Here I Stay

The hardest thing to bear were the ordinary, everyday sounds. Banal dialogue and canned laughter from the TV room down the hall, voices from the nursing station discussing the weather and spring fashions and how the Caps were doing. It seemed almost obscene that others could go on with the trivial business of living while in some nearby room the ultimate struggle was being waged. She had kept this vigil before, with friends and co-workers; but this time it was different. This time it was Jim. Nineteen years old, with his whole life yet to live—her only brother, her only kin.

A pale, disheveled little figure, her shabby raincoat buttoned awry over her nightgown, she sat huddled in the chair in the area the hospital had set aside for smokers. It had a grudging look; the upholstery was shabby, the magazines were six months old. She was the only one there. The ashtray beside her was overflowing. She had not moved for hours except to stub out one cigarette and light another. When the telephone roused her from sleep she had only stopped long enough to grab her coat and purse. Her short brown hair stood up in wisps around her face, which was as bare of makeup as it was of emotion. She did not look like a hero or a fighter, but she was engaged in a battle against the strongest of all antagonists, the only enemy who has never lost. "You can't have him. Not yet. I won't let him go."

Footsteps approached and slowed, before passing on. Andrea did not look up. The muscles at the corners of her mouth witched in a grotesque caricature of a smile. They were afraid she would have another fit of what
they
called hysterics, like the one she had had in the emergency room. It had not been a pretty performance—kicking, screaming, striking out—she had a vague notion she had also bitten an intern—but it had gotten her to her goal—to Jim. She had been able to touch him, to clasp his blood-streaked hand and communicate her presence and her will. She fought now to maintain that tenuous invisible bond, and to reinforce it with every ounce of strength she possessed. The alert watchers need not have concerned themselves. She would not use that method again unless she had to.

Finally they came for her. The doctor was one she had not seen before. He introduced himself, watching her warily, speaking with the hard-won dispassion of a man who cannot afford the luxury of involvement. She asked the necessary question and got the expected answer: "We're doing all we
can."

Seeing Jim was even harder than she had thought it would be. The still form, bandaged and wired and rigid, bore no resemblance to the tall young athlete she loved. She fought back her tears and poured all her strength into the struggle to hold him.

When his white lips parted, the doctor gave a start of surprise. She couldn't hear what he said. The nurse bent over him. "It sounded like a name. Alice?"

"Andrea." She was certain. "He's asking for me. Let me speak to him. Please."

This time the response was stronger. His fingers, almost the only unbandaged part of his body, were
cold, but not with the icy chill of death, and his voice was louder. The word did sound like "Alice." Some girl, some unknown beloved? No. She knew all the girls, she had made a point of meeting them; she knew there was no special girl among them. Whom else would he call but her, sole sister, almost mother? She clung to the cold fingers, trying to warm them. "Hang on, Jimmie. I'm here. I'll always be here, I'll never let you leave me. Just hang on."

When they touched her shoulder she went, unprotesting. The doctor seemed pleased. "It's an encouraging sign, Miss Torgesen. Of course his condition is still critical—the extent of brain damage undeterminable as yet—but the patient's attitude is very important. The will to live."

"He won't die," Andrea said. "I won't let him die."

Andrea climbed down from the ladder and stood back to inspect the sign. Bold black letters, stark on a white background, proclaimed their message:
springers' grove inn.
The sign swung gently from wrought-iron brackets atop the stone gatepost. Andrea nodded, pleased with her work. The sign was legible, it was eye-catching and—at last—it hung straight. She dropped onto the bench inside the gate and sat looking at the house.

Every muscle in her body ached, but as she studied the results of months of backbreaking work, the sweet satisfaction of success made fatigue seem unimportant. The summer had been hot and wet.

The green lawn sloping down from the house looked like velvet and the old trees shading the porch flaunted leaves of brilliant emerald. However, the first touch of fall was in the air—a faint wash of gold over the maple leaves, bright crimson accents among the oaks. Against a background of rolling hills and verdant meadows the house stood like a marble monument, white paint glistening in the sunlight. The exuberance of Victorian ornament was subdued by the sheer mass of the structure and the strength of the walls. Every gingerbread curlicue was in place; the wide veranda that swept in a graceful curve around the north corner of the facade had been fitted up with wicker chairs and tables and an old-fashioned porch swing. Inside, the same perfection prevailed—charm combined with unobtrusive comfort.

Andrea's hand went to the small of her back in a gesture that was now habitual. She had had a backache for weeks, and no wonder; she had painted and hammered and scrubbed, she had argued with workmen and harassed contractors and fought with inspectors. But it had been worth it. The house was not only a sign of present accomplishment, it was her future—hers and Jim's. Remembering her first view of the place, five months earlier, a smile of triumph curved her lips.

A March morning, gray, foggy, cold. Icy rain, a few degrees away from snow, drizzled down the windshield as she brought the car to a stop by the porch steps. Jim sat beside her, hunched over, knees ostentatiously drawn up; he was six feet three and still growing, but his silent protest was directed not so much against the size of the car as against the fact that she had refused to let him drive. Deeply
insulted, he had sulked all the way from D.C.— thirty miles of offended silence, which Andrea blandly ignored. The sight of the house broke through his huffiness. "Jesus H. Christ," he said.

"Don't swear," Andrea said automatically. But she couldn't help thinking that he had put the case in a nutshell.

Leafless and forlorn, the trees looked like crippled giants raising rheumatic arms to threaten the house. There were three floors of it, plus an attic under the mansard roof, and a tower at one end. Acres of walls—and not a square inch of paint that wasn't flaking, chipping, or missing. The iron railing surrounding the widow's walk looked like broken teeth, red with rust. Half a dozen windows were boarded up. One of the pillars supporting the porch roof was broken; the steps sagged, inadequately propped by stones. Even on a bright day the wreck of a once proud mansion would have been depressing. On that gloomy, dreary morning, the sight was indescribable.

Too discouraged to move, Andrea sat with her hands on the wheel. It was not her first view of the place, but it was her first view as owner—owner of ruin and decay. She had paid duty visits to Cousin Bertha once or twice a year. For the last five of those years the old lady—actually her grandmother's half-sister—had been virtually senile, clinging to her home with the unreasonable determination of the old and able to do so because the small community in which she lived had a few middle-aged, unskilled women who could be hired to tend the elderly. Andrea remembered thinking disinterestedly that the house was deteriorating, but she had not paid much attention; she hadn't imagined the problem
would ever be hers. Bertha had innumerable relatives. They were widely scattered, however, and Andrea was the only one who paid regular visits to the old lady. She could honestly claim that the hope of profit had never been one of her motives; the visits had been prompted in part by proximity and in part by the stem Calvinist sense of duty Jim found so funny. He teased her constantly about her New England conscience, and when the letter from the lawyer arrived he had shouted with amusement, "Now it comes out. What did you do, con the old lady into making you her sole heir?"

Andrea was not amused. "She's probably left me some ghastly trinket—a brooch with dried-up hair in it, or her collection of seashells. Maybe it's something I can sell. I hope so. We could use the money."

Jim's well-shaped mouth tightened, as it always did when she talked about finances. "Goddamn it, Andy, if we're that broke I'll get a job. A full-time job. I told you—"

"No. You'll finish college. No one knows better than I how important that is. I wish I could do better for you than the state university, but—"

"Maryland is fine. It's a good school. I like it. But I wish to God you'd stop talking about money!"

He left the room. Andrea stared at her clenched hands. He was right; she did harp on the subject. Jim hated being dependent on her, he knew how hard she worked to keep him in school. She had refused to let him apply for student loans; she wouldn't have him burdened by debts when he entered the job market. He couldn't understand her hatred of owing money. He had only been eight years old when the accident that killed their father and stepmother left them orphaned, without kin
close enough to help. Andrea didn't want help, but it had been a shock to learn that her handsome, brilliant father had lived up to every penny of his considerable income, and that he had not even carried extra insurance. Like so many men, he had refused to contemplate the possibility of dying. He was in his early forties, at the peak of his career, when the plane crash ended his career, his life, and Andrea's college aspirations.

She had gone to work as a typist in a motel office—the first job that came to hand, but it had proved a wise choice. With the help of night courses she had worked her way up to assistant manager of a good-sized hotel, and had come to enjoy the challenges of the profession. However, it was a grueling, demanding job, requiring long hours and frequent emergency calls; she hadn't been able to spend as much time with Jim as she would have liked. All her spare hours had been devoted to him, and her efforts had paid off. Except for the normal adolescent misadventures he had given her no trouble, and she never regretted the fact that her social life consisted almost entirely of school plays and Cub Scout meetings, Little League and school football games. Jim had made State All-American in high school; his first year in college he had been asked to go out for soccer as well as football. He had wanted to work part-time, but she couldn't allow that; sports and studying were hard enough. When he protested she said jokingly, "Don't knock it, kid—how much does a pro football player make? I expect to be supported in style one of these days."

When the lawyer told her Cousin Bertha had left her everything—the house, its contents, and the thirty acres of land surrounding it—her reaction was
numbed disbelief. There must be a catch to it. She had struggled so long, with so many setbacks and disappointments; she had stopped believing in luck.

Jim, who had never accompanied her on her visits to Cousin Bertha, was convinced they must have inherited a fortune. Now he sat silent beside her, staring at the decaying wreck with what Andrea assumed must be her own sense of outraged disgust. Her hands clenched. The house wasn't a white elephant—it was a dirty gray rotting carcass. The lawyer had warned her it would not be easy to sell; no one wanted big old houses that cost a fortune to heat. Now she realized that he had understated the case. She would have to pay someone to take this ruin off her hands.

"Where is that damned lawyer?" she demanded angrily. "He said he'd be here. I can't take any more time off. They're charging me leave for this morning as it is."