Color the Sidewalk for Me (37 page)

“Yes sir.”

He shook his head. “Your daddy sure is lucky to have you. I'd like to think my kids'd do the same for me, but . . .” He shrugged. “I guess you're mighty close to both your folks; that's the way Bradleyville breeds 'em.”

“Well, I've been gone a long time. But they needed me, so I came.” “That's what I mean.” He leaned back, looking at the ceiling as he plucked absentmindedly at the blue-and-white striped shirt half untucked around his bulging stomach. “Tell you what, Celia. I do want your daddy to return. But the impression I got from your mama was that he may never be able to. So she and I settled on two months as sort of a reassessin' time, know what I mean? Gosh, she told me he couldn't even talk. I figured, ‘Who knows if he can ever handle my books again?'”

“He couldn't talk at first but he's learning,” I responded. “And his mind is clear. What he can't say, he can write. It's not a matter of being able to think logically; it's merely a matter of his body regaining the strength to function normally. He may never drive himself to work again, for example, but there's no reason Mama couldn't bring him.”

“Your mama seemed awful protective; I don't know if she'd go along with this.”

My fingers gripped the arms of my chair. “Excuse me, Mr. Sledge, but I don't think it's for her to say. It's up to Daddy. Put yourself in his place—stuck in a wheelchair, working so hard to relearn the simplest things like pulling on your socks. Imagine how depressing that would be, then imagine someone telling you that even if you completely recovered, you could never return here, that your working life was over. Don't you think that would affect how hard you'd work at your therapy? Don't you think you'd say to yourself, ‘What's the use?' You know it's true; a man's life is his work. And I know that with all Daddy's been through, this place means a lot to him.” I stopped abruptly, aware that my voice had risen. I felt my cheeks flush.

Mr. Sledge slowly tapped his thumb against the desk. “I'll say it again—your daddy's a lucky man to have you fightin' for him. And yes ma'am, I do understand. So let's do this. I told your mama we'd reassess in two months, and I'm gonna stick to that. That's, let's see”—his lips moved as he counted silently—“six weeks away. If William ain't ready to come back by then, you come around and see me. Tell me how much longer you think it'll be, if he can come back at all. You'll be honest with me about that, won't ya?”

“Yes, I will.” Relief rushed through me. “Thank you, Mr. Sledge! Thank you so much.”

“That's all right.” He pushed back his chair, slapping his palms against his knees. “Sounds like you'll be here for however long it takes, huh? Till your daddy can come back.”

My smile froze as the impact of his statement hit me. In wheedling extra time out of Mr. Sledge, I had opened the door to an indefinite stay in Bradleyville. How on earth could I not have thought of that before? What if Daddy didn't heal in time and my remaining six weeks stretched to ten, twelve? At what point would I cut it off, admit defeat? How could I just return to Little Rock and leave Daddy forever at home with Mama? “Well, yes, of course,” I replied lamely. “If he's able to come back.” Mr. Sledge was opening his office door, chuckling. “Sounds to me like you won't stop till you git him back; that's what you got your mind set on. And that's fine 'n' dandy. We'll be countin' on ya. Just like your daddy is.”

“Yes sir.” I forced my lips to curve. “I'll do my best. Thank you again.”

In my car I leaned back against the headrest and closed my eyes, keys dropped in my lap, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

I had planned to call Bobby Delham while in Albertsville, to see if I could meet him after work. I still felt I needed to see him and express my sorrow over Melissa's death, and I thought it might be awkward to visit him at home with his children present. But after my discussion with Mr. Sledge, I no longer had the energy. Driving to the hardware store, I promised myself I would phone Bobby another day.

Another day. Another week? Month? Who knew? After the commitment I'd just made, I could possibly put off seeing Bobby Delham all summer. What in the world was I doing, I railed inwardly. The therapy sessions, difficult as they had been, were not half as draining as the tension between me and Mama. I didn't know how I could be under the same roof with her for more than two months. I worried about being absent so long from the ad agency. And June 30 would come all too soon. I couldn't imagine conducting my annual all-night candlelight vigil in Mama's house.

On cue, the memories began to play in my head.

“No.” I fought them as I entered the store. With effort I thrust them away. Paid for the paint supplies. Wheeled my heavy shopping cart outside. As I loaded the items into my car, a quiet, selfish voice in the back of my head grew louder, replacing the memories. It murmured that more time in Bradleyville meant more opportunities to see John Forkes.

chapter 43

I
borrowed some old clothes from Mama and got ready to paint the back wall of the living room and dining area, moving out the dining table and telephone stand and spreading tarp. The house soon filled with the smell of paint, and I opened windows and the front door, allowing the warm spring breeze to blow through. Leaving time for Daddy's therapy, late in the afternoon I announced I'd done enough damage for one day, doused the paint splatters with turpentine, and took a bath.

“Luuk guud,” Daddy told me at supper, awkwardly holding a chicken breast steady with his left forefinger as he cut it. He couldn't hold a fork in his left hand yet, although movement was improving due to his frequent attempts to squeeze the rubber ball.

“Thanks. Are you talking about me now that I'm cleaned up or the walls?”

“Bvoth.”

I squeezed his arm.

Daddy and I had not had another of our long conversations yet, and he'd been bugging me about it. “Letsss tawk,” he'd said that morning. I'd promised we would—sometime when Mama was out. He'd cast me a disappointed look and reached for his pen and paper.

What waiting for to make up with M? Armageddon?

Here we go again,
I'd thought. “Daddy”—frustration had coated my voice—“how do you make up for a lifetime?”

“The paint does look good,” Mama agreed. “Thank you for your work.”

“You're welcome; glad to do it.”

How civil we were to one another.

As we finished supper, John arrived, taking in the moved furniture and tarp with a glance. His tie was off, shirt collar open. He turned his eyes on me, and I thought of the way Danny used to look when he'd see me at school and we couldn't touch. While John examined Daddy, I hung around, telling him of the various improvements I'd seen. When he was ready to leave, I offered to walk him out. “Just a quick question,” I explained.

I waited until we had stepped off the porch, far enough from Mama's listening ears. “I wanted you to know,” I said quietly as we walked, “that I saw Daddy's boss yesterday and he granted us extra time for Daddy to return to work if we need it. I haven't told Mama yet.”

“For William's sake, that's good to hear.” John scanned Minton Street, apparently looking for nosy neighbors. It struck me that he thought this necessary, as if we had something to hide. “Think she'll be glad you did that?” he asked.

“It doesn't really matter. Whether Daddy returns to work is for him to decide, not her.”

We stopped halfway to his car. “She's only trying to protect him, Celia. She almost lost him and it really scared her.”

“This isn't about protection,” I informed him. “It's about control. You don't know her. She's always tried to control our family, and she never wanted people to leave her; that was her big thing. Now she doesn't even want Daddy to leave for a day's work. It's ridiculous.”

“Don't you think you're being a little hard on her?”

“Don't talk to me about being hard, John; you don't know the half of it.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

I closed my eyes, suddenly tired. “No. I'm sorry. I'm just . . . touchy about the subject.”

“Don't worry about it.” He placed a hand on my arm briefly. My skin tingled.

Suddenly self-conscious, I resumed walking. “When will you be back?”

“Friday. That way I can keep my weekend clear. Unless some old lady calls about her hemorrhoids.”

I managed a smile. “A doctor's duty is never done, I suppose.”

“Nope.” He opened the passenger door and placed his bag on the seat. “See you soon.”

I
_“
Ceela. Luuk!”

It happened Saturday afternoon. I'd finished my painting, the living room and dining area fresh and clean looking. I had informed Mama that I might as well do the kitchen with the paint I had left. Later she had taken a casserole to a sick church member, saying she wouldn't be long. I was about to call Monica about my house and cats but instead found myself running to the porch at the urgency in Daddy's voice. He beamed lopsidedly with victory, pointing with his chin toward his lap. “Oh, wow!” I cried. “Look at you! You can touch it!”

The fingers and thumb of his left hand curved around the red rubber ball, brushing it. As I watched, he slowly uncurled his hand, then curled it once more.

“That's wonderful!” I hovered over him like a proud parent. “Can you pick it up?”

“Uuhh.” He frowned, concentrating every ounce of energy on bending his fingers just a little more. They moved slightly.

“There! Now try it.” I dropped to my knees and we stared at the ball, willing with all our might for it to raise the slightest bit. His fingers trembled. “Come on, come on,” I whispered to the ball, “you can do it.” Daddy began to raise his arm and the ball slipped through his fingers. “It's okay,” I encouraged. “Try again.”

Twice more he failed but he was unwilling to give up. “Don't worry about it, Daddy,” I said soothingly. “A few more days and you'll have it.” “Nuuh! I doo.”

He tried one more time, breathing heavily through his open mouth.

The ball began to move. Slowly he raised it a good three inches before it fell.

“Yay!” I shouted. I jumped up to perform a little dance step, then hugged him tightly. His shoulders shook with glee.

That triumph marked the end of our third week and gave way to a rush of improvement in speech as well as physical dexterity. Mama was ecstatic when Daddy demonstrated his new ability. She grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him, then turned to hug me with arms that were warm and real, not stiff like a mannequin's. A wave of childlike emotion splashed over me.

After that our therapy sessions shortened, for Daddy constantly pushed himself throughout the day to raise his leg a little higher, lift his arm a little more, hold the ball tighter. The left side of his face began to firm, his lips dragging less, his smile straighter. We would review all these improvements formally in our sessions, Daddy showing off his latest trick as I pushed him to “do it again, more.” Mama still dressed him to his waist, then I would take over, urging him to put on his own shirt. Buttons were still impossible, but even his efforts helped improve the nimbleness of his fingers. His red ball always lay on his lap and he continually worked to press it, the squeezes slowly growing in strength.

“Hey, I've got an idea!” I announced one morning after I'd buttoned his shirt. “Let's see, what we need is a box or something that's not too high.” I cast my eyes around the bedroom. “Oh, I got it.” I pulled out the paper supply drawer of Mama's dresser and positioned his wheelchair a little to the right of it, about six feet away. “There! Now, what you need to do is, see if you can bounce the ball into the drawer. The exercise will help your strength plus give you hand-eye coordination.”

So we had a new game. Daddy was terrible at it, and I kept returning him the ball after it had dribbled to a stop in front of the dresser. “Let's move you closer,” I suggested.