Genuine Sweet (18 page)

It was the doctor who replied, “It says Penny is cured. No cancer. Not even a sign that there ever was a cancer.”

“Ms. Walton is
well,
” said the nurse.

“It—it was all a mistake?” I asked.

“It was
not
a mistake!” The doctor held up a manila folder and flung it open. “Here! Test results from one week ago! With her name right on them! Penny W-A-L-T-O-N! And she had cancer!”

“Maybe you read 'em wrong?” I suggested.

“I didn't read them wrong!” the doctor shouted. “Marta, draw some more blood. We're doing this again.”

Penny swung her legs out from her bed, set her feet on the floor, and stood up. “No, we're not. You have your tests and your results, and I have a life to enjoy. I am going home.”

Just so there was no room for an argument, Penny added, “If you'll just get those release papers. Now.”

“It's impossible!” said the doctor as Nurse Marta shuffled her out the door.

While the others waited on the paperwork, Travis and I darted into the hall to retrieve some more ice cream cups. It was party time!

Juggling an armful of choco-van stripe, Travis said, “That was curious, wasn't it?”

“Which part?” I asked.

“Those test results. It's great, and I'm pleased Penny's not sick and all. But . . . one week there's a big old cancer and the next week there ain't? Don't it make you wonder? Maybe we don't understand things—afflictions and whatnot—as good as we think.”

“Maybe. I can't really say.” For, surely, I couldn't. Penny hadn't even wished her sickness away, precisely, but there she was, cancer-free. “All I know is, Miz Walton's well and I'm glad.”

Travis thought that over and sealed it with a nod. “Kickin' cancer butt and takin' names.”

I smiled. “So, everything's fine. Right?”

He looked sidelong at me. “Why wouldn't it be?”

“No reason,” I replied. “No reason I can think of.”

By the time we got Penny packed and settled into Edie's car, the weather was feeling a bit more seasonable—chilly, but not bitter. The afternoon sun had melted off the ice.

We were headed back to Sass.

18

I
WANT TO STOP THE STORY HERE FOR A MINUTE.
You've been a real good listener, and I've made it pretty easy for you. There have been a few rough patches, but so far, things have tended toward the best good. That's gonna change here for a time, though, and I find myself wondering how you'll take it. Or . . . is this what you come for? The gritty stuff? The hard parts?

I've heard folks say that the ruts of our sorrow clear a way for the cool waters of joy to flow.

What do you make of that?

19

T
OM PARKED WITH HIS HEADLIGHTS POINTED AT
my house so I could better see to unlock the door. The darkness was nearly complete. Not even a light on inside.

The ground was a little squishy underfoot, and despite the warmth of the heater in the jeep, I felt badly chilled. I was just itching to get inside and put on my dopey but warm
Prom Queen
pajamas and a pair of thick, dry socks. I couldn't wait to settle down on my own sofa and pull the covers up to my chin.

I turned the key in the lock and opened the door quietly, so as not to rouse Pa or wake Gram.

The house was cold, and too quiet.

I flicked the light switch. Nothing happened.

“Gram?” I called into the dark, feeling my way to her bedroom door.

It was open. Her bed was empty and unmade.

“Pa!” I shouted and started flicking every light switch I could find in the dark.

No light. No light and no power.

I raced out of the house and almost ran right into the grill of Tom's jeep.

“No one's here!” I cried. “Please! No one's here!” I shouted it desperately, as if I doubted they would help or care.

Tom and Travis and Miz Tromp were climbing out of the jeep, issuing their words of comfort as if they had any right to, as if they had any knowledge to pull from, when the flashing blue lights appeared. The swirling lamps turned the land into a haunted wood with strange, flickering shadows. They reached for me. They reached for Travis.

I was confused when Sheriff Thrasher appeared. Had I done something wrong? Was I being arrested after all?

“Genuine.” The sheriff got down on one knee and looked at me eye to eye. “Your granny's in the hospital. If you'll come with me, I'll take you to her.”

You'd think, in a moment like that, a person would have a million questions.
What happened? Is she all right?
But inside me, there was only an icy wall of silence. I got into the police car and noted, dreamlike, that Tom's jeep was following behind us.

 

The lights in the hospital were just as bewildering as the darkness at my house. How could anything be so glaringly bright? I shielded my eyes and followed the sheriff down the hall. My pa was passed out in a plastic chair beside one of the doors. The boozy smell of him wafted over me, another dreamy scrap of that night I'll always carry.

Sheriff Thrasher was about to open the door to Gram's room when Nurse Cussler rushed up and barred the way. She whispered to the sheriff. I know she meant for me not to hear.

“She died, Mike,” was what the nurse said.

It wasn't true, of course. It just wasn't.

I darted between them, pushing past Nurse Cussler's stupid hearts-with-wings scrubs, and rushed into Gram's room.

Her mouth was open, her head tilted back just a little. The bright lights gave her a waxy look, and I saw clearly the strange green hue to her skin that I'd noticed a few weeks before. She wore one of those terrible, embarrassing hospital gowns. I wanted to take it off her and wrap her up in her warm terry-cloth robe. Where was her terry-cloth robe? I tore into the wardrobe, moved the table and chairs, opened every drawer I could find. The robe had to be there somewhere!

“Genuine.” It was a man's voice, I think.

Someone touched me and I pushed them away.

“Genuine.” They tried again.

“Go. Away.” I said it in a voice that sounded strange and far off.

“Honey.” This was a woman's voice.

A thumb ran over each of my cheeks, wiping away water I hadn't known I was shedding. I blinked. I shook my head. I found myself looking into Miz Tromp's dark eyes.

“Honey,” she said again. “You're safe. You're okay.” Her words made no sense to me. “You take as much time as you want here with your gram, and then you'll come home with us, all right?”

That much I understood. They wanted me to leave Gram. They wanted me to go someplace else, a place where Gram wasn't.

“No! No! I have to find her bathrobe!” I exclaimed. “I have to put it on her. She's sick. I have to take care of her!”

“She's not sick, honey,” Miz Tromp said softly. “She's gone on to the next place.”

I think it was those two words,
next place,
that broke over me like a storm.

She's dead. She's DEAD. She froze to death. The electric went out. The bill was overdue and you knew it. She froze to death, and you were off in Ardenville, looking after folks who weren't even yours to care for. You kissed that boy. She told you not to kiss him, and now she's dead. Your gram is dead and she died alone. She took ill in the dark and she surely must have called for you. Who else would she call for? She called and YOU WEREN'T THERE—

Even though my eyes were open, the world went black.

I fell for what seemed like hours. Days, even.

 

I remember waking up for a time and roaring angrily, “Where is my father?”

“We don't know,” someone answered. “He left.”

“Yeah,” I said as the darkness took me again.

 

When I woke up, I felt like one big bruise. Not just in my body, but in my head, too. Heart and soul, everything ached. I couldn't remember why.

I opened my eyes.

I was resting on an orange sofa, an ugly one made of the sort of itchy fabric generally used for potato sacks. I could see a desk and some bookshelves, some books with titles that made me think I might be in a doctor's office. I looked around some more and saw diplomas on the wall.
Someone Someone, M.D.

I was alone in there. And realizing I was alone was what made me remember.

Gram.

The doorknob turned, and the door made a little gasp as it opened. With a thrill, I realized it had to be Gram! All of this was a terrible dream, and when that door opened all the way, I'd wake up and find myself on the sofa at home. It would be morning, and Gram would be smiling down at me.
Time to wake up,
Gen.

But it wasn't Gram at the door, and I was already awake.

I knew a moment of hate, just then, at whoever dared to open that door, and whoever made that door and hung it on its hinges. I hated all the doors that had ever been and all the trees that had been torn down to make them. I hated—

“You're up,” said Miz Tromp, who held a paper cup in her hand. “How are you feeling?” Gingerly, she set the cup on a table and shut the door behind her.

“Gram is dead, isn't she,” I said. It wasn't really a question.

“Yes.”

I nodded and asked, “What time is it?”

Travis's ma looked at her watch. “About nine thirty.”

“In the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Is it cold out?” I wanted to know.

“Not too bad.”

“It was cold the night they brought her here,” I told her.

“Yes. I know.” She sat down on the sofa beside me.

“She died cold,” I said.

Miz Tromp shook her head. “No. She died here, in the hospital. She was warm.”

“The cold killed her, though.” I knew it for certain.

“No, honey, she—”

The door opened again. It was Nurse Cussler with her stethoscope hanging out of one of her hearts-with-wings scrubs pockets.

“You're awake,” she said.

I frowned. “We've established that, yes.”

“Do you think you can eat something? I can get you—”

“I don't want anything.”
Ever.
“Thank you.”

And so they gave up on their nursing and mothering and got down to talking turkey. My pa had disappeared, and they didn't want to take me home to an empty house. How would I feel about staying at the Tromps' place until someone could locate my pa?

I shook my head sourly. “I just want to go home.”

 

Several phone calls later, they'd arranged for Dilly Barker to come sit with me until Pa turned up. Besides being a kindly woman, Dilly was also our closest neighbor.

When Miz Tromp dropped me off, the electric was back on.

“The power . . . ?” I inquired.

“Tom rang every number the electric company had until he got someone on the phone who could turn your power back on.” There was some pride in Miz Tromp's voice as she said it.

“Who paid for it? I'll have to pay them back.”

“Oh, Genuine, don't worry—”

“Who?” I demanded.

“Travis and me,” she answered.

“I'll pay you back.”

“If you want to, honey, sure.” She gave my arm a stroke.

I stepped aside, turned my back on her. “Does everybody know?”

“About what?” Miz Tromp asked.

I wasn't sure. About the way the help only came after it was too late, maybe.

“Never mind,” I said.

Dilly sat on the sofa, knitting, taking all this in. In the quiet after I'd spoken, she said, “I sure am going to miss Starla.”

For a second, I just looked at her, startled to hear someone say Gram's name out loud. Then I did the strangest thing. I went into Gram's room and got
her
knitting. I sat down on the sofa beside Dilly and started to
knit one, purl two.
I'd never knitted in my life, but I reckon I'd seen Gram doing it enough to recreate it on my own.

“Do you need anything, Genuine?” Miz Tromp asked.

I shook my head but didn't say anything.

“Then I'll leave you girls to your fancywork,” she said, and left.

 

The pretty scarf Gram had been knitting now looked more like a long snake after a big meal. In short, I had ruined it. But I kept on knitting. I kept on until Dilly had to give me another skein of yarn. Then I kept on knitting until I fell asleep.

When I woke up, Pa's shoes were next to the sofa. His door was closed. There was a sandwich on a plate in front of me, and, beside me, Dilly Barker continued knitting away.

“Pa's here,” I said. “You should go on home.”

“Try to eat a little something,” she said, but she didn't leave.

We knitted until suppertime. Then I followed Dilly into the kitchen and helped her reheat a casserole—one of about fifteen in the fridge.

“Some folks stopped by while you was asleep,” she explained. “Nothing like a death to bring on a plague of casseroles.”

 

Sunday blurred into Monday. Monday came and went.

Tuesday morning, Dilly Barker walked me to school—only because I'd told her I wanted to go—then headed back to her own house.

“I'll stop by later with some more yarn,” she called out as she departed.

Jura was waiting for me on the front steps and wrapped me up in a hug so tight, I couldn't breathe.

“I only met your grandma that one time, but she was real nice,” she said.

“She was nice,” I agreed.

For a time, we were the only ones in the classroom. We sat at our desks, not saying anything at all, Jura rubbing my back with one hand. It felt good. And even though my heart hurt a lot, it was the kind of pain a friend really can help ease. Instead of thoughts of Gram by her lonesome, calling out for me, I thought—just a little—about Penny Walton and about Wish to End Hunger, too. Maybe it was time I dusted off my baking pan and got back to work . . .