A Shattered Wife (2 page)

A faint smile crossed his rugged features and in a weak but
steady voice he congratulated the animals on their victory, but reminded them
that it was only temporary. Soon he would be in control again and they would
all pay dearly for this.

He always won.

The sun had reached its zenith and was starting its downward
journey across the sky when the heavy blackness of unconsciousness overcame
him.

Martha busied herself in her home of forty years, but her
thoughts kept being interrupted by small pinpricks of worry over her husband’s
long absence. He’d been gone for most of the day. She was a small woman with
feminine, doll-like features, pale blue eyes and a warm smile, but she wasn’t
smiling right now. She was worried about Bill. He was alone, hunting on their
large farm, and he wasn’t as young as he used to be. What if he fell? What if
he accidentally shot himself? What if…?

By dusk she was becoming frantic.

Putting on one of Bill’s big coats, she went outside. The
wind hammered against her small frame and snatched her voice away when she
called for him. With tears streaming down her frozen cheeks, she blew the horn
on the truck repeatedly. That was the signal that she needed him to return
home. If he could hear it.

The only response she received was silence. No answering
shot from the forest surrounding their farm, and no Bill walking across the
fields.

She called their nearest neighbor, Michael, and within half
an hour the woods were filled with men searching for Bill. She knew he would be
furious with her for calling them, but she was alone and afraid. Michael was a
friend and he knew Bill - and those woods - better than anyone. The minister's
wife and several other women, wives of men in the search party, brought in food
and sympathy, crowding into Martha’s big kitchen as if to protect her.

In little more than an hour, a warning shot let everyone
know the search was over. Bill had been found.

"He’s alive but he’s hurt. I don’t know how bad it is,"
a young man told Martha as he swept coldly into the kitchen, stomping his feet
and blowing into his cupped palms. His face and ears were red and he gratefully
accepted a cup of steaming hot coffee. "You’d better call an ambulance."

The ride to Roanoke in the screaming ambulance seemed
interminable. Bill was unconscious, his pale, sunken face covered with an
oxygen mask. His left leg was broken in a couple of places, but the EMT seemed
more worried about his exposure to the cold and the knot that seemed to be
forming on his back. Martha sat beside him and watched the darkness flash by.
They had made this trip together in his truck hundreds of times. Why did she
suddenly feel so alone and helpless?

When at long last the ride was over, Bill was whisked away
to an emergency room by doctors and nurses that looked as exhausted as Martha
felt. She was left behind to complete complicated forms and wait.

The decision to call their son was a difficult one. Bill was
probably already angry with her for calling the neighbors. Father and son
rarely got along and he would, no doubt, accuse William of interfering. She
looked down at the incomplete paperwork in her lap and there was no question
about it. She was going to need help, no matter what her husband thought.

William lived in Cleveland and Martha could never remember
his number. After getting it from the operator, she dialed carefully and
listened to ringing that sounded a million miles away.

"Hello?" It was her daughter-in-law.

"Beth, this is Martha."

A quick intake of breath showed her surprise. William’s
parents never called. Martha could hear the children - her grandchildren -
giggling in the background and her arms ached to hold them. "Is William
there?"

"Yes. Yes he is. Just a minute."

"Mom! Are you still there?" William’s voice came
on the line, slightly breathless and evidently just as surprised as Beth.

"Yes. William, there’s been an accident." Now that
he was on the line, she was unsure of what to say.

"An accident?"

"Yes. We’re at the hospital now. Your dad’s been hurt."

"How bad is it?"

"I don’t know yet. Will you come?" Martha hated
the pleading note that crept into her voice.

William sighed heavily. "Sure, Mom, I'll be there as
soon as I can." Martha thought he sounded more annoyed than concerned.
That done, she waited for the doctor.

It was nearly midnight when a slim, young doctor strode
purposefully down the wide hospital corridor into the waiting area.

"Mrs. Landry?" he called, looking around at the
few people who were gathered there. Martha rose on unsteady legs, unaware of
anyone but the tired looking, bearded young man wearing a white coat over his
jeans. His soft voice and gentle blue-gray eyes were kind but weary. "My
name is Dr. Paul Newsome. I’m treating your husband."

"Yes?" Martha asked, staring at the stethoscope
dangling from his neck.

Dr. Newsome nodded quickly and said, "Your husband has
a broken leg and some slight hypothermia."

Relief flooded through Martha, making her weak. Bill was
alive.

"What happened?" she asked.

"We really can’t be sure. I imagine he stepped in a
hole, maybe an old fence post hole, and fell. At least, that’s what the dirt on
his clothing would indicate."

Despite the doctor’s reassuring posture, something in his
tone told Martha that there was more, news that he hadn’t given her yet. She
searched his lean face for some clue.

Finally, he said, "The fall did some damage to his
spinal cord." He paused, took a deep breath, and then hurried on before
she could say anything. "Right now he is paralyzed from the waist down. It
may be only temporary. We’ll have to wait and see."

The waiting area was deathly quiet.

Martha did not respond except to hug herself as she tried to
process his words. The other women looked stricken, pale and disbelieving, as
if his diagnosis concerned their own husbands. No one made a move to comfort
her, though. She realized that she was swaying slightly, and reached for a
chair to steady herself.

Paul touched her arm. "Maybe you should sit down."

Martha wanted to do anything but sit down. "Can I see
him?" she asked. Her own voice sounded strange and far away.

He nodded and smiled a little, his hair falling forward
casually with the movement. "Only for a few minutes, though. He’s been
heavily sedated. Follow me, please."

Martha stared in disbelief when she saw the giant mountain
of a man lying flat on his back, helplessly attached to tubes and hoses. Her eyes
stung, and the smell of antiseptic made her sniff. With trembling fingers she
touched his thick, wavy hair, eyelids, and the familiar, broadly lined face.
She could not ever remember him being sick, and her heart ached.

"I'm here, Bill. I'll always be here," she
whispered.

***

William only got along well with his parents, especially his
father, when he was in Cleveland and they were in Virginia. His mother was
over-protective, always clucking over him like an old hen; she smothered him.
His father was overpowering, dominating. William Jr., built small like his
mother although he had the auburn hair and piercing blue eyes of his father,
never had any desire to follow in his dad's footsteps. After college, he moved
to Cleveland, established an accounting firm that was becoming quite
successful, married and fathered two children. He was happy there. Cleveland
was his real home. Visits to his parents were only obligatory ones.

He arrived at the hospital at 2:00 a.m. and found his mother
sitting alone in the empty waiting room. Over her faded cotton dress, she wore
a cardigan sweater that was much too big for her. Sitting there, slumped over
slightly and pressing nonexistent wrinkles out of her dress, she looked twice
her age. Lines creased her face and wisps of silver hair hung limply on her
thin neck.

Before letting her see him, William made an attempt to
adjust his thick glasses and emotions. Neither action was successful. The
ordeal that lay ahead was not a welcome one, yet he had expected it sooner or
later. His parents were growing old and, like it or not, it was his duty to
care for them.

When Martha looked up she smiled weakly and went to him with
open arms. "You look so tired and thin," she said, reaching to touch
his face.

"I worked yesterday and haven’t gotten much sleep,"
he explained, trying not to sound impatient. "How’s dad?"

Sudden hot tears sprang to her eyes for the first time since
they had taken Bill away. She turned her face from him.

"Mom?" William's voice held a note of
exasperation. If his father was dead, he wanted to know.

"He’s been hurt badly. He has a broken leg and he may
be…uh…he might be…." Martha fished a crinkled handkerchief out of her
pocket and blew her nose.

"What? Might be what?" William shook her gently.

"Paralyzed…."

"Might be?"

"It might be only temporary. They won’t know for a few
days," Martha sobbed, finding it almost impossible to talk. So far she had
held up, but now there was someone to lean on. She didn’t have to be strong as
long as William was home.

The same hands that shook Martha moments before now pulled
her to him and he was immediately sorry for his thoughts. She drove him crazy
sometimes, but at the moment she looked like a forlorn lost child. William held
her until she stopped crying, feeling the corner of her glasses push against
his chest.

Finally, very softly, he said, "Let’s go see Dad."

Entering the room, William’s reaction was almost identical
to Martha’s. His father had never been sick, not even with a cold, as far as he
could remember. The terror of trying to live up to his father’s expectations
had, at some point, turned to hatred, but now there was only pity. Seeing the
old man heavily sedated and bedfast reminded him that Bill was just sick, and
more vulnerable than William had ever seen him.

***

After Bill’s accident, questions about money and other
matters surfaced. Martha had no answers of her own and looked to William. "Medicare
won’t cover all of Dad’s expenses," he told her one evening after dinner. "Do
you have hospitalization?"

Martha shook her head. "I don’t know. You’ll have to
ask your father."

"I can’t."

"Why?"’

"He refuses to answer my questions. He thinks I'm just
being nosy." William didn’t try to hide his frustration.

"Well, I don’t know anything about it. Your father took
care of all that." Martha's tone was curt, and she busied herself with
clearing the table of food and dishes.

William shook his head as he watched her bustling back and
forth in her spacious kitchen. She was a plain woman and he had never known her
to wear makeup or have her hair done at a beauty shop. The flat, sensible shoes
that she always wore barely made a sound on the gleaming floor. As far as he
could tell, she was content to live like her mother. She had washed Bill’s
socks and cooked his meals for the last 40 years. He, in turn, had been in
charge of everything else, including their finances. Martha was more than
mentally equipped to handle these affairs, but over the years they had settled
into a comfortable pattern and liked things the way they were. He was in charge
of their stability and she could concentrate on growing her garden, cleaning
her house and caring for her family without the additional worries over money.

New linoleum was the only change that had been made in the
room since he was a kid. The kitchen was dominated by a huge, well-scrubbed oak
table that his father built before William was born. The few appliances,
including a stove and refrigerator, looked and performed show-room new, and the
faint smell of pine, clean and fresh, hovered in the air. He wondered how
anyone could be so content with so little. Didn’t she ever wish for more? A
trip? A remodel? A real washing machine at least, instead of that wringer
squatting in the laundry room?

"Dad’s always in charge, isn’t he?"

"As it should be," Martha said defiantly, running
scalding hot water into the sink, not turning to look at her son.

William folded his arms on the table in front of him and rested
his head on them. He felt like he had been here for a month and longed to go
home. His father was as demanding as ever, even from his hospital bed, and as
always made him feel like he was 10 years old.

He rose and began to pace the length of the kitchen, but
paused at the big oak gun cabinet in the corner. He felt his face burn with
embarrassment. On his twelfth birthday, Bill bought him a gun; he was going to
learn to hunt. The gun smelled of oil and explosions and it frightened William.
He was more afraid of disobeying his father, though, and went along quietly.
Even now, he remembered how heavy the weapon had felt in his skinny arms.

They were tramping through the woods, Bill giving a lecture
on safety, when a young buck with one-inch spike horns bounded out of the trees
right in front of them. It paused in its flight and huge brown eyes met
William’s terrified gaze.

"Now," Bill said, his voice trembling with
excitement. He touched William’s shoulder. "Take a good look at him
through your sights."

Trembling from head to foot, William followed instructions.

"Aim for the shoulder. Hold it steady, let out a breath
and squeeze the trigger," Bill continued, unaware of his son’s response.

Seconds ticked by.

"Do it, boy."

More seconds passed. Both William and the deer remained
motionless.

William dropped the gun. "I can’t. I’m sorry. I just
can’t," he’d whined, feeling like a small child. He'd wanted to obey, but
the animal was strong and beautiful and he just couldn't think of a reason to
destroy it.

At the sudden movement, the deer fled.