Color the Sidewalk for Me (17 page)

For a moment I could not find my voice.

“I wasn't leaving you,” I finally breathed. “Please believe me, it wasn't you! I was running from Mama and the town and everything I'd done. I never meant to hurt you, Daddy! I was in so much pain myself, I didn't think.”

The words were true, but they couldn't explain years of absence and sporadic phone calls. “Oh, Daddy, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” I gripped his hand, my own trembling. He held on to me, tears springing into his eyes. Mine filled also. Love such as I had not felt in a long, long time flowed between our fingers. I tried to say more but couldn't. After some time he released me, then carefully picked up his pen. His one good eyebrow raised as if to indicate that what he was about to write was only half in jest.

If you talk, I'll forgive you
.

Somehow I managed a wan smile. “Well then, I guess you've got me where you want me.”

We sat silently for a moment.

“Yuu kaaa?” he asked.

I shook my head, overwhelmed by his selflessness. “Oh, Daddy, I'm okay. You shouldn't be worrying about me. I'm here to fix you.”

His smile was lopsided. Once again he picked up the pen.

God will fix us both.

Late in the afternoon I sat at the dining table, files for various Sammons accounts spread before me, my pen tapping against white paper. Languidly I gazed at the gnarled oak tree in the backyard, its green leaves lightly swaying in a shy spring breeze. Mama was in the bedroom with Daddy, making one-sided small talk. The awkwardness of their constantly being together was already apparent. Reality is often far removed from desire, I reflected. Mama may have wanted him home all day after he recovered, but I doubted she'd know what to do with him. Once he could talk again, I imagined the conversation remaining every bit as stilted.

I too was filled with the awkwardness of being there. Emotions drifted around me like the smell of Mama's casserole in the oven. Again I longed for my old frenetic pace. The blank paper lay before me, waiting for me to doodle logo ideas for Partners. But I could not begin to concentrate. Instead I thought of Daddy's written pleas to me, of the lingering pain in his eyes that my running away had caused. Then I thought of Mama and the accusation on her face. Daddy's response to my selfishness had been to close the gap; Mama had only moved further away.

Through sheer willpower I dragged my thoughts back to Partners, picturing Gary Stelt. That morning, Matt had reminded me that Gary would expect a catchy symbol to go with his catchy slogan. I groaned at the task. Sometimes if a company's name was short, it could be the basis for a symbol, but the word Partners was too long. Tilting my head, I wrote a P, vaguely wondering what I could do with that.
Partners
in this case implied working alongside others in business, helping, supporting. I considered links. Crisscrossed lines. Dollar signs.

Nothing worked.

Memories pulled at me.

Dropping my pen, I rubbed my forehead, wondering what on earth I would do in this house for eight weeks. What was it about returning that had swept my mind so far from Little Rock? I told myself that I had just arrived, that I had to allow time for settling in. But I wasn't convinced.

Bradleyville, my parents, the past, seemed to be settling into me.

John Forkes arrived as we were finishing supper. It had been anything but a family meal. Mama had taken a plate into the bedroom for Daddy after standing at the kitchen sink picking at her own food. Sitting alone in the kitchen, I'd managed only a few bites. When the doctor knocked on our door, Mama appeared immediately, ever the hostess.

“Would you like some chicken casserole?” she offered. “We have plenty left.”

“No thanks. I've got to be getting into Albertsville. Probably pick up some dinner there.”

“Taking that pretty gal of yours out, are you?” Mama said it lightly, painting it as an offhand remark, but I knew better. The comment was for my sake, a reminder of my past sins. A message that John Forkes had a life that needed no interference from me.

The doctor threw me a glance. Had he caught Mama's meaning as well? Surely not. All the same, I fleetingly calculated the personal knowledge of me that such understanding would have required, and felt a wash of vulnerability. The town must have been talking since folks heard of my return. I imagined all the patients John Forkes saw in a day, waiting room gossip riding on their tongues into his office.

“Afraid not,” he smiled. “I have a patient to visit at the hospital.”

“Well.” I jumped in, all business. “Let's get to it so you can be on your way.”

He prepared for the task, taking off his suit coat and rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt. The hair on his arms was golden against brown skin. I wondered how he'd managed such a tan in April. Mama hung around until he and I went into the bedroom to see Daddy; then she drifted toward the kitchen, mumbling that the dishes needed washing. Clearly, she would shoulder no part of Daddy's therapy.

At Daddy's bedside Dr. Forkes explained with clinical precision the arm lifts, leg lifts, and other motions I was to push Daddy to attempt twice a day. “We don't expect much at first, William,” he said, patting Daddy's arm, “but you've got to start somewhere.” Reaching into his bag, he extracted a red rubber ball, which he placed under Daddy's left hand. “Here's a little present for you. Make you feel young again.” Daddy attempted a smile. “Keep it with you at all times,” Dr. Forkes told him. “Try to squeeze it every time you think about it. It'll strengthen your fingers.”

Diligently I listened to explanations of the various muscles, of why certain speech sounds presented more problems than others, of the expected lag time between the brain's ability to process its desires and the nerves' ability to respond. Mama had reappeared, which surprised me, and was sitting in a corner chair, observing. She spoke no words, but Mama always had a way of saying a great deal without talking. Her facial expression, the tap of her heel against the carpet, announced her protest that such medical realities be stated in front of Daddy. Her overprotective attitude annoyed me. “Daddy's not a child,” I wanted to tell her. “He has a right to know these things.”

When my lengthy training session was finished, I announced, as Daddy and I had planned, that he had a surprise. With a flourish I placed the spiral notebook before him and put a pen in his hand. Mama rose from her chair, eyes widening. The three of us watched in expectant silence as Daddy labored, the doctor's eyes flitting to me in wonder. Daddy put down the pen and held the notebook up, pride in his crooked face.

Hi, folks. Guess what I can do.

“See! How about that!” I cried joyously, looking to John for approval like a first-grade student.

Mama sucked in her breath. “William. That's wonderful.”

Later I stepped out onto the porch to see the doctor off. “I have plenty of hope that your father will heal,” he told me. “But helping him will take lots of patience, Celia. Don't get down if things go slowly. Just keep doing the exercises. And in time you can help him with the occupational therapy of dressing, brushing his teeth, and the rest. As for his medication, will you or Estelle see to that?”

Daddy had been on blood thinners since the stroke. “I imagine our work will be clearly delineated,” I replied carefully. “As you've noticed, Mama and I tend to step on each other's toes. She'll dress him, see to his bath; I'll handle his therapy, talk and read to him. They don't talk all that much, although she was trying this afternoon.” I sighed. “I guess after living with someone so long, you can just . . . coexist.” Abruptly I shut my mouth, wondering why I'd said so much.

“I suppose that can happen.”

Something in his tone pulsed. I could have kicked myself, suddenly remembering that his own wife had died so early in their marriage. I scrambled to place us back on track. “So when do I start getting Daddy up?”

“Right away.” He glanced toward the street. “That's right, I've got a wheelchair for him in the car. Almost forgot to bring it in.” He turned toward me. “But just be sure you can support him. He's bound to be dizzy at first, and the last thing we want is for him to fall.”

“I'm pretty strong.”

His smile was quick. “I can see that. Let me get the chair.”

I gazed down our sidewalk as he pulled it easily from the trunk of his gray Buick and returned to the porch. “I suppose you've worked with these,” he said, unfolding it. “You know to make sure the brakes are on.” I leaned down unnecessarily as he pointed, my hair brushing his neck.

“Sure.”

“Well.” He straightened. “Good night, then. And good luck. I'll be back to check on him in a few days. If you have any questions, call me.”

He returned to his car, looking back at me over the top. “And by the way, I'm glad you're here for him.”

His eyes were warm. I couldn't help but smile at his kindness. “Thanks,” I called. “I'm glad I'm here, too.”

“Good night, Daddy.”

My first full day in Bradleyville was nearly over. I kissed him on his sagging cheek, arranging the covers over his shoulders. “You get a good sleep, you hear, 'cause tomorrow your therapy starts. And we're gonna fight like the angel Michael.”

He smiled tiredly. “Yaaaa.”

“Okay. See you in the morning.” I left the darkened room feeling out of kilter, the child tucking her parent into bed.

Afterward I waited two hours in my room, trying to read, until Mama finally went to bed. I longed to hear Carrie's familiar voice but could have no privacy on the phone with Mama in the living room. At the click of her door I pattered out to place the call.

Carrie answered grouchily.

“Well, hello to you too.”

“Oh, Celia!” she cried. “I'm sorry. I couldn't imagine who'd be calling me this late.”

I glanced at my watch. It was past eleven, and Carrie tended to go to bed with the chickens. “Oh no, I'm sorry,” I returned. “This is my parents' only phone, and of course it's not a cordless. It's hard to get a chance to call without Mama around.”

“I forgive you. Tell me how it's going.”

Where to begin? The day's events spilled from me in broken fragments. Mama. Our argument. Daddy. Dr. Forkes. Therapy.

“Sounds even rougher than I thought.” Carrie didn't hide her concern. “I've been praying for you every time I think about it; I want you to know that. I still believe God is in this.”

“Well, thank you.” I sighed. “Maybe he is.”

I did not want the conversation to continue in that direction, and apparently she sensed it. We were silent for a moment.

“How's DuPont?” I asked.

She laughed. “Great! More chemistry now than ever. We've had another date. I think it could really go somewhere. It's been a long spell,” she added almost wistfully. “It feels so good now, having someone to be with.”

My heart tugged at the thought. “I'm glad for you.”