Cracks in the Sidewalk(25)

“What really happened?” Claire asked.

“It happened just as Elizabeth said,” Cyndi answered. “Her short-term memory comes and goes. She needed to use the bathroom and tried to get out of the bed. It was instinct. She probably didn’t remember being paralyzed.”

“If it was only a fall from the bed, then why was there so much blood?”

“Because of the blood thinner she’s taking, even the smallest cut bleeds profusely.”

“Why is she taking—”

“She needs it to prevent a second embolism.” Cyndi shrugged. “It’s unfortunate, but what helps one thing sometimes hurts another. When Elizabeth fell the IV was pulled from her arm, the vein punctured, and the injection site lacerated.”

“All that blood from the IV coming out?”

“Yeah,” Cyndi answered. “The IV wasn’t just removed; it was ripped loose from her arm. Most of the blood Elizabeth lost came from the punctured vein. She was lucky we found her just a few minutes after she fell.”

“If you hadn’t come in right away…”

“She could have bled to death.”

When she heard that, Claire decided Elizabeth would never be left alone again. What Liz couldn’t remember, Claire would remember. When Liz couldn’t call for help, Claire would. Never again, she vowed, would her daughter be without someone to lean on and a hand to hold.



Claire kept her word. That same day she had Elizabeth moved to a larger room with space for a reclining chair. All night, every night, Claire sat in that chair. Sometimes she slept; often she did not. If she did sleep, she kept one eye open and her ears perked for the slightest sound of movement. When it became necessary to return home for a quick shower and change of clothes, she hired Loretta, a private nurse, to sit in the chair. Even though she was gone for just a few short hours, thoughts of Elizabeth crowded her head and urged her to return.

When the yellow chrysanthemums died Claire decorated the window sill with a tiny Christmas tree, and she placed Elizabeth’s gifts around it. On Christmas morning when people all over town opened presents she sat beside Elizabeth encouraging her to open one gift after another. On the last day of the year when the grandfather clock in their hallway at home chimed midnight, Claire didn’t hear it. She drank bubbly ginger ale from a plastic glass as she and her daughter toasted each other.

“Here’s hoping nineteen-eighty-five is a better year,” Elizabeth said.

“Amen,” Claire replied. “Amen.”





Claire McDermott


I don’t trust Cyndi. Don’t ask me why, because I can’t say. Sometimes you just sense people are up to no good. That’s how I feel about Cyndi. Most of the nurses take time to chat with Liz—about the weather maybe, a television show, their kids, things like that—but not Cyndi. She walks in and out, all business. Never looks me square in the eye. She’s like a scrub brush, all bristle and no bend.

It could be that I’m misjudging her. Maybe she’s got her own problems. People like Cyndi tend to believe their problems are worse than anyone else’s, so they’re long on self-concern and short on sympathy.

Personally, I doubt anyone has it as tough as Elizabeth. All the joys of life have been taken from her, but she manages to smile. Cyndi ought to thank God she’s up and walking around. All Elizabeth can do is lie in bed and pray this new drug therapy works.

Liz is braver than I’d thought possible. It kills me to watch her going through this. If I could change places with her, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Believe me, it’s far worse to watch your child suffer than to bear the pain yourself.

Charlie doesn’t say it all the time, but I know what he’s thinking. I can practically see the thoughts pressing up against his forehead when he pretends to read Business Week and stares at the same page for hours. He struggles with saying what’s on his mind, especially when he’s talking to Liz. That’s because he can’t give her what she needs to get well.

Charlie’s used to fixing things. Give him a problem that’s fixable, and he’ll get it done. But this is something he can’t fix. So he hides inside himself to keep from facing the God-awful truth.

He has plenty to say about Jeffrey and, trust me, not one word of it is good. If Jeffrey’s name pops up, Charlie spends an hour going over his umpteen shortcomings. Last week down on Main Street, Charlie saw the padlock and the sheriff’s notice on the door of JT’s store and came home happier than I’ve seen him in months. It’s hard to imagine how he’d react if he knew what I know.

Jeffrey is having an affair. Despite what he thinks, Liz is still his wife. I’ve struggled with whether to say something and finally decided not to. If I told Liz or Charlie, what good would that do? Charlie couldn’t possibly hate Jeffrey any more than he already does, and Elizabeth is too sick to care. On second thought, I guess she does care but she’s too sick to do anything about it, so why torture her with the truth?

Last week was Valentine’s Day, a day when husbands generally give their wife flowers and candy, but Jeffrey didn’t even send Liz a card. You’d think he could muster up enough love to send a card! Or at least send one from the kids. He didn’t. Liz watched the aides pass by with bouquets for other patients, but she never said a word about how disappointed she was. She didn’t have to; I could see it in her face.