Cracks in the Sidewalk (10 page)

Honey? What kind of employee calls the boss honey?
Claire wanted to ask JT that question but never got the chance. After a giggly conversation at the other end, a conversation too muted for her to catch, someone hung up the receiver.

Claire called back twice, but no one answered either time.

The next morning before heading to the hospital, Claire drove to the Caruthers house. She parked her car in the driveway, walked to the front door, and rang the bell. She heard a flurry of footsteps and whispered voices inside, but no one answered the door. Claire slipped around to the side of the house and peeked into the garage window. JT’s car stood there, and a red Nissan sat alongside it. More determined than ever, Claire returned to the front door and continued ringing the doorbell.

After almost twenty minutes, she knew JT wouldn’t answer. She returned to her car and headed for Saint Barnabas. On the way she stopped at the bakery and bought a dozen of the Neapolitan cookies that Liz loved.

Charlie McDermott

I
realize Elizabeth is no longer a child. She’s a woman with three children of her own. But as far as I’m concerned, she’s still my little girl. I’m her father, so of course I feel protective. Any father would feel the same way. How can they not?

We grow up understanding that fathers are the protectors, the ones who slay the dragon to keep their family safe from harm. Let me tell you, I’d trade this insidious monster inside Liz’s head for a good, old-fashioned dragon any day. I look at her lying in that hospital bed and see my own inadequacies. I’m her father; I should be able to do something. Instead I fumble around, helpless as a baby. The money, that’s nothing. I’d give everything I own to buy back Elizabeth’s health.

Thank God for Claire; she’s a tower of strength. Somehow she can move past the fact that Elizabeth is practically paralyzed and focus on pleasantries. She’ll start talking about something of no importance whatsoever and next thing you know she has Liz laughing at the silliest things, like a bird pecking at the window or the long hair that stuck out of some doctor’s ear. To watch her you might think Claire doesn’t realize how serious the situation is, but I hear her crying at night and asking God to find a cure for Elizabeth.

I wish I could be more like Claire. When I’m visiting Elizabeth, I stand there with my hands stuffed inside my pockets. I ache to say something, but what can I say to make things better? A father should have all the answers, should take care of his child. All I can do is stand there, looking useless. To escape my own inadequacy, I go to work and let my share of the responsibility fall on Claire’s shoulders. How cowardly is that?

For most of Elizabeth’s life, I was there whenever she needed me. I was somebody to keep her safe from harm, ease whatever hurts came her way. She was a colicky baby who’d scream and carry on until you’d swear she’d have a convulsion. Even Claire couldn’t stop her crying. But I could. I’d cuddle her and walk the floor for hours until she finally drifted off to sleep, her tiny little body curled up against my chest. I lost a lot of sleep, but what I got in return was well worth it.

I taught her how to ride a two-wheel bike, even though falling terrified her. I ran alongside her and steadied the seat until she got enough confidence to ride on her own. That’s what a father does, keep his daughter safe—safe from falling, safe from getting hurt. I did all those things for Elizabeth, but God forgive me, I also gave her to Jeffrey Caruthers. 

The day they were married, Elizabeth looked like an angel floating on a cloud. She was so happy and so in love. I got caught up in her happiness and when Pastor Howell asked, “Who gives this woman?” I answered, “I do,” without considering all the reservations I had.    

Jeffrey wasn’t much more than sixteen when he started dating Liz, so I wasn’t concerned about the seriousness of their relationship. I figured he was just some gawky kid scratching the itch of puppy love. Most every night he was sprawled out on our living room floor, and I watched how he followed Elizabeth everywhere she went. He hung on to her like she was a blue ribbon show dog, but still I didn’t worry. 

I should have, because that was the time to set things straight. Once she came home with a diamond ring on her finger, it was too late to start voicing my concerns. That diamond was way too big for someone of his age to have afforded. I wondered where he got the money for it, but Claire warned me against asking.

All the signs were there, I simply didn’t pay attention. It was my responsibility to take care of Elizabeth, and I didn’t. I allowed her to marry someone I had serious misgivings about, giving them my blessing and a good part of the down payment on their house.  

Now when Jeffrey should be helping Liz get through this, he wants to be rid of her. Jeffrey only cares for Jeffrey. That’s how he is, how he’s always been. I don’t generally think ill of people, but Jeffrey, well…

If I had my way, I’d go at him with every ounce of strength I’ve got. But that’s not what Elizabeth wants. I suppose, in time, Jeffrey will get what’s coming to him. I sure as hell hope so.

December 1984

T
hree weeks before Christmas the weather took on a chill, holiday decorations sprang up, and the fragrance of fresh-cut pine trees wafted from every street corner and vacant lot. Elizabeth had fared well with her first treatment of the “wonder drug.” No serious side effects, no unusual reactions. Doctor Sorenson claimed to be “optimistically hopeful,” although it was too soon to know whether the tumor had stopped growing. On the first Friday of the month Elizabeth was to have her second treatment. If she tolerated that one as well as the first, she’d go home for Christmas—well, at least back to the McDermott house.

Thursday morning Claire instructed Charlie to stop on his way home and buy a tree. Claire wanted it fully decorated before the weekend.

“Make sure to get a big one,” she said, “at least seven, maybe eight feet.”

“Okay,” Charlie nodded and hurried out.

Before he left the driveway, Claire bolted from the house. “And lights,” she called out. “Get some extra lights.” Charlie nodded, backed into the street, and pulled away. 

For what was probably the twentieth time, Claire ran through her mental list of things to prepare for Elizabeth’s homecoming. The bedroom was ready and waiting: redecorated with fresh paint, cheerful curtains, a peony comforter, a brand new twenty-one inch television with a large button easy-to-use remote, a bedside bell to summon people, and portrait-sized pictures of David and Kimberly on the dresser.

The Christmas presents waited to be put under the tree Charlie would buy. Weeks ago Claire scoured the stores and carried home an armload of gifts: nightgowns, a bathrobe, slippers, talcum powder, perfume, and nail polish. She’d wrapped everything and tagged it with Elizabeth’s name.

By ten minutes after nine Claire was on her way to the hospital. Normally the drive took seventeen minutes but today, stuck behind a Buick that had rear-ended a garbage truck, it took twice as long. Claire sat drumming her fingers against the steering wheel, trying to figure out what the new jitteriness inside her chest was telling her. By all accounts she should be feeling good about things. Elizabeth seemed to be doing better, and she was coming home. So what, Claire wondered, would cause her to be jumpy as a cat in a thunderstorm?

She left the car on the second level of the parking garage and hurried to the hospital. Halfway there she remembered the magazine she’d brought for Elizabeth, laying on the back seat of the car. For a brief moment she considered turning back, but something made her feet move forward. Across the street, past the glass door entranceway, through the lobby, and into the elevator, all the while still thinking she should go back for the magazine.

Claire pushed the fourth floor button and waited. When the elevator doors opened she stepped into the hallway and walked by the nurses’ station. Suddenly she saw a number of nurses rushing in and out of room 416. Claire broke into a run.

 Elizabeth sat in the chair sobbing, her yellow nightgown torn and covered with cabbage-sized crimson stains. Even if Claire had mistaken the source of the stains on Liz’s nightgown, she could not mistake the dry blood crusted on her daughter’s face and arm. Nor could she miss the blood splattered across the floor and patterned with rubber-soled footprints. Cyndi, the nurse on duty, and four other people bustled about the room. One of them, a candy-striped aide, hurriedly tugged blood-stained sheets from the bed and tossed them to the floor.

“Oh, my God!” Claire shouted. She tromped across the sheets and knelt alongside Elizabeth. Cyndi was sponging streaks of blood from Liz’s arm.

“What happened?” Claire asked.

“I’m sorry,” Cyndi said apologetically. “Elizabeth got out of bed and fell.”

“Wasn’t anyone here to help her?”

“She didn’t call for help.”

“Or you just didn’t hear!” Claire replied angrily. “Elizabeth understands her paralysis. She wouldn’t try to get up by herself!”

Before Cyndi could explain, Elizabeth sobbed, “I did forget, Mom. I did.” She began to tremble.   

“It’s my fault,” Claire said. “I should have been here.” She wiped away the tears on Liz’s cheek. “Don’t cry. Everything’s okay now.”

“No, it isn’t,” Elizabeth replied sadly. “Nothing’s okay. Look at what I’ve become.”

“Don’t talk like that, Liz. Yes, you’re sick, but you’ll get better. And then—”

Elizabeth looked at Claire with the expression of a hurt child trying to understand. “Then what? Then I’ll be able to remember I’m paralyzed?”

Claire wrapped both arms around Liz and held her close. At a time like this even a mother could only whisper words of comfort and offer hopeful promises.

After a long while Elizabeth’s sobbing subsided, and she succumbed to weariness. Leaning heavily on Claire’s arm, she climbed back into bed and before long was asleep.

“What really happened?” Claire asked.

“It happened just as Elizabeth said,” Cyndi answered. “Her short-term memory comes and goes. She needed to use the bathroom and tried to get out of the bed. It was instinct. She probably didn’t remember being paralyzed.”

“If it was only a fall from the bed, then why was there so much blood?”

“Because of the blood thinner she’s taking, even the smallest cut bleeds profusely.”

“Why is she taking—”

“She needs it to prevent a second embolism.” Cyndi shrugged. “It’s unfortunate, but what helps one thing sometimes hurts another. When Elizabeth fell the IV was pulled from her arm, the vein punctured, and the injection site lacerated.”

“All that blood from the IV coming out?”

“Yeah,” Cyndi answered. “The IV wasn’t just removed; it was ripped loose from her arm. Most of the blood Elizabeth lost came from the punctured vein. She was lucky we found her just a few minutes after she fell.”

“If you hadn’t come in right away…”

“She could have bled to death.”

When she heard that, Claire decided Elizabeth would never be left alone again. What Liz couldn’t remember, Claire would remember. When Liz couldn’t call for help, Claire would. Never again, she vowed, would her daughter be without someone to lean on and a hand to hold.

C
laire kept her word. That same day she had Elizabeth moved to a larger room with space for a reclining chair. All night, every night, Claire sat in that chair. Sometimes she slept; often she did not. If she did sleep, she kept one eye open and her ears perked for the slightest sound of movement. When it became necessary to return home for a quick shower and change of clothes, she hired Loretta, a private nurse, to sit in the chair. Even though she was gone for just a few short hours, thoughts of Elizabeth crowded her head and urged her to return.   

When the yellow chrysanthemums died Claire decorated the window sill with a tiny Christmas tree, and she placed Elizabeth’s gifts around it. On Christmas morning when people all over town opened presents she sat beside Elizabeth encouraging her to open one gift after another. On the last day of the year when the grandfather clock in their hallway at home chimed midnight, Claire didn’t hear it. She drank bubbly ginger ale from a plastic glass as she and her daughter toasted each other.

“Here’s hoping nineteen-eighty-five is a better year,” Elizabeth said.

“Amen,” Claire replied. “Amen.”

Claire McDermott

I
don’t trust Cyndi. Don’t ask me why, because I can’t say. Sometimes you just sense people are up to no good. That’s how I feel about Cyndi. Most of the nurses take time to chat with Liz—about the weather maybe, a television show, their kids, things like that—but not Cyndi. She walks in and out, all business. Never looks me square in the eye. She’s like a scrub brush, all bristle and no bend.

It could be that I’m misjudging her. Maybe she’s got her own problems. People like Cyndi tend to believe their problems are worse than anyone else’s, so they’re long on self-concern and short on sympathy.