Chapter Three

 

Baltimore, Maryland

Monday, September 25, 1995

 

In the almost empty cafeteria, Lillianna settled at a small table by the window facing the courtyard. She sipped black coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Outside on the patio, the smokers gathered. They sat alone or in small family groups at lacy iron tables while white strings of smoke unraveled and curled upward from their morning cigarettes. It was the place she’d imagined they would sit, but her father who’d smoked at least two packs a day for more than sixty of his seventy-two years had quit. Until this morning, she would have bet a thousand dollars he couldn’t do it.

Lillianna and her father had spent two decades of silence while she sorted out the complexities of her own life. Now, he lay upstairs in a room, somehow ghostly, and acting kind. He stared at her with something that looked like tenderness. With that pathetic and shocking realization, her stomach did a flip flop. The man she remembered was so lost and diminished, Lillianna could no longer imagine what she’d feared in him.

The hard balloon low in her abdomen expanded into her chest and rapidly grew heavy. Everything seemed wrong, but she couldn’t name the problem or focus on a solution. She’d spent years neatly braiding the tangled strands of her life. The pain. The shame. The nearly incomprehensible fear and anger she had for her father. And the guilt that wrapped itself around the other feelings because he was a cripple. They all knotted together and then she’d moved so far from anyone who understood and could help loosen the knots, it had been easy to keep them in place.

Until now, dealing with her thoughts and memories of him had been overwhelming and filled with rage, but at least it connected to her past and made a strange kind of sense. The man upstairs, that white-haired, non-smoking, kind man, bore no resemblance to the father she remembered. Today, she saw him as finite.

At last, in her late forties, she saw through some of the old grief and into those blank spaces between the years. She caught a glimpse of what they’d lost. It both frightened and confused her. She tried to determine what it was she wanted from him now. Did she still hunger for him to be a father, to prove that he loved her? After all these years, was it his love she craved?

Unable to answer her own questions, she stared into the courtyard at the thin, wiry branches of a young willow tree as it danced in the wind.

 

New Castle, Delaware

April 1955

 

Spring’s first twigs on the weeping willow in their backyard had been thin, green and supple. They bent into complete circles, but wouldn’t snap. Each year, their delicate hopefulness shot outward and shaded the swing set behind their small bungalow—nearly identical to five hundred other houses in the neighborhood—little boxes that sprung up in fields and meadows across the country after the war.

To Greg and Emma, new growth on the willow meant only one thing. Instead of the dull pain from the smooth side of their father’s belt, they would feel the new green switches, a sting that lived long after the beating finished. The twisted cruelty in those long shoots, stripped bare of their leaves, made her pray for winter and the uniform stroke of leather.

Greg was eleven years old and she eight that spring afternoon as she perched on the edge of her bed with Marjorie Swanson, a popular second-grade classmate. Emma longed for her friendship and was delighted when, after weeks of begging, her mother finally agreed to let Margie spend the night. She called Emma beautiful that day. No one besides her mother had ever said anything like that and something way down inside her, something the size of a pin head, flickered and glowed for a second just before her father’s truck tires screeched in the driveway and came to a stop. The motor stilled.

A moment later, the front door opened.

Emma froze.

“Where the hell’s that little son of a bitch, Greg?” her father bellowed.

“Are you hungry?” Her mother’s voice was soothing. “The children and I have already eaten macaroni and cheese, but I’ll make some oyster stew if you want.”

“What I want is to know where Greg is.” There was no negotiation in the booming sound of his words.

“He’s in the basement.” This time, her mother’s voice was low and careful, the voice she used when he was drunk and out of control. “Working on his school science project. He’s such a hardworking boy.”

From the irregular stomp in his steps, Emma knew he staggered toward the back door, chose his switch from the willow, stripped the new green leaves, then headed down the stairs. “You smart-mouthed little bastard,” he yelled. “You’re getting too big for your britches, Gregory Miller, and I’m gonna make them fit you again. Teach you a lesson you ain’t gonna forget any time soon.”

“What’d I do? What’d I do, Pop?” The terror in Greg’s voice unnerved Emma.

She looked straight into Margie’s eyes and kept talking—tried to pretend everything was all right and her father wasn’t in the basement, just beneath her bedroom where they could hear every sound. She didn’t want her friend to know her father was beating her brother and accusing him, repeatedly, of sassing the barber.

Emma tried to talk louder and make-believe they couldn’t hear Greg’s cries. “So, do you want to go outside and ride bikes? You can use my brother’s.”

At another scream from the basement, Margie’s eyes widened.

Knowing she had to do something, Emma smiled. It was a smile meant to tell her to ignore what she heard. That it was nothing. That it would be over soon.

Margie stared at the closed bedroom door. “Is that your father?”

While tears stung the back of her eyes, Emma nodded, looked away, and clamped her eyes shut.

“Why is he so mad?” Margie asked, a slight tremble in her voice.

Emma opened her eyes. “I don’t know. He’s mad a lot.”

Their gazes met, Margie’s eyes round and unblinking. “Does he get mad at you, too?”

“No,” Emma lied. She knew about denial and how it protected her from the truths she couldn’t bear to tell. “Only my brother. He gets in trouble a lot.”

Shame was a distinct emotion. Emma couldn’t look at her friend or hear her own pathetic excuses for her father without feeling appalled, wanting desperately for the room to fall silent. Wanting to grow smaller. But silence didn’t come. The angry shouts and Greg’s pitiful wails mingled and rose through the floorboards of her room.

Margie scooped up her overnight bag and headed for the door. “I’m scared, and I wanna go home.”

Emma nodded. There was nothing else she could do.

When her mother asked Emma to go with them to take Margie home, she refused. The thought of watching Margie drag her pink overnight bag, loaded with the Nancy Drew books they’d planned to read aloud, up the front steps of her house was more than Emma could bear.

When Margie and her mother left, anger welled inside Emma. The sick feeling, which she attempted to prevent by sucking in her stomach, came quickly along with the desire to heave. She tried to stop crying, but she felt like she’d turned into jelly and didn’t know how to make herself solid again. All over her body, she could sense her skin from the inside, like it stood away from her bones, separated by an inch of humiliated space.

I hate him. I want him to die and go to hell. To stay there roasting forever and ever.

Those thoughts solidified her. She wiped her face and blew her nose. The nausea gone, she bolted out of her bedroom and down the hall into the kitchen. She took the basement steps two at a time and didn’t stop at the bottom. She kept running forward until she rammed her head into her father’s back, flailing her arms and fists. Her rage finally let loose, she lashed out at him, walloped him with the truth. “Leave him alone! Greg came home a few hours ago with blood dripping down his neck. He didn’t do anything wrong. Your stupid barber cut his ear.”

With one savage sweep of his left arm, her father struck her shoulder and sent her flying across the basement floor and into the concrete block wall. It knocked the wind out of her. She reeled and her vision blurred. By the time she regained her breath, stood up and brushed herself off, he loomed in front of her with the switch. He ripped off her T-shirt. The smell of whiskey on his breath made her gag. It was her turn to feel the sting of the willow.

Later, her mother would put ointment on their wounds, hold them tightly in her arms and cradled them until they stopped crying, her dark eyes warning, once again, to keep the secret. No matter what, she and Greg must remain silent.

That spring day in 1955 had been the first and last time Emma Miller ever asked a friend to spend the night at her house.

* * *

Baltimore, Maryland

Monday, September 25, 1995

 

With the memory came a renewed anger and a kind of self-conscious distance from her body. She’d been a fool to think she’d be okay if only she eliminated her father from her life. That somehow she was due a normal existence where the ghosts of her past didn’t influence everything.

She needed to link with someone in her present, so she found a pay phone in the corridor outside the cafeteria and called Steve. He’d be working with the horses, but she hoped he’d pick up the phone in the barn. He did.

“Hi, sweetheart. How’s my favorite gal? I didn’t expect to hear from you until tonight. How’s it going with your father?”

“I don’t know. He’s so different. Kind of defeated and tired. Almost childlike.”

“Look, he’s been through a lot, and it’s bound to show. I’ll bet he was happy to see you, though.”

“I was so nervous I couldn’t tell. He’s asleep now, and I’m in the cafeteria remembering things I shouldn’t. But I can’t help it. Seeing him brings it all back.” She leaned against the wall, kneaded the stainless-steel phone cord between her thumb and index finger.

“I’m sorry, Lilly. I know how hard this must be. I should have come with you.”

Her husband was such a good man, kind and patient—always putting her feelings above his own. “We both know you couldn’t be away from the ranch and the animals that long. I understand. It’s just that I’m still so angry, and I don’t know what to do with my feelings. I can’t figure out what to say to him. What’s safe for us to talk about.”

“Maybe you could let him do the talking. Old people love to reminisce about the past. Ask him questions. Get him talking about his life.” Steve paused for a couple seconds. “I wish I’d asked my father about the war in Germany and how he felt when Hitler wouldn’t allow him or Mom to practice medicine anymore.”

Steve’s idea was a good one. If she got her father talking about his life before he had children, it might keep Lillianna from reading her old diary to him or confronting him in other ways that felt cruel to her now.

At eleven a.m., Lillianna decided against the elevator and hiked back up the eight flights of stairs, determined to ask questions and listen. When she stepped into the room, he was talking on the telephone, his head bent and his eyes focused on the stripes on his hospital gown. With a glance and a wink, he acknowledged her, then held up one finger. He rotated the receiver away from his ear, grinned and looked at the ceiling.

Shifting it back into place, he mumbled, “Yeah. I know,” and removed it again, this time setting it down on the pillow beside him. When he finally picked it up again, he announced into the receiver, “I have to go now. Emma’s here.” And he hung up.

“It’s Lillianna, Cal. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

His face clouded over.

She looked away.

“That was your cousin, Jenny,” he said. “She called to talk me into it. Said I should get brave, be tough and let them cut off my leg. According to her, it’s my best chance to live.” He paused and shook his head. “With two good legs, she gives me advice.”

“Well, from what I understand, she’s right,” Lillianna said. “Jenny wouldn’t be calling you in the first place if she didn’t care.”

“Nobody seems to understand I don’t want to live that bad. I already lived a hell of a sight longer than anybody thought I could. My life...” He paused and searched his daughter’s face. “It’s not been perfect. And here’s the other thing. I reckon if it weren’t for all that fancy equipment, I wouldn’t even know I had that aneurysm thing. We all have to die sometime. And I haven’t had a whole lot to live for since your mother died. Aneurysms are fast. The way I see it, that’s not such a bad way to go.”

“The point is we do know about the aneurysm, and something can be done. You could learn to walk with an artificial leg. Others have done it.”

“I’m too old. I already learned to walk again once. And I don’t have the energy anymore. Besides, they’d have to cut it off above the knee, and that makes rehab so much harder. You won’t make me do it, will you, Em?” His face held a strange mixture of fear and sadness, and she couldn’t bring herself to correct him again about her name.

Seeing him that way freed her, at least for the instant, from the hateful feelings she’d had in the cafeteria. “God, no. I won’t try to make you do anything. I learned a long time ago that doesn’t work.” She couldn’t believe the man who’d commanded her life, her every move, for so long would take advice from her or anyone else. She softened her voice. “Ultimately, Cal, it’s your life and your decision.”

That wasn’t the speech her brother had prepared for her. She was supposed to talk him into an amputation—convince him his life would be fine without his leg.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said. “If I die on the operating table, my whole family will say it’s because I’m a coward and couldn’t face life as an amputee.”

“Is that what you think?”

He nodded.

What could she say? She bit down on her bottom lip. Her father was many things, but she’d never believed a coward was one of them. “Mom always said you were a hero. She said that grenade broke so many of your bones you were in a body cast for months. It must have taken a lot of courage to learn to walk again. In spite of everything you put her through, that’s what Mom thought.”

His eyes hooded. “Your mother…she was an angel, and I never knew how much I’d miss her. I swear to God, if I could do it over, I wouldn’t have a single fight with her. Or you kids, either. None of them was worth it.”

Lillianna’s mouth dropped open. Silence filled the room.

“Are you saying you wish you hadn’t beaten us?” Lillianna shivered, startled by her own question and then stared at her father, registering the shifting expressions on his face, the flickering play of the light and shadow.

“I drank too much.” He lifted his gaze, tears welling.

“Is that your excuse?”

A tear rolled down his cheek. “Not a very good one, is it?”

She handed him a tissue. This was what she’d wanted, to see him weakened, to make him apologize for what he’d done to his wife and children. Make him feel some of the pain and humiliation he’d dished out so freely.

A jab of satisfaction plunged through her, but it wasn’t quite like she imagined. Hate was such an awful word. And when you said it repeatedly, it began to hurt your mouth.

He cried openly then, and Lillianna didn’t know what to do. The tears ran down his neck and into his T-shirt. His shoulders trembled, and strange, animal-like sounds rose from his throat. Unable to watch his regret, she fixed her gaze on the window and waited for silence. She wasn’t without compassion, and if he’d been anyone else, even a stranger, she would have attempted to give comfort, touched his shoulder, maybe even offered a hug.

In truth, she was ashamed of her inability to move toward him. No matter what feelings she hauled into his room with her, he was her father, and he needed her, but she couldn’t make herself offer comfort. Instead, she buried her head in her hands, the tips of her fingers pressing against her ears.

A few moments later, when she looked up, Doctor Willingham stood at the foot of the bed, his hand resting on the sheet covering Calvin’s legs. “Are you in pain?”

Cal shook his head.

Willingham shot a curious or was it an accusing, look at Lillianna and then returned to his patient. “How’s that leg today, young man?”

Cal wiped the back of his good hand across his tear-stained face, then blew his nose into the tissue she’d given him. “Not bad, Doc. How’s it look?”

Doctor Willingham unwrapped the gauze, tossed it into the trash, and examined the hole in her father’s leg—the open, draining wound he’d had for years.

She smelled the familiar decomposing rot of the infection—an odor from childhood she’d never forgotten.

“It looks a little better than when you first came in.” He patted her father’s arm. “The nurse will come in and put on a clean dressing. In the meantime, keep your spirits up. We have to do a few more tests. Your blood type is A positive so we shouldn’t have too much trouble locating a donor. Have you made a decision about that leg?”

“Nothing has changed, Doc. I won’t sign any consent to have it cut off. I’d rather be dead.”

For a few seconds, the room was silent.

Lillianna stood. “I’m his daughter, Lillianna.”

He cocked his head and frowned. “The one from Oregon?” There was a trace of uncertainty in his voice.

She nodded. “He calls me Emma. It was his mother’s name.”

Doctor Willingham smiled. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” He offered his hand.

“All lies.” Lillianna laughed, as she shook his hand.

After following him into the hallway, she stood with her back against the wall. “I want you to know my brother and I are really grateful to you for trying to save his leg. It means everything to him.”

“He made that pretty clear. But I won’t kid you, his chances of surviving the surgery are a lot better if we amputate.”

“What are his chances if you don’t?”

“If you want the truth, not all that great. The biggest risk is the spread of infection after the surgery. We’ll pump him full of antibiotics and keep our fingers crossed.”

“What happens if the infection does spread?”

“We’ll have no choice but to amputate the leg, then take out the donor graft and replace it with a synthetic one.” He shifted his weight, cleared his throat. “The chances are pretty slim he’d survive an amputation after surgery. A post-surgery procedure is more complicated because we’ll need a bypass pump to supply blood to his body while we work.”

Lillianna leaned further into the wall for support. “How big is the aneurysm?”

“Way too big. It could blow at any time. We need to do the transplant as soon as possible.”

“Can you explain what you’ll do?” She knew from what Greg had told her Doctor Willingham was one of only two doctors in the country who performed this type of surgery. Johns Hopkins was expensive, and they were lucky the VA was willing to pay for the procedure.

“It’s simple, really. I’ll graft the donor aorta over his existing vessel, and the tissue will then grow together. It’s a little bit like a patch on an inner tube.” He patted Lillianna’s shoulder. “He’s a tough old guy, and he knows how to fight, but he needs encouragement right now. And someone to convince him amputation is his best chance. Your brother thinks you’re the one to do it.”

Once back in her father’s room, Lillianna stood at the foot of his bed.

“So what’d he say?” He addressed his question to the silent television screen.

“What do you think he said?”

“That amputation is my best chance to go on living.”

Lillianna smiled. “What does he know about you?”

Calvin laughed. “Not much. I just met him a week ago.”

“If you ask me, you’ll manage to pull off another victory.”

When her father’s face swiveled toward her, it was bright with hope, and he covered every square inch of hers with his stare. “But he didn’t say that, did he?”

“Of course not. He gave me an assignment to convince you to let them amputate.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

She grinned. “Don’t you think I know that?”

“You’re pretty smart.”

“Damn right I am,” Lillianna answered, knowing hope could be even more deceptive than love, but it was encouragement and hope her father needed now. So she gave it to him. “It looks like I’m going to be here for a while. And I’ve been thinking about how we might spend our days together. Would you be willing to tell me about your life? You never know, I might write a book about you someday.”

He studied her for a few seconds as if he wasn’t quite sure he’d heard her correctly. “What do you want to hear?”

She pulled the chair closer to his bed and sat. “To begin with, I’d like to learn about your mother. Tell me about the first Emma.”

“I don’t know. It was a long time ago.”

“Are you saying you don’t remember her?”

He rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand. “I remember, all right. I’ll never forget.”

“When I was a little girl you once said you’d do anything for me.”

He winced, then stared at her for a long moment. “That’s still true, Em.”

“Then tell me about her. It would mean a lot to me.”

He relaxed a little, smiled, leaned back on the pillow and told her about his mother. About the day the flu came.