Club Sandwich (39 page)

“When will it be my turn?” I ask God and immediately feel selfish, considering my blessings. But sometimes I’d just like to take a class in something ridiculous, like clogging or upholstering. I know I’m not the only woman who feels this way.

And then there’s that pesky woman in Proverbs 31 who raises the bar for all of us. I mean, who is that woman? Her husband sits in the gate and praises her?

Okay, so Rusty’s never home either.

She riseth while it is yet night, and her candle goeth not out by night?

Okay, that part sounds like me, but I’m sure she included a better attitude in her repertoire.

Maybe I need to give myself more credit.

Ten thirty a.m. and Mom hasn’t yet called out or emerged from her bedroom. I planned a nice lunch. She loves chicken salad, so I bought a rotisserie chicken at the grocery store, some green grapes, and a bag of those purple tortilla chips, the purchase of which demands a complete paradigm shift. Toasted english muffins, some cookies for dessert, and we’ll all be set once Harry and Trixie come home. Harry will have to leave for Wal-Mart, but I’ll pack a nice lunch for him to take along.

Harry Starling’s rising to the occasion. Good for him. Good for me. Good for God. This is more of a miracle than anything I’ve ever seen in my days upon the earth.

I raid the fridge for the salad ingredients, wondering what I’m going to do for dinner tonight. A knock vibrates the back door.

I straighten. “Hey Debbie! It’s unlocked!”

She opens the door. “Krystal’s with me.”

“Great! I’ll put on a pot of coffee. Can you stay for lunch?”

Krystal blows in with the March wind, but today she wears a spangled sweater and a pair of black palazzo pants. Dang, she looks good!

“I love your haircut, Debbie!”

Her dark blond hair, freed from its normal ponytail, now brushes her chin, and downy wisps surround her cheeks.

She blushes. How cute. “Krystal talked me into it.”

“You two been getting together on the side?”

Krystal takes a seat at the kitchen table. “Yes. This one’s a life-saver. I’m surprised you haven’t seen my car.”

I have no idea what kind of car Krystal drives, but I’m afraid to admit it. “Well, that’s great. So did you just come from the salon?”

Debbie sits down too. “Yep. We went together.”

“We did. I said, ‘Girl, you’ve got to keep yourself fresh, or else you gonna get bogged down in the swamp of life.’ And now that I’ve met Mrs. Waxman, I know just what a swamp that is. That woman is a piece of work!”

The coffee begins to trickle. Who wouldn’t benefit from such a surprise? I could use the break. Debbie continues to amble over a few nights a week just to sit with her eyes closed, and although I don’t know much more about her than I used to, a deep connection’s developing. I provide her peace, and her quiet presence extends me the same. She also likes the novel so far, which I can hardly believe.

I start pulling chicken meat from the bones. “How’s your dad, Krystal?”

“Got out of the hospital yesterday and is at Kearnans for rehab. He’ll be there for about two weeks.”

“Is he coming back to your house?”

She blesses us with a deep, bosomy sigh. “That right there is my dilemma. Even with rehab, I don’t know how I’m going to care for him. But the thought of putting him in a nursing home just makes me want to cry. We’ve all heard the horror stories. And my father is just the sweetest little man. Wouldn’t hurt a bedbug.”

“Maybe your family could take shifts being there with him,” I say.

“Maybe, but you know, it’s always been my father and me. When my mother passed, it was just me and Dad. I have a hard time letting go.” She picks a white hanky out of her cleavage and dabs her eyes.

Debbie squeezes her hand. “That’s totally understandable.”

I get the mayo out. “I know it’s coming soon with Mom.”

“What was she preaching on last night?” Krystal.

“The book of Revelation. Had me scared out of my socks.”

She shakes her head. “Can’t make heads or tails out of that book, and Lord knows I’ve tried.”

Debbie. “I’m not too familiar with the New Testament. That’s the apocalyptic book, isn’t it?”

“You got it.”

“Pops up in movies a lot. It’s always interested me, the end of the world and all that. The Torah doesn’t speak much on it.”

“But we all feel it, don’t we?” Krystal.

Debbie nods. “I can’t imagine what Bernie would do if I started reading the New Testament. But it’s always intrigued me.”

“It’s interesting reading.” Krystal again. “Good advice for living. Of course, you can’t beat Proverbs for that.”

“I love the proverbs!” Debbie.

I nod. “Me too, except for that pesky woman in thirty-one. Who can live up to that?”

Debbie stands up. “Tell me about it! I’ll get out some mugs.”

“Thanks.” I continue mixing the chicken salad. My mouth is already watering.

“Your Mom is something, Ivy.” Krystal smiles. “A good woman to raise you all like she did.”

“None better. Speaking of which, I’d better check on her. I haven’t heard a peep all morning.”

Krystal tucks her hanky back in her bosom. “You go, Ivy. We’ll hold down the fort.”

“Coffee’s almost done. Help yourself.”

Reuben brought in a new coffee maker, one of those BUNNs with the chamber that keeps hot water at the ready twenty-four hours a day. And there’s a hot water spout too. I brew a cup of tea in an instant these days, which I need because Big Jane and Bad Max are burning up Old Barbara now. Thank goodness the publishing house realized the merit of my vision.

Inching open Mom’s new door, I whisper, “Mom?”

No response. I push it open fully.

Oh dear Lord, not again!

How did I not hear her fall? She lies on the floor, her head against the bed frame. Blood pools near her, glistening on the matted sprouts of her iron hair. Her nightgown twists around her trunk.

“Mom?”

I run across the room and jostle her. Dead weight. A bottle of Lubriderm is lying on the floor. Her feet glisten. She must have
slathered her feet and then … I feel my heart begin to pump, the adrenaline rushing forth. My hands shake.

“Mom?” My voice louder. “Mom!”

I hear footsteps rushing down the hallway.

“What’s wrong?” Krystal.

“She fell.”

“Is she breathing?” Debbie.

I lean forward and hold my palm near her mouth. “Yes, thank God.”

Debbie leans forward. “Mrs. Starling!” she yells.

Nothing.

“Dorothy!”

Still nothing.

“Call 911,” she says.

Krystal turns. “I’ll do it. What’s the house number?”

I tell her.

“All right.” She hurries toward the kitchen. “Jesus, help us!”

Debbie touches my arm. “Where are your washcloths and towels?”

“In the bathroom closet, right off the hallway.”

“Okay.”

She comes back in with a folded hand towel. “We shouldn’t move her. Here, apply direct pressure to that cut, and we’ll try to stanch this bleeding on her head.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“Ten years in the ER.”

Debbie grabs the blanket at the bottom of the bed and starts to arrange it around her. “Let’s get her comfortable and modest. Do you have her insurance information?”

“Yes. I’ll be right back. Here.” I hand Debbie the towel. The gash slices across the crown of Mom’s head. Jesus, help us!

I locate my purse by the steps and start rummaging, my hands vibrating like a jackhammer now. Okay, Ivy, deep breath, calm down, calm down, deep breath, deep breath. I close my eyes.

There’s my wallet.

Debbie emerges. “She’s still out.”

Krystal sidles up. “They’re on their way, baby.”

“Thanks, you guys.” And I feel tears prick my eyes because they’re here, these precious new friends. “What time is it?”

“Almost noon.” Krystal.

“My father should be back any minute. Make sure Trixie doesn’t see this.”

Krystal nods. “I got that job. You and Debbie stay in here with Dorothy. I’ll let the paramedics in.”

Debbie sits on one side of Mom, holding up a fresh tea towel. I sit on the other. She strokes her arm. I stroke her hair.

A bustle sounds in the hallway how much later? I don’t know.

Krystal opens the door. “Right in here, gentlemen.”

The EMTs file in, and the paramedic leans down, asking what happened. I give him my hypothesis. Debbie speaks in medical terms about the state of her head.

The questions begin: Who found her? Has anybody moved her? Is she on any medications? Basic medical history.

They check her airway, her breathing, her circulation.

Debbie interprets as they look for injuries, examine the gash on her head, check her eyes for pupil reaction, and do a neurological survey for involuntary muscle response by running a key down the bottom of her foot.

“Let’s start an IV; D5W TKO, and hook her up to a cardiac monitor,” the paramedic says. He consults with the trauma center. This all seems like it’s taking too long. Doesn’t she need to get out of here?

“Immobilize her for transport.”

They strap her to a board so as not to compound the injury, Debbie tells me.

“We’re taking her to Shock Trauma by ground transport,” he says.

They wheel her out on the gurney and heft it up into the ambulance. I hear the driver talk about the Golden Hour, that they’d achieve it with Mom. “One hour from time of call to the trauma center.” Debbie whispers.

This is it, I think. This truly is the beginning of the end. I’m still shaking, darn it. Control yourself, Ivy.

The driver pulls away from the curb, turns on the lights and the siren, and speeds around the corner.

Dear Lord. I watch the empty street. I can’t move. I can’t move.

Dad pulls up with Trixie. My feet finally respond. I run over to the car window and explain. He whitens.

“Debbie’s driving me over to the hospital now. Krystal’s staying here to watch Trixie. Can you leave a note for Reuben to pick up Lyra from school when it’s over?”

“Will do.” He removes himself from the car. “Is she going to be okay?”

I shrug. “I just can’t say, Harry. They couldn’t bring her around.”

“I’ll call Wal-Mart and tell them I won’t be in.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll keep things going here.”

“Can you call Brett and Brian?”

He swallows. “Will do.”

I know I’ll hear about this. “Why couldn’t you have called me, Ivy? Why did I have to hear this from him?”

Well, it’s not about them today, and that’s final.

I
call Tony on my cell first and tell him the next column will be late. Of course, he understands because he’s Tony. Mitch next. I explain.

“Of course it’s okay, Ive.”

“This issue is almost finished. Just one more article to write. But I’m not sure when I’m going to get that done.”

“Just give me the info, and I’ll see it’s finished. You said she’s going to University?”

“Yes. I’m on my way now.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“You’re my friend, Ivy. It’s what friends do.”

“I guess I’m just not used to this.”

“Well, it’s time you got used to it. Now hang up and concentrate on the roads.”

“My neighbor’s driving.”

“Then concentrate on you.”

I call Lou next. She’s coming down here as well.

I am blessed. I’ll tell you that right now. Dear God, just be with Mom. Please let it not be too bad. And if we could find a close-by parking space, that would be great too.

University Hospital towers above me. How does the staff not get lost within this maze?

We find the underground garage across the street. Down, down, down we go.

Debbie finally pulls into the first free space. “You okay?”

“Still breathing.”

“I’m sure they’ve brought her around.”

I climb out of the car. Debbie tucks her arm in mine. “Let’s go.”

We start off at a normal pace. And then, before I realize it, we are running. I run with hope down deep and dread on top. Scalp tingles, feet burn.

We tend to think about faith as some ethereal matter of the soul abiding on lofty plains of eternity, or the singular behavioral betterment of a person. But if that’s all faith consisted of, I’ll tell you right now, it would be a cup half empty.

But it’s like this: God sent His Son in human form, who was, as the scripture says, “tempted in every way” like we are. In all ways. Am I tempted now to lash out in anger at my siblings, my husband, the bottle of Lubriderm, even Mom? Yes, I am. Am I tempted to say to God, “Thanks, God. Like I really needed this. Like Mom really needed this.” Of course. And I have.

But Jesus, though completely God, inhabited the stuff of this earth. He was probably teased to no end at school as the goody-goody of the class. His brothers and sisters probably said, “Get Jesus to do it. He won’t mind,” and He’d come in from a game of stick-ball to help with the ironing. Perhaps He was the quiet kid who flew through childhood under the radar. Maybe He was a lonely boy. He experienced heartache and never sinned. Lore tells me He lost Joseph sometime before His earthly ministry began. Surely that was
a sore time in His life, the death of the man who endured suspicion for the sake of Mary, who secreted Him off to Egypt as a child, set up shop presumably, and lived in a foreign land until He could return safely to Israel. Surely they worked side by side in the carpentry workshop, Josephs strong, gnarled, scarred hands gently guiding young Jesus’s hands, teaching them a certain coordination He would need in His ministry: a mixture of strength and tenderness, to heal the blind, lift up the lame, carry the children, and reach out as He preached the good news that the Kingdom of God was upon us.