The crocuses emerge, purple and white, and are soon joined by the bright yellow of daffodils and forsythia. As she explores the gardens, Grace’s spirits are buoyed by the greening lawn, the buds on the fruit trees, and the stalks of tulips breaking the soil. After the winter months, the soil will produce a bounty of surprises with flowers blooming every day or every week, small gifts for Grace. She will see the buds, but won’t know their color until days later. She wonders if the lilacs are deep purple or lavender or white. She has no idea what shapes and hues the roses will have. Soon she’ll be able to bring in bouquets to freshen the house’s stale smell—an odor worse than stale that she suspects emanates from Gene, no matter how much she launders his sheets and clothes.
Gene has remembered the name of the insurance company and even the salesman’s name. Grace calls and explains their situation, which is near destitute. But when the claims adjuster comes to the house and looks around, he’s reluctant to discuss benefits. Grace points out that the house is not theirs, they have no money for food or clothes, that Gene can’t work, and the enormous tank of fuel oil is empty. Should they have a series of cold days, she doesn’t know what they would do. In addition, she says in a strong, clear voice, her husband who was burned in the fire needs medical attention they can’t pay for. When the salesman has the nerve to suggest that she sell some of the obviously expensive pieces of furniture, she raises her voice. Does the adjuster have the paperwork? Yes, he does. Did Gene Holland ever miss a payment? No, he did not. Fine, says Grace, they need the money to build a house, to which they are entitled, and they need additional sums in order to be able to eat and clothe themselves. She is firm, she will not be moved. But it’s only when Grace brings the adjuster in to see Gene during a moment when he isn’t wearing his eye patch that the adjuster writes her a check for seventy-five dollars to bridge the gap until another man from the insurance company arrives with a much larger check.
One morning, after Grace has made her bed, she stares at the smooth covers, the sheets taut beneath them. She kneels on all fours and pounds her fists into the coverlet. She bangs and slaps until her hands hurt. She stops and looks at her fingers. She tries hard to remember what she felt when she and Gene were courting—there is no other word to describe the decorous study dates and walks into the hills, where occasionally they lay down together. She can’t now recall a single word of love. One of them must have said something. On the day they married?
Gene grows oddly querulous, as if he, too, were filled with barely concealed rage. One might imagine his anger a result of having met such an odious fate, but Grace suspects his rage has something to do with hers. Gene is as much a prisoner as anyone in the house, more so because of his disabilities. His only outlet is his wife, who cannot take on the burden of his constant pain, his helplessness. One day, when she starts the physical therapy, telling him to raise his head, he refuses.
“No,” he says.
“What do you mean, no?” Grace asks.
“I’m not going to do it.”
“Just today or forever?”
“Forever.”
“If you stop now, you’ll undo all the good that therapy has done you. A year from now, you won’t be able to accomplish the simplest thing.”
“Maybe not, but you can do it for me, can’t you?” he points out.
“You want me to wipe your ass for the rest of your life?”
Grace snaps away from Gene, at least as horrified as he by her own revolting question, her cynicism, her anger. But she won’t tell him she is sorry. She leaves the room with the realization that her statements to him will get uglier and uglier, that they could so easily spiral out of control. And who would get hurt? The children. Pretty soon, they’ll be able to hear what goes on in the library, the sitting room, the kitchen. She puts her forehead to the wall. She doesn’t want that for Claire and Tom, for them to have to hunch their shoulders at a raised voice, to have to pretend not to hear an obscenity, to want to absent themselves from their parents, which in time will mean not wanting to be in the house. She has done a good job with the children so far, especially with her mother’s help, but she doesn’t know if she has the self-discipline to keep it up.
Grace thinks of hiring a day nurse, which would free at least eight hours to be with the kids. If she could manage it, she’d hire a live-in nurse so that she would see her husband in the way the children do—during lighthearted visits. And though she can afford to hire such people, Gene will want to know where the money has come from. Since they have received only seventy-five dollars from the claims adjuster, he will quickly figure out that she is selling items from the house to pay for the nurses. She doubts he knows about the jewelry, unless Merle often wore it in his presence. Still, he would needle Grace, and life would become even more impossible than it is. She might one day hit him, a thought that appalls her. Or simply let him fall to the floor. So easy to do. She has had to catch him when he lost his balance at least a dozen times since he arrived.
She takes a deep breath. She can’t think these nightmare scenarios.
“Hello, this is Grace Holland. May I speak to Dr. Lighthart?”
“Grace, it’s Amy.”
“Hi, Amy. Actually, it might be better if I spoke to you.”
“Okay.”
“I need help.” The statement strikes Grace as true on so many fronts that for a moment she nearly laughs.
“Yes?”
“I need to hire a nurse to come on a daily basis, to help with Gene. I’m having difficulties.”
“I thought so. I know of an organization that does just that. Hang on, I’ve got the number here. But how are you?”
The truth, Grace thinks. “At my wit’s end.”
“His care is too much for you. I knew it would be.”
“It’s not just that. Things are…difficult. It’s made taking care of him nearly impossible.”
“How’s your health?”
“My health? I don’t even know.”
“I tell you what. I’ll call first thing in the morning and get someone out there straightaway. You’ll be all right?”
“Yes. And, Amy? Send someone strong-willed. And big.”
Grace watches as a large woman in a white cap and navy cape emerges from a car that with its dents and rust looks as though it’s barely survived a military skirmish. There are no pleasantries, hardly enough time to tell Judith, the nurse, the nature of the difficulties she is having with Gene. Grace, trying to keep up with the nurse’s long strides, makes it to Gene’s door just before Judith does. “Wait here,” Grace says, trying to stop the woman.
“No need to wait. He’ll figure it out.”
Grace steps away and lingers long enough to hear Judith announce herself and tell Gene that she’s been sent to check him out. Not wanting to hear his reply, Grace walks away, but doesn’t dare go farther than the sitting room in case the nurse needs her. From time to time, loud sounds emanate from the library-bedroom, but she stops herself from investigating. She doesn’t want to know.
After a time, she climbs the stairs to Merle’s closet and retrieves Aidan’s letter from the hatbox. When she holds it, she begins to recall the music he once played, but stops short when she discovers that she can’t remember certain phrases in their entirety. She presses the letter to her chest. Will time erase the notes that are more precious to her than jewels?
She sees vividly the day she met Aidan and can feel her physical reaction when he played the piano. She recalls being happy and how she na?vely thought that state would continue forever. She will buy a record player and fill the house with classical music. The children will appreciate it and remember when Aidan was here—and a time when their mother smiled often.