Words Get In the Way (9 page)

It had always seemed to Linden that his relationship with Callie had started to unravel after that summer. They’d gone back to college, knowing they probably wouldn’t see each other until Thanksgiving, and then her mom had been in the accident.

Linden had attended the funeral with his parents and, even though it had been a cold and rainy November day, the little church had been overflowing with friends and former patients, everyone realizing just how many people Ginny Wyeth’s life had touched. Mr. Wyeth had been a pillar of strength—everyone had said so—but Callie had been inconsolable. Linden had hugged her and told her how sorry he was, and she’d nodded tearfully. And then he’d just stood there, feeling foolish, not knowing what else to say. Callie hadn’t returned to school, and the college had sent her a note of sympathy telling her she’d be welcomed back whenever she felt ready. Linden had stopped by several times when he was home, but Callie had still seemed lost and sad. She’d tried to smile at his cheering words, but her eyes had always looked like they were ready to spill over with tears. He’d begun to wonder if she’d ever feel better. Finally, at her dad’s gentle insistence, she’d reluctantly returned to school after the winter break.

Linden had not seen Callie again until February, and then it was only briefly. Thankfully, she’d seemed more herself and had even said she and some friends were making plans to go somewhere warm for spring break, adding, with a sad smile, that she really needed to get away. Linden hadn’t seen her again until she came home for the Connors’ Fourth of July party.

He finished cleaning the stalls and began straightening up the hay bales. Perspiration dripped down his cheeks, and hay dust coated his skin. He sneezed, pulled off his shirt, wiped his face with it, and decided that he didn’t feel like doing much of anything. He stepped outside, soaked his head under the hose, shook his hair, and ran his hands through it to push it back. Cool beads of water trickled down his back. He sat down on the stone wall in the shade and looked out across the meadow. The tall, billowing clouds reminded him of the Eric Sloane painting his parents had hanging over their fireplace.

18

C
allie drove slowly around the hospital parking lot again, but the only spot she could find was near the emergency room. She finally parked in it, but when she got out she realized, in dismay, that it was the same spot her father had slid into the night her mom had died. Everything had been coated in a sheet of ice that night, and he’d pulled in so quickly that the truck had just kept sliding, stopping only when it rested against the lamppost. Callie glanced down. Although it had been painted, there was still a visible dent. She stared at it and realized that her memory of that night would always be a blur of sadness and disbelief.

She’d come home from college the day before Thanksgiving, and she and her mom spent that evening making pies, laughing, and catching up. Even though her mom had to work on Thanksgiving, she and her dad would go to the hospital, as they always did when her mom had to work a holiday, and have dinner with her in the cafeteria. They’d have the pies to look forward to when she finally got home.

A light snow had started to fall that afternoon and, even though the weatherman had said it wasn’t supposed to amount to much, by the time Callie and her dad had returned from the dinner, it was really coming down. As soon as they walked in the house her dad had picked up the phone, and Callie had stood in the kitchen, still wearing her jacket, waiting and listening.

“I’m sorry to call you at work, hon’,” he’d said, “but I’m concerned about the roads. I think you might want to wait before you head home, or else I can come back in the truck.” He paused, and Callie could tell her mom wasn’t easily convinced. Finally, it was her dad who relented. “Well, okay, but promise me you’ll turn around if the roads are bad. Yes, love you too.” He had hung up the phone and stood by the window, watching the snow fall.

On a normal day, her mom would have left work at three-thirty and been home by four. But that afternoon, four-thirty came and went, and by five it was getting dark. Callie and her dad had tried to watch football, but neither one knew who was playing, never mind who was winning. Her dad had turned on the outside lights and realized that the snow had changed to a wintry mix. He had reached for his coat and announced he was going to look for her, and Callie had stood up and said she wanted to go too. But her dad had said it would be better if she stayed by the phone.

He was still clearing the snow off his truck when the state trooper pulled up at the end of the driveway with his vehicle’s emergency lights glowing in the misty darkness. Callie had watched from the kitchen door as he got out, put on his covered hat, and walked up the driveway toward her father. She had felt icy fingers of fear wrap around her heart as she watched her dad turn to talk to him; her dad had nodded and his shoulders had sagged, and then she’d stumbled out to stand beside him.

Her memory, after that, was a confused jumble of images and voices: the solemn look on the officer’s face, the pelting ice stinging her cheeks, shivering in the darkness. Her dad putting his arm around her, telling her to go get her coat ... but not being able to move ... just shaking uncontrollably ... and not being able to breathe ... just drowning in the sea of words.
Mrs. Wyeth was traveling on Mountain Road ... a sharp corner ... a slight incline ... a boy from Maine heading in the opposite direction ... lost control ... both rushed by ambulance ... the boy was pretty banged up ... but Mrs. Wyeth was much worse ... did they want him to drive them?

No ... No ... Thank you.
Her dad’s face was pale and his hands were shaking.
They would take the truck. They were leaving now.

Callie would never forget the eeriness of the emergency lights flashing across the dark, misty sky as they approached the accident scene. Her mom’s car was already loaded on a flatbed, and the front of the boy’s car was unrecognizable. She’d looked away, tears streaming down her cheeks, but when she’d spotted her mom’s nursing cap lying in the snow, she’d screamed,
“Stop, Dad! Stop!”

Henry slipped his hand into Callie’s, and she looked down and suddenly remembered why they were there. She scooped him up, and he touched the tear on her cheek. It dribbled down his finger. Callie wiped her face and smiled. “It’s okay, Hen-Ben. Mommy’s just thinking too much ...
again
.” She reached for the paper bag with the sandwich in it. “Let’s go see Papa.”

They walked down the corridor toward her dad’s room and, as she passed the nurses’ station, an unfamiliar face looked up. “May I help you?”

“We’re just on our way to see my dad.”

The nurse looked down at the list of patients. “I’m sorry, but which patient is your dad?”

Henry started to squirm in Callie’s arms, and Callie, becoming impatient, shifted him to her other hip and answered, “Ben Wyeth.”

Before the nurse could inquire further, another nurse bustled out of a nearby room and Callie was relieved to see a familiar face. Jess was one of her mom’s former coworkers, and her friendly eyes lit up when she saw Callie, but then they quickly clouded over in a frown. “Oh, baby, we’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”

Callie’s relief turned to panic. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“It’s your daddy, honey. He’s had another stroke.” Jess wrapped her arms around both of them. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. When Jess pulled away, tears were streaming down Callie’s cheeks. “Oh, baby, don’t cry,” she said, gently wiping away the tears. “You’re going to upset this beautiful little boy.” Jess smiled at Henry. “Your grampa’s gonna be
okay,
honey. Don’t you worry. We’re taking good care of him.” Jess turned back to Callie. “He’s been moved to intensive care.”

Callie nodded, her body obviously straining under the unbearable weight of her world. “Thank you, Jess,” she said.

“Girl,
what
is wrong with your phone? I was going to send Todd up there as soon as he got out of work.”

“I’ve been trying to get it hooked up,” Callie explained, “but they came when I wasn’t home.”

Jess nodded. “Well, you better straighten it out so we can reach you.” She hesitated. “Listen, do you want to talk to one of the doctors? Because I can get one for you... .” Callie shook her head, and Jess put her arm around her again. “He’s going to be okay, baby. Your daddy’s a fighter. That’s where
you
get it from.” Callie smiled. “That’s my girl.” Jess smiled too. “Listen, you get a sitter and come back later and you can see him, okay?”

“Can’t Henry see him?” Callie asked.

Jess shook her head. “No, baby, I thought you knew. Little people can’t go into intensive care.”

Callie swallowed hard and bit her lip. “No, I didn’t know.”

“Well, you’ll have to get someone to watch him. I’m sorry, honey.” Jess gave her another big hug. “Don’t you worry,” she whispered again, “your daddy’s going to be just fine.”

Henry refused to get back in the car. He squirmed and kicked and finally pulled his hand free, and then, before she could stop him, he ran headlong into the lamppost and fell back onto the hot pavement, holding his head and screaming at the top of his lungs.

“What is the matter with you?” Callie shouted. “Get up, for God’s sake. What are you doing?” She wrenched his arm, pulled him to his feet, and shook him. “Look, Henry, cut it out! I can’t take it anymore!” she shouted. “I just can’t take it anymore!” Henry stomped his feet and began to slap his ears violently. “Stop!” she commanded, grabbing his wrists. “Stop doing that! Why can’t you just be normal?” Callie heard the words spilling from her mouth but couldn’t believe she was saying them. Henry fell into a heap next to the car, wrapped his arms around his knees, and rocked back and forth, whimpering.

“Is everything okay, Miss?” Callie looked up and saw an older gentleman crossing the parking lot toward them.

“Yes, we’re fine,” she answered, scooping Henry up. “We’re just going for a walk.” The man nodded and stood with his hands in the pockets of his white coat and watched them cross the street.

As they passed through the gates of the nearby cemetery, Callie wondered again why cemeteries in New England always seemed to be across from hospitals. It certainly wasn’t a very promising scene for patients who looked out their windows or for the family members who kept watch at their bedsides. Callie pictured the early colonists carrying their deceased loved ones down the grassy hill and wondered if the cemetery’s proximity to the hospital had everything to do with convenience. She put Henry down, and he wandered along between the sun-bleached headstones. To her surprise, he stayed near.

They came to a shady grove, and Callie stopped. The pines whispered softly around them, and Henry gazed at the simple white marker. He walked up to it and traced his finger lightly over the engraved letters:

VIRGINIA DEERING WYETH
JUNE 19, 1949–NOVEMBER 23, 1994
BELOVED WIFE ~ DEAR MOTHER
FOREVER FRIEND

Callie watched her son’s innocent gesture and realized how much her mom would have loved him. She would have known what to do. She would have known how to reach him. She would have held him and hugged him and loved him with all her heart.

“Oh, Mom, I miss you so much,” she whispered.

As she silently watched, Henry picked up a smooth, white stone and placed it on top of the headstone. As he stepped back, though, thunder rumbled ominously in the distance, and he reached for Callie’s hand. She looked at the sky and felt the heavy stillness of the air. “Guess we should get going,” she said reluctantly. She scooped him up onto her hip but lingered a moment more, and wished they’d brought flowers. “Next time,” she whispered. A resounding crack echoed across the valley, and Henry whimpered. “It’s okay, Hen-Ben,” she said, hugging him. She ran her hand lightly along the headstone and then turned to hurry up the hill.

Just as they reached the car the skies opened up and, in the time it took to strap Henry in and run around to her side of the car, Callie was drenched. She dove into the front seat, quickly rolled up the windows, and decided to wait for the storm to pass. The rain thundered on the metal roof and streamed down the steamy glass. A rivulet formed on the inside of the windshield and trickled down, dripping on the dashboard. Over the years, her dad had tried several times to fix the leak, but when it rained hard enough, or when the wind blew just right, water always managed to find its way in.

Callie watched the fat droplets form and splash on the dusty dash and thought of Linden. She shook her head.
How can I even think of asking him? After everything that’s happened, how can I ask the one person in the world that I hurt most to look after the child that resulted from that hurt? The irony is too much!
She watched the lush trees swaying back and forth in a green blur and prayed, “Oh, God, help me. Please give me a sign.”

The storm finally passed, and she looked in her rearview mirror. Henry was sound asleep. She started the car, drove slowly out of the parking lot, and headed east. When she turned onto Route 124, she began to notice that cars were pulling over. She looked in her rearview mirror and listened for a siren, but she didn’t hear one.
Why are people pulling over?
She slowed down and watched as people got out of their cars. One person was even holding a camera. Finally, she looked up through the passenger window and spotted what everyone was looking at: A brilliant double rainbow was spanning the eastern sky.

19

T
he air was ominously still and heavy with moisture as Linden measured and cut the wood for the new treads, and it wasn’t long before a distant rumble confirmed the approach of a summer storm. He made one final cut, fit the tread, glanced at the sky, and decided he’d better clean up his makeshift shop. He gathered his tools, brought them inside, and then hurried to the barn to usher the animals inside.