Promises to Keep (19 page)

“Well, surely, Tillie – ”

“And meanwhile everyone’s going around carrying peace signs and calling for peace and singing about peace and being angry about the fact that there’s no peace to be had, while all the while they’re mocking the very one, the only one, mind you, who can give them peace, and that’s the Lord.” By now Tillie was viciously buttering a piece of bread, and when she finished, she slammed the knife down on the table. “They mock Him by denying His very existence, but instead of feeling free, they just feel angry because suddenly life doesn’t make sense anymore. They want to be rid of God, and they want life to have meaning anyway, and it just doesn’t work and it makes them angry. And anger kills. I’ve lived long enough to know, and I can see it coming. Anger is going to be right at the heart of the demise of this country. America is going to fall, and when we do, we’re not getting back up again.” She paused and looked at each of us – Mom, wide-eyed and perplexed; Tom, blinking heavily behind his glasses; me, who didn’t have a clue what she was carrying on about, though I wondered whether she wasn’t a little bit angry herself.

Finally Tom Barrows gathered his wits about him and said, “I’m quite sure you’re right about anger, Tillie. It can be very destructive, but – ” he shot a worried look at Mom – “I don’t think the country’s in all that much danger of self-destruction, do you?”

“I certainly do, Tom,” Tillie said. “Mark my words. America has one foot in the grave and the other on an oil-slicked roller skate, and it’s too late to turn back now.”

“Well – ” Mom patted her lips with a napkin – “maybe there are more pleasant topics of conversation . . .” She looked around the table, as though frantically searching for one. Landing on me, she exclaimed, “Roz, you haven’t eaten a bite of your supper!”

I looked down at my plate. She was right; instead of eating I’d been pushing mashed potatoes around with my fork. “I’m not hungry,” I said.

“You’re not? What’s the matter?”

“She’s probably nervous,” Tillie noted.

“Nervous?” Mom cast a questioning glance at me. “What about?”

Had she forgotten, I wondered?

“Don’t you remember?” Tillie echoed. “Poor child’s getting her tonsils out tomorrow.”

“Of course, I know,” Mom said, “but . . . oh, Roz, is that what’s bothering you?”

I winced and looked away.

“Well, listen, honey. Everybody gets their tonsils out sooner or later. There’s nothing to it.”

“That’s right, Roz,” Tom Barrows added, smiling at me as though we actually liked each other. “Don’t worry for even a minute. Very few people die as a result of getting their tonsils out, you know.”

The next moment was pandemonium. Mom’s cry of “Tom!” collided with Tillie’s howl of “Merciful heavens!” just as the fork fell out of my hand and landed with a clatter on the floor. I jumped from the table, ran to my room, and threw myself on my bed. I couldn’t hold back the tears as I looked at the clock and considered what was coming. By this time tomorrow night, my surgery would be over, my tonsils would be out, and I might very well be dead. Now
there
, mind you, was something to be angry about.

chapter
23

“Tillie?”

“Yes, child?”

I shifted my weight on the stretcher, trying to still the butterflies beating against the lining of my empty stomach. I hadn’t slept well, wasn’t allowed to eat breakfast, and was about to be wheeled into the unknown. I was certain the Grim Reaper was waiting for me in the operating room at Riverside Hospital, waiting to slash me right into the kingdom of unlucky statistics. I would be one of the few who died while getting her tonsils out. Too much anesthesia, a slip of the knife, an allergic reaction – the reasons were endless, the possibility of death just around the corner and moving closer by the minute.

“Tillie?”

“Yes, Roz. What is it?”

I found little comfort in the grip of her hand. It would be my last human contact before . . .

“You’ve been sedated, child. Just close your eyes and relax.”

“But, Tillie?”

She sighed.

My mouth felt dry and hollow, a barren cave. I gritted my teeth and tried to work up some spit, then moistened my lips with the tip of my tongue. Finally I managed to ask, “How do you know if you’re going to end up in heaven or . . . you know . . . the other place?”

Her hand came up and gently pushed my hair off my forehead. “Well now,” she said with a smile, “as my dear mother always said, that all depends on who your father is.”

“Who your father is?” The butterflies threw themselves against my stomach wall in one huge rebellion. I was certain I was going to be sick.

“Tillie,” Mom said, suddenly there, “the nurse says they’re ready to take her now.”

“But – ”

Tillie patted my shoulder. “I’m glad you asked, Roz, but we’ll talk more about all that later.”

Mom kissed my forehead. “I love you, Roz. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

And then I was being wheeled down a long lifeless corridor by wordless people wearing white. I stifled a scream as the foot of the stretcher bumped up against a pair of double doors, pushing them open and letting me in to what I could only imagine was the gateway to death itself. If my getting into heaven depended on Daddy, I didn’t have a chance. He had promised to change, to stop drinking, to be a good person, but he wasn’t all those things yet – probably wasn’t even close, and I was the one who was going to have to pay for it.

My mouth hung open in silent protest, and the room went blurry as my eyes glazed over, but at the same time a kind voice above me said, “There, there, don’t cry. We’re going to take very good care of you.”

I recognized the nurse who had been with me from the beginning, her matronly face so serene I wanted to dive into that peacefulness and have it swallow me up. She dabbed at my eyes with the edge of the sheet and murmured soothing words, and that was the last thing I remember before I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

The canopy of black was pierced by soft, disembodied voices floating somewhere near my bed.

“How’s she doing?” That was Grandpa. I’d know his voice anywhere.

“She’s fine. She came through the surgery like a trouper.” Mom’s hand came to rest on my shoulder. “They moved her out of recovery about a half hour ago. She’s been slowly waking up for a while now.”

“Good, good. Listen, don’t worry about any medical expenses. Everything will be taken care of.”

“But, Dad – ”

“Don’t argue with me, Janis. I know what Marie is paying you at the store, and I know the hospital bill might add up to be a pretty penny. You just leave that for your old man to settle, all right?”

A slight pause, then, “All right, Dad. Thanks. Honestly, I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

They were quiet a moment, and I felt Mom withdraw her hand from my shoulder. Then I heard gentle footfalls move across the room and out into the hall.

Groggily, I opened my eyes. The metallic taste of blood was on my tongue, and something large and painful filled my throat, threatening to gag me. I moaned, and when I did, the placid face – the last one I had seen before the surgery – appeared above me, speaking softly. “Are you waking up, Rosalind? That’s a good girl. Here, I have some ice chips for you to suck on.”

Something cold slipped through my parched lips, and my mouth welcomed the soothing chill. I savored the ice chip as it melted and mingled with my saliva, but when I swallowed I squirmed against the pain.

“That’s right,” the nurse said kindly. “I know your throat hurts and the uvula is swollen – that’s what you’re feeling at the back of your throat. But you’ll feel better soon.”

I managed to smile at her and offer a small nod of thanks. The surgery was over, my tonsils were out, and I was alive.

At home, Tillie fed me Jell-O, Popsicles, ice cream, and cold Cream of Wheat. She doled out my pain medication, kept me supplied with water and fruit juice, and checked me routinely for any symptoms of infection. She nursed me around the clock, even sleeping in the twin bed in my room in case I needed anything in the night.

Mom helped too, of course, but left much of the nursing up to Tillie while she went back to work. “I wish I could be here with you like a proper mother,” she told me on Monday morning. “But as long as I have to work, I can’t be here. So thank heavens for Tillie.”

I nodded, reluctant still to speak. My throat felt better, but I had a ways to go before I was back to normal. I lay in bed wondering about how far I was falling behind in school and what Mara was doing and whether Daddy knew I was all right.

On Monday evening I was propped up on pillows reading when Mom came to my room and sat on the edge of the bed.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Okay,” I said, mouthing the word.

“Better?”

I nodded.

“Can I get you anything else to eat or drink?”

I shook my head no.

She smiled at me, but I didn’t like the way she was squeezing her hands together in her lap. “Roz,” she said, “I need to talk with you about something. It’s about your father.”

My eyes grew wide and my breath caught in my swollen throat. She knew! Mom knew Daddy was there in Mills River and that he had spoken to me! Closing my book and putting it aside, I slid down in the bed until my chin met the covers. I looked at Mom and waited.

A heavy frown weighed down her brow, and she seemed reluctant to speak. Finally she said, “Did you know you were calling for him when you were waking up in the hospital?”

I had no idea. I couldn’t remember much at all about waking up after the surgery. Shaking my head, I pointed to my throat.

“Yes,” Mom said, understanding. “You weren’t exactly calling out, but you were mouthing the word, and it was clear what you were saying.”

I shrugged, trying hard to look innocent.

“Listen, Roz, I know a person can’t help what she says when she’s coming out of anesthesia. And I’m not mad at you for asking for your father, but . . . well, I’m worried. I know our leaving him and coming here has been hard for you, but I did it because it needed to be done. I did it to keep you safe.”

I went on staring at her and waiting.

“I want you to put that part of your life behind you,” she said. “We’re a different family now, and your father isn’t part of it. But you have to believe me when I say it’s better this way. I think, Roz . . . I think you know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

I hesitated before lifting my chin in a small nod.

Mom raised a hand and caressed my cheek with the back of her fingers. “Honey, I want you to be happy. Safe and happy, and that’s why we’re here. Do you think you can put the past behind you and we can all move forward together?”

She gave me a moment to think. But I wasn’t thinking about her question; I was thinking about Dad’s promise to change, to bring us all back together as a family. I couldn’t tell Mom about that. . . . I didn’t dare tell her. But one day she would see . . . she would see that Daddy could be part of the family and everything would be all right.

“Mom?” I whispered.

“Yes, honey?”

I moistened my lips to buy a few moments in which to work up my courage. Then I asked, “Did you ever love Daddy the way you loved Wally’s father?”

Mom’s eyes darted from mine, and her hands found each other again. She tightened her jaw and lifted her chin. “I suppose I did, once.”

“Well . . .” I paused, wincing from the pain in my throat. “Could you love him again?”

The butterflies were back, beating against my stomach. In the next moment Mom would make or break my hope. All I hoped for was a father like she had in Grandpa, one who would love me and take care of me. That was all.

Slowly Mom shook her head. “Of course not, Roz. I could never – ”

“But what if he changes? You know, stops drinking and all?”

She looked at me hard, making sure my eyes were locked onto hers. “Roz,” she said, “that’s what you have to understand. Your father will never change. Never. Do you hear me?”

I wanted to put my hands over my ears, to shake my head wildly, to cry out, “Yes he will! He promised!”