CHAPTER 22

JENILEE

 

 

It seemed that hours passed while Drew and Nate were in Daddy’s ICU room. I sat there thinking about my father and me. I couldn’t remember the two of us ever having a real conversation about anything. Daddy barked instructions, and I did what I was told. Daddy criticized, and I tried to do better. That was pretty much all there was between us. There was nothing to prepare us for talking about the future, or surgery, or Daddy’s life.

What are the right words? I thought. What words can I say that will change his mind? What can I say that will change him? Is it possible for things to be different now?

That hope wound through me like the line from one of Nate’s fishing poles—invisible, strong, twisted around every part of me.

He’s reeling you in, Jenilee, a voice said inside me. How many times are you going to let Daddy do this to you? You’re asking for something he doesn’t have to give. . . .

But still there was that hope. That part of me that wanted my father to change. If it could happen to Mrs. Gibson, couldn’t it happen to him?

I stood up, pacing to the window to clear my head.

Darla glanced at me, twisting her hands in her lap. Finally she got out of her chair too. “I can’t just sit here. Would you like a cup of coffee or anything?”

“No, thanks.” Eating or drinking anything seemed impossible.

She paused in the doorway, turning back to me. “Jenilee, I want to thank you for what you said on the phone . . . for what you told me about Drew. It really made me think. It made me think that I’ve been looking at our relationship only from my own frame of reference. I thought that when Drew didn’t want to talk about the past, when he didn’t want to get married or have me meet his family, that meant he didn’t love us. I never, ever considered that, in his mind, he was trying to protect us.”

“Drew’s a good person,” I said. “It’s just that you were trying to make him face things he’s spent the last eight years running away from. It’s hard to go back.”

“I know.” Darla sighed, folding a tissue in her hands. “I think I started to understand that after I came here the first time and sat with Nate. All he could think about was how mad your father was going to be when he woke up. You know, Drew never told me what his childhood was like. He just said he was estranged because he went into the army against his parents’ wishes. I thought that was such a stupid reason to stay away from your family. I told Drew I wanted to get married, and I wanted him to invite his family to the wedding.” She shook her head, meeting my eyes. “He refused, and that night I packed up all our stuff, and I left.”

I sat down and pressed my hands into the warmth between my legs and the sofa, not sure how much more I should say. “He loves you and the kids, Darla. I know he does.”

She nodded, looking down. “I know he does, too. Thanks, Jenilee.” She walked out the door, leaving me alone. I sat in the silence, listening to the low hum of machines, wondering what was happening in Daddy’s room.

Finally I heard Drew and Nate in the hall. I rushed to meet them at the doorway. Nate didn’t stop, just limped across the room on his crutches and collapsed on the sofa, sobbing with his head in his hands.

“What happened?” I whispered to Drew.

His dark eyes glittered like chipped flint. “Daddy hasn’t changed,” he told me.

That explained everything.

I turned and left the room, walking to ICU with a sense of purpose, rehearsing in my mind.

I stood in the doorway of Daddy’s room, wondering if he was still awake. His eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling slowly. The oxygen mask had been removed, and the only sounds in the room were the low hum of the machines and the rhythmic beating of the EKG.

The face in the bed looked eerily recognizable now.

“Daddy?” I whispered, moving forward. “Daddy?” I leaned close to the bed, my fingers resting against the hollow of my neck, feeling the dashing pulse there.

Daddy’s eyelids opened suddenly, and I jumped back. I stood staring into his dark eyes, looking for a hint that anything was different from before.

He curled his fingers against the white sheet, motioning me closer. “N-Nate?” he whispered, his voice hoarse, barely there.

“Nate’s in the waiting room,” I answered, leaning closer.

“Don’t . . .” He paused and swallowed hard, his eyes rolling back again. I felt his hand grab my arm, his grip stronger than I would have thought. “No . . . more surgery. I told . . . Nate.”

I swallowed the hammering pulse in my throat, moving my hand down to clasp his. “You need surgery, Daddy. Just once more. Nate needs for you to get better. He blames himself for not going for help sooner. It’s tearing him apart. He needs for you to get better.”

“No . . . more surgery.” His voice was louder, his grip tighter on my fingers.

Nausea knotted my stomach, and I looked away from him. “You have to have the surgery, Daddy. If you don’t, you’re going to have a heart attack. You need to sign the consent form.”

His eyes closed, and his lips parted to form words, but no sound came out. Finally he whispered, “... not signing that paper. You’re not signing either.”

“Yes, Daddy,” I said, staring at the pale, drawn figure in the bed and realizing he no longer had power over me. “I am. I’m signing the paper. It’s the right thing to do. For once, I’m going to do what’s right.”

I didn’t know if he heard me or not. His hand fell to the bed, and he lay silent, unmoving except for the rise and fall of his chest. I sat on the stool by his bedside and waited to see if he would wake again. When he didn’t, I left the ICU and walked slowly back toward the waiting room.

Drew met me in the hallway. The question in his eyes passed between us without words.

I shook my head, saying, “No change. He won’t sign the form.”

Drew’s head dropped forward, and he made a rueful sound. “I don’t want Nate to know Daddy wouldn’t sign the form. He blames himself too much already. If Daddy doesn’t make it out of this surgery, he’ll be sure that was his fault, too.”

I nodded, getting Drew’s point. We moved further away from the door to talk. “You’re right. It will be better for Nate if he thinks Daddy committed to the surgery willingly.”

A low sob disturbed the silence in the hall, and Drew glanced over his shoulder toward the waiting room door. “He’s too emotional, Jenilee. Darla wants us to take him back to her house until the surgery is over. Her place is only a couple of miles away. We need to get Nate out of here. Have them get the form ready, and I’ll sign it before we go.”

“No. I’ll sign it.” I didn’t know why I felt the need to be the one. Perhaps because I had promised Daddy I was going to do this one last thing for him. “You take Nate to Darla’s. I agree he shouldn’t be here. If Daddy doesn’t make it out of this surgery, I don’t want him to feel in any way responsible. I’ll stay here and sign it, then be here in the waiting room until the surgery’s over.”

Drew cocked his head to the side, surprised. “Are you sure? Jenilee, I can stay.”

“No. It’s all right. You go to Darla’s and be with Nate and your kids. I want to be the one to stay.” I tried to put words to the feelings inside me. “I just feel like . . . this is something I need to do for Daddy. Tell Nate I’ll see him when the surgery is over. I’m going to go down to the nurses’ station and sign the forms there, so they won’t bring them down here where Nate will see.” I turned and walked away without giving him a chance to argue. I don’t think he would have anyway. The look on his face said he understood.

Daddy’s nurse met me inside the ICU door with a clipboard. I took the papers without saying anything, signed my name, and handed them back.

She looked at me sympathetically. “It’ll be a little while before we take him to prep, so if you want to sit with him now, you can.”

I nodded, then turned and walked to Daddy’s room and sat silently on the stool by the bed as time passed. My mind clouded with a mix of bitter memories and hope for the future.

I touched Daddy’s face, trying to see in him the man Mama had fallen in love with. Mama always said he was different before the war. She talked about how he used to play guitar with a band and smile at all the girls, and how she knew the first moment she saw him that she was in love.

She always believed that lost part of him would come back home. I sat for a long time, wondering if there was a part of him we had never known, wondering if we would ever know it.

“Hello . . . miss?” A voice startled me from my thoughts, and I realized a nurse was in the room with me. “It’s time to take your father into prep now.”

“All right.” I stood up stiffly and left the room, walked to the waiting room, curled up in one of the cold vinyl chairs, and closed my eyes.

My mind drifted away like one of the canvas-and-twig sailboats my grandfather used to make for me—not settling anywhere, just drifting, floating somewhere between the reality of the hospital waiting room and the farm pond behind our house.

I could see Drew and me as children playing in the water, Nate just a baby wading in the shallows, clinging to Mama’s fingers. Mama’s laugh filtered through the dappled sunlight like music. Her eyes met mine, and she smiled. There was no pain in her eyes, only love.

Behind her, an angel stood on the shore, a beautiful angel with soft gray eyes and dark hair that fell in curls to her waist. She raised her hands as if to embrace us, as if to say that everything would be all right now. . . .

The sound of rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the floor jolted me awake. I sat up, catching a startled breath as a candy striper stopped a few feet away. “They’ve taken your father into surgery. They’re anticipating two hours, but we’ll keep you informed as the surgery proceeds. Would you like a glass of water or anything?”

“No, thank you,” I said. “I’m fine.”

When she was gone, I called Drew.

He answered the phone in a whisper. “Everyone’s resting,” he explained. “Amber just came out here and fell asleep on the couch with me.”

I pictured Drew smoothing his daughter’s long, dark hair, thinking about all of the things that would be different for him and his children.

“Stay there,” I whispered. “Let Nate sleep. I’ll call you as soon as Daddy is out of surgery, as soon as I know something.”

“All right. You’re sure you’re O.K.?”

“I’m fine. I really am. Good-bye, Drew.” I hung up the phone and realized it was true.

I closed my eyes, and for the first time since I was a little girl, I prayed. I prayed for all of us—for Nate, and Drew, and me. For Mrs. Gibson and Mr. Jaans, for Doc Howard and Dr. Albright, for all the people whose pictures hung in the Poetry armory. For the two little girls who had been LifeFlighted from Poetry, for the Andersons now reunited with their tiny baby girl. I prayed for Daddy, who waited on the borderline between death and a life he didn’t seem to want any longer.

I prayed that we, like the town, would emerge newer. Stronger.

I imagined what the future might be. Poetry, built again, block by block, rising slowly from the earth, a testament to the will of its people. Proof that the best things in our lives rise from the ashes of the worst.

I closed my eyes and drifted into sleep again, to the stream behind our farmhouse. The angel was gone, but all of us were there. Together . . .

The sound of a tray banging in the hall awakened me, and I bolted upright in my chair, realizing that my body was leaden, and over an hour had passed. Afternoon sunlight was coming in the window, and somewhere not far away, I could hear the staff picking up meal trays.

I stood up to go to the nurses’ station and ask why no one had brought word of Daddy.

The doctor met me in the hall. “I was just coming to see you.”

I looked into his eyes for a hint of what he was going to say. “I . . . I wondered what was happening.”

“Let’s go in the waiting room and sit down to talk.” His voice was steady, giving no clues.

I sat on the corner of the sofa, watching him, unsure of what I wanted him to say.

He sat on the edge of the coffee table and set his clipboard aside. “Your father is in recovery. . . .”

The way he ended the sentence told me there was more. The words unsaid could change everything.

“He is very weak, and there was a great deal of blood loss and a possible slight stroke during the surgery. As he recovers, we will have to evaluate the damage caused by the stroke.” He looked down at his hands, rubbing the palms together. “With time and therapy, he may return to an active life. A lot of what happens now will depend on his attitude and willingness to cooperate with therapy.” He met my eyes, and I knew he understood more about Daddy than I thought. “The best thing would be to transfer him to the V.A. hospital for long-term recovery and therapy. He will still be close enough for family members to visit him, and the contact with other veterans may be good for his morale.”

I looked away, consumed by guilt. It was like the doctor was offering me a way out and I was taking it.

He must have understood. “I think his chances of recovery will be slim to none at home. He needs further monitoring and physical therapy, as well as help recovering from long-term depression and alcohol addiction. Surely, you must be aware of that.”

I nodded, feeling guilty, feeling that we should have done something to change things years ago.

“I’m sure that’s the best thing to do,” I said quietly. “I think it’s going to be hard for Nate to accept. He and Daddy are”—I wondered what word to use, and finally finished with—“close.”

The doctor rubbed his forehead tiredly. “I realize this is a hard thing to accept. I probably won’t be here when your brothers arrive, but Dr. Ineli is familiar with the case and can answer any questions you may have. I’ll stop by my office and call your brothers before I leave, so that I can explain the outcome of the surgery and the prognosis to them. I’ll tell them you’re waiting here for them, if you’d like me to.”

“Thank you, Doctor. That would be good.” I tried to picture what they were doing right now, what they were thinking. When the doctor called, would they feel the way I did, caught between hope and fear, not knowing which to cling to?

The doctor patted my hand, then stood up.

Have faith, I heard, but I wasn’t certain he had said it.

I sat for a long time, thinking, waiting for Nate and Drew to come. Finally I heard them in the hall, and I stood up. Nate came through the door first, his eyes red and swollen.

I helped him to one of the sofas, then sat beside him and put my arms around him. “It’ll be all right, Nate,” I whispered. “It will. We’ll make it work.”

Drew came into the room and sat down too, resting his hand on Nate’s shoulder. “It’s the right thing, Nate. Daddy’s going to have therapy to help his recovery, the same way you’re going to keep coming here for therapy on your leg, so you can play baseball next year. It’s just like the doctors told you—the therapy sessions won’t be easy, but without it, your leg isn’t going to heal right. Therapy at the veterans’ hospital is what Daddy needs to heal.”

I met Drew’s eyes and saw a mirror of my own hopes and fears. “We’ll work it all out, somehow,” was all I could think to say.

Drew nodded. “Darla and I did a lot of talking last night, Jenilee. I know you’re looking into that medical internship program, and I think that’s a great thing for you, but to do it, you’re going to have to move away from Poetry. I think we should put the farm up for lease to make the payments until Daddy gets better. Darla and I talked to Nate about staying with us for a while.” Drew’s eyes told the rest of the story. He and Darla were getting back together, and they wanted Nate to come and live with them, and not just temporarily. “He’ll be close to the hospital for his therapy.”

Nate wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands. “The school here won state in baseball last year. Darla knows the coach because she does social work at the school. She said she’d call him for me, and . . .” He paused, then turned to me, afraid, insecure. “Do you think all this is O.K.?”

Something inside me tightened, like a fist squeezing the breath from my lungs. I rubbed a hand over my stomach, aching inside. My heart didn’t want to let go. All our lives, Nate and I had been clinging to each other to stay afloat. Now that we had found the shore, it was hard to loosen my grip.

I bit my lip, nodding, then said, “I think it’s fine, Nate. I think this will be the best thing. I’m going to miss you, that’s all.”

Nate smiled one-sidedly. “I’ll only be a couple hours away.” But I could tell his feelings mirrored mine.

“I know. It’s just a change.” It’s you and me going our separate ways. Things won’t be the same after this.

“We needed to change.” He sounded older, more mature, not like the carefree kid he had always been. “You said so yourself.”

“I know.” I stood up, grabbed his face in my hands, and kissed him on the forehead. “I know.” I stood up, afraid that if I stayed any longer, I would break down. I wiped my eyes and swallowed hard. “I . . . need to go home and take care of things. I’ll ask around about someone to lease the farm.”

Drew sighed, seeming relieved. “Why don’t you take my truck? We’ve got Darla’s car and my old Jeep. Nate and I can stay here and wait for Daddy to come out of recovery, then come on down to Poetry in a day or two to pick up things for Nate and Daddy, and help get the farm ready.”

My resolve wavered. “Is that all right with you, Nate?” Part of me wanted him to say no, but I knew that was selfish. I looked at Nate, nearly as tall as Drew now. He wasn’t a child anymore. The storm had changed him, just as it had changed me. He had grown up.

“That sounds all right.” He raised his face, his blue eyes so like Mama’s. “I’ll see you in a day or two, Jen.”

I left the room, knowing that everything would be different now.

As I drove home, even the tornado-scarred landscape, so quickly changed, was changing again. Along the roadsides, debris was being cleaned, homes torn down, buildings repaired, trees cut down, branches hauled away. In town after town, people were building anew. Towns just like our own—small, imperfect places beneath which hid the potential for something larger, something stronger, something we may never have seen, if not for the disaster.

Had I not suffered the loss of everything I thought would matter, I would have missed everything that truly mattered in my life. . . .

I thought of the words from the old letters as I drove through Poetry, passing the buildings on Main Street, where the debris was being cleared and new blocks laid, driving slowly to the armory, where the baseball field was once again just a field, and the place where the glittering motor home had been was now just a shady spot under two threadbare oak trees. I thought of our house, and the fact that it would be empty when I got there.

Loneliness needled inside me, and I pulled into the armory parking lot instead of going home. Parking the truck, I looked around the lot, amazed at the number of cars there. People were coming into the armory with boxes, walking out with sacks and various belongings in their hands.

I climbed from the truck, hurried up the steps, and stood in the doorway. A sense of wonder filled me as I watched people moving around the armory, some taking down pictures, some putting up pictures, some just looking at the pictures, some staring at the walls in amazement, some overcome with emotion. So many people, only a few of them familiar, most of them strangers.

The last of the cots was gone, and even Mr. Jaans was no longer there. I looked around for Mrs. Gibson, but she was gone, also.

Near the doorway, the letters still fluttered in the breeze. An elderly couple stood in front of them, their hands clasped as they read the words, the man leaning heavily on a carved wooden cane. He touched his wife’s face, and she smiled, resting her head on his shoulder.

I moved closer. “Are the letters yours?” I asked.

They paused for a moment, seeming surprised by the question.

Finally the woman shook her head, her eyes glittering with emotion. “No. We read about them in the St. Louis newspaper. We just wanted to see them for ourselves, I guess.”

“I don’t suppose you ever found out who wrote them?” The old man looked at the letters, sighed, then turned back to me.

“No.” I watched as a young couple read the letters, holding their baby between them. “Sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever know.”

The old woman smiled, her face soft, peaceful. “I don’t think it matters who wrote the words,” she said, then turned to her husband, her face filled with love and hope. “It only matters what the words say.”

Slowly, hand in hand, they turned and walked out the door. He limped as he walked, leaning on his cane. She intertwined her arm with his and slowed her steps to match his as they made their way into the sunlight.

“Good morning, Jenilee.” I recognized Doc Howard’s voice, and I turned to find him coming across the room toward me.

“Oh, Doc!” I ran forward, hugging him so hard I nearly knocked him off his feet.

He laughed in his throat, hugging me back. “Well, my goodness, you’d better take it easier than that on a fella just out of the hospital,” he said as we moved apart.

“I’m just glad to see you’re back. I’m so glad you’re all right.”

“Well, I darned near had another heart attack when I heard you were talking about going away to medical school.” He grinned, poking me playfully in the shoulder. “All these years I been trying to get you to go to vet school, and in three days some outsider steals you away. How is that fair?”

“Sorry.” I chuckled. “Anyway, you never know. I may be back. This medical school thing may not work out.”

Doc shook his head as if he knew otherwise. “You’ll be fine. You just do your best, and you’ll be fine.” He pointed a finger at me. “But if you ever get lonely up there in that big city, you give a me call. I’ll be here.”

“You’d better be.” I meant it. “You take care of yourself, all right? No more big adventures.”

“Let’s hope not.” He glanced around the room as if he’d suddenly remembered something. “Well, I’d better get home for lunch before Mrs. Howard comes after me with a dog collar. I’ll stop out at your place later on and check on you.”

“You don’t have to do that, Doc.” The thought of people dropping by our house still seemed strange.

He patted me on the head the way he used to when I was a kid working for him. “I know I don’t, but I will.”

I followed him out the door and climbed into Drew’s truck. A sense of peace and renewal filled me as I left the armory and drove toward home. For the first time in my life, I turned down Good Hope Road feeling as though I belonged there.

The gate was open as I passed Mr. Jaans’s place. I pulled into the driveway and coasted up to the yard fence, where the Gibsons’ car was parked. The door of the house opened, and Mrs. Gibson appeared with a broom, sweeping a cloud of dust out the door.

She saw me and set the broom aside, hurrying down the steps to open the gate.

“Oh, Jenilee!” she cried, reaching for me as I climbed out of the truck. “I’ve been wondering about you all day, and now here you are.”

I stretched my arms out and slipped them around her ample body, smelling the scent of vanilla and freshly baked bread. For a moment I thought of my own grandmother.

We held each other for a long time. Finally she released me and stepped back, her face growing serious. “How’s your father?”

I wondered how to answer the question. “He’s out of surgery. I guess the rest is up to God.”

Mrs. Gibson smiled. “It really all is, anyway.”

“Eudora!” I heard Mr. Jaans’s voice from inside. “Someone’s got to help me out of this blamed bathtub. I’m stuck in here.”

“Just a minute!” she hollered, then turned back to me and blushed. “Someone’s got to look after the old fool.” She chuckled sheepishly; then she called over her shoulder, “Just sit in there and soak awhile. It’ll do ya some good.”

I laughed under my breath, then remembered something. “I brought you something.” I hurried to the truck and returned with the stack of notebooks.

Her eyes widened and brimmed with tears. “My notebooks,” she breathed, taking them from me.

“I found them in your cellar. I guess you forgot you took them down there.”

“I guess so.” She shrugged, as if it didn’t matter anymore. “Next time my house is about to be blowed away by a tornado, I’ll have to stop and make myself some notes about where I’m leavin’ things.”

We chuckled, and Mr. Jaans hollered again from inside. “Good Lord, woman, I’m shrivelin’ up like a prune in here!”

Mrs. Gibson blushed again. “That man.” She rolled her eyes, looking exasperated. “I suppose I better go tend to him.” She set the notebooks on the corner of the porch, then turned back to me. “Dr. Albright is sending them internship forms to Doc Howard’s office for you. I want you to promise me you’re going to fill them out.”

“I am,” I said, knowing she was asking about more than just the forms.

She touched the side of my face, her eyes filled with a love that warmed every part of me. “Then some good will come of all this.”

I laid my hand over hers, thinking of everything that had changed the moment the wind blew us together. “A lot of good came of it.”

“You go on home. I’m going to get this old man out of the bathtub,” she said, lowering her hand. “I’ll be down to your place in a little while with some supper. We can sit and talk.”

“That sounds good. I have so much to tell you.” I turned to leave, comfort settling over me like an old quilt. “I have your stained-glass window at home. Drew saved it for you.”

“My dove?” she cried. “I thought it was ruined. I saw it in the dirt.”

“Some of the glass needs to be replaced, but the dove is still there.”

“Oh, Jenilee, what would I do without you?” She clapped her hands together, turned, and hobbled up the stairs. “My Lord, who knew everything would work out like this.”

Who knew everything would work out like this? I thought as I climbed into the truck and drove away. Who knew?

A dust devil crossed the road in front of me as I drew close to home. I stopped to watch it pass as it lifted bits of paper from the grass in our pasture, swirling them high into the air, like butterflies in a spring dance, until finally they fell free and floated to earth again, landing on the lawn of my grandparents’ old house.

I pulled the truck onto the side of the road and climbed out, squinting at the papers through the heat waves of the afternoon sun. Watching them flutter in the breeze, I slipped through the fence and moved closer, wondering if maybe . . .

My feet moved faster, until I was dashing through the grass, leaping over stands of milkweed and black-eyed Susans as I had as a child, rushing toward a place that was quiet and safe. As I came to the yard, I saw them all around me. Letters. Letters of every size and shape, on aging bits of paper of every color, spilling from what remained of the old white house, covering the grass, intertwining with the flowers.

I knew the handwriting without touching them. I stood, just looking, just listening to the low rustle of their voices. My grandparents’ voices. A part of what I was. The best part. The part that hoped, and loved, and believed, and belonged to a family.

I moved to the decaying wooden swing, still hanging from the elm tree near the tumbledown porch. Sitting carefully on the edge, I untangled a piece of plain brown paper from the wooden slats. Brittle with age, it had once been torn from a sack of feed or flour. I turned it slowly in my hands, touching the neat rows of cursive writing that seemed too fine for the carelessly torn scrap.

Today, I harvested fruit from the vines we planted. I stand now in my kitchen, washing the fruit as I gaze out the window. In the field, I can see you with the horses among a sea of Queen Anne’s lace, bathed in the summer sunshine, lifting our amber-haired daughter high on your shoulders. I want to tell you that there has never been a better moment in my life than this simple, quiet one, but you are too far away to hear me, so I will write this little note to you. Today as I harvested, I saw a moth in a cocoon among the vines. All day as I worked, it labored to break free. If not for something you told me once, I would have helped it to come more easily into this world. But because of you, I know. I know that even the struggle is a gift. It is God’s way of giving a simple creature of the earth the strength to fly.

I am in awe of God and His wonders.

 

Your beloved,

Augustine Hope

Looking across the grass, I imagined a cloud of Queen Anne’s lace, imagined my grandfather there among the horses. I imagined that he was smiling at me, as I sat there among those letters, so long trapped in that silent house, now set free by the wind.