The Waltons 3 - The Easter Story (3 page)

“I don’t know. Just hurry, son.”

The next hour and a half seemed like an eternity for John. After Mary Ellen brought up the tea. Olivia awakened for a couple minutes. But it was hard to say if she was really awake. She blinked uncertainly at John, and then smiled and pushed back her damp hair.

“I feel so silly. Did they tell you I fell down at church?”

“Yes, they did. You feel like havin’ some tea?”

“I feel like I ought to be up gettin’ supper ready. Where’s your ring, John?”

The question puzzled him until he realized she was holding his left hand, her fingers working over his.

“It’s in my pocket. I take it off when I’m workin’—so it won’t get scratched.” He smiled, but then looked more closely at her. She was looking at him, but her eyes were not focused.

“Are they comin’ for supper?” she asked.

John glanced across the bed. Grandma shrugged and shook her head.

“Who, sweetheart?”

“The Claybournes. I’d better get supper started if they’re comin’.”

John wasn’t sure how to respond. There was no question about her being delirious from the fever. She blinked again and closed her eyes.

“But my legs ache. I don’t think I can get down the stairs.” Her voice trailed off. “I do wish you’d wear your ring, John.”

Her breathing became heavy again. She turned her head, gasping for breath, and was once more asleep.

While they waited, John alternated between sitting at her side and standing at the window. He was worried. He’d never seen Olivia quite so bad from any kind of a fever. On the other hand—as Grandma had said this morning—it could still be something as common as the grippe.

He smiled when he thought about her mentioning his ring. Standing at the window, he fished it from his pocket and slipped it back on his finger. There was nothing fancy about the ring. It was a heavy gold wedding band with no decorations. It had been his idea to get it in the first place. But now she never wanted him to take it off.

Dr. Vance was a tall slender man in his midforties, and his rimless glasses and stiff posture gave him a stern, businesslike manner. He had opened his office only two years ago—closer to Charlottesville than Walton’s Mountain, and most of his patients came from the larger community. But since Dr. Shackleford had retired, there wasn’t any choice for those in Walton’s Mountain.

When he finally arrived he came directly up.

“You say she fell down twice?” he asked as he checked her pulse.

“Yes.”

He nodded and got out his stethoscope. For several minutes he shifted the instrument around, listening to her heartbeat, but he said nothing. He put the stethoscope away and brought out a flashlight to look at her throat. When this was done, he gently worked his fingers under her chin, feeling her neck. In her feverish sleep, Olivia was oblivious to his probing.

Grandma finally rose and moved toward the door. “I think I’ll go downstairs, John.”

“All right, Mama.”

John could tell nothing from the doctor’s thoughtful frown. After he had finished with her neck he sat back in a chair and gazed at her through a full minute of silence. He finally rose and pulled off his jacket.

“Would you mind waiting outside for a couple minutes, Mr. Walton?”

“What do you think it is, Doc?”

The doctor shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

Olivia had polio.

There was probably no way in the world for a doctor to make such an announcement in a gentle way. Nor can anyone ever be fully prepared to hear such news.

It took Dr. Vance ten more minutes to complete his examination. His suspicions were strong, and they were quickly confirmed. When he opened the door for John he smiled grimly and asked him to sit down. The doctor took the chair facing him and leaned forward, his voice as gentle as he could make it.

“I could be wrong, Mr. Walton. Sometimes these things are tricky and hard to diagnose. But in your wife’s case, the symptoms are almost classic. She has the tremors, and the stiffness and pain in the neck and back. But even more significant is the flaccid paralysis of the voluntary muscles.”

From the doctor’s tone John Walton knew it was bad. “I don’t think I understand,” he said thickly.

“I’m afraid, Mr. Walton, that your wife has anterior poliomyelitis. It’s more commonly known as polio. Infantile paralysis.”

Polio.
As far as John Walton knew there had only ever been one case of polio in Walton’s Mountain. It was tragic—a little six-year-old girl who had been full of energy and laughter before it happened. He could remember her now; sitting in a wheelchair at the side of Miss Hunter’s classroom. Her legs were no more than tiny stems—both heavily shackled in steel and leather. But mostly he remembered her eyes. They had the vacant, faraway look of suffering and hopeless, unattainable dreams. John closed his eyes for a minute, then looked over at Olivia.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Walton. I wish I had some doubts.”

John nodded, his voice barely audible. “Shouldn’t we take her to a hospital?”

“No. The strain really wouldn’t be worth it. Complete rest is the best thing. I don’t think she should leave her bed.”

“I see.”

“Are you all right, Mr. Walton?”

John took a deep breath and looked at the doctor. He nodded. “Yes, I’m all right.”

“It’s also very important that the children don’t go near her. The disease is contagious.”

“I understand.”

After a minute the doctor rose and put his jacket back on.

“Doc—is there anything you can give her? Anything that’ll help?”

The doctor sighed. “No. That’s the terrible thing about polio. There’s no known medicine that can help. We just have to hope the damage won’t be too great. The disease spreads through the nervous system, eventually reaching the spinal cord or brain. If the cells are destroyed completely, it’s impossible for them to regenerate.”

John closed his eyes. What the doctor was saying was that she would be crippled. Why, he wondered. Why Olivia?

“Mr. Walton, I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can do. I should be going.”

John nodded.

“If you would like, I can—explain it to the rest of the family.”

John looked at him, then shook his head. “No. No, I’d better do that.”

“Yes, that’s probably best. And maybe you’d better walk me out to the car.”

John understood the request. If the doctor went out alone, everyone would want to question him. “Yes,” he nodded. He finally pulled himself to his feet and went to the bed.

Olivia. Please, God, help her, he thought, please help her.

It was dark outside now. The ground was frozen and the stars were shining through a brittle black sky.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Walton. I’ll be back again tomorrow. Just try to help her rest. And be sure the children don’t go near her.”

John nodded. The doctor started his car and the tires crunched softly away.

For several minutes he stood in numbed silence, looking off at the frosted silhouette of the mountain and the emptiness beyond. He wondered if there really was a God. And he wondered if in His scheme of things Olivia was destined for something like this. If that was so, this was the crudest, most unjust world imaginable.

“Daddy?”

John-Boy’s voice was soft and came from only a few feet behind him. John turned.

In the reflected light from the house, John-Boy could clearly see his father’s face. He could see the despair, and the sagging shoulders, and the tears standing in his eyes. His father’s voice was thick and barely audible.

“John-Boy, your mother has polio. Infantile paralysis.”

John-Boy’s mouth opened, but quickly closed, his throat clogged. Oh, my God, he thought. Oh, my God! The words kept repeating themselves in his head.

“It’s gonna be hard on your grandpa and grandma, John-Boy. And worse for the kids. Until tomorrow I think we’d better just tell ’em she’s got a bad fever and it will probably be down in the mornin’.” He took a deep, unsteady breath. “You and me’ll have to help ’em face it. I’m gonna need your help, son.”

John-Boy nodded, unable to speak.

His father looked off to the side. “If you feel like stayin’ outside for awhile, go ahead. I reckon I’ll be doin’ some cryin’ tonight myself.”

John-Boy felt a hand on his shoulder. It slipped away and his father’s heavy footsteps moved up the porch. When the door closed John-Boy clamped his eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears. “Mama,” he said softly. He turned to the bannister post and buried his face in his arms.

II

T
he following day became a long, weary vigil-waiting and hoping for some change in Olivia’s condition. Through breakfast and going off to school, John-Boy stoically answered the questions of his anxious brothers and sisters. They couldn’t see their mother, he told them, because she wasn’t awake yet. She needed all the sleep she could get. The doctor had said nothing definite, but he was sure the fever would go down sometime during the day. And yes, if she was feeling better, they could see her when they got home from school. He tried his best to sound hopeful, but he doubted if he was very convincing. Long before they reached school the questions ceased, and they trudged on in grim silence.

John had told Grandma and Grandpa what the doctor had said as quickly as he went back in the house the previous night. He took them into their own room and, using the same preparatory request as the doctor, asked them to sit down.

How hard it had hit them, John couldn’t be sure. They were silent for a long moment. The tears slowly formed in his mother’s eyes. Then, with a thick voice, Grandpa asked questions about Olivia’s chances for recovery, what they could do to help, and how certain the doctor was about his diagnosis. Grandma didn’t say a word. Her eyes drifted off to an empty place on the wall, and then Grandpa told John they would be out in a few minutes.

John had no illusions about the children’s doubts. But their fears, along with their wishful desires for their mother’s recovery, prevented them from asking questions that might bring answers they didn’t want to hear. After John-Boy led them off to school, Grandpa took care of cleaning up the kitchen, and John and Grandma returned to Olivia’s side.

There had been no significant change. At times the flush disappeared from her face, and she seemed to awaken. She would smile and say she was feeling better, and request a drink of water, or ask what time it was. But then she would make some incongruous statement that indicated she was still only half conscious. Then her eyes dulled, the fever boiled, and once more she was in a gasping delirium.

Grandma bathed her face and cooled her neck and arms with a wet cloth, but there was nothing more she could do.

“John, there’s no use in your hangin’ around here pacin’ the floor,” she finally sighed, “You might as well go out and do some work. Get your mind off it.”

“I don’t think I could do any work, Mama.”

“Well, go try. Or take a walk or somethin’.”

John left the room. But he didn’t go directly downstairs. For no particular reason he went into each of the children’s rooms and stood for several minutes. He looked at their toys and books, and at the odd little things that all children seem to collect. In each of them he saw part of Olivia. She had selected most of the toys and books. And she had remarked on each of the collected things; or suggested where it might be put; or tried to persuade them to get rid of it. And because of the children’s anxiety over her illness, the beds were made extra neatly this morning, and everything was picked up.

“I think I’ll go out and see about that bad tire, Pa,” he said when he finally went down to the kitchen.

“Afraid there’s not much left of it to see about.”

“Well, I can put on the spare anyway.”

“Want some help?”

“No. I think I can handle it.”

Olivia had little recollection of the last twenty-four hours. At the church she knew there was something seriously wrong with her. At first, during Reverend Fordwick’s sermon, there were waves of dizziness that prompted her to grab the edge of the pew, fearful that she was going to tumble forward onto the floor. As quickly as those left, her neck and back ached to the point of nausea. Once the service was concluded, she had hoped that standing up and walking would make her feel better. But on the front steps her legs had suddenly turned to unmanageable chunks of lead. She had grasped for Grandpa’s arm, but that had only partially stopped her fall.

She hardly remembered going home in the truck. She had laughed, dismissing her fall at the church, telling them she must have tripped. But then the aches and nausea and dizziness came back. And even holding Grandpa’s arm she couldn’t make it to the back door of the house.

The pain was almost unbearable—a throbbing shaft that ran from the back of her head through her hips and past her knees. And then came the chills, followed by searing heat that drenched her with perspiration. On top of that, her throat had closed, making breathing almost impossible.

“Where’s the pain, Mrs. Walton?”

The voice seemed to come from miles away. She smelled something sharp and pungent, and Dr. Vance was hovering close, holding something under her nose. In a hoarse, almost inaudible tone she told him about her neck and back. Then she felt his fingers brushing the side of her neck and examining her arms.

The rest consisted only of swirling glimpses of her room. She once saw John sitting in a chair next to the bed. But he was asleep. After that she was a twelve-year-old girl again. She was at a church picnic, competing in a footrace. She was far out in front when suddenly she fell. She laughed at the accident, but she couldn’t get back on her feet. She lifted herself with her hands, but for some reason she couldn’t draw her legs up beneath her. She shouted for help, and the other girls ran past, laughing, paying no attention to her.

There were other nightmares. She was in the delivery room of the Charlottesville hospital, and the pain was unbearable. She was screaming, but Dr. Shackleford was smiling down, quietly telling her she would have no trouble with the delivery because Jason was their second child. He didn’t seem to hear her screams. And then Jason was standing beside the doctor, smiling, saying, “Don’t worry, Mama.”