October 1944
Once I was out of contagious, my physio started doing muscle training with me. Every day she’d put me in a big metal tub of warm water, and then she’d exercise my arms and legs and bend my fingers and toes and everything else that would bend. Afterwards, just when I was relaxed and lazy, she’d expect me to work.
She’d stand at the side of my bed and take my left arm. “Concentrate on this muscle,” she’d say, giving my arm a little squeeze. “Think hard that it’s going to move. I’m the one that’s going to move it, but you have to tell it to move. That way we’ll train your mind and your muscles to work together again.”
So I told my muscle to move my arm, but I knew my mind didn’t have nothing to do with it. It was Miss Ruth doing all the moving. But still, she wouldn’t let up on me. She made me focus. And after maybe a week or more, I realized I was actually moving my arm! Miss Ruth kept adding other muscles for me to work on. She was a slave driver for sure.
The good thing about being out of contagious was my momma could visit. She came on a warm, sunny day, so the hospital volunteer pushed my bed out to the porch. And that, by itself, was as good as Christmas.
Junior drove Momma to the hospital, so he come along in for the visit. I think it was the first time I ever seen Junior when he couldn’t think of nothing to say. He just sat on the porch floor and waited while me and Momma visited. As much as Junior’s talking always bothered me, him looking away from me and being quiet like that bothered me even more.
Momma sat on a wooden chair by my bed. She stroked my arms and said she knew I would walk again. I closed my eyes and tried to feel every little touch of Momma’s fingers. She rubbed my arms, and if I sucked my breath in from the pain, she slowed up and said, “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”
Her voice was so full of tenderness that I felt the tears coming up in my eyes. I tried to hold them back, but a sharp pain come up in my throat when I did. And the tears seemed like they just wanted to come. So I finally give up and let them.
When Momma seen I was crying, she stopped rubbing my arms and started in to singing. “I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses …”
I reckon my momma knew a garden song would comfort me. Hearing her sing it took me back home again. Laying there with my eyes shut, I could almost pretend Momma was fussing over her roses by the front steps and I was in the vegetable garden trailing behind Daddy. I could almost believe Ida and Ellie was begging Momma for roses to pin in their hair and Bobby was making Pete dizzy in the tire swing.
For a minute or two, Momma’s singing put the whole family back together again.
But then the song was finished, and she started telling me how our garden was all done. Only the sweet potatoes needed to be dug and put in the cellar.
I made myself open my eyes. I looked at the pine trees over the emergency hospital and I told myself the truth.
Our family was not home in one piece. Daddy was overseas and Bobby was in his grave. Even Pete was dead.
I told Momma about Imogene. I seen the wrinkles come on her forehead when I told her Imogene was colored. But I went ahead and asked could me and Imogene see each other after we was out of the hospital.
She just said, “That’s a bridge we’ll have to cross when we get to it.”
She took a letter from Daddy out of her pocketbook.
My dear family,
It breaks my heart to know you’re suffering there without me. I’m suffering here too, knowing I’ll never hold my boy again. I just keep telling myself he’s in a better place. At least he’ll never have to go to war. Ever since I got to this place one song keeps running in my head.
Precious Lord, take my hand,
Lead me on, help me stand.
Some days I can’t believe the Lord would hold my hand in the middle of a war like this. So much killing he would have to walk through.
Ida and Ellie, be good and help your momma and your sister. Ann Fay, I thank you for all you do to help Momma. Don’t wear them overalls out before I get home. Myrtle, I’m praying for the day I can be home in your arms. The good Lord willing, it will be soon. The Allied army is taking Europe back from Hitler. Pray it all ends quick.
I pray every night that God will help you with the heavy load you have to bear.
All my love,
Daddy
His letter almost made me cry again. I folded it carefully and said, “Daddy don’t even know I’m in the hospital, does he?”
Momma sighed and said, “By now he should have my letter. I sent him your address.”
After Momma kissed me goodbye and headed for home, I wrote a letter to Daddy.
Dear Daddy,
I know Momma told you I’m at the polio hospital. I kept up the garden as long as I could, but when my muscles stopped working, Momma brought me here. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever walk again, but Dr. Hahn says I will if I work hard and cooperate with the physios.
At first, polio hurt a lot. But it’s getting better. Now the hardest part is laying in bed. Sometimes I feel like a lightning bug in a canning jar. Like if I don’t get out of this bed soon, my light is going to burn right out.
They put hot packs on me every day. That’s to limber up my muscles. And they put me in tubs of warm water for the same reason. And physios work on my muscles. I can tell they’re getting better.
I have good friends here. Especially one named Imogene, who is colored. We want to see each other after we get out of the hospital. Would you take me to see her in Greensboro once you get home from the war?
Daddy, I can’t wait for you to come home. I love you better than iced tea with sugar in it.
Love from your spitting image,
Ann Fay
It seemed like it took forever for Daddy’s answer to come to me.
Dear Ann Fay,
Oh my little darling, I can’t believe you have polio. I feel like it’s all my fault because I left you with all the hard work. I should be at home taking care of my family instead of over here fighting this horrible war.
The longer I fight, the worse I hate it. I know someone has to keep the dictators from overtaking the world, but I just don’t have the heart for killing my fellow men.
About seeing your friend Imogene after you get out of the hospital—well, I don’t know about that. It’s best for people to stick with their own kind. When you get out you will have your own friends. What do you hear from Peggy Sue?
Ann Fay, I pray every day for you to walk again soon.
All my love,
Daddy
My heart sunk to my toes when I read that about Imogene. It was the first time my daddy ever give me advice that I thought wasn’t worth the two pennies he claimed for it.
I was so sure he would understand. I thought his big, soft heart that couldn’t stand to kill a Nazi wouldn’t have nothing against an innocent colored girl.
I knew then that Imogene was right all along. Her being colored and me being white meant there was a muddy wide river between her people and mine. And it was going to take a powerful strong bridge to get our people across it.