A Little Hope(33)

She rushes inside St. Margaret’s after Ahmed drops her off at the curb. A mother holds a screaming boy with a bandage pressed to his head. She looks for the sign that says ER and follows the arrow. She could vomit. She sees Mrs. Crowley first, slumped over, her hands clasped in half prayer. She wears a white angora cardigan and a wrinkled blouse. Her daughter, Mary Jane, is talking to a nurse with her arms crossed. A police officer is nearby. “Mrs. Crowley,” Ginger says, and kneels at her side.

The old woman looks up, her eyes the eyes of the worst disappointment. “Ginger?” She looks at her. “You’re wearing the dress.” She touches Ginger’s shoulder. Her hands are cold. “It’s good of you to come,” she says meekly.

Mary Jane sinks beside her mother. “That’s it,” she says.

“That’s what?” Mrs. Crowley says.

“Hi, Mary Jane,” Ginger says awkwardly.

Mary Jane starts to sob. “He won’t. He won’t.” She shakes her head. “It’s too bad.” Ginger notices her red cheeks. Mary Jane puts her hand absently on Ginger, and they huddle there. Three women in the emergency room. “We have to say goodbye,” she whispers. “They said now.” She starts to bend over. She looks as though she might faint.

Mary Jane shakes her head and stands limply. Her hands are shaking. Ginger stares straight ahead. The metal from a wheelchair gleams in the corner. The chairs, all in their careful rows, look high-end, not what you’d expect in a waiting room. A man in a flannel shirt holds a towel wrapped around a bloody arm. A baby in a carrier babbles at its mother, who doesn’t look down. On the big-screen television, Kelly Ripa is standing in front of Cinderella’s castle at Magic Kingdom. What the hell is Ginger doing here? What happened to the wedding? What happened to taking a cab to Luke’s apartment?

Luke, she thinks. I have to tell Luke about the accident. But then she realizes this is Luke. Isn’t that odd to forget? It is Luke. He is inside that room, where the battalion of doctors and nurses just came from. It’s like the movies in that way, Ginger thinks. Did someone say, “We’ve done all we could”? Did they?

Mrs. Crowley puts her hands on her knees and stands. She looks so tall as she marches. “I have to talk to them,” she says. She squares her shoulders and heads toward the nurses’ station.

Ginger saw her do this once before. At a restaurant on Cape Cod during a family vacation. The service was poor. The food was cold. Mrs. Crowley approached the manager. Luke’s dad shook his head. “It’s only supper,” he said, and shrugged, but she walked toward the manager, who stood by the hostess. She walked in a way that said she meant business, and in no time at all, their drinks were refilled, they were offered free desserts. They were attended to, and Mrs. Crowley sipped her black coffee and smiled in a satisfied way.

Now, the old woman stands under the Exit sign, her finger pointed at some young resident, her glasses slipping down lower on her nose. Poor Mrs. Crowley. Mrs. Crowley with her quivering chin. She thinks she can get them to fix this.

Then Ginger notices the blond girl who comes running in. She wears a long sweater coat, her hair dipped in hot pink at the ends. She looks like a pretty waif, so many earrings in one ear, shining lip gloss. The girl searches from face to face for someone who will help her. “I’m here about Luke,” Ginger hears her say. Ginger watches her look around frantically. She doesn’t see Mrs. Crowley or Mary Jane, whom she might recognize. She is so pale, so frightened. Ginger wants to hug her, to motion to her, but she stays still and watches her like this really is a movie and she cannot affect its outcome.

Hovering there beside Mary Jane, Ginger has the oddest feeling. Looking at the girl feels as though she is looking at herself. She feels exactly as the girl looks: confused, helpless, frantic. They are the same person, she feels for that second. Both of them in love with someone they could never really have.

“Can someone tell me about Luke Crowley?” the girl calls, and her words linger in the air like the sound of glass breaking.



* * *



A few days later, Ginger walks Thunder, her parents’ dog, around the block. He is old and takes his time, and she feels selfish because the walk is more for her. He looks up at her every so often, his eyes earnest with the cloud of cataracts, as if he’s asking, Can we finish up now? Christmas is in three days, and the houses have lights wrapped around posts and lit trees in the windows. The neighborhood is quiet, almost lifeless. She then hears the sound of hammering in the distance, at a house being built a block away. It is cool but not cold, and there is no wind. She wants wind. She wants the wind to blow her face hard enough to bring tears.

There was always a part to Luke she couldn’t touch, and now he is at Lucatelli’s Funeral Home in a closed casket. Viewing tonight, funeral tomorrow. “Couldn’t they wait until after the holiday?” her mother said. “Jesus, what’s the rush?”

At the hospital, his dying face was bloodied and broken. She remembers looking down at his fingers, and his right hand was still so perfect. Untouched by what had happened. The right hand he had used to scramble eggs for her. The right hand that touched her face. The hand that slid the ring on her finger. She wanted to kiss his fingertips the way she’d always done, but she stayed in the background while Mrs. Crowley and Mary Jane said goodbye and then the girl named Hannah placed her head on his chest and sobbed. “I love you,” she said. Ginger wondered how long they had known each other, and if Luke loved her back.