Recessional: A Novel (28 page)

“Yes,” her father said. “Dr. Zembright’s been insistent. But she refuses to cooperate. Has even suggested, once or twice, that her life is over.”

“Oh, no!” Andy cried. “You must force her to get out of bed—to try to walk, as soon as she’s fitted with artificial legs.” Turning to Zembright he asked: “Have the stumps healed properly?”

“Better than could have been expected, considering the crushing and splintering. They’re solid, like rocks.”

“And her knees?”

“We saved them.”

“Then you must get on with the job. Around here we perform miracles with people who’ve run into bad luck.”

Cawthorn interrupted: “Losing both legs isn’t bad luck. It’s a horrendous experience, and Betsy is terrified.”

“I apologize,” Andy said. “It must have sounded like a doctor’s mechanical response to a personal tragedy.”

Cawthorn thrust out a big, competent hand and gripped the younger man: “You must help. She’s given up hope,” and Andy could see that the big man was again close to tears.

“It’s simple,” Andy said with great force: “You’ve got to jolt her
out of such defeatism. It can be done, you know. We do it here all the time, and a good therapist in Chattanooga could do the same.”

“I know that,” Cawthorn said. “But Betsy’s hooked into a kind of monomania, they call it. She’s convinced that since you were the one who saved her life, only you can save her now.”

Andy stared at the floor. Very softly he said: “All doctors encounter monomanias that cannot be explained. They make no sense, but if they persist they can destroy a life.” Lifting his head, he stared at Cawthorn and asked: “But if she’s stuck on this idea, what might I do to help? Fly back to Chattanooga with you and talk to her?”

“No,” Zembright interrupted. “We discussed that and concluded that a brief visit from you might do more harm than good.”

Now Cawthorn took over: “We want to find her a place in your institution—away from Chattanooga and its negative memories—a new life, new hope.”

Andy considered this radical suggestion, then said carefully: “Are you men aware that I’m not certified to practice medicine here in Florida? I’m just the director of the Palms.”

Cawthorn turned to Zembright: “Does that change anything?” and the Tennessee doctor said: “Not at all. I know that Florida makes it extremely difficult for an outsider to come in here and take business away from the locals. Zorn wouldn’t have to be her doctor. Administrative overseer would be enough. Surely he has a licensed therapist on board.”

“One of the best,” Zorn said and phoned to have Bedford Yancey, the demon practitioner from Georgia, come in, but before he arrived Nurse Varney entered with a routine message from the dining room. Zorn said: “If your daughter were to come here, it wouldn’t be me or the therapist who saves her. It would be this therapeutic genius. Nora is a healing angel.”

“That’s a wonderful skill to have,” Zembright said. “We could use you in our shop.”

“I try,” Nora said as she smiled at the visitors, and when she was gone, Zorn said: “That wasn’t flattery. Nora has healing in her hands, her smile, and her laugh. I couldn’t run the place without her.”

Now Bedford Yancey entered, all enthusiasm and cracker charm, but before he could speak Dr. Zembright sprang to his side and cried “Yancey?” as he extended his hand.

“The same.”

“The wizard from Vidalia? We heard about you in Chattanooga.”
Turning to Cawthorn, he explained: “This man performs wonders with professional athletes. Saves careers.”

“But can he do the same for a young woman who lost her legs?”

Andy broke in: “He’s wonderful with young people, I saw him treating them in Georgia.”

“So you’re working down here now?” Zembright asked, and when Yancey nodded, Zembright assured Cawthorn: “Your daughter would be in good safe hands with this one.”

Now Zorn interrupted to explain: “Mr. Cawthorn’s daughter lost both legs in a car crash, and these men are thinking about bringing her down here for us to rehabilitate her—get her to walk again.”

Yancey impressed the others by his barrage of sharp questions: “How old is she?” Twenty-three. “Were her knees saved?” They were. “Are the stumps solidly healed?” Surprisingly so. “With a strong skin flap covering them?” Yes. “Before her accident, was she ever in any way athletic? I mean, could she move about freely?” Very strong in tennis. Club champion in mixed doubles. “And how has she reacted to therapy?” She refused to try any further. “Deep depression?” Yes. “But her health otherwise was always strong? And maybe could be again?” Yes, if she allowed it. At the conclusion of his questioning Yancey looked at the three men and said quietly: “Can do. Have done. Will do again.”

Cawthorn, afraid that Yancey was throwing words around loosely, interrupted: “Could you give me an idea of how long it would take to get her walking?”

Yancey turned immediately to Dr. Zembright: “Stumps tough to the touch?”

“Very clean. Sutures out. The very best, I assure you.”

“Good! I accept your diagnosis, so now I’ll give mine. Pencil ready, Mr. Cawthorn?” and with the ebullience of a confident young man who knew his business he rattled off the astonishing figures: “Today’s the first of May. Let’s say you get her down here by May fifth.”

“We’ll have her here tomorrow.”

“May second I see her for the first time. She gets her temporary legs the next day. She starts with her walker on May third.”

“Do you mean that, seriously?” Dr. Zembright asked, for Yancey’s program was far faster and more optimistic than any with which he was familiar.

Yancey turned to address him: “Dr. Zembright, you appear to have done a great job with your surgery. With the toughened stumps you’re sending me I can do miracles. But your therapist is generations behind the times. He’s wasted four months. But we can catch up, and maybe the rest period will have done her good.”

Solemnly Zembright said: “Don’t blame the therapist only. Betsy has given up. She’s convinced her life is over and wouldn’t have accepted therapy, not even from you. She’s been wasting her time convinced that she was dying.”

“He’s right,” Cawthorn broke in. “She’s in dreadful shape, really, much worse than he says.” He broke into tears. “And we’ve been powerless to help her feel hopeful. That’s why we need you, Dr. Zorn.”

“No,” Andy said. “What she needs is Bedford Yancey. If I didn’t believe she’d get the best possible physical therapy here I wouldn’t let her come. Yancey will not let her feel sorry for herself. He’s quite remarkable, Mr. Cawthorn.”

Brushing aside the compliment, Yancey resumed his timetable: “On May fourth she will walk, with her walker and me behind to protect her, from where we stand to twenty yards in that direction. I guarantee it…unless”—he paused ominously—“unless her spirit has been completely broken and she refuses to respond. You say she was a tennis player.”

“Amateur category,” Cawthorn said. “But she and I won father-daughter doubles at the club.”

Yancey smiled at Cawthorn: “Your daughter will be walking without a crutch or walker by the first of July, and she will be able to dance on Thanksgiving Day. I guarantee it.” He looked triumphantly at Dr. Zembright and said: “Bring her down immediately. I’m ready!”

The visitors needed to hear no more, and they all agreed that Betsy Cawthorn, profoundly depressed but in remarkably good physical condition, would be transferred immediately to the Palms. That decided, the men toured Gateways to inspect various rooms suitable for a young woman in a wheelchair, but Yancey protested: “Don’t get hung up on that wheelchair bit. And don’t buy her one. Rent it so she knows from the start it’s temporary. And when she does get it, I’ll hide it, ’cause she’ll be walkin’ shortly, and dancin’, too.”

Choosing a room in the Peninsula projection that looked out on the river, Cawthorn said: “I find that one of the comforting things about this place, Doctor, is that it’s solidly built,” and Zembright explained:
“He ought to know. He’s one of Chattanooga’s biggest builders.”

Cawthorn laughed: “I get by. Why do you call this place Gateways?” and Andy repeated the explanation he had once heard Nurse Varney give: “Because it’s the gateway to a better life.”

As the visitors drove away from the Palms, Oliver Cawthorn, an experienced judge of men, said: “Otto, I’m so happy with our decision. Betsy has used up what we have to offer in Chattanooga—she deserves new blood, younger men. I liked Zorn and he’ll start with a great advantage. She’s convinced herself that he can help her. Is that fellow Yancey as good as you said?”

“Excellent reputation for baseball players and quarterbacks. He must be equally good with ordinary people, or a place like the Palms wouldn’t have hired him.”

As they flew home to complete arrangements for their patient to transfer to the Palms each devoutly hoped that her life would again be one that was worth living.

B
etsy Cawthorn’s rehabilitation started three minutes after her father wheeled her into the entrance to the Palms. It began not with instructions from Bedford Yancey, the therapist, but with Dr. Zorn. As he stepped forward to greet her, he really saw her for the first time; in January at the bloody scene of the accident he had been aware only of a woman in terrible pain.

Now he saw a person with a lovely face, though drawn and pale. A wan smile of great beauty suffused her face as she grasped his hand and whispered: “Thank God they found you. If anybody can help me it would be you….” and her voice trailed off.

Her introduction to Yancey was decidedly dramatic. He rushed up to her and, grasping her hands, pulled her toward him, saying: “A big hello from the Palms, where your new life begins. Here you are not going to be coddled like a fragile Southern belle”—he slapped the metal arm of the wheelchair—“and we’ll get rid of this contraption as soon as possible, surely by next month, because I refuse to say you are bedridden or chair-ridden. What you are, Miss Betsy, is a tough, feisty tennis player who has run into temporary misfortune. Your cure here will be spectacular. You’ll be movin’ about, you’ll be crawlin’, you’ll be standin’, and so help me God, you’ll be walkin’ and you will not be relyin’ on this damned chair.”

“How soon can she be on crutches?” her father asked.

Yancey looked at him in amazement: “Mr. Cawthorn! We haven’t used crutches in donkey’s years. Too cruel, and they delay muscular regeneration. What do we use?” Yancey almost shouted. “We use the four-footed walker, one of the great inventions of the twentieth century, the man who thought it up should win the Nobel Prize.” And he called for an assistant to bring out that marvel of modern rehabilitation, a rather large device made of lightweight burnished hollow steel with four widely spaced legs, each ending in a heavy rubber tip. “This ensures solid footing,” he said, kicking one of the legs roughly. “And since the height of the leg is adjustable, a perfect fit is guaranteed.”

Yancey now called for Nurse Varney to assist him, and when the big black woman came forward, she gave the younger woman a look of motherly reassurance and affection.

“Let’s lift her up, Mrs. Varney, and fit her for size in her walker,” Yancey said and skillfully he and Nora pulled Betsy out of her chair and moved her into the position she would soon be able to take without help. For the present she was held in an upright position within the protection of the walker the way she would stand as she learned to use her new legs. In this unorthodox way she began to feel comfortable with the two officials at the Palms who would guide her life for the next months, a redheaded cracker from Georgia and a black nurse from Alabama.

When Yancey lifted her back to her chair he did something that only a supremely confident young therapist would have dared. Without explanation or apologies he lifted the heavy denim skirt that she was using to cover what was left of her legs, pushed it aside, and knelt to examine the two stumps, which everyone else in the reception area now could also see. After assuring himself that they had healed nicely he astonished everyone by actually thumping on them so hard that they made a sound. Then, from his kneeling position he looked up at the astonished Mr. Cawthorn and said: “Whatever you paid the doctor who cared for these stumps, send him a check tonight for double. This is not good work. Miss Betsy, this is perfection,” and with a forefinger he indicated precisely what it was that gave him hope: “Look at these muscles coming down from the knee, look at the fact that we have enough bone in each leg to fit one of the great new mechanical legs. Look at the strong thighs to which we can attach the supporting gear. Most of all, look at the flaps of tough skin holding
everything in place, everything toughening up!” He gave the stumps another bang.

“My God, he’s treating her rough,” Andy whispered, but Nora had watched Yancey at work before, and defended him: “He’s knocking her down to ground zero, so she can rebuild.”

“On Thanksgiving Day, lass,” Yancey continued, “we’ll be waltzin’.” Then he quietly told the Cawthorns: “In this place we perform miracles, but only with the help of our collaborators—we never use the word
patient
around here because no one is sick. Just discommoded for the moment. And in Miss Betsy we have a young woman who’s already made half the recovery. She has her knees; her stumps—we never use nice-nelly evasions for that word—have healed magnificently and are clean and powerful guarantees of her recovery. Nora and I will do our best.” Then he became a stern taskmaster: “Miss Betsy, you’ve been allowed to waste four months of your life. If you’d flown down here the day after your accident, you’d be walkin’ now. You’ve been a bad girl and I ought to give you a good, old-fashioned spankin’ on your bottom.”

“Good God!” Andy cried as he saw the familiarity with which Yancey treated Betsy. “She could sue us all for sexual harassment,” but again Nora defended him: “Look at how she’s reacting,” Andy studied his newest resident, and saw to his surprise that she was gravely shaking hands with the Georgian: “Up there I wasn’t ready for treatment, but now I am, Mr. Yancey. I want to walk. Teach me how.” He squeezed her hand, but her gaze was fixed on Andy.

That evening, as if nothing unusual had occurred at the Palms during the day, one of the young waiters was sent to Betsy’s room to help her into her wheelchair and bring her down to the dining room. Dr. Zorn had arranged for her to dine with the Mallorys, who were such a lively couple, and Lincoln Noble, the black judge. He had placed them at table eight, which was as far from the entrance as possible, for he wanted the maximum number of residents to become acquainted with the newcomer.

When Betsy saw the size of the room and the large number of people present, she lost her courage and signaled for Andy: “I’ve eaten in my room or with a few family friends for months. This is terrifying.” But he insisted that she come into the room: “I’ve reserved a seat for you at the other side of the dining room.”

“Why?” she whispered nervously, and he said: “I want everyone
to see you. To become easy with the fact that we have a new phenomenon in our midst. A girl who has been really wounded but who is going to make a great comeback.” He pushed her chair among the tables, smiling to the diners and occasionally stopping to say: “This is Betsy Cawthorn, of Chattanooga. She’ll be walking among you in a short time.”

When they reached table eight, Betsy’s father, with the assistance of a young waiter, lifted her into an ordinary chair between Mr. Mallory and Judge Noble. Then the waiter quietly pushed the wheelchair back to a spot at the entrance and left it there while Andy led Mr. Cawthorn to a different table: “It’s best, we find, if the newcomer fits right in, on his or her own. But why don’t you join their table for dessert?”

Betsy, left alone with strangers for the first time in four months and overcome with embarrassment, could find nothing to say in response to friendly questions except the monosyllabic yes and no. The outgoing octogenarian Mrs. Mallory would not allow this to continue. “Chris and I are going to have to eat and run because we have an important engagement tonight,” she said. Then she smiled roguishly and added: “And can you guess what it is?”

Slowly Betsy allowed herself to be drawn into the guessing game but she failed to find the proper answer. Finally, she said: “All right, I give up. What are you going to do?” When Mrs. Mallory said: “Take part in a public dance in Tampa,” Betsy’s jaw dropped in disbelief.

“Yes, my dear, Chris and I love to dance. Your man Yancey is so good at his job that one of these nights we’ll drag you along, and you’ll be dancing too.”

The conversation became so interesting that Betsy was sorry to see the couple depart, but that left her with the genial Judge Noble, who invited her to join him one day at his fishing: “You’ll see magnificent birds standing beside you, no farther away than that next table.” When she asked what kind of judge he was he said: “State judge, federal judge, appeals court judge, retired judge,” and he explained the differences.

When Andy came to reclaim her at the end of the meal, she told him: “I’m glad you made me come. Everyone was wonderful.” So in a day of many surprises Betsy Cawthorn was inserted into the normal operations of the Palms. After dinner she and her father visited the lounge to introduce themselves, and two members of the Bridge Fanatics wanted to know just one thing: “Do you play bridge, Miss
Cawthorn?” When she answered “Not yet,” they laughed: “That’s the correct answer, because we’ll teach you. Are you what they call a quick study?” and her father answered for her: “At home we considered her a genius, and it’s good to think that she may get back onto the main track down here.”

Betsy spent the next day getting settled into her rooms, learning about the Palms and making friends in the dining hall. That night she sat with Ms. Oliphant and enjoyed the company of the former school headmistress: “I wish I’d had a teacher like you. I might have learned more than I did.” With no touch of humor on her face except for a twinkle in her eyes, Ms. Oliphant said with a primness that belied her words: “Yes, with me you damn well would have learned.”

But she was even more taken with Reverend Quade, who seemed exactly what a woman minister should be even though Betsy had never met one before. “I hope we can talk together one of these days. You seem to have seen so much of life. Have you…ever known anyone crippled like me?”

“Worse. In Pakistan I saw many young women who had suffered severe physical damage whose fate was far worse than yours.”

“How could that be?”

“They had no hope, none whatever. Poverty and despair and perhaps eventual suicide were all that was in store for them. But you, my dear, have a wonderfully supportive father, who can afford whatever is necessary to help you lead a normal life, and our crazy man Yancey will have you jumping about sooner than you can imagine”—she reached out to press Betsy’s hand—“you have so much to hope for.”

Next morning after breakfast, Betsy was taken over to rehab, where Bedford Yancey was waiting. After she had dressed in an interesting costume that consisted of a sleeveless top and denim shorts hemmed well below the knee, he dropped to the floor next to her wheelchair and asked his assistant to place her beside him. She was instructed to mimic him in every respect as he crawled around, taking sharp turns from time to time. Delighted by her agility, he cried out as she passed him on her belly, elbows and knees: “You’re completing the first month’s work. We’ll be dancin’ by Thanksgivin’.”

He also had her spend nearly half an hour seated at a machine that encouraged her to strengthen her stomach muscles and particularly her upper thighs. At no moment did he force her beyond the point at which she began to tire or show boredom, and after she had briefly tried two other machines that would improve the power she
might be able to exercise through her knees, he cried: “Quits for the morning! Let’s go out and watch the herons.” Placing her near her wheelchair, he held it steady with his arms and feet and said: “Imagine there’s a fire. You’ve got to get out. You’re alone, but the chair is locked in the park position. Can you possibly work your way into it? Use any tricks you can think of, but get into this damned chair.” And he watched her struggle, her upturned face looking right into his, until he detected the moment when she realized that all her strength, all her willpower was not going to get her into that chair. Saying nothing, giving her the merest bit of help possible with his right hand, he enabled her to swing her left hip into the chair. When she was settled, he said: “I want you to feel the exact amount of force I used to ease you over the last hump,” and he exerted against her outstretched hand less than a quarter pound of energy: “You were so close, Betsy. You almost had it done.”

“Put me down again.”

“You feel strong enough? We’ve had a pretty lively workout, you know.”

“Just put me down,” and again she struggled valiantly to work her left hip into position, but failed. He said nothing as he eased her back into the chair, and she said: “I could feel the solution that time. Couple of days from now, I bet I’ll climb into this chair.” Noticing that Dr. Zorn had entered the room and had, presumably, seen her double failure, she continued: “You be here, too, and you’ll see me vault into that chair.” He gravely replied: “With your determination it’s possible, I’m sure.”

The two men wheeled her to a veranda from which they had a good view of the pond to which, from time to time, waterbirds came that she could not identify. Later, Ms. Oliphant came by and guessed that Betsy was trying to identify the birds: “Could you maybe use a bit of help? The little white ones, cattle egrets. You’ll often see them riding on the necks of cattle, picking insects from behind the animal’s ear. The big white ones, we don’t see them too often, the white heron, naturally. We don’t see any right now, but there’s also the big blue heron, a monstrous bird in comparison with the others. The seagulls I’m sure you know, and the big pelicans, wonderful comedians, they never come to the pond. They prefer the open water over there.”

Later that afternoon Yancey introduced her to Dr. Champion, the prosthetist. Yancey laughed: “Impossible to pronounce that word. It means the mechanical genius who will make and fit your
prosthesis, that’s the technical word for your new legs. I call him our orthopedic mechanic, and he’s one of the best. When he makes your legs, they fit and they work.” The frail, reticent man, not over thirty-five years old, went immediately about his task, which was to record her body measurements to determine what length and character her two mechanical legs should have. When he inspected her stumps prior to taking plaster casts, he congratulated her: “You were well served by whoever handled that part of the accident. Now let’s hope I can do as well,” and the manner in which he conducted his various investigations and calculations gave some evidence that he would. His major problems were twofold: How long should the attachment legs be? And how best to affix them to the leg bones below the knee and attach them to the thighs above? He took numerous measurements, studied with micrometers the photographs Mr. Cawthorn had of her before the accident and came up with practical estimates in each case.