Death in the Cards (12 page)

Truth be told, he made fried bologna sandwiches for us the next few suppers, so I wouldn't have to cook dinner as well as work with the tomatoes.
Aunt Clara had to stay an extra two days in Florida because her other sister, Doreen, had a fainting spell at their sister Jeanne's funeral and everyone was afraid maybe it was a heart problem for her, too (although it just turned out to be that she'd passed out from skipping breakfast, even though she was diabetic). I made us fried green tomatoes to go with the bologna sandwiches the rest of the week, until Aunt Clara came home. And I canned twenty-four pints of green tomato relish.

When Aunt Clara, who I later heard didn't let anyone see her cry at her sister's funeral, saw the twenty-four pints lined up on the counter, gleaming like a crop of liquid emeralds, she burst out crying and hugged me without saying a word.

Was my memory of the green tomatoes I first canned on my own an odd thing for my mind to drift to while I sat out in the hard plastic, butt-numbing chairs in a waiting area at Mason County General Hospital? Maybe.

But while waiting for Guy's tests to be completed, I'd already gone through five issues of magazines such as
Good Housekeeping
and
Home Town Cooking,
and jotted down on the back of a bank deposit slip, fished from the bottom of my purse, two recipes: one for Light and Creamy Pumpkin Pie (a simple recipe that would be good for some future church carry-in) and another for healthy Applesauce-Bran Muffins (a nod to my never-ending battle to lose fifteen pounds). Deep down, I knew I'd make only the pumpkin pie.

Then I'd grown weary of scanning recipes and housekeeping tips and can-this-relationship-be-saved? advice, and let my thoughts wander. Maybe it was the cooking theme that brought to mind the first batch of green tomato relish I'd ever canned by myself. In any case, my thoughts drifted to that week when Aunt Clara had been gone to her sister's funeral, and I'd rescued the green tomatoes instead of letting the frost get them.

I'd wondered then why Aunt Clara had cried over those green tomatoes I'd saved, but now, sitting in the hospital, I understood what Aunt Clara had immediately known when she saw the green jeweled jars on the counter: I would always do what I had to to take care of Guy.

It's a choice I've never regretted.

But I also didn't understand, until I was sitting in that hospital hallway, how Aunt Clara had felt back then, the week of her sister's funeral. I remember thinking, while canning those green tomatoes, the acrid earthy smell of them filling my nose and finally my every pore, that Aunt Clara was silly for resisting being away from Guy for a few days. What could it hurt?

But now I understood that, too.

She didn't want to be away in case something happened to Guy. She understood just how vulnerable he would be if something went wrong, if his health failed or he was in an accident. And she wanted to be there to advocate for him.

That's what I wanted to do now for Guy. Don Richmond, Stillwater's director, told me that Guy had passed out that morning just before breakfast. In fact, he'd been having spells of being dizzy, not that he'd described it that way, because Guy has trouble communicating much of anything, let alone something subtle like fluctuations in how he's feeling. But several staff members had noticed him stumbling about a few times that week, clutching the back of a chair or the edge of a table to regain his balance.

Then that morning, he'd passed out in the dining hall. The staff hadn't been able to revive him. They'd called 911, and by the time the paramedics came, Guy had come to, and he was trying to talk, to say something, but no one was sure what.

He'd been taken to the hospital up in Masonville, and I needed to be there to sign paperwork for tests and to be with him. I'd seen him only briefly. He was sedated because he'd panicked when a nurse had tried to take blood samples from him, thrashing about and swinging his arms wildly. My eyes had pricked with tears when I heard that. Guy hated needles. Lots of people do. But Guy hadn't learned how to calm himself when it was necessary to get shots or have blood taken for testing.

I mentally cursed myself that I hadn't driven faster around the curving roads that lead from Paradise to Masonville. Maybe I could have kept him calm.

I was able to wait with him in one of the small rooms in the emergency wing, holding his hand, murmuring about nothing in particular to him, about the yellows and oranges of the trees as I'd driven there (which I hadn't, in truth, really
noticed), about how I knew his pumpkins were going to be a big hit this year (Guy's in charge of growing the pumpkins for the annual fall harvest sale at Stillwater, a task he takes very seriously), even humming “I'm a Little Tea Pot.” Aunt Clara had told me that was his favorite song as a toddler. She'd sung it to him over and over to keep him calm, until her throat hurt. That was before she and Uncle Horace learned Guy had severe autism.

In the emergency room, Guy just stared at me, his eyes wide and a bit watery. He moaned every now and then. I wasn't sure if he comprehended any of what I was saying, but a nurse told me my presence seemed to calm him.

Then, Guy had to go for an MRI. My heart sank at that news. Dr. Herlihy, the physician who attends the residents at Stillwater, wanted to ensure that Guy didn't have an underlying neurological problem that had caused the fainting spell. I could understand that, but I worried about how poor Guy would react. As much as he hated needles, he hated tightly enclosed spaces even more. He hated most the color red. At least that wasn't a factor in a hospital, where everything was an antiseptic white or gray.

A sedative helped him stay calm, though, as two attendants wheeled his gurney out of the emergency area and down toward the MRI lab. I'd trotted alongside his gurney, still holding his hand, hoping that maybe I could just trot on into the MRI testing area.

No such luck. The female attendant told me that I'd have to wait outside. Guy had grunted as I pulled my hand from his, but then his face fell back into expressionlessness.

My heart clutched as the attendants wheeled him through a double door labeled
STAFF AND PATIENTS ONLY
.

Then as the doors swung shut, I looked around. No one in the hallway but me. The waiting area was a trio of hard plastic chairs and a wooden end table, covered with magazines
and a reading lamp. I sat down and stared at the wall in front of me for what felt like at least ten minutes of the hour and a half I knew I'd have to wait, resisting the stack of magazines. Leafing through them would somehow seem like giving in to the situation, admitting that I wasn't in control.

I glanced down the hall. Maybe someone I knew would come down it soon. Someone like—Owen. On the drive from Paradise, I'd dialed his number on my cell phone several times and was surprised that he didn't answer. Owen loves to sleep in late on a Saturday morning and then putz around his house.

Then I'd called my laundromat to apologize to Chip Beavy for my earlier abrupt manner, when I'd quickly told him about Guy and more or less ordered him to mind my laundromat for me. Chip had told me no apologies were necessary and that he'd stay until closing if necessary.

As I pulled into the hospital parking lot, Pastor Micah called me on my cell phone. Chip had called him to tell him about Guy. Pastor Micah offered to come up to sit with me. I assured him I was fine for the time being, but I let him say a little prayer with me over the phone.

Now, sitting in the hallway waiting area, still unable to reach Owen, I kind of wished I had agreed for Pastor to come up although I knew he was enjoying the gorgeous day with his wife and three young kids. After last night, he deserved it.

Besides, I told myself, the time would pass quickly.

I checked my watch.

A whole minute had passed since the attendants had wheeled Guy into the MRI area.

That's when I broke, and started perusing the magazines. I skipped the travel ones and focused on the cooking ones, then gave up, closed my eyes, and traveled in my memory to the night Aunt Clara came home from her sister's funeral and wept at the sight of my first batch of home-canned green tomato relish . . .

“Well, you've really made a mess of things now, haven't you?”

There she was, Mrs. Oglevee, wearing paint-splattered overalls and a straw hat, and juggling green tomatoes.

“Long time, no see,” I said. Mrs. Oglevee hadn't invaded my dreams for almost a month. It seemed more than a little unfair that she would interrupt my nap at the hospital.

“I've been busy,” Mrs. Oglevee said. Her four green tomatoes somehow doubled to eight, but her hands just moved faster to keep up with them. She juggled effortlessly, even tossing a few behind her back.

“Such a fascinating skill you've learned,” I said. “This would help you how in, uh, the afterlife?”

I'd never quite been able to figure out if Mrs. Oglevee had ended up in heaven or in hell.

“Juggling is a much underrated skill in our earthly life,” Mrs. Oglevee said. Her green tomatoes had doubled again, but she still kept up easily. “You could use help juggling.”

“I'm not planning to run off to the circus any time soon.”

“There's juggling,” Mrs. Oglevee said, her hands now such a blur that I couldn't tell if she still had sixteen tomatoes or had moved on to thirty-two. “Then there's juggling. Knowing the things that matter in life and making them all work together somehow.”

“I'm not doing so badly,” I said, cringing at my own voice. I sounded as defensive as I had back in junior high when I forgot my homework.

“Really?” Mrs. Oglevee put her hands on her hips. Suddenly, all the tomatoes—thirty-two? sixty-four?—hit the ground, turning from green to rotten red tomatoes. Mrs. Oglevee didn't even wince at the splatter.

“Really,” I said, wincing at the acrid smell of the rotten tomatoes. “I have my work, Guy, Owen . . .”

Mrs. Oglevee shook her head in dismay, just as she had
whenever I muffed up a multiple choice quiz yet again. “You don't have focus! You don't know what you want for your future! You just go day-to-day, never envisioning what you want!”

Suddenly, a big, red, oozing tomato appeared in Mrs. Oglevee's hand and she wound up like a baseball pitcher, about to throw it at me . . .

“Josie?”

I jolted awake and saw Dru Purcell standing before me. That I was relieved to see him and not Mrs. Oglevee is a powerful testament to the horror of my Oglevee-beset dreams.

Pastor Purcell was wearing a black suit and tie and a somber expression. I wanted to remind him that this was a hospital, not a funeral parlor, but I bit my tongue. Aunt Clara always told me if you can't say something nice, you shouldn't say anything. I hadn't always heeded Aunt Clara's admonition, but in this case, I did.

The silence made Dru uneasy. He shifted back and forth on his feet, ran his finger around his too-tight collar. His face glistened with sweat. I felt a momentary twinge of guilt, then hoped that Missy knew to pretreat his collars and cuffs with cheap shampoo to prevent ring-around-the-collar stains.

I was about to say it was nice of you to come, but really you shouldn't have—
really
—when Dru spoke again. “I see your own pastor isn't here, Josie, in this time of trouble.”

There was a bit of glee in his voice. I sighed. I didn't need to explain that I'd already talked with my own pastor.

“What do you want? You didn't really come all this way to hound me at a weak moment that I didn't really see you with Ginny Proffitt. I did. You know it.” I paused. Should I use the line I'd used on Missy? Sure. Why not. I was worried, thirsty enough to drink a two-liter of Big Fizz Diet Cola in one gulp, and butt-numb. Aunt Clara, God rest her soul, would understand. So I smiled and added in my sweetest voice, “And God knows it.”

Dru swayed a little and blinked. Then he sat down in the seat next to me, hard. “I—I don't know why you persist in spreading that vicious rumor. I came here because I heard that Guy was ill. Someone told Missy that it might even be terminal.”

I shook my head. Such is the way of towns so small that the weekly cable TV listings are thicker than the town's phone book. Word travels faster than a naughty virus on the Internet. Of course, I'd known that when I let it drop that I'd seen Dru and Ginny together at Serpent Mound, hoping the rumor would force Dru to admit the truth to Chief Worthy.

“Guy is going to be fine,” I said. My voice sounded a little shakier than I wanted it to. Damn it. Guy
would
be fine. “But thanks for going to the trouble to check. You didn't have to do that.”

I picked up
Home Town Cooking
again. Maybe I'd find a zesty variation on sloppy joes.

“I'd like to pray with you, anyway, Josie,” Dru said, “about the state of Guy's soul, just in case he is at death's door. Has he been saved?”

I looked back at Dru, incredulous. He really meant what he said. His concern was genuine even if, in my opinion, misguided. And ill timed.

“Pastor Purcell, I appreciate your concern. But not only does Guy have a while to go before he traipses through heaven's pearly gates, Guy wouldn't understand the concepts you're talking about. I think God knows that.”

“But have you talked with him about it? If he would just say the words—”

This was getting wearisome. “Words aren't the way to God's favor,” I snapped.

The set of Dru's face didn't change, yet his expression
shifted dramatically, instantly, to an icy coldness. I shivered and thought of my aunt's expression . . . of her saying it, of Ginny writing it on the handkerchief that was still in my pocket. I squirmed uncomfortably. What kind of demons was old Dru wrestling with? What would he do if I whipped that handkerchief out and waved it at him?

“I had hoped and prayed, Josie, that you weren't as mule-headed as your Aunt Clara, that you'd see this time of trial as a message from God that you need to get both your heart and Guy's in the right place for the hereafter”—Dru's voice started quivering, rising dramatically—“that I could help you turn your heart to righteousness and away from evil—”