I Can Hear the Mourning Dove (19 page)

“But Luke, you don't have a car. How would you travel? Would you hitchhike?”

“No. No thumbin'. I'd go straight for the Iron Horse.” He is smiling at me now with his white teeth. Why is he doing that? Has he seduced me like the voice warned?

The gleam in his eye frightens me, but I ask, “Please, what is the Iron Horse?”

Luke glances quickly at the security guard, who is still watching us. “Not so loud, okay?” He sits forward and says, “The Iron Horse is John's Harley. It's locked up in the garage over by his old apartment because the courts haven't decided what to do with his stuff. That's what happens when you die with no relatives. They just lock up all your stuff till the courts decide what to do with it.”

“The Iron Horse is a motorcycle,” I murmur.

“Yeah; the one Johnny was ridin' when he cracked up. It's got a twisted fender and some busted spokes, but I'm pretty sure it'll still run.”

The audacity of his plan astounds me. So does its simplicity.
But how would I dare?
I have started to tremble; I lock my hands between my knees to make it stop.

Then the guard standing at the nurses' station says in a loud voice, “You got about one more minute, Luke.”

“So what do you say?” Luke asks me quickly. “You wanna go for it?”

I'm so afraid. They have him locked up like a caged animal and the only thing plain to me is my own fear. “I don't think I could do it. How could I ever create a diversion?” The words catch in my throat.

He winces and says, “Your part is real simple, Red; all I'm askin' is a little distraction.”

“But I just don't think I could.” There are tears blurring my eyes but I refuse to let them come.

He says to me, “Either you can or you can't. There comes a time when you have to shit or get off the pot.”

The guard is walking toward us, but I need more time. I stand up and whisper to Luke, “Please, I need more time. I have to think it over. I just need more time.”

“That's cool,” he says.

During crafts and through lunch I am somewhat groggy. I eat a few bites of tossed salad and drink my apple juice. If you chew and chew long enough, eventually it has to go down your throat. I'm still over a hundred pounds, it could be worse. I'm so afraid I will go flat out and become a useless lump at the very time Luke wants me to be resourceful.

In group I have dry mouth. We have a new member whose name is Antoinette; she is sitting in the mist. She has moved here from Chicago and her new house speaks to her with voices. I have a sky voice but she has a house voice.

Miss Dellapiano is sitting beside me; she asks me how many spices I can name. I can only think of origami, but I'm pretty sure that's a craft, not a spice. Anyway, we're supposed to be listening to Antoinette. She has so much static. I clamp my hands between my knees because I'm starting to get the shakes.

Luke wants me to help him escape from the hospital. At three-thirty I use the phone in the lounge to call my mother. I say to her, “I think I should come home now. I've been in the hospital long enough.”

“Grace, we went through this the other night.”

I speak to her coldly: “You do want me to come home and live with you, Mother. I am correct in assuming that.”

“Of course I want you here, but I want you to get well so you can stay here. Have you brought this up with Dr. Rowe?”

My mother doesn't understand about the lump in my stomach; she doesn't know that Luke wants me to help him escape. “Dr. Rowe says I'm not ready yet,” I tell her. “She means well, but there's so much she doesn't understand; her life is so sound.”

“We talked about a pass,” Mother says. “Have you asked Dr. Rowe about a pass?”

“Yes, I have a pass. I can come home tomorrow for the weekend.”

“Good. Let's take it one step at a time and trust Dr. Rowe.”

She doesn't understand what Luke expects of me. “Mother, you are speaking in cliches.”

“Maybe I'm a cliche kind of person, Grace. What else would you expect from a rock?”

Her sarcasm means I have hurt her feelings. “You always say my name when you patronize me,” I tell her.

“I don't think that's fair.”

“Mother, I have tears in my eyes. I'm not supposed to cry because I have mascara now.”

“Grace, please. I'm trying to understand, but we have to follow Dr. Rowe's advice. We both need to trust her.”

This is not going to work. I say goodbye and hang up the phone.

When six o'clock comes, I know I can't do it. I don't have the strength. I feel so woozy and shaky; I blame the stress. But I could never willfully create a diversion in order for Luke to escape.

My own cowardice is disgusting to me as always. Maybe I'm not lucid enough to be a real coward. It seems like my whole life is just a chain of panicky, disoriented states, linked one to the next. Something needs to be done but I am helpless. I could disappear from the face of the earth and not cause the tiniest blip or ripple.

First Luke terrified me and now I care for him. I have to tell him I can't do it; I can't just fail to show up without a word of explanation. It will be most humiliating, but I have to go back to the lockup wing and tell him I can't go through with it.

I'll need an excuse to go back on Luke's unit. The nurse will be different on this shift, but I don't have time to get a written pass from Dr. Rowe. I go to the cafeteria and talk with the cook named Wilma Dean in the serving line.

“Please, if you don't mind, I'd like my gazpacho from the refrigerator.”

“What's the matter, Grace? Not hungry tonight?”

She adds some remark about home cooking, then goes to the refrigerator. She returns with the mason jar of red soup. “You want this heated, Honey?”

“No, thank you, I'll just take the jar, please. I'm planning to share it.”

I carry the cold jar in both hands and follow the yellow line, walking rapidly. What if the nurse won't let me give him the gazpacho? What if she sends me away? I lick my lips, but when I see the double doors of the lockup unit, I start to tremble. I'm afraid I'm going to get the shakes real bad.

I stand in front of the nurse's cubicle and she slides her panel as soon as she sees me.

Her tone of voice is curt when she asks me what I want.

The mason jar is clutched against my chest. “I brought some homemade gazpacho. I would like to share it with Luke.”

“What is gazpacho? Do you have a pass?”

“Please, I don't have to stay and talk with him. May I just give it to him?”

“There is a procedure for visiting a patient on this unit.”

I don't want to hear it all again. The shakes begin immediately and so do the tears. “My mother and I make it at home. We do it together. It's been approved by Mrs. Bonner. If I could just give it to him, then I would be happy to leave.”

“I'll tell you what. Why don't you just leave it here with me? If I can get approval over the phone, I'll be happy to give it to him.”

This is not going to work, and I am losing it. My heart is palpitating and the flashbulbs are exploding. I can see Luke across the lounge, and the guard is walking toward me. “The mist will come,” I say to the nurse. “The flashbulbs will blind me and the mist will come.” Now all my words are caught in my throat.

The instant before I faint, I see more flashbulbs popping in the darkness, and then there is just the mist and the dark.

When I come to, I am lying in the soup and the broken glass. The ceiling tile has water stains. You notice things on your back. The nurse from the cubicle and another one I don't recognize are hovering over me, advising me to lie still. They are cloaked in the mist; their voices are far away. They are like Miss Shapiro in the parking lot.

They have a pillow for my head. This is very like a dream. The nurse I don't recognize is sponging gazpacho from my neck and arms with gauze pads and collecting shards of broken glass in her cupped hand.

“I hope it's not in my hair,” I say. “Please tell me the gazpacho is not in my hair.”

“Your hair is fine. There are some superficial cuts on this arm. Please lie still while we clean you up.”

“I have processed my hair with shampoo and conditioner. It made a dramatic improvement in my appearance.”

“You don't need to worry about your hair. Mrs. Grant is coming soon to take you back.”

I twist my head so my eyes can search the room. The guard is not here, but neither is Luke. I'm certain he has escaped; I have created the diversion in spite of myself.

In my room, Mrs. Grant removes my soiled shirt and puts it in a hamper. There are bandages on my right arm. I lie on the bed while she fits the blood pressure cuff to my left arm. I think of Luke at large and my pulse begins to race.

“How are you feeling?” she wants to know.

“I'm a little woozy. The static is gone and so is the mist.”

“Your pulse is rapid.”

“Mrs. Grant, please tell me what happened.”

“You fainted, and your mason jar broke.”

“I mean with Luke. What happened to Luke?”

“He broke out.” Mrs. Grant's lips are pursed with disapproval. “When everyone was fussing with you, he broke out.”

“Something horrid will happen now, won't it? What will happen to him?”

“He'll be caught, only now he'll be in much more trouble than he was before. He had a violent row with the security guard.”

I have seen his violence and I am suddenly short of breath. “Mrs. Grant, what violence? What happened?”

“I didn't see it, I only heard about it.”

“Mrs. Grant, it really wasn't my fault. I only wanted to share the gazpacho with him.”

“Of course it wasn't your fault.” She asks me to sit on the edge of the bed, which I do. She takes my blood pressure again.

“Mrs. Grant, my heart is pounding and pounding. Is it possible for a person's heart to just pound itself to death?”

She smiles. “No, Grace, that isn't possible.”

I am taking deep breaths and exhaling slowly. “You have to understand one thing,” I say to her. “I would never, never do anything to hurt you.”

“I know that, Grace. I don't think you're capable of hurting anyone. At least not on purpose. By the way, I don't think I've mentioned how nice your hair looks.”

It is comforting having her here, but I can only think of Luke. Is there suffering because of me? I am getting the shakes again, so I clamp my hands between my knees.

“Mrs. Grant, I have no shirt on.” My very small breasts have very pebbly gooseflesh.

“I know; I don't want you to get chilled.” She puts away the blood pressure cuff and asks me if I'm still woozy.

“No, just chilled. Mrs. Grant, you are a kind and generous person. I would never do anything to hurt you.”

“I believed that the first time you said it. Here.” She sticks a thermometer in my mouth.

I speak clumsily with the thermometer in my mouth: “The Looney Tunes tee shirt please, and my uncle's fatigue jacket.”

“I'm afraid you'll be too warm with the fatigue jacket.”

“But I need it. Please.”

She reads the thermometer and gives me some pills in the little plastic cup while I slip into the shirt and the jacket. “It's not time for my medicine, Mrs. Grant.”

“Dr. Rowe is just increasing your Mellaril.”

“I hope this doesn't mean I'm in trouble.”

“Of course not.”

“They used to give me Thorazine. Several times they changed my dosage. How long will I be on this increased dosage?”

“Not for very long, hopefully. Let's wait and see, okay?”

“Mrs. Grant, when you're a cuckoo bird, you are like a chemistry experiment. They put chemicals in your body and then observe the results.”

She smiles at me. “Come on, Grace. Down the hatch.”

After I take the pills I ask her, “It isn't my fault, is it?”

“If you mean about Luke Wolfe, of course it's not your fault. He's perfectly capable of messing up his own life all by himself.”

“Please don't be too hard on him. He does have redeeming qualities.” Luke asked me to help him escape. I did it in spite of myself. I'm afraid to tell her the whole truth. “But I would never cause anyone's suffering on purpose.”

“I know that.”

“I'm supposed to go home on pass tomorrow. Please tell me I still get to go.”

“Of course you still have your pass. Why wouldn't you?”

She leaves me to rest and advises me to try and sleep. I try, but I have the shakes and my teeth are chattering. When I finally do fall asleep, I doze fitfully; no train comes, but I dream of the sticky, broken gazpacho and the flour on my mother's apron.

Nine

Mother works the edge of the mixing bowl with a rubber scraper while I drop the dollops of batter in straight rows on the cookie sheet. The hedges of Allerton are straight and regular like geometry. I wonder if Miss Ivey helped to make her birthday cookies in the hospital cafeteria. Her vibrating wrist would be like an electric mixer. I wonder where Miss Ivey is now.

“These are tollhouse cookies, Mother. We say chocolate chip, but their real name is tollhouse.”

“I suppose that's true.”

“I don't know who makes the rules about naming cookies. Whose authority is it? But you wouldn't offer someone a tollhouse cookie. You would offer them a chocolate chip cookie. You wouldn't find a Girl Scout going door to door selling tollhouse cookies.”

My mother laughs.

I put the cookie sheet in the preheated oven, and I say to her, “As far as that goes, what is a tollhouse? I know what a
troll
house is, it's a place where a troll lives. But what is a tollhouse?”

Mother is smiling. “Where does all of this lead, Grace?”

“There are beginnings and endings but I can never locate them.”