(2006) When Crickets Cry (18 page)

She looked down, and the crickets fell quiet, making a low, almost inaudible chatter, as if they obeyed or observed something I knew nothing about. It was like a song you could hear only if you weren't trying to listen, or a far-off star that you could see only when you weren't focusing, and then only out of the corner of your eye. She put her finger to her lips and whispered, "Shhhh."

I listened. "What are they doing?" I asked.

She looked at me as if I should already know. "Why ... they're crying."

I leaned in and tried to hear, but couldn't. I shrugged my shoulders.

She whispered in my ear, "Only if you listen closely, and you want to, can you hear when crickets cry."

I leaned in again and turned my head, almost pointing my ear downward.

She whispered again, "No, no, no. You don't hear them with your ears." She poked me in the chest gently with her finger. "You hear them with your heart."

I almost dropped her. Recovering, I tried to change the subject. "Why do they cry?"

Annie thought for a minute. "Because they know."

"They know what?" I asked.

She looked at me as if it were so simple. "They know that if Dr. Royer doesn't find a heart, and Aunt Cici doesn't find somebody who can put it in me, and I don't stay healthy until then, and we don't find the money to pay for it, then ... I won't be here next year to talk to them." She put her head back down on my shoulder and closed her eyes. "And ... because they know it's their life for mine."

In my arms, Annie weighed ten thousand pounds. "How do they know all that?"

She smiled like I was teasing her. "Because I tell them, dummy."

0! the world hath not a sweeter creature, she might lie by an emperor's side and command him tasks.

Cindy unlocked the door and showed me the way to their room. I placed Annie in her bed and stepped back as Cindy tucked her in. The concrete-block house was small and had only two rooms: a bedroom complete with one dresser and two single beds, and another room that served as the kitchen, living room, and den. Two pictures sat atop the mantel. Scattered across the kitchen table, which was a wobbly card table covered by a red plastic tablecloth, were all the finance books and loan applications I had seen at the hospital.

Cindy caught me looking at the pictures. "The one on the left is Annie with her mom and dad, almost three years ago. The other is last year's school picture."

Annie favored her dad, although her smile looked more like her mom's. They were suntanned and vibrant. I wanted to ask questions, but figured I'd stayed long enough and wasn't sure I wanted to get into that conversation. The school picture showed Annie in front of a blue canvas backdrop, holding the handlebars of a red bicycle and smiling. Printed on the front of the picture at the bottom, partially covered by the frame, was the word Proof

In the other room, Annie coughed again, evidence that the cough had sunk into her lungs.

"Has her doctor listened to that?"

"Yes." Cindy nodded. "Sal was here this morning. He said I should keep her away from other kids and out of Sunday school for a few weeks. It'll take a while."

"Sal's a good man. A good doctor."

"The best. He's never sent me a bill, and there's no telling how many thousands of dollars I owe him." She fumbled through some pots in the kitchen. "You want some coffee?'

I squinted one eye and considered. "You got any tea?"

"Sure." She pulled the kettle off the stove and began filling it under the sink faucet.

I turned my back and appeared to be looking out the window while my eyes continued scanning the house for any sign that a boyfriend was soon to come charging in the front door. In the background, I heard Cindy pull a knife from the drawer.

"You want lemon in your tea?"

"Yes, thanks."

Cindy cut the lemon one time and then screamed, "Oh! Ouch! "

I turned as Cindy dropped the knife and reached for a towel, dripping red blood across the kitchen floor. By the time I took eight steps and grabbed her hand, it was covered in red and splatter had painted the kitchen floor.

I held her hand and studied the cut while Cindy held her hand out, chest high, and covered her eyes with the other hand. Her face turned ashen, and I knew she was about to buckle. "The sight of blood make you queasy?"

"Only my own," she muttered as her knees crumpled. I caught her midfall and carried her to the couch. I wrapped her hand in the towel she'd been holding and then returned from the kitchen with some peroxide. I emptied my pockets onto the table beside Cindy, washed my hands, and then her cut, which was deep into the meat of her left palm. I had the feeling she wouldn't make a very compli ant patient when I started wielding a needle and that if I could get to work before she came to, I'd be a lot better off. I pulled the flashlight from my belt, turned it on, and held it over Cindy's hand using my teeth as a vise. I threaded a needle and, by the time she opened her eyes a minute later, I had already completed my fourth stitch. She looked at me and then grasped her cut hand with the good one, fighting the urge to yank it back to her chest.

"Oh, my!" she said closing her eyes and putting her head back down on the couch. She tried to control her short, deep breaths and then opened her eyes, studying me through one eye while I quietly tied the sixth stitch. "This is a good one," I muttered around a mouthful of flashlight. She didn't say a word but tried not to look at her hand. Cindy looked over my shoulder and appeared to see someone. I heard small footsteps, and Annie said, "Aunt Cricket, you okay?"

"Yeah, sweetheart. Fine." She nodded and tried to wave Annie off. "Go back to sleep." Annie walked up behind me and leaned over my shoulder. When she did, her thumb-worn sandal dangled around my collarbone. It sparkled with each turn. Annie looked at my work and then at Cindy. "You cut yourself?" Apparently, Annie had no problem with either blood or needles.

Cindy's color had partially returned, but she wasn't about to move off that couch. Not only was she linked to me via eighteen inches of purple monofilament stitching, but there was still too much blood in sight. "Yeah, just a silly little cut. You go back to sleep." She closed her eyes and winced as I looped the needle through her skin.

I held the flashlight and whispered to Annie, "This cut here"-I pointed with the needle and shone the light so Annie could see"is almost to the bone, slicing a goodly sized vein here." I pointed closer with the needle. Annie studied it and then looked at her own hand for comparison. I continued, "Cricket did a doozey on this one. I think eight stitches should do, and judging by the looks of the nice rusty knife over there, she's going to need a tetanus shot."

"Oh, great!" Cindy closed her eyes and began forcefully breathing deep and slow.

Annie whispered in my ear, "She doesn't like shots."

I looked at Cindy's face, which had faded white again. "I gathered that."

I tied off the last stitch, turned to Annie, and nodded my head toward the small snips lying on the table beside me. "My hands are full. You mind cutting this for me?" Annie grabbed the snips, inserted her small fingers into the holes, and gently leaned forward. "Right up next to the knot," I said. I held out the stitching like an umbilical cord, and Annie cut it with all the care and concern of a first-time father. Annie snipped it and studied her handiwork. I nodded and said, "Can you get me a washrag?"

Annie returned with a faded and tattered green washrag and handed it to me. Cindy saw it and spoke up, "No, honey, not our good ones. Get those old white ones with the spots on 'em. Next to the washing machine." Annie fetched the washrag, and I doused it in hydrogen peroxide and gently padded Cindy's hand and stitching.

Cindy looked at me, "What? You don't have a shot in there too? I'm afraid of what else might be in those pockets."

I smiled. "No shots." I applied pressure to the stitches, helped her sit up, and placed her hand above her heart to slow the bleeding, which had all but stopped. Annie sat down next to Cindy, covering her mouth when she coughed. Cindy looked at her. "I'm okay, sweetie. You get some sleep." Annie yawned and rested her head on Cindy's shoulder. Cindy looked at me for help. I scooped Annie off the couch and carried her to her bed, pulling the covers back up around her neck. I think she was asleep before I ever left the room.

Cindy sat on the couch, fighting the nausea and studying her hand. She looked at me. "I have a feeling you've done this before."

`Just a time or two," I said, offering nothing more. The kettle on the stove began to whistle above the boil, so I poured two cups of chamomile, and we sat in the silence, hovering our mouths above the steam rising from our cups.

Silence crept in and made me uncomfortable. I started looking for an exit. "You're tired; I should probably get going." It was a lie. She did look tired, but she also looked like she could use some adult company as well as a week's worth of sound sleep. The circles beneath her eyes told me she didn't sleep much at night. Despite her reaction to the sight of her own blood, she was a tough woman. I had seen those same circles before under my own eyes.

Cindy stood and opened the door for me. "Hey," she said, still holding her wound at collar level, "I know this is forward, but I'm going to ask anyway. And, admittedly, it's as much for me as it is for Annie."

She waited for me to tell her it was okay to ask whatever she was about to ask me. "Okay," I said beneath the porch light.

"We're going to Atlanta tomorrow afternoon. To see Annie's doctor at St. Joseph's. Would you have any interest in going with us?" She smiled and leaned against the door. "We could take your car, see the doctor, and then I could buy you a really healthy hot dog at the Varsity."

Annie coughed again, this time longer, and I could feel something pulling at the layers of scar tissue that had encircled my heart. The thought of driving to St. Joe's and hanging around was not something I looked forward to, although I knew enough places to hide, but ... Annie coughed again.

I nodded. "What time can I pick you up?"

"We need to be there at three."

"I'll pick you up at one."

She nodded and I stepped off the porch. I turned, almost afraid to ask the question because I already knew the answer. `Just curious, what's the name of her doctor?"

Cindy cleared her throat. "Dr. Morgan. Royer Morgan."

I steadied myself on the doorframe.

"You know him?" she asked.

I shook my head. `Just curious. That's all." I tipped my hat. "G'night. And"-I nodded again at her hand-"Advil will help the throbbing."

"Thanks. 'Night." Cindy shut the door behind me, and I hurried down the narrow walkway.

When I reached the lake, I leaned over the dock, steadied myself on Podnah, and then found my reflection on the moonlit lake. My face was distorted. Losing ground, I bent over, opened up, and vomited all over my reflection in the water.

THE NEXT MORNING AT DAYLIGHT, I STOOD NEXT TO MY Suburban pumping gas at the station not far from my house. About the time I topped it off, an old Cadillac pulled alongside me. The muffler had a hole in it, and the car was dirty.

Sal Cohen rolled down the window and said, `Just came from Annie's house where I gave Cindy a tetanus, cleaned a wound, and was amazed to find that you had sewn it up." He scratched his chin and looked off through the windshield. "Some of the finest stitching I've ever seen. I doubt it'll scar."

I shrugged. "It's like riding a bike."

Sal leaned his head out the window and probed, "And just where did a builder of boats learn to ride that bike?"

"Long time ago. I worked the trauma truck in college."

He tipped his hat, let off the brake, and said, "I'd like to meet the paramedic who taught you that."

I watched him drive away and had one thought: I need to get out of town immediately.

hanks to rapid advances in medication, Emma's condition stabilized somewhat during college. She didn't try to graduate, just took every literature class they offered and painted constantly. Looking back, I think those days were some of her happiest times-times when she breathed the deepest.

To satisfy our folks, we dated through two years of college before marrying in our third, just after I took the MCAT. We had a small, low-key ceremony in her parents' backyard, and spent our wedding night wrapped up in a fleece blanket somewhere in an old cabin tucked back in the Smokies.

The tenderness and honesty of our wedding night are things I think of often. We just stood there, two kids who'd grown into adults and married. Nothing hidden, nothing to prove, just us. We flew to New York, and for two weeks we rode old trains and stayed in bed-and-breakfasts from there to Canada. I had never seen Emma more excited, more free from the past than I did on that train ride. With every mile of track, her shoulders fell and her smile spread.

When we returned home for my senior year, I opened the mail to my MCAT test scores. I scored a 45-meaning I aced it. Pretty soon, I began receiving Dear-Reese-We-are-pleased-to-inform-you letters from every med school in the Southeast. Most awarded full scholarships and promised coveted research positions, but everything outside my singular study wasn't even a blip on my radar screen. I wanted to know one thing: What can you teach me about the human heart?