Chapter Twenty-Five

 

Baltimore, Maryland

Wednesday, October 4, 1995

 

“Are you ready to tell me about your Thanksgiving memory?” Lillianna would do anything to avoid telling him about the one she’d remembered. “I’d really like to hear something happy.”

“It’s kind of a long story, and I reckon I have to start with your being born. I was in the recreation room at Valley Forge Hospital, waiting when your mother called.” Her father smiled at the recollection. “’It’s a girl,’ she said. And then she told me it was the happiest moment of her life.”

 

Valley Forge Hospital

Phoenixville, Pennsylvania

September 14, 1947

 

The excitement and optimism in his wife’s voice when she’d told him about their newborn daughter lifted Calvin out of his fear, made him believe miracles were possible.

“You should see her. She’s tiny, like a doll, and her eyes take up her whole face. I swear to God, Cal. But she’s beautiful. I wish you could be here.”

“I know, sweetheart. I wish I could, too. Are you feeling all right? Did you have much pain?”

“It was so much easier than with Greg. A couple hard contractions and she fell out.”

Calvin had something to ask Cassandra, something important to him. Suddenly shy and nervous, he stuttered. “Cassandra I, ah... ah... I really would like to name her Emma. After my mama. I know we talked about other names you love more, like Lillianna, but it would mean everything to me if we...” He trailed off. It didn’t matter. Cassandra understood.

“I think Emma is a beautiful name. After your mama. I been thinking about Ruth for her middle name. For my little sister, Elsie Ruth.”

“Perfect,” he said, knowing each time they said their daughter’s name it would remind them both of people they’d loved and lost. “Her name is perfect.”

When he dropped the phone back in its cradle, a new hope welled inside him—something miraculous had happened. Naming his daughter Emma marked a new beginning. Almost like his mother was born again in this tiny little daughter he’d not yet seen. A part of his mother lived inside Emma Ruth Miller, and this time Calvin could take care of her. And when she was old enough, he would carry her outside at night to see the stars. This time she’d be safe. She wouldn’t get sick with the flu and leave him. She wouldn’t die.

The moon pierced through the window panes, leaving sparkling bands, like silver ribbons, across the pale skin on his arms. Calvin traced them with the tip of his finger. The self-indulgence of deserting hope was no longer available to him. Hope might deceive him; it could even increase his grief, but Calvin fastened to the hope he could reconstruct his life and help his son and daughter build one for themselves.

Those children gave Calvin something to be and made him like other men. Oh, he wouldn’t be able to race across a ball field and play catch with his son or hopscotch with Emma, but the two of them did remove some ways in which he differed. They filled some missing pieces in his life and left him more whole. He was their father.

After that realization, he could no longer push Greg or Emma from his thoughts. They spent each day at his side, next to his bed or along the border of the parallel bars during his therapy sessions.

They were there, and Calvin saw them silently at every possible age. Babies in their cribs. Then brave, little children dressed in new clothes and going off to school. Teenagers anxious to learn how to drive a car. He even saw them grown up. Parents themselves, then an old man and an old lady remembering him.

When his pa brought Cassandra and the children to visit, Calvin’s eyes gathered up his wife. She never looked more beautiful. Her cheeks were bright, but her eyes caught him, so shiny and proud that when she placed the pink bundle in his arms, anyone watching would have thought she had handed him a star.

“Say hello to your daughter, Cal. Say hello to little Emma Ruth Miller.”

Calvin cupped her tiny head in the palm of his left hand. He moved the hood of the bunting aside with the stub of his forefinger and uncovered her face. She opened her eyes and stared at him with a steady, unnerving gaze as if something intensely private was suddenly exposed. It was like this small daughter could see inside him and already know things he didn’t know about himself.

“Hello, Emma Ruth. Hello, little girl.” Calvin’s voice was diminutive, not more than a whisper, but it was one of those instants he’d remember for years. Both humility and a sense of inadequacy swirled around in his head.

What could he do for her? What could he give her? What could this scarred and disfigured man say to the perfectly round eyes of his baby daughter? What could a one-handed carpenter produce to make her smile? What knowledge of the world, of life, could he give to her?

Greg let go of his grandfather’s hand and crossed the room to stand next to his father’s bed. Calvin touched the top of his head, his dark hair still soft and fine.

“Baby,” Greg babbled. “Baby. Baby. Baby.”

“That’s right, Greg. This is your baby sister, Emma.”

Greg stroked her cheek. “Baby.”

“So what do you think?” Cassandra moved closer. “Who does she look like?”

His pa laughed. “I think she looks a lot like me.”

“You wouldn’t wish that on her, would you, Pa?”

“She’s got eyes like your mama. I didn’t think I’d ever see eyes like that again.”

Warmth radiated through Calvin’s body. “She does have Mama’s eyes, doesn’t she? I didn’t want to say it. Was afraid it’d make you sad or something.”

“Makes me feel good, boy. Real good.”

After they left, Calvin thought about his baby daughter and the way her entrance into the world had already changed things. She gave his pa another look at his mama’s eyes. A powerful little girl. With that thought, Calvin remembered the things he felt when he learned of Cassandra’s pregnancy, how he didn’t really want another child. Life could be so strange. Like a river, it made sharp turns and weaved in upon itself, but it went where it must, and Calvin knew, if he were wise, he’d let it lead him now.

Suddenly, he wanted to hold and look at his baby daughter again, a sensation as sad and pleasurable as any he’d ever known. He wanted to find a house where he could live with Cassandra, Greg, and Emma. They were his life, and he needed to be with his life.

Calvin knew the only way that could happen was through his walking again. He had to stand and walk. He made a promise to himself that tomorrow, no matter what, when he went for physical therapy, he’d let all his weight down on his legs. He didn’t care how much it hurt.

He thought of himself as a person whose life had two meanings—one before the accident, and one after, but he couldn’t worry about connecting them anymore. It didn’t matter. Calvin was a man missing some of his parts. He couldn’t keep twisting himself into weird shapes to deny what had happened. It happened, and now he had to make do with what remained of him.

Calvin had passed close enough to death to have a clarity about life he had never before imagined, a clarity that told him he had to move forward now. He had to go on.

The following afternoon, Calvin stood on the vinyl mat between the parallel bars, all of his weight held by his legs, while tears streamed down both cheeks. Muffling the scream that wanted to rise inside him, Calvin swallowed. His throat was parched.

He knew determination was something planted early in his life, something he learned as a small child. Strong and defiant in every ounce of his being, Calvin stood, using the fingertips of his good hand for balance on the beams, but all one hundred forty-five pounds of him rested on his legs. With the brace securely strapped into place, they held him. The bad leg didn’t buckle.

For the first time in over two years, Calvin Miller stood, all by himself. Alone. Determined and brave. Carried along by the power of his will like a twig in a swift river.

“Come on, Miller. Listen to me. That’s enough. No more today,” Arnie said.

But he wouldn’t be dissuaded. He had to build the strength in his legs. He had to walk again. “Five more minutes. That’s all I want, Arnie. Just five more.”

“Enough, Miller. Damnit, I said enough. You trying to kill yourself or what?”

“I’m trying to walk, that’s what. Don’t you get it, Arnie? I want out of this place. I want my life. I’m trying to get my life back.” Calvin shouted out the words and kicked at Arnie with his braced leg.

This almost miraculous feeling of control would last only while he could keep standing; only while he fought and struck out against anyone who tried to stop him. Damnit, this was important. He needed to hold on. As long as he refused to explain his kicks, refused to rationalize them, refused even to connect them with his anger and frustration, maybe someone would understand. Even if they didn’t, while he had it, control felt good. It was so important he didn’t give a damn how much it hurt him, or who understood. Calvin wanted it to last forever.

Arnie grabbed his right shoe as he raised it for another kick and when Calvin pulled free of his grasp, he faltered, lost his balance and fell backwards onto the mat. The braced leg jutted straight out in front of him like a dead log. It was over. He’d lost it. His control had disappeared.

“You’ve had enough for one day, Calvin,” Arnie whispered kindly. “Come on, now. Let’s get you back to your room.”

Calvin wasn’t ready for kindness, and in one last effort to regain control, he refused Arnie’s hand, shook his head and reached upward. He grabbed the bars, pulled himself back into a standing position and fought the nausea that wanted to rise into his throat and erupt.

Arnie and Verne dragged Calvin away from the parallel bars, made a chair with their arms and Calvin reluctantly sank into it. Without uttering a syllable, they hauled him across the mats to his wheelchair, lowered him onto the seat, and Arnie pushed him down the hallway to the ward.

Calvin watched as his legs trembled, trembled as if they’d disconnected from the rest of his body and taken on a life of their own. He noticed the red welts carved into the fragile white skin of his leg by the leather straps on the brace. The scar tissue surrounded them like crinkled wrapping paper, polished pink.

Arnie helped him lift himself out of the chair and onto his bed.

Calvin hung his head. “I’m real sorry, Arnie. I don’t know why I acted that way. Why I kicked at you. I wanna walk so bad it makes me madder than hell. I hope you understand.”

“It’s all right, Calvin. I do. I realize how frustrated you are. I been doing this long enough to know it’s the ones that get angry, the ones like you, who make it. But you have to understand something. I’m your therapist, but I’m also your friend, and I’m here to help you. I want you to win.”

Arnie unstrapped the brace from Calvin’s leg, rubbed some ointment on the welts, pulled the sheet up to his waist, then patted him on the shoulder. “Get some rest now, Miller. God knows you earned it.”

Calvin closed his eyes and sunk his head into the pillows. At that moment, he only vaguely sensed the pain as it banked up inside the bones of his legs and licked at him, like a puppy. The discomfort minor, almost unnoticed, in the leaden stupor of his joy at what he’d accomplished. He’d stood on his legs, and they’d held him. The brace had kept his right leg stiff, just like the doctor said it would. Calvin wasn’t going to spend his life as a cripple in a wheelchair.

Cripple. God, how he hated that word. Even the sound of it had some kind of awful power. It destroyed you with its name first, because it conjured up a life without control. Calvin wasn’t about to let that word take anything else from him.

Later, fatigue wracked him, and his muscles were sore. But Calvin was placid and almost blissful. He rambled on to anyone who would listen. Talked about whatever entered his mind for minutes at a time, his voice tottering then rising to a near shout. The nurses nodded or mumbled a word of encouragement as they went about their usual nighttime duties, picked up dinner trays and distributed medications. Oh, they listened to Calvin all right, but they listened without actually hearing or understanding the meaning of his words.

Only Calvin understood. He knew, really knew, for the first time that night he was going to walk again. He knew it as surely as he knew his love for Cassandra. He would walk, and no one or nothing would stop him.

The next day, and every one thereafter for weeks, Calvin stood alone. It got easier and easier. He regained his balance and didn’t need his fingertips on the beams to be steady, but he pretended he did. He put one foot in front of the other and faked a need to balance himself with his hands. He inched ever so slowly forward, feeling childish and brave like he had a secret he wasn’t ready to share.

Calvin didn’t tell Cassandra about the progress he made. He shared it with Arnie. When she asked, he was deliberately vague. “You should see me,” he said. “I’m ready for the Olympics. I can sail across those parallel bars faster than anybody. Too bad my arms aren’t legs.” His pulse beat through his entire body.

“What’s the doctor say?”

“He says it’s gonna take some time. But we knew that, didn’t we, Cassandra?”

He wanted to surprise her. The doctor told him it wouldn’t be long until he could spend a weekend at home. He knew she’d have to take care of him, knew he couldn’t do everything for himself, and he worried about the stairs up to the apartment. But for now, he had one goal. To walk on his own two feet out of Valley Forge Hospital and into the arms of his wife.

Two weeks later, on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, Arnie helped him arrange the surprise. He pushed Calvin’s chair to the front hallway, put on the brake and stood next to it as he rose. Cassandra and his pa were parking the car in front of the hospital entrance. Calvin watched as they walked through the door and then he began to move slowly toward them.

Cassandra stopped. Her disbelieving gaze locked on her husband’s face.

Nurses, doctors, secretaries, ward clerks, the guys from physical therapy, and other patients appeared out of nowhere. They lined up, some standing and some in wheelchairs, on both sides of the hospital corridor. All the people who’d helped take care of him. Arnie must have spilled the beans, and they hurried out to cheer him on.

He inched through the center of the two lines like a football hero, and he heard the crowd, but he couldn’t bother with them. His brain bolted onto one thought. Driving his legs forward. He had to concentrate, keep his balance. Calvin felt a desperate need to find a focus, something, no matter how trivial, that could narrow his vision and enclose him.

Then he spotted it. A square of sunlight from a high window settled on the polished tile floor. Calvin centered himself on making it just to that square—stepping into that little block of light.

He could smell his own sweat, feel the warmth of the skin of his legs beneath his pants. Even his eyes felt hot. Nothing remained in the world except that cube of light and then Cassandra at the end of the tunnel of people. For better or worse, her arms were the place Calvin wanted to be.

Applause and whistles soared into the air around him, but Calvin remained oblivious. Everyone he passed said something, but he didn’t hear their words. He saw the smiles and the cheers like an old movie playing in slow motion. It was as if huge movie screens on either side of him held all those people who cared. How could he fail with all of them rooting for him and slapping their hands together? Some let out yells and war whoops. Others touched his back as he passed them, prodding him carefully forward.

Verne gave a sharp, piercing whistle through his fingers and stomped on the floor. Calvin filled his lungs with air. He could do it. He could walk. And, one step at a time, one foot placed in front of the other, he did.

When he stumbled, lost his balance, Cassandra broke free of the crowd, tried to push her way through to him, but Arnie raced forward and held out his arm to stop her. Calvin knew Arnie understood how much this meant to Cal and wanted the walk to last as long as it could—that triumphant day when Calvin Miller stepped back into the world.

With so much destruction and so many ruined lives around them, Calvin understood why they all wanted to savor this moment. And while he carried guilt about the accident and Mario’s death, his spirit was not annihilated. All the hopes and dreams of his life limped with him toward the light and the waiting arms of his young wife.

And when he arrived, he raised his good hand into the air, spread his fingers in the victory sign. The rest of the crowd joined in, clapped and cheered, while just outside that hospital door, the November air thickened with yellow sunlight and thanksgiving.