No Dark Valley (58 page)

He doubted that the two of them had a single thing in common. He couldn't imagine someone as confident as Celia fretting about past sins, for example, the way he had done late one night recently while eating a miserable supper of canned corned beef hash. He couldn't imagine her suddenly standing up as he had, pounding a fist on the table and declaring right out loud, “He breaks the power of canceled sin! He sets the prisoner free!”

Surely somebody as cool and efficient as Celia had never gone on a hike and felt overcome at the sight of a red sunset or a cloudless blue sky or a foggy mountaintop. Surely she had never declared, “O for a thousand tongues to sing!” as he had done the day before on his way to school upon seeing the autumn colors of Paris Mountain. Impossible that someone like her could hear the name of Jesus and think of it as “music in the sinner's ears.” Though Bruce had no trouble thinking of himself as a sinner in great need of large daily doses of God's grace, he felt sure that Celia had no such low opinion of herself.

As he pulled into the parking lot by the emergency entrance of the hospital, he prayed, again. Surely the God who could open the ears of the deaf, touch the eyes of the blind, and cause the lame to leap for joy could take care of Kimberly.

29

Deathbeds Are Coming

When he got to the emergency room, they had him fill out some papers. They told him that emergency room traffic was especially heavy today, that another doctor had just been called to come in. Because Kimberly was considered high priority, a doctor would be examining her as soon as possible, but they had taken her to X ray “for some pictures” a moment ago. “Things are a zoo back there,” the woman at the desk told Bruce, jerking her head toward the double doors, “but have a seat and somebody will be out to take you back pretty soon.”

The waiting room was crowded. Bruce sat down next to a white-haired man who was opening the lid of a Styrofoam tray. In one section was a mound of spaghetti, in another a lackluster salad that consisted of the palest yellowish green lettuce and two wedges of a hard pinkish tomato, and in the other a piece of toast. The man studied it all silently for a few seconds, then grunted and closed the lid slowly. When Bruce glanced at his face, he saw that the old man was crying. He knew he ought to say something, to offer a word of comfort, but as he opened his mouth to speak, the man got up and shuffled out the door and down the hall, leaving his Styrofoam tray on his chair.

Bruce realized how hungry he was. He eyed the food tray and wondered if the old man would come back to claim it. Then he remembered some vending machines he had passed down the hall, and a minute later he had returned with a can of root beer and a granola bar. This time he settled into one of the brown vinyl chairs across from the television.

Two middle-aged women on the loveseat beside him were engaged in a conversation. One of them was wearing a purple raincoat and sneakers, and the other one was dressed in what looked like a square-dancing costume, with a red peasant-style blouse and a turquoise skirt with billows of red petticoats, which she was managing to keep in check only by clamping her hands on top of her chubby white knees. She had on little white ruffled anklets with her black patent Mary Janes and a big turquoise bow in her pouffy bleached hair. Bruce wondered if maybe her square-dancing partner had had a heart attack right in the middle of a do-si-do.

The two women were talking so loud he couldn't help hearing every word. They were discussing, of all things, the virtues of various brands of paper towels. The square dancer seemed to favor the pick-a-size kind with the rows of perforations close together so you could tear off just a little strip if that was all you needed, which the other one pronounced too expensive. “Yes, but at least they give you a clean tear,” said the square dancer, “not like those off-brands that rip everywhere but where you want them to.” She had a good point there, the other woman admitted. The cheap ones were bad to tear crooked, but still . . .

And then they got off on prints versus plain old white, the square dancer suggesting that some of the prints had pictures she didn't necessarily want in her kitchen. Why, her mother-in-law had given her some with green and orange kangaroos stamped all over them.

It was all so typically
female
. How many such conversations had Bruce overheard in break rooms and teachers' lounges over the years? Long discussions about a difficult pregnancy or somebody's new dinette set or the look on so-and-so's face when she said something. He used to like to play devil's advocate and join in, turning the whole conversation into an argument until the women caught on, which was usually very soon, that he was mocking them.

One woman had thrown a book at him once, literally—a heavy hardback geography book—and asked him why he didn't go talk with the men about something
really
intellectual, like cars or sports stats. “Then for a little excitement, you could all go watch that cop show on TV,” she had said. “You know, the one with high-speed chases and shootouts on the freeway.” She had even added a few sound effects, quite authentic-sounding ones, especially for a woman.

She had been very funny, that woman. Every time she saw him after that she would ask him if he'd seen any good brawls in basketball games lately or watched any footage of wars. “You men have such
important
things on your mind,” she'd say. “It's a wonder you can even hold down a full-time job.”

The conversation about paper towels stopped abruptly when the woman in the raincoat left. Three other women were sitting in chairs on the other side of Bruce. They were apparently related, since one of them had her feet propped companionably in the lap of one of the others. The two younger ones were probably sisters, he decided, both of them quite large with moon-shaped faces. The one with her feet propped up had her hair pulled back into a greasy ponytail. The other one was holding a folded-up section of the newspaper, from which she was reading aloud the daily horoscope, sign by sign. The women in this waiting room didn't seem overly concerned about whatever emergency had brought them here, Bruce thought.

“Here's Scorpio,” the sister with the newspaper said. “That's your sign, ain't it, Mama? It says here, ‘Changing your focus from yourself to others will bring you good luck in the coming days. Look for ways to do favors, and you will receive favors in return,'” to which the older woman replied dryly, “Well, that's a pure-D lie. I been givin' and givin' and givin' my whole life, and I ain't never got nothin' in return.”

The one with the ponytail took the newspaper and started reading aloud the letters of the scrambled-up words in the daily Jumble Puzzle. “‘A-B-I-S-S,'” she read, and they all appeared stumped, though Bruce had the answer at once:
basis
. Just as he was ready to speak up and offer his help, the mother said, “They done forgot to mix up the letters on that one! It's abyss, A-B-I-S-S. You know, that pit where the devil's gonna be throwed.”

The one holding the paper smacked it against the arm of the chair. “Betcha they thought they was gonna fool ever'body on that one,” she said, and she carefully wrote the letters in the spaces. The mother grunted and said, “I hate a person that's always tryin' to bamboozle other folks.”

The third time they called for “Mr. Wilson” in the waiting room, it dawned on Bruce that they might be looking for him. Maybe they had overlooked the fact that his last name wasn't the same as his married sister's, even though he had filled out the admitting papers with all the right information.

He jumped up from his chair and walked over to the woman at the desk, who was writing something on a form. She wasn't the same one he had talked to when he first arrived. This woman had a severe look about her, one that said life here at the emergency room desk had taught her not to expect anything good. She was wearing a pair of those skinny little reading glasses on the end of her nose, and her lips were pursed as if she were sucking on a sour ball. “Excuse me, did somebody just call for me?” he asked her.

“Are you Mr. Wilson?” she said without looking up.

“No.”

She scowled up at him, over the top of the tiny frames. “Mr. Wilson is the only one we've been calling for, sir. Have a seat and we'll call you when a doctor finishes with your patient.” She gave a little sigh, repursed her lips, and turned back to her writing. Bruce felt like a schoolchild who had gotten out of his seat during quiet time.

“My sister is Mrs. Wilson,” he said. “Kimberly Wilson. I thought maybe you—”

The woman stood up immediately. “Well, why didn't you say so? The doctor's been out twice already asking for you. Let me go back and see what I can do.” She headed for the door, adding, “These doctors are really busy, you know. They're handling
emergencies
. They can't wait around forever.”

Bruce was taken aback by her terseness. A woman like that shouldn't be working in a hospital, especially not at the emergency room desk. They needed somebody with a soft voice, somebody patient and compassionate who didn't treat people like they were naughty kindergartners. He could imagine this battle-ax snapping her fingers and barking at some distraught relative, “Nope, sorry, she died on the operating table. Just like that. Here, sign this before the undertaker comes for the corpse.”

Bruce thought of several things he could have said, but she disappeared through the double doors before he got anything out.

It turned out to be a woman doctor, and she wasn't much better than the receptionist. He could forgive her more easily, though, because the dark circles under her eyes told him she had probably been on duty for a long, long time. Dr. Vollnogle—that's how she introduced herself when she finally barreled through the double doors with a curt nod and a quick hard handshake. She was a hefty woman, not fat but broad-shouldered and muscular. Bruce wondered if she had ever competed in weight lifting or shot put. Her lips were tucked in at the corners as if she were holding back the words her laser-beam eyes were shooting at him: “And where were you when I came out looking for you earlier?”

Bruce decided to forgo an explanation, especially since she didn't give him a chance to offer one. The news was good, though she fired it at him like a round of ammunition. Kimberly was stable, all vital signs strong, talking coherently, no concussion, no bleeding, baby was apparently fine, hadn't dropped, good strong heartbeat, no complications, only injury was a sprained ankle.

“The mother's, I assume?” Bruce said, then immediately wished he hadn't.

Dr. Vollnogle gave him a long look, as if he were a puppy that had wet on her new carpet. “Yes, Mr. Wilson, the mother's.”

Bruce grabbed her hand and shook it. “The name's Healey,” he said. “Bruce Healey. But thank you, Doctor! Thank you very much. I know you're busy, and I appreciate your time. Thanks for the good news.”

“We're going to keep her overnight, though,” Dr. Vollnogle said, removing her hand from his, “to make sure we didn't miss anything. Sometimes a fall like hers can have delayed effects.”

“Oh, I don't think hers will,” he said. “She used to fall all the time as a kid. She'd trip and hit her head on something, then bounce right up and keep going. And she was always bad about passing out when she was really hungry. She'd just keel right over. There goes Kimbo again, we'd say. We used to tell her that's why she was slow at catching jokes, because of all the head injuries.” He laughed.

Dr. Vollnogle didn't seem to think it was funny, any of it. Her eyes were scanning his face as if she knew she'd have to give a description to the police later. Bruce wondered if she had ever considered a career in education. He could see her as a teacher, the kind who got all the bad kids because the principal knew she could handle them.

“We'll be moving her to a room in a little while,” the doctor said, taking a step back. She put her hand against one of the double doors. “You can come back and see her if you want to.” She was still looking at him suspiciously; no doubt she thought he'd had his own share of head injuries in the past.

“And why wouldn't I want to?” Bruce said cheerfully. “After all, she's the only little sister I have.” He saw something suddenly click in the doctor's eyes. “Oh yes, she's my
sister
,” he said. “Maybe I didn't say that. I did tell the other person, but . . . well, so you were probably thinking she's my . . . no, no, she's not. She's my sister. That's why our names are different, see. Her husband's overseas, and I'm . . . well, living at their house and helping her out. And her daughter, too. My niece. Her name's Madison, and she's two, and . . . well, you're not the first one who's misunderstood the relationship, believe me.”

But the doctor was already several steps ahead of him, turning a corner and waving him toward a cubicle. “She's right in here,” she called out to him. Then she poked her head into the cubicle and said, “Your brother's here, Mrs. Wilson. You need to get well really fast so you can keep an eye on him. He doesn't need to be running around loose.” Then she flashed Bruce a smile and was gone.

Well. So Dr. Vollnogle had a little reservoir of good humor she kept hidden underneath that crusty exterior.

Kimberly was glad to see him but sorry she had caused such trouble. Sticking out from under the covers, her left foot was elevated on a pillow, the ankle encased in ice packs.

No, no, it wasn't the marbles at all, she told him. She had put the ground beef on to brown—oh, and had Bruce found it and turned off the stove? Good, good. So anyway, she heard Madison playing in her room and went back to peek in on her. And then suddenly, just as she got to the nursery door and saw Madison standing on a chair reaching up to the bookshelf, she felt herself going weak all over—“that woozy kind of faint feeling” is how she described it.