Cracks in the Sidewalk(24)

Now when Jeffrey should be helping Liz get through this, he wants to be rid of her. Jeffrey only cares for Jeffrey. That’s how he is, how he’s always been. I don’t generally think ill of people, but Jeffrey, well…

If I had my way, I’d go at him with every ounce of strength I’ve got. But that’s not what Elizabeth wants. I suppose, in time, Jeffrey will get what’s coming to him. I sure as hell hope so.





December 1984


Three weeks before Christmas the weather took on a chill, holiday decorations sprang up, and the fragrance of fresh-cut pine trees wafted from every street corner and vacant lot. Elizabeth had fared well with her first treatment of the “wonder drug.” No serious side effects, no unusual reactions. Doctor Sorenson claimed to be “optimistically hopeful,” although it was too soon to know whether the tumor had stopped growing. On the first Friday of the month Elizabeth was to have her second treatment. If she tolerated that one as well as the first, she’d go home for Christmas—well, at least back to the McDermott house.

Thursday morning Claire instructed Charlie to stop on his way home and buy a tree. Claire wanted it fully decorated before the weekend.

“Make sure to get a big one,” she said, “at least seven, maybe eight feet.”

“Okay,” Charlie nodded and hurried out.

Before he left the driveway, Claire bolted from the house. “And lights,” she called out. “Get some extra lights.” Charlie nodded, backed into the street, and pulled away.

For what was probably the twentieth time, Claire ran through her mental list of things to prepare for Elizabeth’s homecoming. The bedroom was ready and waiting: redecorated with fresh paint, cheerful curtains, a peony comforter, a brand new twenty-one inch television with a large button easy-to-use remote, a bedside bell to summon people, and portrait-sized pictures of David and Kimberly on the dresser.

The Christmas presents waited to be put under the tree Charlie would buy. Weeks ago Claire scoured the stores and carried home an armload of gifts: nightgowns, a bathrobe, slippers, talcum powder, perfume, and nail polish. She’d wrapped everything and tagged it with Elizabeth’s name.

By ten minutes after nine Claire was on her way to the hospital. Normally the drive took seventeen minutes but today, stuck behind a Buick that had rear-ended a garbage truck, it took twice as long. Claire sat drumming her fingers against the steering wheel, trying to figure out what the new jitteriness inside her chest was telling her. By all accounts she should be feeling good about things. Elizabeth seemed to be doing better, and she was coming home. So what, Claire wondered, would cause her to be jumpy as a cat in a thunderstorm?

She left the car on the second level of the parking garage and hurried to the hospital. Halfway there she remembered the magazine she’d brought for Elizabeth, laying on the back seat of the car. For a brief moment she considered turning back, but something made her feet move forward. Across the street, past the glass door entranceway, through the lobby, and into the elevator, all the while still thinking she should go back for the magazine.

Claire pushed the fourth floor button and waited. When the elevator doors opened she stepped into the hallway and walked by the nurses’ station. Suddenly she saw a number of nurses rushing in and out of room 416. Claire broke into a run.

Elizabeth sat in the chair sobbing, her yellow nightgown torn and covered with cabbage-sized crimson stains. Even if Claire had mistaken the source of the stains on Liz’s nightgown, she could not mistake the dry blood crusted on her daughter’s face and arm. Nor could she miss the blood splattered across the floor and patterned with rubber-soled footprints. Cyndi, the nurse on duty, and four other people bustled about the room. One of them, a candy-striped aide, hurriedly tugged blood-stained sheets from the bed and tossed them to the floor.

“Oh, my God!” Claire shouted. She tromped across the sheets and knelt alongside Elizabeth. Cyndi was sponging streaks of blood from Liz’s arm.

“What happened?” Claire asked.

“I’m sorry,” Cyndi said apologetically. “Elizabeth got out of bed and fell.”

“Wasn’t anyone here to help her?”

“She didn’t call for help.”

“Or you just didn’t hear!” Claire replied angrily. “Elizabeth understands her paralysis. She wouldn’t try to get up by herself!”

Before Cyndi could explain, Elizabeth sobbed, “I did forget, Mom. I did.” She began to tremble.

“It’s my fault,” Claire said. “I should have been here.” She wiped away the tears on Liz’s cheek. “Don’t cry. Everything’s okay now.”

“No, it isn’t,” Elizabeth replied sadly. “Nothing’s okay. Look at what I’ve become.”

“Don’t talk like that, Liz. Yes, you’re sick, but you’ll get better. And then—”

Elizabeth looked at Claire with the expression of a hurt child trying to understand. “Then what? Then I’ll be able to remember I’m paralyzed?”

Claire wrapped both arms around Liz and held her close. At a time like this even a mother could only whisper words of comfort and offer hopeful promises.

After a long while Elizabeth’s sobbing subsided, and she succumbed to weariness. Leaning heavily on Claire’s arm, she climbed back into bed and before long was asleep.