Waiting for Sunrise (29 page)

Anything. No matter the words; just let her know everything was all right.

But it wasn’t. No. Something was wrong.

Something was bad wrong.

32

“What is it?”

The three who’d come to get her had now taken her to Dr. Jennings’s office. No matter how many times she’d begged—“tell me, just tell me”—they’d not said a word until they got to the tasteful but sparsely decorated physician’s office. Patsy sat in one of three sand-colored chairs. Her hands gripped the wooden armrests while her back pressed against fabric that felt as though it could dig into her flesh and leave a scar.

Dr. Jennings chose not to sit in his chair but to perch against the edge of the desk’s front. He cleared his throat several times, removed the round specs that made him look like Harry Truman, and wiped them on a handkerchief he removed from the suit coat pocket beneath his white lab coat.

“I’ll ask this one final time,” Patsy said. She heard both strength and fear in her voice. She wondered which one the doctor would pick up on. “What’s happened?” She looked to Gilbert. “Is it one of my children?”

His hand immediately came over hers. “No,” he said. “The kids are fine.”

Her thoughts ran to Lloyd, in service to his country. “Lloyd?”

“Lloyd is fine.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gabrielle cross one leg over the other. Patsy looked to her nurse-friend, hoping for some sign in the woman’s eyes. Hope. Despair. Either one; it was better than not knowing. But Gabby’s eyes were closed and her lips fluttered about in what Patsy supposed was a prayer.

When Dr. Jennings had returned his glasses to his face and his handkerchief to his pocket, he cleared his throat a final time. “Mrs. Milstrap.”

Patsy looked at him.

“Mrs. Milstrap, your husband came here today with stressful news. I wanted him to bring you here to tell you and to let you know that if you feel you need anything, all you need to do is ask.”

Patsy turned her attention to Gilbert. If her eyes were reading as she’d hoped, he knew there was no more time for stalling.

“Hon,” he said, “it’s Papa.”

Patsy drew in a breath. “No . . . What? No . . . is he . . . ?”

Gilbert nodded. “I’m afraid so. He had a brain aneurysm during the night. Mam called Doc and they managed to get him to the hospital. But he died shortly after. Doc said there’s never really much hope with these kinds of things.”

Patsy allowed the tears to come, a guttural scream to slice through her throat. She felt Gabrielle’s arms around her. Gilbert’s. She heard Dr. Jennings call for another nurse . . . demand two cc’s of something . . .
No!

She broke free of the love of her husband and her friend. Looked toward Dr. Jennings standing on the other side of the desk now, shiny black phone gripped in his hand. “I’m fine,” she screamed. “I’m fiiiiiiiine!” She bent at the waist, bellowing toward him. “My father is dead; am I not supposed to
feel
anything? Why would you even
think
to take that away from me?”

“Hold on,” Dr. Jennings spoke into the phone. Then: “Cancel the order.” He returned the handset to the receiver. “Mrs. Milstrap, you have spoken correctly. You should feel something. Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, I don’t want to talk about it. Sometimes you don’t want to talk about anything; you just want to feel. Didn’t they teach you that in medical school?” Gilbert stood beside her now; she grabbed hold of his shoulders. “How is Mam?” Before he could answer, she added, “I need to get to Mam. And Lloyd. Has anyone told Lloyd?”

“Mam is all right, sweetheart.”

“Don’t lie to me, Gil. For heaven’s sake don’t lie. She’s been married to the man nearly her whole life and you tell me she’s fine?”

“I didn’t say ‘fine,’ I said she is all right. And she is. Mam has the strength of a hundred men; you know that.”

“It surely hasn’t hit her yet,” Gabrielle said from beside her.

Patsy returned to her seat. As if on cue, the others did the same. Mam had the strength Patsy wished she possessed. Even in all these years, it hadn’t rubbed off on her much. Maybe a little. Maybe just enough to . . . She looked at Gilbert. “I’m going home.”

He, in turn, looked from her to the doctor. “Doc?”

Dr. Jennings sat in his office chair, pulled it and himself toward the desk. “I don’t know if—”

“I wasn’t giving you a request, Dr. Jennings,” Patsy said. For a fleeting moment she felt herself sitting in the car with her mother. Begging. Asking for the possible and being told it was impossible.
All she had to do was get on the bus with me. We would have made it just fine.
“I’ve been here long enough to know how things work. And I’m going home. Let’s face it; if I’d opened up by now, I’d be home already anyway. But I haven’t wanted to open up. Believe me, if I’d wanted to, I would have.”

“Pats . . .”

“No, Gilbert. My father has died. The man I’ve trusted and loved and depended on since I was thirteen years old. The only true father I’ve ever known. Mam needs me. Lloyd will need me. My children will need me. And I
want
to be there, Gil. I
need
to be there.”

Gilbert looked at the doctor. “Doc?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Milstrap . . . I really don’t think . . . Mrs. Milstrap, I don’t think you are as ready for this as you believe yourself to be. You are pulling on a supernatural emotion that says ‘I am needed therefore I am strong,’ but in your case, that’s just not true. You’ve suppressed important feelings for a long time now. If the dam decides to break while you are with your family—”

Patsy squared her shoulders. “If the dam breaks, then I
should
be with my family, don’t you think? Dr. Jennings, I’m going home and you can’t stop me.”

“That’s true. I can’t.” He threw his hands up slightly, looked to Gilbert, and said, “I’ll have the papers drawn up within the hour. You can take your wife home within the next two.”

The room seemed to whirl around Patsy. Fear and elation spun with it. Again, she gripped the armrests. She was going home. Home. Good or bad, no turning back now.

Patsy turned toward Gabrielle. “I feel like Dorothy leaving Oz and the scarecrow. You, I’ll miss most of all.”

Gabrielle blinked back tears. She turned to Dr. Jennings. “I have an idea, if I may suggest it, Dr. Jennings. Why don’t I go home with Mr. and Mrs. Milstrap. I can be of service to the family, I’m sure of it. And, if Mrs. Milstrap needs me, I’m there for her. She and I have come to trust each other.” Her eyes turned to Patsy. “Haven’t we?”

“Oh no, Gabby . . .” Patsy placed her white hands on top of Gabrielle’s black ones. “I mean, yes. Yes, we have. But I can’t allow you to leave your family.”

Gabby’s hands encircled Patsy’s. “It won’t be forever, Miz Milstrap.” She turned her face toward the doctor again. “If Miz Milstrap does all right, I can come back alone. But if she needs to return . . .” She faced Patsy again. “
If
she needs to return, she promises she’ll be honest about that.”

For a long minute, Patsy didn’t blink. Everything the woman said made sense. And, to be honest, there was a part of her that needed Gabby still. Just as she’d needed her mother all those years ago. If only her mother would have come with her . . . and now, here was Gabby, saying she’d do what her mother had been unable—or unwilling—to do.

Patsy nodded. “All right.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, I can do that.” She peered over her shoulder. “Gil?”

“I’d sure love to have you home again, Pats.”

Patsy released Gabrielle’s hands. Stood. Reached for her husband’s. “Then take me home, Gilbert. Take me to Mam.” She pressed her lips together. “Mam needs me.”

———

It wasn’t as easy as she’d thought it would be.

First, there was the noise level inside her home. Five children don’t come quietly into any room. They march, each one to their own tune, singing their own song. Greg and Pam did their best to keep the three youngest quiet for her, but they weren’t overly successful. Besides, even Patsy could see they needed their own space and time to grieve. They’d known Papa the longest of all the grandchildren.

Then there were family and friends. They all came to offer their condolences, but upon seeing her, they froze. It was as if she were a freak in a circus. Mam had seemed relieved to see her, and Lloyd too, of course. But everyone else had appeared at a loss for words.

The morning of the afternoon funeral, with the family gathered at Mam’s, Patsy looked around and realized her oldest children were unaccounted for.

“Have you seen Greg and Pammie?” she asked Gil.

“Mmm . . .” He looked around the living room, where he’d taken refuge with Lloyd and a few others. “No, actually, I haven’t. Not for a while.”

“Do you need me to look for them, sis?” Lloyd was already halfway out of his chair.

She held a hand up. “No. That’s okay. I’ll find them.”

Patsy went into the kitchen, where Gabby was labeling dishes of food from friends and members of the church. “Never seen so much food in my life, have you?”

“No. Gabby, have you seen Greg or Pam?”

“They walked out the back door there about five minutes ago. I hollered after them but they just kept walking. Mr. Milstrap told me how your son and your papa always went fishing on the weekends. It’s going to be hard on the boy.”

“Hard on us all. Papa was really something.” Patsy walked to the back door, opened it, and said, “Gabby, if anyone needs me, I’m going out to the workshop. I bet that’s where I’ll find them.”

“Sounds good.”

As she suspected, Patsy found her children inside the floral shop. Before opening the door, she peered through the multiple-paned window and watched them, standing there in their Sunday best. They weren’t speaking. They just stood, staring. When she opened the door, they turned toward her.

“Mama,” Pam said, then rushed toward her and wrapped her arms around her waist.

Patsy kissed the top of her head before closing the door behind her. She took a few steps and turned to gaze at a room all too familiar. Unpainted workbenches formed the shape of an
L
along two walls. Scattered about were containers of ribbon in a variety of colors, baskets in various shapes and sizes, stacks of standard brick foam, wire, and cutters. A plastic vase full of card holders looked as if it might tip over, supported only by a heart-shaped foam wreath hanging from a pegboard. Patsy righted it, inhaled, and then looked at her children. “Smells like Papa in here.”

“Cigars and aftershave and flowers,” Greg noted. He kicked at the tile floor with the heel of his shoe.

Patsy’s heart ripped in two. She’d seen so many emotions on her son’s face, but this one was new. “You’re going to miss him a lot, I know. I will too.”

“Yeah, well.” Greg shoved his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. He stared at the floor he continued to kick, but his eyes cut toward her. “I guess it’s to be expected. People leaving you and all.”

“Gregory . . .” The name was spoken as though it had pushed its way from Patsy’s lungs.

Pam shot past their mother and to her brother. Fists planted on her hips, she said, “Greg, you promised.”

Greg’s face flushed, his eyes seemed to catch fire as they met his sister’s. “I don’t care.” Then he looked at Patsy. “What’d you come back here for anyhow?”

It seemed to Patsy her heart stopped. It must have stopped. Surely, torn as it was, it couldn’t keep beating. “Gregory, my father has died.”

Pam swung around. Oddly, Patsy became aware of how mature her daughter appeared to her just then, dressed in a dark blue A-shaped frock, dark socks drawn nearly to her knees, black Mary Janes shining under the overhead light. Pam’s hair—thick and dark—fell to her shoulders where it curled upward and was kept away from her face by tiny barrettes clipped at her temples. When had she grown up so? “We know that, Mommy.”

Mommy? When was the last time Pam had called her that?

Patsy noticed tears in her daughter’s eyes. “But will you leave us again?”

“She’ll leave,” Greg answered, already taking steps toward the door. “Not that she was ever really here to begin with.”

“Greggy!” Pam pleaded in vain; her brother was already out the door.

Patsy stared behind him, saying nothing. Hardly breathing.

“I’m sorry, Mama, it’s just that . . .”

Through a fog Patsy made her way to her father’s work stool. She brushed her hand along the seat, scattering dust and debris as she did. The dust caught in a stream of light coming from the window. It danced and twirled and then hung suspended. The debris fell to the floor at her feet. Somehow, she managed to sit, to grab hold of the edge of the work counter. The scent in the room made her feel as though she’d throw up. She took in a deep breath, willed herself not to. Her little girl was still in the room.

“It’s okay,” Patsy whispered. “Believe me, it’s okay.”

Pammie came to her, laid a tiny, gentle hand on top of her quivering one. Patsy noticed a small birthstone ring—an amethyst encircling her third finger. She nodded toward it. “When did you get this?”

“Daddy gave it to me.” Her eyes caught her mother’s. “For being so brave.”

“When was that?”

“After you left.”

“After I left.” She swallowed. “I remember how you helped Daddy . . . that night . . .”