Into the Free (13 page)

“Mrs. Reynolds?” No response. “Mrs. Reynolds?” the nurse tries again, louder, with more command. Again, Mama does not respond.

Hilda pulls a stethoscope from her deep pocket and listens to Mama’s chest. She wraps a tight black band around Mama’s arm and reads her blood pressure. She pinches Mama’s skin. It stands straight up rather than bouncing back to where it is supposed to be. She shines a tiny flashlight into Mama’s eyes. Mama doesn’t even blink.

“What did they give her?” Hilda asks.

“Nothing,” I answer.

“Well, they had to have given her something,” she says, walking out of the room. I follow. She pulls Mama’s chart from a slot on the wall outside her room. She flips a few pages. “I’m going to call Dr. Jacobson,” she says, turning her back on me, as if I have no right to know what she’s doing.

I return to Mama’s room and take a few bites of mashed potatoes. The food is cold. I push the tray aside and cuddle back into the folds of Mama. I sing another hymn to her, my voice cracking on the notes.

I am nearly drifting off when the door creaks open and a light knock taps me awake. I sit up to find three cowboys and Jack’s boss, Mr. Cauy Tucker, making their way into the room.

“Ma’am,” Mr. Tucker says, tipping his hat to my mother and taking the lead into the crowded room. The other three remove their hats as a sign of respect. The young delivery boy is here again. Bump. He looks at me with kindness, as if he’d trade places with me if he could. I feel a little better just knowing he is in the room. “We’re all very sorry about Jack. He was like a son,” Mr. Tucker says. The others nod.

Mama doesn’t respond.

“My mother’s not feeling so well, Mr. Tucker. I’m sorry,” I say.

“Understood,” Mr. Tucker answers. “It was nice to see you at the competition today, Millie. Jack’s sure told us a lot about you.”

“Really?” I ask, my voice a mix of sarcasm and doubt.

“You bet,” Mr. Tucker answers, looking to the others for support.

They nod and mutter various versions of “Yep.”

“Well, what’d he say?” I ask, not falling for the lie, feeling way too tired to be nice.

“Oh, you don’t believe me, do you?” Mr. Tucker says, a broad smile curving beneath his wiry silver mustache. I realize now that his name, Cauy, doesn’t suit him. He is much too brazen to be called
coy.

“Nope,” I answer, certain that Jack never mentioned me in his whole life.

“For your information, young lady, he tells me you are a very good cook. He especially likes your chicken gumbo. He says you’re great with animals,” Mr. Tucker says, still speaking as if Jack were alive. “He thinks you’d be a natural on the broncs, but he says your mother would never go for that.” He winks. “He also says you like flowers and that you and your mama are both pretty good singers.”

My hands shake. Tears burn my eyes. I never knew Jack had noticed anything about me. Maybe he had observed the time I spent with animals, how I cooked meals with Sloth and brought food home for Mama, the way I looked at Mr. Sutton’s horses with such longing I could barely stand it.

“Now, now,” Mr. Tucker says, leaning down to pat my back. “Didn’t mean to get you all upset. I thought you’d like to hear how much he talked about you. How much he missed you when he was away on the circuit.”

I feel my anger rising. The Jack Mr. Tucker is talking about had never lived at my house. Jack must have put on a show for his boss, the doting father who missed his family. I look at Mama, barely breathing in the bed. Completely unaware the room is full of cowboys. I’ve had enough.

“Well, Mr. Tucker,” I say, fury singeing my lips. “Did he tell you about how he would come home and beat Mama to a bloody pulp? Did he tell you how he left her good for dead on the kitchen floor? Or that he drank himself into a fit of rage every single night he was home? Did the heroic Jack Reynolds tell you those things, Mr. Tucker?”

The cowboys shuffle their feet in awkward silence. Mr. Tucker straightens his back, adjusts his hat, clears his throat. “No, Millie. I suppose some things are better left unsaid.”

With that, he motions for the others to leave. “Tell your mother we stopped by. We’ll be in town through Christmas. Be sure to let us know what we can do to help you, Millie. We’ll get together a list of pallbearers. I’d like to say a few words at the funeral, too, if that’d be all right. I’ll check back. Here’s my card, in case you need anything between now and then.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, sorry I have made such a scene.

“We loved your father, Millie,” Mr. Tucker says. “And he loved you, too. I’m sorry he was never able to show you.”

The men close the door behind them and leave me crying. Mama is in a deep sleep. I try to pray for her, but the words won’t come.

I fall asleep in Mama’s hospital bed and wake when burly nurse Hilda flips the switch. A wall of bright light slams against me. Every inch of muscle in my entire body aches. My tongue is thick and pasty.

“Get up,” Hilda barks.

I quickly move out of her way. Two smaller nurses are with her, frantically fumbling to insert a needle into Mama’s arm.

Mama doesn’t flinch.

They cram a metal shaft into the back of her mouth.

She doesn’t gag.

Then they insert a tube through the shaft and keep pushing it deeper. And deeper.

“What are you doing?” I yell, trying to keep them from hurting Mama.

“Get out of the way,” the bulldog orders. “What did she take?”

“I don’t know. What’s wrong? What are you doing?”

“She may have overdosed,” she answers. “Think back. Was she ever left alone?”

I trace a line of time back through the hours since Jack’s fall. I have no idea what Mama did between the time I left for the rodeo and the time she arrived at Jack’s room. I haven’t seen anyone give Mama any medications. “I don’t know! I don’t know!” Fear takes hold of me. I am yelling. Surely they know about Mama’s habit. She spent so much time in the hospital after the beating. They gave her all the medicine she needed, trying to numb her pain. “Get her out of here!” Hilda orders. “And call the doctor!” One of the younger nurses grabs my arm and pulls me out of the room.

“It’s okay,” she says. Her white nurse’s hat is crowned in the center of a smooth blonde bun. “We need you to c-calm down.” She has a severe stammer, as if the words are being shaken from her like salt. “We’re n-not going to hurt her. We’re only trying to get the bad c-chemicals out of her body so she can wake up again. If you know what she took, it would help.”

I shake my head and cry, “I don’t know. I really don’t know! Sometimes she takes pills. Other times she takes it with a needle. For pain.”

“Thank you, Millie,” she whispers. “That’s v-very helpful.”

The second young nurse pokes her head out the door and yells for more help. The one with me says, “Morphine. I think she t-took morphine.” We rush back into Room Three. I stand in the corner watching as wires are pulled and plugged and Mama’s chest is pumped and nothing seems like it’s helping Mama at all.

CHAPTER 20

After what seems like hours, a layer of relief fills the room. The old bossy nurse Hilda announces, “Done.” All matter-of-fact, like she’s been working a math test or cleaning the blackboard at school. The young blonde smiles at me, puts her hands on my head, and says, “I think your m-mother is going to be okay, Millie,” her speech more controlled than before, her face not as tight.

I return to Mama’s bed, bend down low and easy over her body, touch her tiny hand. She is covered in sweat. An orderly, about as old as Moses, is changing Mama into a gown, cleaning her with a warm, wet cloth. I pull back the sheets to help, afraid to hurt her. She is so thin and pale. I blink back tears. Try to understand what this all means. Mama really might die. Like Jack.

The ancient orderly shoos me away with his cracked hands and says, “Go on now, child. You don’t need to be seeing all this.” His voice sounds like the gravel under Jack’s tires, as if Jack has come back to take Mama away.

Nurse Hilda turns to me and says, “My shift’s long over. I suggest you steer clear. Dr. Jacobson will be here any minute, and I can guarantee he will not be happy to see you in here.”

Happy to see me or not, I am eager to hear what the doctor has to say. I edge myself toward the mirror to flatten my hair, try to look presentable. Mama is sleeping, breathing. She’s been wiped down from head to toe by a strange man who told me to go away.

I am still wearing my clothes from last night. Dried blood is caked on my blue skirt. Jack’s blood. I haven’t slept more than an hour all night. I lean into the mirror, as Dr. Jacobson’s voice bounces through the cracks of the door. “Mrs. Reynolds?” he says loudly, with smooth, unruffled authority.

I pull the door open, tucking myself between the door and the wall. Mama isn’t aware the doctor has spoken. She isn’t aware she has just been bathed. Or that I am in the room. Or that Death is fighting me for her soul. I squeeze against the wall to spy on the doctor. He looks toward me and says, “You can come out now.”

I squeeze out from behind the door and wait further instruction.

He extends his hand for a polite shake. “I’m Dr. Jacobson.” He is a new doctor, not the same stone-faced one who pronounced Jack dead last night. “I’m very sorry about your father’s passing,” he says, all official sounding. “I enjoyed watching him ride. I was there yesterday, you know. He handled that bull right up ’til the end. Mighty heroic way to go.”

I know he’s just trying to be nice, but I want to throw up. I nod and change the subject. “Is Mama going to be okay?”

“I think so, Millie, but I can’t be sure. We expect she put some very strong chemicals in her body. Could have killed her. We’re doing the best we can to make her better.”

I need Mama to wake up and help me figure all of this out. My breath comes in short, tense bursts. Dr. Jacobson is busy adding more tubes to Mama’s body.

“In the meantime,” he continues, “we need to determine the best way to help your mother, Millie. We think she may have taken those drugs deliberately. Maybe so she could sleep and not feel sad anymore. We don’t want her to do anything like that again. We’ve asked a couple of doctors from the East Mississippi Insane Asylum to come over to talk to her.”

“Oh, no! You can’t,” I say, standing tall and defiant. “Not East. Mama’s not crazy! She’s just sad. You would be too. How would you feel? If they hauled you off. In a straitjacket. Just because—you needed—to cry—for a while?” I feel dizzy. My words come out in chunks. The idea of taking Mama to East is way too much for me to handle. Jack, now Mama. Dr. Jacobson looks directly at me. He has a gentle face. Not hard and stubbly like Jack’s, but smooth and boyish.

“I understand your concern, Millie,” he says. “You’re a very bright girl. I’ve been told you’ve had to handle more than you should, caring for your mother over the years.”

I interrupt. “Who told you that? We’re doing just fine. Just give her time. Let me take her home.”

I sit down, gasping for air. I see little specks of light blurring in and out from the edges of the room. I bend over my own middle and vomit on the floor.

Dr. Jacobson leans over me to help. His voice softens and slows. He sweeps my dark curls back behind my ears and hands me a warm washcloth. He helps me clean my face, wetting my lips and covering the mess with a towel. When I am stable, he helps me stand. We move to a cleaner spot in the room.

“Now, Millie,” he says, “I’m not trying to upset you. You haven’t done anything wrong. Neither has your mother. She’s just very ill right now. I know you want to do what’s best for her. Right now, the best thing is to have the psychiatrists spend some time with her. They understand this kind of thing better than I do. They’ll know how to help her.”

I feel weak and bow into Dr. Jacobson for support. He keeps his strong arm around me, like a father and child.

“Millie,” he says, nearly in a whisper now, “the psychiatrists aren’t going to hurt her. They may not want to bring her over to East at all. Probably not.”

“I can’t lose Mama, too,” I say, finally putting words to the thought that has terrified me for hours. Tears pour down my cheeks.

“You’re right,” he answers. “And that’s why I’m doing everything I can to make her better.”

We sit in silence until my breathing sounds more normal and my vision returns. I no longer feel clammy, but I am crying and will be for a long time. “I know how to take care of her, if you’ll just let me bring her home.”

“We can’t do that, Millie. I’m sorry.”

“Mama?” I say, trying to speak as quietly as possible so none of the nurses will hear me. “Mama, wake up.” It’s late at night, and I’m ready to sneak Mama out of here.

She squeezes her eyes shut tighter and makes a small moan. “Listen, Mama,” I say, moving in close to her ear. “We’ve got to get out of here. They want to send you to East. They think you’re crazy. I won’t let them take you away, Mama. So let’s go. I need you to wake up and listen to me. They’re coming.”

But Mama keeps right on sleeping. I shake her harder, whispering as loud as I can, “Mama, wake up. We don’t have time for this. We have to get out of here.”

Mama doesn’t budge. After a while, I get so tired of trying to wake Mama, I wrap myself snug in one of the blankets and cry myself to sleep in the cozy chair. I try to remember the magic of River and Sloth.

It’s Wednesday. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. I wake to find two psychiatrists in Room Three. They have come from East. They aren’t so different from the doctors who showed up in my bad dreams, night after night, to label us all insane and drive the entire town away to the asylum.

One of the doctors is old and bent. The other one, young and eager, is in training. The old one hands the chart to his younger accomplice and slides his gold-rimmed glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. The assistant—a scrawny, timid waif of a man with pasty white skin and oily white hair—opens the chart. The older one looks around the room for a place to sit. “Find me a chair.” The timid one obeys. “Time to wake up,” he turns his commands toward Mama, clapping his hands two times harshly in her face. Mama opens her eyes. Just for a moment.

“Mama?” I say, moving to her side to take her hand. “Mama? Wake up, Mama.”

“Millie?” she whispers, her throat dry.

“Yes, Mama, I’m right here,” I say. “Everything’s okay now.” I smile, in spite of the somber visitors. I am relieved to hear Mama say my name.

The older doctor pulls a thick packet from his bulging briefcase and introduces himself. “I’m Dr. Drimble,” he says, with stony authority. “I have been called in to examine Mrs. Marie Reynolds. Are you Mrs. Reynolds?” he asks Mama.

“Yes, she is,” I answer, trying to get Mama to drink water from a cup. I cradle her head in my hand and tilt her chin down, but the tiniest sip causes her to cough and choke.

He frowns. “I need your mother to answer some questions. Are you old enough to be allowed in here?”

“Yes, I am.”

He ignores me. “If not, you need to leave the room immediately.” He snaps his fingers in the air as if I am hypnotized and have no choice but to obey.

“No, thank you,” I say, sitting next to Mama on the bed and looking Dr. Drimble straight in the eye.

He clears his throat and tries again to examine Mama. “Are you Mrs. Marie Reynolds?”

Mama nods, her eyes still closed.

“Good,” he says. “Then we may proceed.” His associate returns with a chair, places it under Dr. Drimble’s rear, and scoots out of the way.

“This is Mr. Hayward,” Dr. Drimble announces, not really speaking to anyone in particular since Mama isn’t listening and he’s ignoring me. “He will be assisting me today.” He sits with spine-straight posture, removes the tip of his black fountain pen, and flips to a fresh white sheet of paper. Then he holds up a picture of a black blob and says, “Mrs. Reynolds, open your eyes and tell me what you see.”

Mama doesn’t answer. She doesn’t open her eyes.

“Mrs. Reynolds? I advise you to cooperate. We need to evaluate you. The only way we can give you a fair assessment is if you answer the questions.” He holds the drawing closer to Mama’s face. Then he says brusquely, “Tell me what you see in this image.”

Mama turns toward the wall, her eyes still closed. Then she starts mumbling Psalm 22. Her voice is weak. I can barely understand her, but the verses are familiar.

“My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? why art thou so far from helping me, and from the words of my roaring?”

Dr. Drimble clears his throat again with agitation and says, “Mrs. Reynolds, we came all the way down here today to help you. We can only help you if you agree to help us.”

Mama continues.
“O my God, I cry in the day time, but thou hearest not; and in the night season, and am not silent.”

Dr. Drimble looks at his assistant and nods. That’s all it takes for him to leave the room. Mama pauses, listens to the commotion around her. She keeps her eyes closed, skips a few verses, and continues.
“All they that see me laugh me to scorn: they shoot out the lip, they shake the head, saying, He trusted on the L
ORD
that he would deliver him: let him deliver him, seeing he delighted in him.”

“Mrs. Reynolds?” Dr. Drimble says, with an urgent insistence in his voice. He looks at his pocket watch, snaps it shut, and sighs.

“Be not far from me; for trouble is near; for there is none to help.”

He turns to me and commands, “Tell her to stop.”

I laugh out loud at the absurdity of it all, the idea that I can control Mama and her irrational mumblings. There is nothing I can do to make Mama hush. Even if I could, nothing at this point would prove her sanity. Dr. Drimble has already made up his mind. So I stand up big and tall and stare right into his beady eyes. Then I join Mama, reciting the familiar verses.

“I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint.”

“Are you finished?” Dr. Drimble asks, looking down at his paper.

He doesn’t know Mama. She can recite verses for hours. Like singing. Or breathing. And this is her favorite passage.

“Have it your way, Mrs. Reynolds,” Dr. Drimble says. The men leave the room, letting the door slam behind them.