Grace parks the car and reluctantly walks into Merle’s house. Her mother, with a yellow apron on, stands in the center of the kitchen. “I don’t know what to make for him to eat!” she sputters.
“The doctor is coming.”
“I nearly fainted when the police showed up. It’s dreadful, isn’t it.”
The sharp light from the window etches every defect in Gene’s face. Grace partially draws the maroon drapes.
“Where did you get that schmancy Buick?” he asks.
“A friend lent it to me.”
“Rosie?”
“Another friend. Rosie and Tim have moved to Nova Scotia. Can you walk with me to the library? There’s a bed in there.”
“Why?” he asks.
“We had a power outage that lasted four days. We all slept in there with the fire going.”
She watches as he reverses the agonizing process that enabled him to lie down. She moves toward him to help.
But he limps ahead of her, indicating that he’s master of the house now.
Grace greets Dr. Lighthart at the back door without a word. She remembers how Dr. Franklin used to walk in unannounced and take the stairs to the bedroom where the patient lay. Another world. Another country.
“Gene, this is Dr. Lighthart,” she says, introducing her husband.
“You can leave us alone, Mrs. Holland,” says the doctor.
Grace closes the door.
Mrs. Holland.
She sits on an upholstered chair in the hallway that may as well have been placed here for this very purpose: to wait to be summoned. In less than two hours, her life has been transformed. To think that at this very minute she might have been selecting side tables and lamps for the office with a nice man, a good man. She was planning on purchasing something quirky or useful for him as a house present.
She hears murmurs, a quick stab of a cry, and then silence behind the closed door. Dr. Lighthart signals to Grace to move with him toward the sitting room.
“The burns are bad,” he says as they walk. “He’ll need constant care. He has to wear loose silk pajamas and lie on silk sheets and silk pillowcases, all of which will have to be laundered every day. I’ve treated the burns, but I’ve not put on gauze. I want them to dry in the air under the pajamas I brought.” He pauses. “I’ll see what I can come up with and send along with Amy. I’ve left the supplies he’ll need for the next day or two on the dresser. Amy will bring more. The most important thing at the moment is to keep the wounds clean and to keep him hydrated. Whenever you’re with him, make him drink. Water, apple juice, and more water. I’d put a small table right next to the bed and set a plate of finger food on it. He can manage that better than, say, soup. He’ll pick at it when he wants to. Amy will try to get him to sit up tomorrow. She’ll be firm, and I expect your husband will holler like crazy. Then you’ll have to continue with that treatment yourself if you’re physically capable.” He sighs. “Grace, it’s unfair, I know. I’d like to see you hire a part-time nurse. Full-time would be better.”
She shakes her head. “He’d want to know how I was paying for it.”
“You have more jewelry,” he says in a lower voice.
“I don’t know. He’s very sharp.”
“I noticed that.”
“I’m sorry about not being able to work for you. I loved the job.”
“And I was happy to have you there. Truly.”
As they head for the back door, he collects his hat and pulls a piece of paper from his pocket. “This is the phone at the farm. Call me anytime. If I can’t get here myself, I’ll send someone. Below that is the number of the ambulance service. An emergency would be pain terrible enough that he can’t keep from crying out for, say, fifteen minutes; excessive oozing from the wounds; any sign of blood from the wounds; and fever. I can’t do anything for his headache today because I don’t yet understand what’s causing it. It might just be dehydration.”
“Thank you for coming. You’ve been a good friend to me.”
“I hope we’ll continue to be good friends.” He puts his hand on her shoulder before he turns the doorknob. “I want to feel sorry for the man.”
The doctor has left a glass with a bent straw on the mahogany dresser so that Gene, in new navy silk pajamas, can drink water without sitting up. She notices that he has given himself a sponge bath in the bathroom nearby. The good part of his face looks shinier, and his nails are clean.
“Was someone here?” he asks.
At first she thinks his brain is addled. “The doctor was here.”
“No, I mean before.”
“I don’t understand.” She sets a small blue plate with pieces of deviled ham sandwich and apple on it by the bedside table.
“I saw a razor blade on the floor of the bathroom, half hidden by the claw foot of the tub. I couldn’t bend to pick it up. Someone could cut a foot on it.”
“I’ll get it later,” she says.
“But who left it there?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, some man was here. My father’s been dead for years.”
“Gene, honestly, how would I know?”
She pulls a chair closer to the bed. Her husband doesn’t smell as bad as he did before the doctor came. “Do you need a toothbrush?” she asks.
“I need it all.”
She holds the straw to his lips.
After Grace has played cowboys and Indians at Claire’s request, she returns to Gene’s room and sees him struggling to get out of bed.
“Here, let me help,” she says. She lifts the blanket and sheet away from him. He pushes himself off the bed with his right hand. There are stains on the sheets.
“What do you want?” she asks.
“What do I want?” he says when standing. “I want to be a normal human being again. I want to go back to work. I’d like to take a shit in a toilet. I’d like to sit at a table and eat a bowl of soup. I’d like to not have to worry about moving in a certain way and causing pain. I’d like my face back. That enough?”
Gene’s bitterness, however well earned, could eat through walls.
He says he wants to walk into the parlor because he’s sure he left something there. Again he moves ahead, and Grace obediently follows.
“There!” he says. “I knew something was wrong.”
“What is it?”
“Why’s the piano in here?” he asks.
She glances at the piano, gathering dust. Grace has no choice but to lie and lie and lie. “I thought it was always in here.”
“No, no, no, no! It was on the second floor. In the turret. Just off my mother’s bedroom.”
“Are you sure? Who would put a piano on the second floor?” she asks.
“For crying out loud, I should know. I took lessons on it for years. I know this house a lot better than you do.”
“Of course,” she says.
The business with the bedpan is awful. He tells her how to prop him up with pillows under his head and back and knees and to put the pan under him and to go away and close the door. Grace does as asked and wants to walk straight out the front door and not stop until she falls down.
The sight of her children as she puts them to bed is a flicker of joy in a dim cave. She gathers them around her on the floor and sings a dozen verses of “Hush, Little Baby,” making up the lyrics as she goes along. From the corner of her eye, she sees her mother scurry about folding laundry and picking up toys. Grace sings until the children feel heavier in her lap, and with her mother’s help, she carries them to their beds. She would like to lie down on the floor between the children and have her mother float a blanket over her.