought. . . I was certainly no treasure.
Mrs. Bogart was there almost as soon as I
opened my eyes. I knew she had been installed
upstairs in one of the West bedrooms. What was she
doing, sleeping with her ear on the floor waiting for
my waking groans?
"Good morning."" she said barely looking at me
as she crossed the room to open the curtains wider.
She went into the bathroom and started to run my tub.
When she returned, she carried something green in a
jar.
"What's that?" I asked.
"I was just going to explain it to you. Ms.
Randolph let me order a case of it for you. It's an
herbal bath powder that all my patients enjoy. It helps
keep your skin healthy. The water will look green, but
don't mind that."
"Oh. Thank you," I said. She nodded and
started to help me out of bed.
I went into the wheelchair to the bathroom
where she practically pulled off my nightgown. I
quickly covered myself and then realized there was no
point to my modesty. That's one of the first things that
goes for someone in my condition. I thought. My
body no longer felt like it belonged to me anyway. She glanced at me while she continued to
prepare my bath.
"You're a pretty girl," she said surprising me.
"I've seen pretty girls wilt like sun-starved flowers in
hospitals. They lose that glow, but you haven't. Yet,"
she added. Then she considered
me again and nodded.
"Maybe you won't, but you got to care about
yourself."
"I don't know if I can." I admitted.
"If you can't, you can't," she said with a shrug.
"No one's going to be hurt more than you."
"Thanks for the encouragement," I muttered. Finally, she smiled, but it wasn't a warm smile.
It was a smile of irony and self-satisfaction.
"Hell, girl. I'm not hired here to be your
cheerleader. I'm here to help you help yourself and
keep this place looking decent so folks will not feel
disgusted when they come. Most of it is up to you and
your doctor and therapist. I'm just telling you what
I've seen over the years. what I know."
"Why do you want to do this kind of work? It
seems so hard," I said as she helped me get out of the
chair and into the tub.
"Pay's good." she said. "Besides," she continued
as I began to enjoy the soak. "I had early experience at it. My father was crippled early with arthritis and in a
wheelchair and my mother was..."
"What?" I asked when she hesitated.
She looked down at me.
"No damn good," she said and left me to bathe. She took so long to return. I wondered if she
expected I would get myself out and dried and in the
chair. I've got to get to where I can anyway, I thought
and started to do just that.
"Just hold on there. Miss Impatience," she said
charging back into the bathroom. "You're not ready
for that yet and if you go and fall and break something
else, guess who's going to be blamed?"
She was efficient about getting me out, dry and
dressed. She opened the closet and asked me what I
wanted to wear.
"Don't forget," she reminded me. "the physical
therapist will be here this morning."
I chose a sweat suit outfit. After I put it on, she
stepped back and looked at me.
"You going to just leave your hair a mess after
we worked so hard getting you clean and smelling
good? Run a brush through it at least," she told me.
"After that, wheel yourself down to the kitchen for
breakfast."
I felt almost like a kid being told she could take
the family car for a ride herself. Maybe her sassiness
worked. I thought. because I did get myself over to
the vanity table and brushed my hair. Then, surprised
at how hungry I was. I wheeled out of the room and
down the corridor.
Finally. I felt like I was home.
Perhaps it was because we were in the kitchen
and not in my hospital-like bedroom, but while I ate
my breakfast. Mrs. Bogart became more talkative,
especially about herself. She ate her breakfast with me
and told me about some of her former patients. One
was particularly sad: a twelve-year-old boy with
multiple sclerosis who died while she was caring for
him.
She came from a small town north of Richmond
and had never left the state of Virginia. She told me
she had spent most of her teenage years and early
twenties caring for her father: the men with whom she
did develop some sort of romantic relationship
eventually grew tired of sharing her energy and
attention with him.
"Some people are just meant to spend their
whole lives taking care of other people. I guess," she
concluded. "At least. I'm not ashamed of it." "Why should you be?" I asked her.
She looked at me with those ebony eyes
flashing with heat and
fired back. "Would you like to
be doing this your whole life. child?"
I hesitated and decided this was a woman who
only wanted to hear the truth. In same ways that was
refreshing.
"No, ma'am," I said with conviction.
She stared a moment. Was the wall of ice
cracking?
"So who's your mama? Not Ms. Victoria. I
imagine," she said, folding her rolling-pin arms under
her small bosom.
"No. Her Younger sister. Megan."
"She's not married to your daddy, right?" she
asked, tilting her head in expectation.
"Hardly." I said. She nodded, understanding
only too well.
I told her about Grandmother Hudson and how
I had come to live here. She listened, clicking her
tongue and pressing her lips together once in a while.
Her face grew solemn when
I
described what had
happened to Brody. Then she rose in silence to clear
off the dishes. My story seemed to take all thought
from her mind. She was so silent for so long. Finally, she wiped her hand on a dishtowel and turned back to
me.
"Ain't no point in asking yourself why all the
time," she said.
"The answers to those questions don't rest here
with the living. We will find out later what the
purpose was to all our burdens. That's what they mean
by the promise in the Promised Land.
"Mv daddy used to say that." she added smiling
softly to herself. Then. as if she realized she had left
her character role on some stage. she snapped her lips.
clapped her hands and scowled at me.
"You go on and let back to your room and get
yourself ready for your therapy. He'll be here any