On Shifting Sand (30 page)

“What’s your name?” comes a small, thin voice from the other side of the curtain.

I decline to answer, and she goes into a low, wheezing laugh that soon turns into a wet, hacking cough that lasts nearly a minute according to the clock on the wall.

“Are you all right?” I venture once she’s gone quiet again.

“Doc says it’s dust pneumonia.” She pronounces it NEW-monia, and without stirring a thing, I clearly picture the woman in the bed next to mine. Thin, like me. Browned by the sun, dried by the wind. An ever-present handkerchief for those moments when the cough brings up all the grains of earth she swallowed. “Prob’ly goin’ to kill me, even if Doc don’t say so.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine.” I try to work hope into my voice.

“You a doctor?”

“No.”

“Well, then.”

Nothing left to say, so I lie back against my pillow and stare up at the bottle releasing a slow drip . . . drip . . . drip straight into my arm. Already I can tell I feel better than I have in the last days of my memory, and I wish Nurse Betty had left the mirror at my side so I could primp a little bit before the doctor arrives. Left to my limited resources, I lick my fingertips and arrange my hair, avoiding the still-tender spot on my temple. I pinch my cheeks—a trick I learned in the girls’ room at school—and tuck my lips between my teeth, biting them until the pain rings in my ears.

I hear footsteps from the far end of the long corridor of a room. The occasional “Good afternoon” punctuates a low, tuneless whistle. The curtain is slid wide, and a man steps close. He has a thin fringe of hair above his ears, with longer strands streaking across the top of his otherwise-bald head. The lenses of his dark-rimmed glasses are smudged, and even before he steps close, I can smell a faint hint of red onion, a remnant of his lunch. He clutches a clipboard in one hand and keeps a stethoscope at the ready in the other.

“Good afternoon, Mrs.—” he consults the clipboard—“Merrill. I see you are wide awake at last. That’s a good sign. Breathe deep.”

He places the stethoscope to my heart and listens, then instructs me to sit forward while he listens at my back.

“Sounds fine. Much better than when you arrived. And you’ve had a chance to speak with your nurse.”

“Yes.” It’s the first he’s invited me to speak. “She—”

“She informed me of your concern that there might be a pregnancy. From what I could tell in my initial examination, it is unlikely, though I may have overlooked. Given that you have not experienced menses in more than two months’ time, I could perform a more specific test, but your advanced state of malnutrition leads me to believe that is the far more likely culprit.”

This whole time he’s been shining a light into my eyes, touching the tender areas behind my ears, indicating that I should open my mouth wide so he can peer down my throat.

“Sit up, please. Turn. Very good.”

I follow the instruction given by his twirling finger until my legs dangle over the side of the bed, at which time he thumps my knee with the same instrument with which he stared into my eyes, bringing an involuntary kick of my leg.

“It is vital, Mrs. Merrill, that you restore your body to a state of normal nutritional health. Or I feel the consequences will be far graver than a knock to the noggin.” At which point he tenderly touches the area around said knock. “We have people suffering illnesses far less preventable than this. It shames me to lose a bed to a dissatisfied housewife mired in self-pity. Lie back.”

His words swirl around me, a cautionary cyclone of diagnosis and instruction, each one leaving me to wonder if he cares two bits whether I live or die in this bed. The racking cough of the woman next to me calls his attention, and he cocks an ear to her while keeping his eye on me.

“Do you hear that? That, my good woman, is a sickness worthy of a hospital bed. You, on the other hand, have done something silly to yourself, and I have very little patience with the phenomena of female hysterics.” He makes another note on the clipboard. “Three days to consume everything brought to you. Five pounds. Or you will be taken to another facility.”

“Another facility?”

“You are suffering from an acute case of anorexia. A disorder of the
nerves. One best treated in a facility designed to meet the needs of the mentally infirm.”

“I am not—”

“Sane people do not starve themselves to death. Not when there is an alternative. I’ve already sent a telegram to Eastern State Hospital in Craig County advising them of your case. You may subject yourself to an extensive psychiatric evaluation, or you may avail yourself of our nutritional offerings and take yourself home. Whatever demons are plaguing you, Mrs. Merrill, rest assured you will only give them a stronger foothold in this advanced state of physical deterioration.”

Obviously concluded, he makes one more note on the clipboard before replacing the cap on his pen and putting it in his white coat pocket. He wishes me good day and good luck—the warmest of all the words he has said to me—turns on his heel, and whistles away.

I don’t even know his name.

I spend the next few minutes listening to the shallow, wheezing breath of the woman next to me.

“Soundin’ better, Ladonna,” Nurse Betty booms on her way to my bed.

Ladonna.
She has a name, and knowing it makes her more than a noise. Now I’ll be as aware of her own breaths as I am mine.

Nurse Betty carries a short-legged tray, which she places squarely over my lap once I’m again in a sitting position. “Beef broth,” she narrates, pointing to a bowl filled with a steaming, sloshing liquid. “Cherry-flavored Jell-O, and a big glass of milk. How does that look?”

My first answer would be
unappetizing
, with the exception of the
Jell-O, which looks cool and inviting in its quivering mass, but the doctor’s threats echo throughout my empty body.

“Delicious. Jell-O? What a treat.”

“Thought you might like that.” She unfurls a napkin, tucks it into the neckline of my gown. “Put a special request in with the cook the moment you come in.”

“That was very kind of you.” Finally I feel my body holding enough moisture to produce tears, but I keep them back, lest Nurse Betty see me as weak. In the wake of the doctor’s visit, strength—at least the appearance of it—is vital. “I’ll save it for dessert.”

“That’s what I’d do.” She hands me a spoon. “Now, eat up, ’less you want to say a blessin’ first.”

Feeling her insistence, I bow my head and offer a short prayer of thanks, including a request for a blessing for all who saved me. Amen.

“That’s nice.” Nurse Betty sits on the chair last occupied by Russ, and it strains and creaks in response.

“You’re staying?”

“Have to make sure you clean your plate. Bowl, in this case.”

“Surely you have other patients to care for. This poor woman in the next bed—”

“Is doin’ fine, for now at least. Lord bless her soul. We don’t want none of this to go wastin’.”

“I wouldn’t waste a thing.”

“Not with me watchin’, you won’t. Now, trust me when I tell you, you don’t want that beef broth gettin’ cold. You gonna spoon it for yerself? Or do you need some help?”

“I’m fine.” I dip the spoon within the deep-brown broth and lift it to my lips. The first taste is salty and hot, leaving a savory trail trickling across my tongue and down my throat when I finally find the strength to swallow.

“Good girl,” Nurse Betty says, and I know for certain she is somebody’s mother.

  CHAPTER 19
  

I
EAT.
A
ND
I
EAT AND
I
EAT.
For the first day, nothing but broth, meant to “awaken” my appetite, according to Nurse Betty. Before my first night’s sleep, the needle is taken out of my arm, disconnecting me from the constant drip of fluid, and the next morning I am given a scrambled egg and a dish of canned peaches. And coffee, and milk, and Jell-O. Then a soup made with soft vegetables, and a warm roll to sop up the broth. And Jell-O. Eggs again for supper.

I tell myself I am hungry. Tell myself this food is a gift, not to be wasted. Tell myself there is nothing wrong, not really. Not anymore, now that Jim is gone, and I hardly ever think about him at all. I bask in Russ’s attention, his face beaming with pride and relief every time I clean my plate. I watch him turn on his heel to chase down a nurse when I wonder if I can’t get a second dish of Jell-O. The last time he was this attentive to me was during the days following my second miscarriage. He was at my side every waking moment. Sleeping moments, too, until
I had to insist that he go take Ronnie out to play and leave me be for some peaceful contemplation.

During my days in the small Boise City hospital, I never contemplate sending him away.

“I was so afraid I’d lost you,” he says—more than once. Holding my hand, stroking my hair. “I don’t know how I couldn’t see . . .”

Over and over, he asks my forgiveness, each request like a burning coal dropped at the top of my throat. I swallow my shame, though, with the same reluctance as I swallow broth and cream, and soon the nutrients take purchase.

Everything becomes clear. My thoughts run a course to completion instead of swirling upon themselves like dust devils in my mind. Even better, they run forward. Since the day of Rosalie’s funeral, all of my mental discourse has circled back to that afternoon with Jim. If I tried to clean my house, I thought only of my own filth. When I willed desire for my husband’s touch, I experienced the betrayal of my flesh again. When our congregation prayed for rain, I silently crept away from agreement, fearing the rebirth of Featherling might bring him back. And when I prepared food for my family, I refused it myself, thinking that if I could not bring myself to let Russ know the truth about his wife, I would make her disappear instead. Little by little. Worn down, and worn away.

On the morning of my third day, I am given a robe and allowed to walk out onto the hospital grounds. The day is hot, but clear and still. The grass on the hospital lawn might be brown, but it is still grass—brave, brittle blades like I haven’t seen in over a year. The sky is dotted with the kind of white, wispy clouds that so vex the farmers as they float and taunt our parched land. My ears fill with the sounds of life—automobiles, voices, even a rhythmic pounding from a construction crew not far off. For so long I’ve been surrounded by silence—albeit an audible silence brought on by the constant, unbroken wind. I’ve seen nothing but dirt, layered an inch thick over our paved streets, drifted up against the sides of our buildings. We’ve seen homes buried
up to their windows. Full-grown trees looking like shrubs poking out of dunes.

I can see; I can breathe—neither of which have been reliable luxuries of late. I even welcome the immediately oppressive heat from the sun, knowing I can easily avoid its blinding power within the shade of a covered patio, where the contrasting coolness refreshes me to an unexpected degree. I’m wishing I had the foresight to bring a cool glass of water with me, when Russ comes through the screened door.

“There’s my girl,” he says in a way that brings back memories of courtship. Then, as if reading my mind, he presents me with a tall, white glass, sweating in the contrasting heat.

“What is this?” I ask, taking it from his grip.

“Egg cream.” A taste has spilled over onto his thumb and he licks it off. “From the diner, just over there. And if the doctor gives his permission, I can bring you a hamburger for supper. How does that sound?”

I don’t want to diminish his enthusiasm by telling him the truth, so I mutter an appreciative sound as I pucker my lips around the waxed-paper straw. The taste that hits me is sweet and cold, effervescent with flavor, and I am about to declare it sublime when Russ beats me to it, using the very word.

“Sublime, isn’t it? I thought you deserved a treat.”

“Not all of it,” I say, holding the glass to him, offering to share.

“I treated myself to one yesterday. And I’ve felt guilty ever since.”

“Guilty?” I take another sip. “Why?”