Since making the journey back from Killeen to see Dr Evans, Gladys has been in hospital for three days, and each morning she looks forward to sleep.
It’s nine-thirty a.m., and the nurse has just given her the medication that will alleviate the pain in her stomach, enabling her to drift off. When Gladys does sleep at night, she is visited by Jesse, who slips into her dreams to ask where she is, and when she’s going to come fetch him. Last night, when she woke at three a.m. with that old feeling of terrible lightness in her chest and pain so bad it made her moan, she’d groped around the bed for the child she’d lost, and it wasn’t Elvis’s name she called out, but Jesse’s. Then she’d prayed. Jesse, she whispered. Son. Forgive me. I told your brother he had your strength. What else could I say? I didn’t want him to go through life blaming himself for your death. Or blaming God. Or me.
Jesse never makes his presence felt during the day, so now she can safely allow herself to slide into drowsiness. She places her arms outside the thick white sheet and watches the huge window. It’s double-glazed and renders the room absolutely silent, save for the low whirr of the air conditioning. The bright clouds scud past. Closing her eyes, she feels warmth on her lids, and her limbs begin to soften. She thinks of her mother, who’d spent months and months dying. With her body lightened by the drug, Gladys tells herself that this is all too sudden to be her own end. Vernon keeps saying that Elvis will come and she’ll soon be up on her feet. Deep down, though, she knows she will never be well again. Because if she ever gets out of this room the first thing she will do is take a drink. Nothing fancy. Just a long, cool beer. It will be the best she’s ever tasted.
She longs for Elvis to appear, though, not only for the comfort his voice and body always bring, but also so he can witness her bravery in smiling through the sickness. And she’d like him to appreciate her refusal to die until he’s arrived.
Then her husband comes in, bringing with him outdoor smells of exhaust fumes, hair pomade and coffee.
He’s fetched her baby-blue bed jacket from home, and is sitting on the mattress, waving it in her direction. Gladys lets her lids droop again. Perhaps she can pretend to be in a deep sleep already. She can’t stand the burden of Vernon’s face. Ever since she’s been in hospital, he’s looked like he did when she’d first plopped Elvis into his arms: as if the world had shifted so suddenly it had left him behind.
‘Glad,’ he says softly, ‘Elvis is on his way.’
She opens her eyes.
Vernon is holding his jaw at an odd angle. ‘He got a pass out.’ He swallows. ‘Had to fight his goddamn lieutenant for it. But now he’s coming.’
Gladys touches his hand, then succumbs to blackness.
She sleeps most of the day, dreaming about being a girl again, dancing for Vernon on an upturned crate. In the dream, her mama is behind her, keeping an eye on her daughter from her bed, and when she finishes dancing, Doll holds her mirror up to Gladys’s face and says, ‘Watch yourself, gal.’
When she wakes, she wonders if she is dead already. The room is dazzlingly white from the afternoon sun blasting through the window, and everywhere she looks she sees flowers. Pink lilies, babies’ breath, hollyhocks, zinnias, poppies, larkspur and yellow roses. But Vernon is sitting on her bed once again (or perhaps, she thinks, he never left his spot), squeezing her hand as he says her name. And then Elvis’s voice comes from the corridor, thanking strangers for their concern, telling them he’s sure his mama’s going to be well, that he’s happy to be here at last, that he knows they’re all doing a wonderful job.
‘Help me,’ she says. Vernon pulls her into a sitting position, and she leans against him as he props up the pillows, her head spinning, pain gripping her stomach.
‘I need water,’ she says, not because she wants to drink but because she doesn’t want Elvis to smell the sickness on her breath. Vernon pours her a cup from the pink pitcher on her bedside table. It’s the exact same colour as one she had in Lauderdale Courts. Before she can ask her husband to comb her hair, Elvis is coming through the door, rushing to the bed and throwing his arms around her, forcing his father to step back.
‘Mama!’ Elvis cries, burying his face in her neck.
‘My son,’ she says, grasping his shoulders as tightly as she can. He’s in his army shirt and the fabric feels rough beneath her fingers. He smells different, too: of boiled food and boot polish.
When he lifts his face, she tries not to look at the terror in his eyes.
It takes all her strength to smile and ask, ‘Now, what in the world is wrong with you?’
He looks confused.
‘I don’t know why y’all keep fussing,’ she continues. ‘I’m gonna be up on my feet in a couple of days.’
‘You’re talking,’ he says, letting out a breath. ‘That’s good, Mama.’
‘Sure I’m talking.’ She knows her voice is faint, but she won’t let it waver. ‘Why wouldn’t I be talking?’
Elvis glances across to his father, who is standing in the corner of the room, chewing on his thumbnail.
‘Daddy said …’
‘What did Daddy say?’
‘Nothing.’
She takes his face in her hands. Since he joined the army, he’s lost weight, and he is, if anything, even more handsome than before. ‘You eating good?’
‘I’m fine, Mama.’
She releases him. ‘Well, tell me boocups.’
He hangs his head. ‘Mama, I thought …’
She cannot stand for him to cry now. If he does that, she will have to order him to leave. Patting the mattress, she says, ‘Elvis. Tell me boocups.’
He clears his throat and begins. ‘I went out in the tank. A real big one. It was fun. They let me drive it.’
‘That’s good, son.’
‘And Sergeant Norwood’s real pleased. I think I’m convincing them, you know, that I’m just one of the guys.’
She nods.
He pauses, mashing the sheet in his hands. ‘You know I prayed, Mama, that you’d be well. I prayed to Jesse.’
‘He’s always with us.’
Vernon moves to the window and rests his forehead on the glass.
They’re all quiet for a while. Gladys closes her eyes, wishing Elvis would leave the room so she could call on the nurse for more medication. All this talking makes her sweat, and the pain is growing stronger. She’s struggling to breathe easy, and doesn’t want him to notice.
‘Couple of hundred people out there, at least,’ says Vernon, tapping the window. ‘Those gals never give up on you, son.’
‘You see?’ says Gladys. ‘I was right. Being in the army ain’t gonna make you one whit less popular.’
Elvis kisses her cheek. ‘It’s you they’re worried about,’ he whispers. ‘They’re here for you. Who do you think sent all these flowers?’
‘Why,’ she says, ‘I figured you did, son.’
Her lids droop. Although she knows Elvis is still there, waiting for her to reassure him again, she does not open her eyes. If she opens her eyes, she will have to moan and cry until she gets the pain relief she craves. If she opens her eyes, she fears the noise she’ll make may never end.