When Horses Had Wings (21 page)

TWENTY-EIGHT

I
don’t know how mothers survive the death of a child, but I suspect they do it by trudging fearlessly forward despite a deeper urge to fold into a fetal position and succumb to intentional starvation. Though Sean hadn’t died, all my dreams for his future had been destroyed. I experienced that loss in a profound way that I could only compare to suffering the death of a loved one. While I knew I would continue to see him, the Sean with whom I’d interact going forward would be a different child than the one I’d previously known.

Though children, by the very nature of maturation, will change over time, I watched helplessly as Sean’s personality altered in ways I’d always hoped to discourage. On the weekends when I had Sean with me, which weren’t that many, I spent all of my time with him. We swam, toured The House of Wax, where Sean got scared in the dungeon, and watched the lion tamers and trapeze artists perform at the Ringling Bros. Circus. If I couldn’t be the primary parent, I decided, at least I’d be the exciting one. I wanted to create the kind of childhood memories that would last Sean a lifetime, ones strong enough to withstand a daily sabotaging from Kenny and Neta Sue.

In addition to my new secretarial job, I’d been freelancing for the local newspaper for extra income. Now I could afford what had once been out of question. I’d even managed to move from government-subsidized housing into a brand new apartment that accepted only adults. I had access to a swimming pool and a clubhouse where guests were welcomed, and it was okay to have children visit on weekends. Neatly bordered by sculpted shrubbery, the apartment complex parking lots remained abundantly lit at night. And each apartment unit had a dishwasher and ceiling fans that actually worked.

Residents of Heatherwood Springs, my new address, appeared more courteous than those I’d encountered at Jewel Gardens. I never heard anyone arguing. I guessed all those amenities helped folks sustain their agreeable natures.

My new surroundings even improved my attitude toward Kenny. Though he remained as overbearing and possessive as ever, when it came to Sean, I no longer felt the need to meet Kenny’s pigheadedness with resistance, which worked about the same as dousing a fire with lard anyway. That was why, when Kenny insisted that Sean remain home with him on Friday nights, though our divorce decree instructed him to surrender Sean by six o’clock, I decided not to argue. “You can pick him up at ten o’clock Saturday morning,” Kenny commanded, as though along with primary custody he’d been granted the right to make the rules. Unable to fight him from his position, I’d simply acquiesced.

Every time I saw Sean, he seemed different. When he’d first visited after he’d gone to live with Kenny, he’d arrived wearing a stained shirt and a pair of orange shorts that looked like they’d gone one too many rounds with a washing machine agitator. I laundered the outfit one more time, which didn’t help matters much, and sent Sean home in a brand-new set of red and navy Buster Brown coordinates. Two weeks later, when he returned for his next visit, he again looked like a poster child for poverty relief.

Besides Sean’s outer appearance, his personality underwent changes, too. He repeatedly referred to Neta Sue as “Momma,” which I’d explicitly asked him never to do. He constantly wanted to roughhouse with me, as though we might be contenders for a World Championship Wrestling. “Come uh-uh-n-n, Momma,” he’d complain when I refused to pin him to the ground. Once, he caught me off-guard and put a chokehold on me. For Christmas, the holiday he pretty much thought about year-round, Sean asked for a set of boxing gloves.

Adding to Sean’s peculiar behavior, he incessantly spoke of bingo dabbers, jackpot rounds, and lucky cards as though these were standard vocabulary words for a six-year-old. I had to wonder if Neta Sue might not have been better suited for the medical profession because, with surgical precision, she’d seemingly extracted parts of me from Sean and substituted those closer to her likeness.

“Hi-eee,” I chirped when Sean climbed into the car seat next to me one Saturday morning. “I’ve got a surprise for you today!”

Sean looked around inside the vehicle, as if to say, ‘Where is it?’

“We’re going to
the fair
!”

He clapped his hands and chanted, “The fair, the fair! Oh, boy!”

“We’re going home first, for lunch.” I hadn’t yet become rich enough to afford overpriced entertainment foods. “Then we’ll head to the fairgrounds, right after that.”

At the apartment, I served hot dogs and chips, Sean’s favorite weekend meal. But as I took a seat at my new dinette, I noticed Sean staring at the weenies as if they were infested with cockroaches. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “You too excited to eat?”

Sean shook his head. Gazing into his lap, he said, “I don’t want to get sick.”

“Have you been sick, sweetheart? I’m sorry. I didn’t know. We can go to the fair another time if you’re not feeling well.”

Sitting taller and looking more energetic than before, Sean explained, “No, I’m not sick. Momma said...I mean, Grandma said you fed me rotten weenies and made me sick when I was a
baby
.”

I wondered if Sean could see steam spewing from my ears. Neta Sue had pushed things too far. If she thought she’d gotten away with that ploy, she was badly mistaken. “I don’t know why your grandmother would say such a thing. I never fed you hot dogs when you were a baby. And I wouldn’t feed you anything that might make you sick. Okay?”

Sean smiled, picked up his frank, and chowed down.

~

On Sunday, at the end of our visit, I returned Sean to Neta Sue’s house. I’d little more than pulled into the driveway when Sean announced, “Daddy’s not home. He said Momma would be here.”

“You mean your grandma, Neta Sue,” I corrected.

Sean shook his head. “She says for me to call her momma because
she’s
my momma now.”

“She does, huh?” I climbed from the driver’s seat to let Sean out of the vehicle. “I’m going to walk you to the door.” I rubbed Sean’s back as he wandered unaware into the minefield.

At the stoop, I rang Neta Sue’s doorbell. She tore herself from behind the window shades she’d been peeping through to answer the door.

“I brought Sean back,” I said, “and I’m glad you’re here. You see, Sean has been confused, and you seem a bit confused yourself. So before I leave, I want to clear up something.”

I bent down low, to Sean’s height, so I could look him in the eyes. “Sean, this is your grandmother,” I pointed to Neta Sue. “And I’m your mother.” I tapped my collarbone. “That’s why you call me Momma, because that’s who I am. And you call her Grandma or Nana or Granny, because that’s who she is.”

Neta Sue’s eyes sparked. “I’m not the one who’s confused. I’m raising this child.”

I coaxed Sean inside, past Neta Sue’s imposing stature, and stood up to square off with the witch. “You ought to finish raising your own son before you go trying to raise
mine
. Seems you failed miserably the first time around.”

Her hands balled into fists, Neta Sue pushed her girth past the doorjamb and stormed out onto the porch. “Get your ass out of here. I’m done talking to you.”

I took a step closer to her bulbous figure. “I’ll get out of here, all right. But I’m not getting out of my son’s life.”

She sneered as I turned to leave.

From inside my car, I looked back at Neta Sue. She stood on the stoop, glaring at me. I gave her a go-to-hell look as I pulled my Mustang into reverse gear. Backing from the drive, my anger overtook me.

I shot Neta Sue the middle finger.

Though Neta Sue and Kenny might wish to relegate me to the furthest fringes of Sean’s life, they would not push me out, I vowed. I would not let that happen. At his core, Sean remained a part of me as much as he was a portion of Kenny. I couldn’t be fully severed from him because even when we were physically separated, we remained connected through sheer genetics. And no one, not even Kenny Ray, his vengeful mother, or a courtroom genius could change that fact.

~

Nine forty-five. I drove past the city limits and sped the last few miles toward Neta Sue’s house, anticipating how Kenny would act when I arrived to pick up Sean for summer vacation. More likely than not, he’d repeat his normal routine—act like he’d won some meaningful contest of wills or garnered proof that he could order me around since he lacked any other hint of personal power. Every time I showed up to retrieve Sean, Kenny would carry him to my car as though Sean was a baby. You’d have thought the boy hadn’t yet learned to walk.

The show began as soon as I parked my vehicle. First, Kenny would hesitate while standing underneath the weatherworn awning that covered Neta Sue’s front porch, talking low enough to Sean that I couldn’t hear. From his consoling facial expressions and Sean’s befuddled look, I guessed he pretended to soothe Sean. For a final jab, Kenny would enact a major display of affection right before he’d place Sean in the front seat of my car. “Love you,” Kenny would say in a singsong voice. And then he’d wave as if Sean might be going off to boarding school.

“Love you,” Sean would parrot back.

“Love you
more
,” Kenny would say before he’d close the passenger door. After that, the jerk would tilt his head forward and stare at me through the window glass. I could feel him searching me for signs of what? Happiness? Devastation? I was never sure.

Each time I retrieved Sean, Kenny’s theatrics made me feel like an intruder. The first few moments when Sean and I were reunited were always overshadowed by Kenny’s behaviors. To my extensive list of reasons to loathe him, I added this one. But on this morning, I made an internal promise not to act bitter. I would not give Kenny permission to reach inside my head and rearrange my emotions. I would not.

I navigated past the familiar landmarks: a veteran’s cemetery now filled with red, white, and blue flags, a milkweed-infested pasture erupting into purple blooms, and a barn so dilapidated that it practically begged for a tornado. The bridge that had once spanned Hawk Creek now arched over a dry gulch. Along the roadway on either side, sunflowers sprouted in the bar ditches. I swerved to miss a large pothole, my tires narrowly escaping the road hazard.

Nearing Neta Sue’s drive entrance, I slowed to make the left-hand turn. Under the great oak that shaded most of her front yard, I could see a small squat figure: Sean. Glints of sunlight danced across his hair through the spaces between the tree leaves. He was outside, playing alone. Perfect, I thought. Maybe today Sean would stride to the car on his own two legs.

I parked the Mustang with its rear bumper barely clearing the road behind me, its nose pointed toward the detached garage that could have been plumbed by a drunken sailor.

Sean stood, straightened his small frame, and stared right at me.

Glancing back toward the house, I observed a shadow in the doorway. I smiled at Sean and yelled, “Hi-i-ee!” With a wave, I motioned him my direction. He put down his toy caterpillar and stared as though he no longer recognized me.

My heart surged. What was he doing? I lowered the passenger side window. “Sweetie, are you ready for vacation?”

His eyes narrowed, face contorted. “No-o-o!” he screamed. “Don’t make me go-o-o! I don’t want to go!” At full throttle, he traced a direct line to the front door, yelping, “Dad-dy, Dad-dy!”

Kenny opened the storm door as if it were a drawbridge and he the fortress gatekeeper. He knelt to receive Sean, patting him and stroking his head. You’d have thought the child had suffered a skull fracture. But I suspected it had been something closer to a brainwashing.

I looked on in horror, a lump rising into my throat.

Disregarding me as easily as he had my parental rights, Kenny pulled Sean inside and closed the door. The innermost one.

That scene replayed itself many times over the next six years. Though I never knew when Sean would go with me or when his mind would be too poisoned to leave his dad, I kept showing up.

Only death could have stopped me.

TWENTY-NINE

I
’d like to say I had a premonition about it, but I didn’t. It happened the year I graduated from college, on an otherwise ordinary February day: forty-five degrees, overcast, windy, with a slight chance of rain, the kind of day I almost didn’t mind being stuck indoors reading press releases from individuals who had nothing of significance to report. I opened the day’s business mail and answered mildly annoying telephone inquiries.

Between calls, I addressed hundreds of envelopes to people who would likely never open them.

The telephone on my desk rang. Another assignment, I figured. Through broken words that began high and ended low, sounds filtered through the vocal chords of an adolescent boy-turned-bullfrog. Sean croaked, “Mom, I’m stranded. Can you come get me?”

“Stranded? Where are you?”

“At school. Dad was supposed to pick me up an hour ago, but he never showed up.” He coughed. “I called his work. But they said he got sick on the job and somebody took him to the hospital.” In the background, I could hear a photocopier running and what sounded like a couple of junior high school girls giggling. Sean was safe indoors, at least. “I called Grandma,” he continued, as if he needed to tell me I hadn’t been his first choice, “but she’s not home.”

“I’ll be right there. But call your dad’s work back and see if you can find out what hospital they took him to.”

By the time I tore out of the parking garage and onto Main Street, I’d shifted both my new car and my imagination into high gear. Had a pallet of sandbags fallen and crushed Kenny? Had he stood behind a dump truck and been accidentally, or in his case maybe intentionally, run over? Was he injured or just ill? And if he’d been injured, could he have been left permanently disabled? It would take something drastic like that to get that blockhead to agree to let Sean live with me.

At thirteen, Sean needed some distance from Kenny’s temper tantrums. And he needed true parenting, something neither Kenny nor Neta Sue knew much about. Today, they’d proven this. No one had bothered to check and see if Sean had made it home from school.

To prevent alarming Sean, I spoke little when he climbed into the vinyl bucket seat next to me. The drab hues of a misty winter sky painted a bleak enough picture without my help. An ambulance passed, its lights flashing, siren blaring. I reached across the console and patted Sean on the knee. “I’m sure everything’s all right. We’ll take a swing by the hospital. He’s probably checked out already. Baylor General, right?”

“Yeah.” Sean twisted at his lips with a thumb and forefinger.

The automatic doors swung wide to greet us at Baylor General. We passed through the entrance, the cold dampness of early nightfall biting at our heels. I clutched Sean’s left hand with my right and gave it a slight squeeze. “We’ll just ask that woman over there,” I said, gesturing toward a lady wearing a reflective nametag and a shrimp-colored pinafore. The woman behind the information desk looked like a geriatric version of Dorothy from the
Wizard of Oz
, with the minor exception that it had been Dorothy’s
dress
and not her
hair
that was electric blue. Drawing closer to the desk, I about gagged on the unmistakable odors of tomato soup and rose-scented perfume. Campbell’s and Avon weren’t meant to be mixed like that.

My stomach roiled from thoughts of aging and my own mortality. If I hadn’t been sick when I entered this place, I expected I could become that way soon. “She’ll have the records on her computer,” I said to Sean. “Maybe she can tell us if he’s still here.”

For once, Sean didn’t seem to mind having a room full of strangers witness his mother holding his hand. He didn’t try to pull free, a maneuver he’d well perfected by age two.

“Can you tell us the status of Kenneth Murphy?” I asked the information assistant.

She tapped a couple computer keys. “He’s in ICU. Are you immediate family?”

~

Neta Sue had been first to the hospital, the same way she’d kept one step ahead of me on most anything involving Kenny or Sean. But I’d been the one to retrieve Sean from school. For some reason, I found that hugely gratifying. In Neta Sue’s haste to rescue her own son, she’d temporarily forgotten about mine.

I sat in one of the waiting area’s dozen or more pea-green chairs and watched that sow’s backside as she waddled with Sean into the Intensive Care Unit. If nothing else, I prayed, let me be spared a conversation with her. Sean would give me the facts when he returned. I didn’t want to hear anything from Neta Sue. It wasn’t that I lacked curiosity or concern. I simply didn’t need any more lip from her. She acted like the universe would spin out of control if she wasn’t around to give directions. If I had to bet, she was probably in there, right now, barking orders at the ICU nurses.

From somewhere nearby, a man’s voice called out, “Ms. Murphy?”

“Right here,” I said, wiggling back into the pumps I’d prematurely slipped off. I’d forgotten this was Kenny’s mother’s name, too, most likely because it was too much for me to consider that I’d ever be mistaken for her.

“Ms. Murphy? Oh, you’re the
other
Ms. Murphy. Was that your son?” the doctor asked. He motioned with his head toward a pair of swinging metal doors.

I nodded.

The physician’s voice faded in and out. “I’m...and I’ll be...husband’s

doctor....” I caught only every fourth or fifth word he said because my attention was trained on those shiny metal doors—and on Sean.

“Would you care to join me in my office?” Doctor Somebody asked. He pointed down a sterile hallway. “We could speak more privately in there about your husband’s condition.”

“
Ex
-husband,” I corrected. I felt I had to say it to remember sometimes. “We’ve been divorced for years.”

“I’m sorry. I should have seen that on his chart.”

This guy must have thought I’d fallen off of the last onion truck passing through town. Even
I
knew that doctors didn’t read admission records. I probably should have sensed something strange about the man right then, but I saw only his white coat of authority. I paid little attention to the personality behind that jacket, and even less to his physical appearance. If he’d been one of the hospital’s bakery staff, I doubt I would have noticed.

“That’s okay. It doesn’t matter. Tell me what happened and if he’s going to be okay,” I said.

The physician directed me to a wingback chair in front of his desk. He took a seat in his executive chair, pushing aside a stack of papers and manila file folders. “Your husband...I mean ex-husband...has sustained heart damage from an aneurysm. He’s currently suffering arrhythmia and kidney failure. The next twenty-four hours will be critical for him. You should pray for the best and prepare for the worst. That’s about all I can tell you right now.”

I had to adjust my hearing. Heart damage? I’d never known Kenny to have any heart issues. At least, not medical ones. “Is he conscious?” I asked.

“No. And I doubt he will be tonight. So if I were you, I’d take that boy home when he’s through visiting and try and get some rest.” The physician hesitated, then added, “Mr. Murphy’s mother said she will be staying here overnight.”

My throat felt as if I’d swallowed a cotton ball that enlarged with every breath. Any second it might seal off my windpipe. My whole body grew clammy. I detected perspiration forming around my lips and along my hairline. Had the room temperature suddenly risen twenty degrees? I strained to listen more closely, but the sounds around me faded farther into the distance. Elevator bells, rolling gurneys, and paging calls gave way to a high-pitched ringing noise.

My face must have revealed my trauma. The doctor stepped from behind his desk and scrambled to reach me. By one arm, he led me over to a tufted leather sofa that I could barely see. “I think you better lie down here until you’re feeling better.” He pulled a chair close, seated himself, and lifted my wrist to check my pulse. “I know this is a shock to you.” He caressed my hand with the warmth of his own. “How long did you say you’ve been divorced?”

Probably he was trying to divert my attention to keep me from fainting, sidetrack me into thinking about something other than Kenny’s ruptured brain. Physicians are skilled at distracting their patients that way. But if he was going to ask me personal questions, I felt I should at least know his name. I opened my eyes and tried to read his silvery badge for the first time. The letters were too blurred for me to decipher. “About seven years,” I said, closing my lids to shut out my embarrassment.

“Mmm. I see. And you kept the name Murphy, I presume, because of your son?” The doctor’s chair creaked. When I next looked, I found his face closely suspended over mine. His penetrating gaze, reminiscent of a man in search of his own reflection, startled me.

“Yeah, that’s right,” I said. “I’ve always gone by Renee Murphy. Nobody knows me as a Goodchild anymore. That was my maiden name.”

The practitioner gave a forlorn smile. “Oh, you could be wrong.
I
still know you better as a Goodchild. But I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. Certainly not under these circumstances.”

I sat upright and strained to focus. His hair appeared a darker shade now that he’d cut it so short, and he’d gained at least thirty pounds since I’d last seen him. But those deep indentations, the ones I used to find so endearing, still framed his thin lips when he smiled. Like always, his eye color remained elusive, alternating between shades of hazel, teal, and at times gray. I glanced at his desk. Sure enough, his nameplate had been in front of me, big as a boxcar, the entire time: DAVID W. LASSITER, M.D.

Scanning the surroundings, I noted my former admirer’s various college and medical diplomas detailing what he’d accomplished while I’d been growing up too fast, a funny statue, and photographs of family and outdoor scenery. Centered on one wall, flanked by more outdoor photography, was an eight by ten enlargement of a Mayan pyramid.

“We’ll talk more later, when you’re up for it. I’ve got to make my rounds now.” Doctor Lassiter—David—adjusted his collar and heaved a reflective sigh. He took a few steps toward his office door, then stopped and turned back toward me. Under the florescent lights, his vacant eyes now appeared a dusty blue. For a moment, I recalled how I’d felt when, as a young teen, I’d stared into those eyes. Special. Valued. Genuinely accepted.

“Do you remember what I used to tell you? Do you remember what I used to say about Kenny?” David asked, studying his cushioned loafers.

How could I forget anything that had been repeated to me that often? ‘If anything ever happens to Kenny, I want to be the first to know,’ I silently recited. He’d said that like a broken record.

“Yes, I remember.”

“Hmm.” His gaze met mine, his mouth twisting into a wry grin. “This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

Those earlier nights when I’d lain in bed thinking about David, wondering if we’d one day meet again, imagining our future children together, had long since faded from memory. Over the years, I’d mostly forgotten about him and our juvenile romance. I had to struggle to remember what he looked like when I’d seen him last, with his eyes brimming over with rejection.

From all appearances, we’d both moved on, each establishing new lives and loves. How ironic that Kenny had been the one to reunite us, though it was much too late.

For several minutes, I sat in David’s office realizing I hadn’t ever wanted this either. Though I’d wished Kenny dead more times than not and imagined my glee over his demise, my guilt from having such thoughts overwhelmed me. Maybe my words had held more power than I’d realized. And possibly David’s had, too. He’d said he wanted to know if anything ever
happened
to Kenny. No doubt, he meant he wanted to know if Kenny and I ever broke up. But he’d probably hoped that would occur before he’d married and had that little girl whose photo adorned his desktop.

I’d always wanted Kenny to simply disappear.

Perhaps we both should have been more specific.