Cracks in the Sidewalk (32 page)

I believe Elizabeth hears my voice and understands what I’m saying, so I talk to her all the time. I read aloud for hours on end—magazines, books, and quite often the Bible, Psalms mostly. I tell her I understand this terrible thing she’s going through and try to sound convincing when I say it’s a temporary setback. But I can’t even fathom what it’s like to be trapped inside the prison of your own mind. I worry she might be frightened, and I try to ease her fears by acting as normal as possible. I want to take her in my arms and comfort her as I did when she was a child, but that time has gone.

We haven’t seen or heard from any of the children since the day Charlie and Jeffrey had the fight. I miss the kids more than words can say. But right now I’ve got to focus on Elizabeth—she’s the one who needs me most.

I’m tired to the bone, but I seldom sleep. I doze off for a few minutes from time to time, but I always wake startled and anxious to make certain Elizabeth is still okay. I’ve heard her speak words twice. The first time she called for her daddy, and the second time she talked about David. It wasn’t actual conversation, just loose words like the rambling of someone caught up in a dream. That’s partly why I don’t sleep: I’m hoping she’ll call for me, and I want to be there to answer.

The nurse comes once a day. She monitors Elizabeth’s condition, checks her feeding tube, things like that. She’s generally here less than an hour but during that hour I rush upstairs, shower, and change my clothes. The minute she leaves, I hurry back to sit beside the bed.

In situations like this Charlie acts as if he has five thumbs and no fingers. Seeing Elizabeth hurts him as much as it does me. The only way he can cope is to shield his eyes, turn away and not look directly into the bright light of truth. I wish I could tell him what to do, but I myself don’t know. Nobody does. We’re the blind leading the blind, cripples leaning on other cripples, lost souls praying for guidance.

Visitation Revisited

I
n the wake of Judge Brill’s death the case of Caruthers v Caruthers was assigned to the Honorable Margaret Thumper, a newcomer to the bench and a woman determined to prove herself by making quick work of the sizeable caseload dumped on her desk. She zipped through the files of troubled teens and violent spouses, giving little more than a cursory glance at documents that told of malicious behavior patterns and mental instability. Within two weeks of the tragedy, she had begun to hear cases.

Although given only two days’ notice, both Dudley Grimm and Noreen Sarnoff were informed that Judge Thumper would hear arguments in her chambers at three o’clock sharp on Wednesday. Margaret Thumper was determined not to be tagged “the junior judge,” so to compensate for her youthful appearance she wore her blond hair slicked back in a tight chignon and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She aimed her words like spears, and she had developed her stern demeanor to the point where she could go for days without smiling.

“Sit,” she said when the two attorneys entered the room. Without looking up she opened the file folder in front of her. “You’ve each got five minutes, so get right to the point and state your case quickly. I’ll hear from the plaintiff’s attorney first.”

Dudley said, “Your Honor, this request for a restraining order against Jeffrey Caruthers is entered on behalf of my client, Elizabeth Caruthers, and the parents with whom she currently resides. On April nineteenth, Jeffrey Caruthers physically attacked his wife while she was lying in a sickbed. Based on this behavior, we ask that the court prohibit him from entering the McDermott house when he delivers the children for their weekly visit.”

Dudley glanced at his watch and began to speak faster. “We are also asking for sanctions against Mister Caruthers, because for the past three weeks he has failed to present the three minor children for their court-ordered visitation. And this is the third time we have had to take Mister Caruthers back to court because of failure to abide by the specified visitation orders.”

“Rebuttal?” Judge Thumper said, glancing at Noreen.

“Yes, of course,” Noreen answered quickly. “In response to the first complaint, my client did not attack his wife. He saw her in bed, believed her to be asleep, and used a gentle shake to wake her. Unfortunately, Elizabeth Caruthers was in a coma. My client had no knowledge of her condition when he approached her. I find it ludicrous that the plaintiff should be requesting a restraining order since it was Mister McDermott who attacked Jeffrey Caruthers. He suffered a broken nose and needed six stitches to close the gash in his chin!”

“Two minutes,” the judge said, again checking her watch.

Noreen began to speak more rapidly. “The reason Jeffrey Caruthers has not delivered his children for visitation is because he believes it not in their best interest to see their mother in such a deplorable condition. The visitation ordered by Judge Brill applied only to the mother. It explicitly excluded the grandparents since they have no custodial rights in the state of New Jersey.”

Margaret Thumper tapped the face of her watch and Noreen ceased talking. The judge looked at Dudley, “At the time of the alleged attack, was Elizabeth Caruthers comatose?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Is she still comatose?

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Has the husband made any further attempts to approach or harass his wife or her parents?”

“Well, he hasn’t been bringing the children—”

“No long-winded explanations, just yes or no.”

“No.”

The judge turned to Noreen. “Is your client requesting anything other than relief of the visitation order previously issued by the court?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Very well, petition granted.” She turned to Dudley. “I’m giving you the restraining order you requested but denying sanctions against the defendant. And I suggest that you don’t waste the court’s time with any further motions for visitation.”

“But, Your Honor,” Dudley stuttered. “There is a distinct possibility my client will come out of this coma, and if she—”

“How long has she been comatose, Counselor?”

“About seven weeks, but she shows signs of—”

“If she snaps out of it, you can re-file.” With that Margaret Thumper stood.

A stunned Dudley Grimm walked slowly down the hall while Noreen hurried to call her client with the good news.

The Long Hot Summer

S
ummer came early that year with a blast of heat that sent people in search of air conditioners and oscillating fans. Claire pushed back the curtains and opened the windows in Elizabeth’s room hoping to catch a cross breeze. In the fourth week of June the air hung hot and heavy as an August day.

Claire lifted her daughter’s head and slid a fresh, cool pillow beneath it. Elizabeth’s face and hair were damp, her eyelids fluttering.

It’s this heat,
Claire reasoned, as she folded back the sheet and the lightweight blanket. She telephoned Charlie and asked him to bring home an industrial-sized fan so they could get the air in the room circulating. Afterwards she went into the kitchen and returned with a large bowl of ice water and a soft square of terrycloth. She dipped the cloth in water, twisted it lightly to remove the falling droplets, then ran the cloth across her daughter’s face, neck, and arms. Elizabeth’s skin grew cool and comfortable to the touch. 

“Doesn’t this feel refreshing?” Claire asked rhetorically, using the same gentle tone she’d used for nearly two months. “With the weather as hot as it’s been, there’s little else we can do to keep cool. Daddy is going to bring home…”

She continued for hours with a steady stream of conversation to accompany the gentle sponge bath. Each time the ice melted, Claire went back for another bowl. Eventually Elizabeth seemed to settle into a more restful sleep.

That night Charlie stood a huge fan in the corner of the room, stretched an extension cord across the room, and turned it on. “How’s that?” he asked.

“Better,” Claire answered, grateful for the darkness that cooled the room to a tolerable level.

When the sun rose the next morning, the heat was worse and the humidity so thick a person could feel it crawling across their skin. Claire had fallen asleep on the day bed, but when she woke Elizabeth seemed more restless than the previous day. Her fingers twitched from time to time, and she jerked her head from side to side. Claire felt her brow, which was clammy and damp with perspiration.

She adjusted the fan so that it moved a flow of air across the room but did not blow directly on the bed, and then she went for another bowl of ice water.

Throughout the long hot day Claire continued to wipe her daughter’s skin with icy cold cloths. When night came she continued until the air cooled to where a person could breathe comfortably. After she emptied the last bowl of water, she stretched out on the daybed.

When a person’s soul is as weary as their body, sleep overtakes them—so Claire slept. And she dreamt. In her dream a little Elizabeth ran, played, called out to her…

“Mother?” The voice sounded weak and far away. “Mother?”

Claire jumped to her feet, startled.

Elizabeth’s eyes were open. “Mother?”

“You’re awake!” Claire gasped, folding her daughter into a joyous embrace. “Thank you, Lord,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

Elizabeth’s eyes darted about, and she looked confused. “Where’s—”  

“I know it’s a bit bewildering,” Claire said, tracing her hand along the contour of Elizabeth’s face. “You’ve been asleep a long time.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth closed her eyes again and drifted off to sleep.

Claire watched and waited for her daughter to wake but she slept silently through the day, through the night, and through two more days. Claire continued the sponge baths, crediting them with the miracle. On the fourth day Elizabeth again opened her eyes, slowly, sleepily, and for less than a minute.

Claire felt certain Elizabeth would soon regain consciousness, so she filled the room with bright, colorful flowers. “I want Liz to see something pretty when she opens her eyes,” she told Charlie and reminded him that once Elizabeth could sit up they would need to have Dudley file a new petition for the children’s visitation.

Charlie said, “I think you’re being overly optimistic.” He knew the truth. The first time Liz opened her eyes and spoke a few words he’d been every bit as excited as Claire, but then he’d spoken with the doctor. He spoke with Doctor Sorenson once a week, sometimes more often.

“Elizabeth is wavering on the shallower edge of a comatose state,” Doctor Sorenson had explained. “It’s not at all uncommon for a patient in that state to drift in and out of consciousness. It can happen any number of times. Enjoy it for what it is—a few extra moments of time with your daughter. Believe me, it is not a harbinger of what is to come.”

C
onsciousness came and went throughout the sweltering summer. Elizabeth opened her eyes dozens of times, although seldom for more than a minute or two. She spoke a few words here and there, generally slurred and confused in thought. Nonetheless, Claire’s spirits soared, and she continued to feel encouraged. Confident the icy sponge baths had caused the improvement, she insisted Charlie replace the large fan with an air conditioner that kept the room as cold as the inside of a refrigerator.

“I’m certain it’s helping Liz,” she said, bundling herself in an alpaca sweater.

On the last Sunday of August Elizabeth’s eyelids fluttered as Charlie bent to kiss his daughter good morning; Claire said, “Say good morning to Daddy.”

Suddenly a whisper-thin voice answered, “Good morning, Daddy.”

Elizabeth eyes remained closed.

“You’re coming along beautifully,” Claire gushed, gingerly embracing her daughter.

Charlie smiled, patted Elizabeth’s hand, planted a gentle kiss on Claire’s cheek, and then left the room before Claire could see his tears.

That afternoon Claire read aloud for hours. She finished the final chapters of
To Kill a Mockingbird,
then moved on to the book of Revelations. Close to five o’clock she set the Bible aside and stood to check on Elizabeth.

“How are you doing, sweetheart?” she asked. A hand to her daughter’s head revealed a damp brow, icy cold but slick with beads of perspiration.

“My goodness,” Claire exclaimed. “It feels as though you’ve got a fever.”

Elizabeth’s face appeared restful and unusually calm with just the slightest trace of a smile. Her eyelids fluttered ever so slightly.

“I’m sorry to be so much trouble, Mother,” she whispered.

“Nonsense,” Claire answered. “You’re no trouble at all!” She gently smoothed Elizabeth’s hair back from her face. “We need to break this fever. I’ll get some ice water.”

It took Claire less than two minutes—just long enough to empty a tray of ice cubes into a bowl, fill it with water, and hurry back—but when she returned Elizabeth’s breathing had slowed.

Claire gasped and cradled her daughter in her arms. As she held her in a close embrace, the last bit of air rattled from Elizabeth’s chest.