Before I have a chance to cry, Mama appears in the open doorway of the examination room. She stands alone, wearing her housedress. Her hair is matted. Her eyes are wide open, the act of blinking no longer an option. She stands motionless. “Jack?” she whispers.
The doctor looks at Mama and shakes his head. My heart has all but stopped. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
I expect her to scream. Instead, she keeps whispering, “No, no, no, no, no,” as if she has the power to change what has happened by refusing to accept it.
Then she looks up and yells his name: “Jack!” She rushes to his bed and grabs him. White cotton sleeves surround her, pulling her, consoling her. But she won’t calm down. She is clawing at Jack. Squeezing his hands. She shakes his arms, kisses his cheeks, his lips, his eyes, all in a desperate, surreal series of movements. I try to wrap my arms around her. She pushes me away, hard and angry.
The doctor pulls a sheet over Jack’s face.
Mama is moaning now. She prays out loud, then curses God. The nurses try to calm her, but Mama won’t stand for it. After all these years of being invisible, she is finally ready to fight the forces that have been slamming against her.
It’s taken nearly an hour, but Mama is finally quiet. Jack’s boots rest beneath the gurney. His belt and buckle hang from a corner chair. His hat is dusty and bloodied.
The clock on the wall ticks—the only noise left in the room. The commotion has faded now. Only a somber-faced doctor and nurse Diana remain with Mama and me. Plus Sloth’s ghost, back again. He watches from the edge of the bed as the doctor announces 6:32 p.m. as the time of death. The doctor leaves the room without looking me in the eye. Diana touches Mama’s elbow. It is time for me to leave too. Mama asks for a moment alone with Jack. Diana pulls me out into the kitchen. She opens the icebox and hands me a frosty bottle of Coca-Cola. I take my time, savoring the slow, cool burn.
Diana stares at me. She probably expects me to cry. But I don’t. I want to make the whole situation go away. So I slide into the sound of the Coke sloshing in the bottle and try to focus only on how the bubbles pop when I tilt the bottle too fast.
I almost don’t even hear Diana say, “We need to get your mother a room of her own. We’ll make her comfortable. Help her rest a bit. Do you have some family or friends we can call to come get you?”
I have no one. Sloth is dead. Jack is dead. River is who knows where. And there’s no way my grandparents would come and support Mama. Especially if what she’s doing is mourning Jack. All I have left in this world is Mama. And I sure am not going to leave her, no matter what they say.
“I’ll just stay here with Mama,” I tell the nurse, trying to swallow. I place the empty bottle on the counter, and we walk back to the examination room. I look at Mama. I can see in her eyes, she’s about to take a long, hard fall. Deep into the valley.
Diana nods cautiously. Then she helps Mama find a seat in the hall and gives her a clipboard of papers to sign. Mama stares at the clipboard as if she can’t figure out what to do with it. I take it from her and do my best to fill in the blanks, to patch together the scattered bits of anything I know about my father.
Name—Jack Reynolds
Date of Birth—July 30, 1901
Date of Death—December 21, 1942
Time of Death—6:32 p.m.
Age at Death—41 years
Preceded in Death by—
Jack didn’t seem to have anybody in the world but Mama and me. I remember the photo in the box. The one that proved Jack has a brother. Two parents. I still know nothing about them, except that his mother was Choctaw and his father Irish. “Mama, what do I put here?”
She looks at the form and says, “Jack’s been on his own as long as I’ve known him.”
I leave the answer blank and move on.
Faith—
I’ve never known Jack to care much for religion. He never did understand the whole idea of Mama reading the Bible and saying her prayers. I try to sum up Jack’s faith. I am snapped back to the age of seven. I have a high fever and Mama is afraid I will die. She holds a cold wet cloth on my head and prays over me. “Ain’t no point in that,” Jack says. I leave that line blank and move on.
Services to be conducted by—
I only know the name of one preacher in town. My grandfather, the Reverend Paul Applewhite. Jack would come back to kill me if I let Reverend Applewhite read his funeral, so I leave that part blank too. Someone else will do the job.
I look to Mama for help. She is rocking back and forth, cradling herself in her arms, softly humming. I put the clipboard down on the shiny green tile and hug her tight. She tunes out the pain, filling in those hollow spaces inside herself. Her eyes are gray. Skin, sallow and dry. Over the years, she has become fragile, so tiny she has nearly disappeared completely. I notice it now more than before. How broken and weathered Mama looks, compared to the pretty nurse, Diana.
Diana’s shiny white shoes tap into view. “I have a room for you, Mrs. Reynolds.” Mama doesn’t move, so Diana and I wrap our arms around Mama and pull her to her feet. The nurse’s pale-pink nails look out of place against Mama’s arm. All marked up with stamps and bangers. The nurse realizes we aren’t going to be able to walk with Mama, so she pulls a wheelchair from the hall and we ease Mama into the seat, like an antique doll, prized and delicate, as if you could love it to pieces.
I want to cry for the loss of my father. I want to grieve the fact that no matter how much I have always hoped he could love me, it is too late. Things will never change now. I want to curl up in Mama’s lap, let her hold me like a child. Instead, I push my feelings to the very back corners of my mind and walk with my head up as Diana pushes Mama’s wheelchair down the hall.
We take Mama out of the examination area through wooden double doors that swing back and forth. We pass the nurses’ station, where a hefty nurse with a bulldog grimace greets us coldly. “Room Three,” she barks, giving me an irritated glare that clearly says, “You do not belong here, child.”
In Room Three, Diana helps me transition Mama from chair to bed. “I’ll put a pitcher of fresh water on the windowsill. Try to get her to drink. There are extra blankets on the shelf. I’ll order dinner,” she says.
I nod to thank her.
“If you want to stay with your mother, I’m afraid there won’t be any comfortable place for you to sleep. It’s really against hospital policy for children to stay the night. But we’ve made allowances this time, given the circumstances. I’ve requested a comfortable chair and an extra pillow. Maybe that will do until you make other arrangements,” she says, smiling. She must understand my reluctance to leave Mama all alone.
“The doctor will make rounds in the morning. If you need anything, the nurse on duty is Hilda Ostenhiem. Don’t let her scare you. If that doesn’t work, tell them you want to talk to me. Diana Miller. Okay?”
I stand still when she hugs me. Diana’s hug is warm and open. It says, “Everything will be all right.” But this happy nurse has no idea how it feels to be me.
Still, I want her to stay and find me a cozy chair and a fluffy pillow and make all the bad things go away. She leaves briefly and returns with the pitcher of water. “I have to go now. I have a little girl at home who’s probably getting pretty hungry. It’s my one rule. We always have to be home for supper. And I’m already three hours late.”
I imagine her going home to serve warm beef stew to her daughter, a miniature version of Diana, with her own clean dress and shiny new shoes. I can almost taste the creamy potatoes and thick brown broth, warm cubes of beef, bay leaves, and pepper. I have cooked it a million times for Mama. I usually end up eating it alone for about ten days straight, trying not to waste any leftovers.
“Thanks for all your help,” I say, trying not to show my shame. “We’ll be fine.”
Diana leaves and I curl in next to Mama, like a comma. Her wide pupils fix on the ceiling and don’t acknowledge me at all. I sing the hymn she’s been humming, a familiar one she has sung to me many times over the years.
Amazing grace! How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind but now I see.
My clothes are covered in Jack’s blood, a scent that reminds me I’m not the only one here. But it’s not the comforting company of Sloth I feel. This is different. It’s the same presence that has been on my trail for years. First, when I was just a tiny thing, watching Sloth slaughter a hen who didn’t want to die, then when the mutt dog crunched the bones of her own breathing puppies. Later when I held Sloth’s hand under the magnolia and spent the night at Sloth’s grave, and again today, when I watched Jack fall from the bull at the rodeo, his veins leaking blood through his chest while the fans stood and stared. The darkness followed me here, to Mercy Hospital, where he stole Jack away from us, once and for all, and now he’s here again, in Room Three, trying to take Mama, too. I know him now, by name. He is Death, and he warns me that he isn’t done quite yet.
Mama continues to ignore me. I sing for her again, pulling the verses soft and low. Mama closes her eyes. I lean my head against her pillow and let my voice drift off.
Two dinner trays arrive, carried by a large woman in a starched pink uniform. She places the trays on the windowsill next to the water pitcher and leaves the room without saying a word to Mama or Death or me.
I climb down to inspect the meal. “Look, Mama. Steak and gravy. Mashed potatoes. Let’s try some.”
Mama won’t take a single bite. Not even a sip of tea. Her eyes milk over. I can’t help wondering if her heart has stopped. I remember what Sloth taught me on all our hunts. How to approach slowly and check for breath or a pulse, make sure the game is really dead. I lean in close to Mama. Weak drafts of air move in and out. Her pulse is steady but slow. She’s alive, barely.
I rush down the hall to find our new nurse, Hilda. She stands, large and sturdy, over a pile of medical charts. “Mama’s not doing too good,” I tell her. “I think she might be dying.”
“Is that what you think?” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Yes. I really do. She’s barely breathing. I can’t get her to wake up. I think she’s letting go.”
“Well, people don’t just let go. Something has to do that for them. Cancer or heart attacks or shotguns,” she says, chuckling to herself. She is quite amused.
“I’m not kidding,” I bite back. “Something’s really wrong. If you can’t come check, then please call Diana. She’ll come.”
This does it. The nurse slams down the chart. With wide, hard steps, she moves down the hall. Her arms don’t bend when she walks, and she makes short, terse little wheezes with each breath. When we get to Room Three, Mama is exactly as I left her. Still, quiet, pupils wide. Out of touch with the world around her. I want to tell the nurse that Death is watching us. That he is hovering over Mama.
“Mrs. Reynolds?” No response. “Mrs. Reynolds?” the nurse tries again, louder, with more command. Again, Mama does not respond.
Hilda pulls a stethoscope from her deep pocket and listens to Mama’s chest. She wraps a tight black band around Mama’s arm and reads her blood pressure. She pinches Mama’s skin. It stands straight up rather than bouncing back to where it is supposed to be. She shines a tiny flashlight into Mama’s eyes. Mama doesn’t even blink.
“What did they give her?” Hilda asks.
“Nothing,” I answer.
“Well, they had to have given her something,” she says, walking out of the room. I follow. She pulls Mama’s chart from a slot on the wall outside her room. She flips a few pages. “I’m going to call Dr. Jacobson,” she says, turning her back on me, as if I have no right to know what she’s doing.
I return to Mama’s room and take a few bites of mashed potatoes. The food is cold. I push the tray aside and cuddle back into the folds of Mama. I sing another hymn to her, my voice cracking on the notes.
I am nearly drifting off when the door creaks open and a light knock taps me awake. I sit up to find three cowboys and Jack’s boss, Mr. Cauy Tucker, making their way into the room.
“Ma’am,” Mr. Tucker says, tipping his hat to my mother and taking the lead into the crowded room. The other three remove their hats as a sign of respect. The young delivery boy is here again. Bump. He looks at me with kindness, as if he’d trade places with me if he could. I feel a little better just knowing he is in the room. “We’re all very sorry about Jack. He was like a son,” Mr. Tucker says. The others nod.
Mama doesn’t respond.
“My mother’s not feeling so well, Mr. Tucker. I’m sorry,” I say.
“Understood,” Mr. Tucker answers. “It was nice to see you at the competition today, Millie. Jack’s sure told us a lot about you.”
“Really?” I ask, my voice a mix of sarcasm and doubt.
“You bet,” Mr. Tucker answers, looking to the others for support.
They nod and mutter various versions of “Yep.”
“Well, what’d he say?” I ask, not falling for the lie, feeling way too tired to be nice.
“Oh, you don’t believe me, do you?” Mr. Tucker says, a broad smile curving beneath his wiry silver mustache. I realize now that his name, Cauy, doesn’t suit him. He is much too brazen to be called coy.
“Nope,” I answer, certain that Jack never mentioned me in his whole life.
“For your information, young lady, he tells me you are a very good cook. He especially likes your chicken gumbo. He says you’re great with animals,” Mr. Tucker says, still speaking as if Jack were alive. “He thinks you’d be a natural on the broncs, but he says your mother would never go for that.” He winks. “He also says you like flowers and that you and your mama are both pretty good singers.”
My hands shake. Tears burn my eyes. I never knew Jack had noticed anything about me. Maybe he had observed the time I spent with animals, how I cooked meals with Sloth and brought food home for Mama, the way I looked at Mr. Sutton’s horses with such longing I could barely stand it.
“Now, now,” Mr. Tucker says, leaning down to pat my back. “Didn’t mean to get you all upset. I thought you’d like to hear how much he talked about you. How much he missed you when he was away on the circuit.”
I feel my anger rising. The Jack Mr. Tucker is talking about had never lived at my house. Jack must have put on a show for his boss, the doting father who missed his family. I look at Mama, barely breathing in the bed. Completely unaware the room is full of cowboys. I’ve had enough.
“Well, Mr. Tucker,” I say, fury singeing my lips. “Did he tell you about how he would come home and beat Mama to a bloody pulp? Did he tell you how he left her good for dead on the kitchen floor? Or that he drank himself into a fit of rage every single night he was home? Did the heroic Jack Reynolds tell you those things, Mr. Tucker?”
The cowboys shuffle their feet in awkward silence. Mr. Tucker straightens his back, adjusts his hat, clears his throat. “No, Millie. I suppose some things are better left unsaid.”
With that, he motions for the others to leave. “Tell your mother we stopped by. We’ll be in town through Christmas. Be sure to let us know what we can do to help you, Millie. We’ll get together a list of pallbearers. I’d like to say a few words at the funeral, too, if that’d be all right. I’ll check back. Here’s my card, in case you need anything between now and then.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, sorry I have made such a scene.
“We loved your father, Millie,” Mr. Tucker says. “And he loved you, too. I’m sorry he was never able to show you.”
The men close the door behind them and leave me crying. Mama is in a deep sleep. I try to pray for her, but the words won’t come.
I fall asleep in Mama’s hospital bed and wake when burly nurse Hilda flips the switch. A wall of bright light slams against me. Every inch of muscle in my entire body aches. My tongue is thick and pasty.
“Get up,” Hilda barks.
I quickly move out of her way. Two smaller nurses are with her, frantically fumbling to insert a needle into Mama’s arm.
Mama doesn’t flinch.
They cram a metal shaft into the back of her mouth.
She doesn’t gag.
Then they insert a tube through the shaft and keep pushing it deeper. And deeper.
“What are you doing?” I yell, trying to keep them from hurting Mama.
“Get out of the way,” the bulldog orders. “What did she take?”
“I don’t know. What’s wrong? What are you doing?”
“She may have overdosed,” she answers. “Think back. Was she ever left alone?”
I trace a line of time back through the hours since Jack’s fall. I have no idea what Mama did between the time I left for the rodeo and the time she arrived at Jack’s room. I haven’t seen anyone give Mama any medications. “I don’t know! I don’t know!” Fear takes hold of me. I am yelling. Surely they know about Mama’s habit. She spent so much time in the hospital after the beating. They gave her all the medicine she needed, trying to numb her pain. “Get her out of here!” Hilda orders. “And call the doctor!” One of the younger nurses grabs my arm and pulls me out of the room.
“It’s okay,” she says. Her white nurse’s hat is crowned in the center of a smooth blonde bun. “We need you to c-calm down.” She has a severe stammer, as if the words are being shaken from her like salt. “We’re n-not going to hurt her. We’re only trying to get the bad c-chemicals out of her body so she can wake up again. If you know what she took, it would help.”
I shake my head and cry, “I don’t know. I really don’t know! Sometimes she takes pills. Other times she takes it with a needle. For pain.”
“Thank you, Millie,” she whispers. “That’s v-very helpful.”
The second young nurse pokes her head out the door and yells for more help. The one with me says, “Morphine. I think she t-took morphine.” We rush back into Room Three. I stand in the corner watching as wires are pulled and plugged and Mama’s chest is pumped and nothing seems like it’s helping Mama at all.