Billie Standish Was Here (25 page)

“Can you turn your head for me, Miss Lydia?” You could read the determination in her eyes, but she just couldn't do it.

“Okay!” Harlan said, as though this was progress. “How about your arm, Miss Lydia? Can you lift it?”

We stared at her left arm with the concentration of a couple at a séance trying to levitate a table. After much too long, her fingers started flexing. Out and back. She couldn't quite make a fist.

Harlan said, “All right! Some fine motor movement, not so much on the large muscle groups.” I looked at him in wonder.

He loosened the sheet at the foot of the bed. “This little piggy?” he said, pinching her big toe.

Her left eye squinted. Her new smile. She could wiggle her toes, but her foot and leg stayed put.

Harlan pulled up a chair and smiled at her. Then he said, “Well, Miss Lydia, I know the hospital's not your favorite hotel but I really think we ought to let Doc Strunk know what's going on.”

“AAAAAW!” she said. Tears started down her left cheek.

Harlan looked stricken. I gave him a look that said “I told you so,” but there was no satisfaction in it.

I stood and smoothed Miss Lydia's hair like before. “It's okay,” I cooed. “It's gonna be all right.” I caught Harlan's eye, then told her, “You rest now, okay? We've got you all worn out.”

We retired to the kitchen and flung furious whispers across the table. “I can't do it,” I told him. “Maybe you can, but I won't have it on my conscience.”

“Don't make me the bad guy!” Harlan hissed.

Deep breaths. One, two, three. “There is no bad guy,” I said. “There's just an old woman who . . . who wants to die at home.”

My eyes welled up and Harlan's mirrored them. It was intimate as a hug.

“Sweetheart,” he said. My tears overflowed. “Your parents are going to call town when they find out, you know that.”

I said, “I won't tell them!”

“Sweetheart.” It wasn't so affectionate this time. “She can't be left alone anymore. Think about it.
You can't go home.
Don't you think they'll notice?”

But I hadn't thought ahead at all. If I had, I would have realized I was already beaten. It wasn't fair. I shouldn't be in this position, let alone feel like a failure.

This was Miss Lydia. She deserved so much better.

My chin came up and I wiped my face. “Well, then, I've at least got until dark,” I told him. “I need you to go to town for some supplies—maybe there's some way to get this under control. . . .” I was already reaching for a notebook and pen.

Harlan took the list when I finished. “Bedpan?” he asked. His eyebrows shot up.

“It's better than diapers, don't you think?” I hadn't meant to sound angry and tried to soften it a notch. “Medical supply store, Folger and Aldrich.”

He went on. “Drinking straws, the kind that bend. Baby food.” He stared like the words made no sense. Looked up. “What kind of baby food?”

I felt my confidence wilt. “An assortment, I guess. I don't know.”

He wrapped his arms around me and laid his cheek next to mine. “Hang on, Billie Marie. Hang on. Right now we're just talking about the rest of the day and you already know you can do that.”

I can do this. I can do this. It became my mantra after he left.

Miss Lydia had wet herself while we talked in the kitchen. This time I changed her and the bed to the tune of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” The tension in her face lessened a little. But not as much as I'd hoped.

Her television was on a rolling cart in the living room. I moved it so she could see it and turned it on, then set her glasses on her face and went to the kitchen. A few minutes later I came back with a tray. Said, “Hey, you know what? I forgot to make you breakfast! So here you go, oatmeal for lunch.” I pretended to be engrossed in her soap opera while I spoon-fed her.

I can do this. I can do this.

We got through the afternoon. After some trial and error, we settled on “ee” as a signal for the bedpan, and Harlan made up work to do in another room often enough she never had to say it in front of him.

By the time shadows started stretching dark fingers across the room we had found something of a rhythm and I dreaded the conversation with my folks that was coming. When their headlights panned the room and turned into the driveway across the street, Harlan and I inhaled in unison.

I can do this. “Time to take my folks dinner, Miss Lydia,” I lilted. “I'll be back in a bit.” But her face was full of fear and Harlan gave me a grim little smile.

Before Mama could head for the living room with her plate, I said, “I need to talk to you two,” and they both froze. It would have been funny under other circumstances. I folded my hands on the table. In slow motion, they took their old spots.

I told them how I had found Miss Lydia that morning, minus the laundry problem. Described the rest of the day as a recitation of fact. Finished with no question, no demand, no call to action. Just waited.

Daddy spoke first with, “You can't do this.” He didn't say, “. . . and you know that,” but it was in his voice.

I said, “That's exactly what Harlan said until he told her we had to call for help and heard her answer.” I looked them in the eye, one after another. “I can't do it. He can't do it. If you're gonna do it, you'll have to go over there and tell her yourself.”

They held one of those eyes-only consultations married couples do. Then Mama spoke. “Billie,” she said. “You've already done far more than you were called on to do. And this is too much for anybody. Why on earth would you even try?”

“Because it's the right thing to do.” How could a parent argue with that? I gave each in turn a steady gaze that dared them.

They partnered in another long look. Daddy reminded me, “School starts in less than two weeks.” Logic always trumps emotion in his hand.

I said, “Maybe I'll have to give up when school starts. Maybe I'll have to give up tomorrow.” I picked up speed. “But this is really important to her and I'm not sure I could ever forgive myself if I didn't try. So, please let me. Please.”

No sound but my ragged breathing. Ten seconds. Twenty.

“It's against my better judgment . . .” Daddy started, and I jumped to my feet. Mama stood up too. For a second I was afraid she was going to block the door. I searched her face, but all I saw was a tired middle-aged woman waving a white flag.

I said, “Thanks, Mama,” patted her shoulder and left. That was the most I could move toward a truce just then.

I splashed my face with cold water before going into Miss Lydia's room. Harlan's face was one big question mark.

“Okay, then!” I rubbed my hands together. “Who needs what?”

Seconds ticked by. Miss Lydia's lips puckered into the shape of a kiss.

Harlan contemplated his shoes a good while and then said, “Have you eaten today, Billie Marie?”

I guess I looked blank.

He said, “I didn't think so. Go eat something. Now.”

W
  ednesday wasn't so bad. Harlan had made a pallet of quilts on the floor next to Miss Lydia and she slept through until about seven that morning. We passed a couple of hours with breakfast and morning ablutions.

She seemed at peace. I was so very thankful my folks had given me this chance.

Harlan showed up at noon with a big casserole dish and an accusing eye. “You haven't eaten, have you?” he said.

I hadn't.

After, I said I'd like to feed Miss Lydia lunch and go home for a shower and clean clothes. He assured me he could feed her if I told him what.

I sorted through the baby food he had brought from Milton and picked out some orange stuff and some green stuff. It all looked horrible.

“How do I heat it up?” he asked.

I have no idea where it came from but I said, “Boil some water on the stove and set the jars in that for a while.”

He looked at me like I had invented money.

I had my hand on the door before I thought. “Hey, and put it in little bowls, okay? She doesn't need to see the jars.”

He blew me a kiss. I pretended to snatch it out of the air with my hand. It was the first time either of us had laughed since Monday.

I sent him to Milton that afternoon for a blender. I knew I could make food that tasted better than what was in those jars.

He came back with a bonus: a doorbell. He said, “You don't really want to sleep on the floor from now on, do you?”

Of course I didn't. I was already longing for the pink room upstairs.

“Okay, then,” he said. He spliced the wire connected to the push button into an extension cord and used adhesive tape to fasten it to Miss Lydia's left index finger. Then he wired the bell part the same way and took it upstairs.

Miss Lydia had to focus herself and practice, but she could push the button with her thumb most tries. She crinkled her eye at Harlan. I gave him a big hug.

His mother called when she got home from work. He assured her we were doing fine. My mother called when she got home too.

I started apologizing out of habit. “Oh, Mama, I forgot dinner,” I said. “Miss Willits sent a big casserole with Harlan today, and I just didn't think to—”

“Billie. Stop it,” she said.

I answered, “Yes, ma'am.”

I heard her sigh. “I wanted to make sure everything's okay over there. I'd come over, but I don't know if Lydia wants—”

“That's okay,” I broke in. “I'm pretty sure she doesn't. But yeah, we're doing just fine.” I told her about the blender and the doorbell.

“All right,” she said. “But call if you need anything.”

“Okay,” I told her. Before she could hang up I took a deep breath and said, “Mama?”

“What?”

“Thank you. I mean that.”

“Uh-huh,” she said. Her tone said she didn't trust me either.

The nightmare began almost as soon as Harlan left Wednesday night. I had given Miss Lydia her medicine, put her on the bedpan, tucked her in and told her good night. Upstairs, before I could even get into my nightgown,
Ding-dong.

By Thursday morning I was ready to pitch that damned bell out the second-story window.

I don't think I got more than twenty minutes sleep at a stretch and got up feeling worse than if it had been none at all. A lot was frustration. Miss Lydia couldn't tell me what she needed and, once we got past food, drink, and bedpan, I had limited inspiration to guess.

I tried changing her position. I tried fewer bedclothes. Then more. I tried aspirin ground up and mixed with water in a spoon. I tried prayer.

A couple of times I went running down the steps to find her sound asleep, thumb on the button.

I could tell she was as frustrated as I was and I'm pretty sure we both had a cry around five a.m. But it's all a blur and I might have dreamed that part.

Harlan got there by eleven with another bread pan full of his mother's cooking. He looked startled when he saw me. I hadn't looked in the mirror and didn't much care.

He sat me down and made me eat food I couldn't taste and then told me to go home for a shower and a nap. I knew I needed a shower, but told him I'd come back and take a nap in the pink room upstairs.

“Damnit, Billie Marie,” he said, “sleep in your own bed for a couple of hours, would you?”

“Bedpan,” I reminded him. He couldn't argue with that.

I didn't dry my hair or go for the mail. I was crawling under the pink comforter in fresh clothes twenty minutes later. About the time I closed my eyes the bell ding-donged.

I will never, ever have that kind of doorbell in any home I live in the rest of my life.

It was a bedpan call. After I'd emptied it and washed my hands I headed back up. I was having trouble separating desperation from exhaustion just then and didn't want to face Harlan again until I had rested.

I slept until the bell woke me up at four. I was a little hazy around the edges, but felt so much better I managed a smile.

But Harlan looked grim and Miss Lydia wouldn't meet my eye. Something in the air had changed while I slept and I got a sense of foreboding.

Harlan went to the kitchen and I sang “Don't Fence Me In” during bedpan duty. It didn't lighten the gloom any at all.

His mom called at five-thirty. Later I saw my parents' headlights swing by. When the phone rang again I motioned for Harlan to answer it. I wasn't sure I could inspire confidence in my abilities at that moment.

He hung up and pointed to a kitchen chair. I sat.

“What?” I said.

“We have to talk.”

I snorted. “Yeah, I figured as much. Start.” I didn't intend to be short, but wasn't sure I could rein it in either.

He fixed me with a big blue stare. “You've got to let her go, Billie Marie,” he pronounced.