Cracks in the Sidewalk(82)

Throughout the long hot day Claire continued to wipe her daughter’s skin with icy cold cloths. When night came she continued until the air cooled to where a person could breathe comfortably. After she emptied the last bowl of water, she stretched out on the daybed.

When a person’s soul is as weary as their body, sleep overtakes them—so Claire slept. And she dreamt. In her dream a little Elizabeth ran, played, called out to her…

“Mother?” The voice sounded weak and far away. “Mother?”

Claire jumped to her feet, startled.

Elizabeth’s eyes were open. “Mother?”

“You’re awake!” Claire gasped, folding her daughter into a joyous embrace. “Thank you, Lord,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

Elizabeth’s eyes darted about, and she looked confused. “Where’s—”

“I know it’s a bit bewildering,” Claire said, tracing her hand along the contour of Elizabeth’s face. “You’ve been asleep a long time.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth closed her eyes again and drifted off to sleep.

Claire watched and waited for her daughter to wake but she slept silently through the day, through the night, and through two more days. Claire continued the sponge baths, crediting them with the miracle. On the fourth day Elizabeth again opened her eyes, slowly, sleepily, and for less than a minute.

Claire felt certain Elizabeth would soon regain consciousness, so she filled the room with bright, colorful flowers. “I want Liz to see something pretty when she opens her eyes,” she told Charlie and reminded him that once Elizabeth could sit up they would need to have Dudley file a new petition for the children’s visitation.

Charlie said, “I think you’re being overly optimistic.” He knew the truth. The first time Liz opened her eyes and spoke a few words he’d been every bit as excited as Claire, but then he’d spoken with the doctor. He spoke with Doctor Sorenson once a week, sometimes more often.

“Elizabeth is wavering on the shallower edge of a comatose state,” Doctor Sorenson had explained. “It’s not at all uncommon for a patient in that state to drift in and out of consciousness. It can happen any number of times. Enjoy it for what it is—a few extra moments of time with your daughter. Believe me, it is not a harbinger of what is to come.”



Consciousness came and went throughout the sweltering summer. Elizabeth opened her eyes dozens of times, although seldom for more than a minute or two. She spoke a few words here and there, generally slurred and confused in thought. Nonetheless, Claire’s spirits soared, and she continued to feel encouraged. Confident the icy sponge baths had caused the improvement, she insisted Charlie replace the large fan with an air conditioner that kept the room as cold as the inside of a refrigerator.

“I’m certain it’s helping Liz,” she said, bundling herself in an alpaca sweater.

On the last Sunday of August Elizabeth’s eyelids fluttered as Charlie bent to kiss his daughter good morning; Claire said, “Say good morning to Daddy.”

Suddenly a whisper-thin voice answered, “Good morning, Daddy.”

Elizabeth eyes remained closed.

“You’re coming along beautifully,” Claire gushed, gingerly embracing her daughter.

Charlie smiled, patted Elizabeth’s hand, planted a gentle kiss on Claire’s cheek, and then left the room before Claire could see his tears.

That afternoon Claire read aloud for hours. She finished the final chapters of To Kill a Mockingbird, then moved on to the book of Revelations. Close to five o’clock she set the Bible aside and stood to check on Elizabeth.

“How are you doing, sweetheart?” she asked. A hand to her daughter’s head revealed a damp brow, icy cold but slick with beads of perspiration.

“My goodness,” Claire exclaimed. “It feels as though you’ve got a fever.”

Elizabeth’s face appeared restful and unusually calm with just the slightest trace of a smile. Her eyelids fluttered ever so slightly.

“I’m sorry to be so much trouble, Mother,” she whispered.

“Nonsense,” Claire answered. “You’re no trouble at all!” She gently smoothed Elizabeth’s hair back from her face. “We need to break this fever. I’ll get some ice water.”

It took Claire less than two minutes—just long enough to empty a tray of ice cubes into a bowl, fill it with water, and hurry back—but when she returned Elizabeth’s breathing had slowed.

Claire gasped and cradled her daughter in her arms. As she held her in a close embrace, the last bit of air rattled from Elizabeth’s chest.

When Charlie came home two hours later, Claire still held Elizabeth.

“I was her mother,” she wailed, “but I couldn’t save her.”



After the funeral dozens of friends and neighbors streamed through the McDermott house. They came with saddened faces and carried casseroles, trays of meat, fruit, cakes, pies, pastries. They embraced Claire and Charlie as they offered condolences and spoke of what a wonderful person Elizabeth was, but in the far corners of the room ugly whispers asked, “Where is her husband? Where are her children?”

The night his daughter died, Charlie called Jeffrey and left a message on the answering machine. The following day he drove to the house and slipped a note through the mail slot. But no one from the Caruthers family came to say goodbye to Elizabeth. The church generally reserved the first pew for the grieving family, but Claire and Charlie sat alone. Charlie held her hand. Claire stared straight ahead, her eyes blinded by misery.