A White Room (2 page)

She flashed a conniving grin.

“Why? What do you want?”

“Nothing.” She pursed her lips. “But if you’re too scared…”

“I am
not
scared.”

Florence cleared her throat, and I glared over my shoulder at her. She absentmindedly played with one of Ruth’s braids. “Maybe right now is the right time.”

“Are you really encouraging this?”

She sat up straight and dropped the braid. “If it will get you to do something.”

Ruth’s eyes popped from me to Lillian and back.

I scowled back at Lillian.

She smirked in a way only a little sister could.

An hour or so later, I had built up the nerve to approach my father. He was probably asleep having not felt well. I should just ask, I thought to myself. No, that conversation couldn’t happen now, but I couldn’t let Lillian tell him, either. She would, too, and she would do it in a flamboyant, ridiculous way, so my parents would never seriously consider it—how ludicrous to allow the eldest daughter to attend school instead of finding a husband. I had to show them why nursing was worth pursuing—I had to make my case to a lawyer and—worse—my mother! I should just get it over with, I thought to myself. I knew if I presented it properly, Father would understand. Mother might take some work, but if I could get Father to say yes…I held my breath, straightened my posture, and made my way down the hall to my parents’ room.

Inside, a rancid smell hit me. My father was seated bent over in the bed. He gurgled a black, grainy substance into a chamber pot while my mother stroked his back. His nightclothes were streaked with pale shades of yellow from sweat.

I stared, shocked.

My mother held a glass of water to his lips. He sipped, sloshed it about, and spit. With a gentle touch on the back of his neck, my mother guided him down onto his pillow. She examined the contents of the chamber pot and then fixed her eyes on me. She beckoned me as she walked out. “Emeline?”

I hesitated, thinking it was only supposed to be a cold, and then followed her quick heels, staring at her dark hair pulled back into a tight bun.

“This is not an ordinary case of dyspepsia,” she said.

“Do you think it’s influenza?”

“I don’t know. He says it feels like something is slicing him from the inside.” She made a clawing gesture across her stomach. She stopped and turned around. “This—this isn’t normal.” She held out the chamber pot. The putrid-smelling contents resembled wet coffee grounds. “He’s hardly eaten anything. I don’t know what this is. He doesn’t have anything in his stomach.”

“What’s wrong?” Lillian and Ruth popped out from around the corner, having been listening in again.

My mother jumped and then glared at them. “Go downstairs, please.”

Their eyes shot to me.

“Go,” she ordered. “And get dressed.”

Lillian stopped and flashed worried eyes back before leading Ruth past us toward the stairs.

I returned my attention to my mother. “I should send for the doctor.”

She took a deep breath and sighed. “No, I’ll send for Dr. Morris. Go sit with him. I’ll only be a moment.”

I turned back and jumped when Lillian leapt out again, without Ruth this time. I brought my hand to my chest at first, not sure how she’d sneaked there so quickly, but then I narrowed my eyes and dropped my hands. “Didn’t Mother just tell you to go downstairs?”

“Is Father all right?”

“I don’t know.” I walked past her.

“Fix him.”

I turned back. “Mother’s sending for the doctor.”

“No. You can fix him. You know how. You can.”

“Lillian.”

“You can, you can.” She bounced.

“Lillian,” I said with enough force in my voice to stop her, “go downstairs.”

She scowled at me, pushing her chin out.

“Now.”

She narrowed her eyes at me before stomping down the hall, probably only to sneak back the moment I turned my back.

I returned to my parents’ room and lowered myself into the rocking chair next to the bed. My father’s large belly rose high and then fell. His breath rustled his droopy mustache with a low rumble. It was only supposed to be a cold. I wished I did know more nursing so I could help him. He couldn’t be too sick. It couldn’t be serious. What if it was serious?

I wished I were a little girl again. I wanted him to pick me up and spin me around and around. I wanted him to put me on his shoulders so I could see the city, or let James and me hang from his arms and swing us back and forth, pretending he was a giant. Sunday walks in Forest Park. Back then he’d seemed too powerful to get sick. I couldn’t remember him having ever gotten sick. He’d seemed invulnerable. He was a strong lawyer who wore fancy suits and argued on behalf of the innocent. Whenever something didn’t make sense, he could explain it, make it right. He knew everything; he could do anything. He was strong and protected us. He would wrestle a wild beast to protect us, and in fact he had when he stopped a mad dog from attacking Lillian when we were little. He took care of me when I fell ill, stroked my hair, read me stories, and made me laugh.

I noticed droplets of sweat along his thin hairline and was searching for a cloth when his snore broke into a wet choke. He hacked himself out of sleep and up into a slumped position.

I grabbed the glass of water from the nightstand. “Father, Father, drink this.” I lifted the glass to his mouth.

He held the hacking back long enough to take a sip, but when he swallowed, his throat constricted and he spewed water all over the bed and my arm. I pulled back, and he gagged and gagged until more black tar gurgled down his chest. I stepped back, horrified. I didn’t know what to do. I just stared. He wouldn’t stop. He gagged, gagged, gagged until bright red blood dribbled down his chin.

Almost a month later, we crowded into my parents’ room, positioning ourselves among my parents’ dressing tables, a vanity, the washstand, and the bulky armoire. I held little Ruth on my hip and stood near the door. My father lay there pale and wilted, his lips stained red. Dried blood streaked the rumpled sheets. My father’s condition had worsened until Dr. Morris informed us of the need to remove a tumor from his stomach. The doctor had warned us the procedure might not save him, so my father asked to see all of us together in case this was the end. I told myself this would not be his final goodbyes. He would get better. He had to. We needed him. We all needed him. He could always calm Mother, encourage me to take a risk, guide James to pursue the right and just thing, inspire confidence in Florence, and tickle giggles and good behavior out of my youngest sisters. He took care of us. He was going to be all right. He was going to get better. He had to get better.

He asked for James, who had Lillian by the hand. My brother clung to his composure, but his eyes were red. James released Lillian and maneuvered around Mother and Florence, who were sitting in chairs next to the bed. Florence clutched my mother’s hand, and my mother clutched her embroidered handkerchief.

“James.” My father fumbled for his grasp.

James clasped his hand and lowered himself.

“Be strong. You will need to be the head of the family,” my father’s voice rasped.

James closed his eyes and shook his head slightly but didn’t say anything. My father squeezed his hand. James bent over and clutched my father and then retreated to a chair next to the window. He dropped his head into his hands. Lillian nudged him until he sat up and took her in his arms.

“Lillian?”

She hesitantly turned out of James’ hug and inched her way to Father.

He reached out and touched her cheek. “You’re the only one who can fix a smile on my face no matter how difficult my day. Don’t ever stop. Take care of Ruth. She looks up to you.”

Lillian hugged him and then turned around red-faced and stomped over to me.

“Watch over your mother,” my father told Florence.

Stopping in front of me, Lillian lowered her brow and crinkled her nose. Her lips were tight as she whispered, “Why didn’t you fix him?”

My stomach lurched and I swallowed. “I told you I couldn’t.”

“Bring me Ruth.”

I glanced at my father. “I’m not a nurse,” I whispered to Lillian. “I’m nothing.” I walked past her and lowered Ruth to the bed. She crawled around our father and snuggled him.

He squeezed her with one arm. “You’ll always be my little squirrel. Keep Lillian out of trouble. It’s a big job, but you’re a big girl now, aren’t you?”

Ruth’s pupils grew.

Then he reached for my hand. I clutched his and submitted to his pull. I sat on the bed and leaned forward so he could whisper into my ear. “You have to take care of them, too. James cannot do it alone. I’m going to need you to make sacrifices. You’re strong enough. No matter what you have to do, no matter how extreme, you will have to sacrifice for your family for the rest of your life.”

I pulled back and stared into his eyes, unsure exactly what he meant, but I didn’t care. He thought he was dying and all I wanted was to make him know I’d do whatever he wanted. I would worry about understanding later. I would ask him the next time we were alone. For now, I closed my eyes and silently swore it. “I promise, no matter what it takes. I will.” I stood and turned away so he wouldn’t have to see me cry. I wiped the tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand.

He turned his head to face my mother, who took his hand with both of hers. Her chin quivered as tears dripped down her swollen face onto her sleeves and dress.

I put my hand on Florence’s shoulder. She trembled, staring at our parents with pink eyes.

“I love you,” Father said.

She sobbed harder.

Lillian was now sitting on James’ lap, her arms around his neck and her head leaning against his shoulder.

“I love you.” My mother kissed his hand. “I can’t handle this, Charles. Please. Please don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave me. Please.” She wept. “I know—I know I’ll do something horrible if you leave me. I will. I will.” She wheezed between sobs.

Ruth watched with her eyes and mouth in the shape of little O’s.

My mother’s words filled me with a feeling far beyond fear or pity. They made my hands tremble.

“When you feel sad,” his voice caught in his throat, “remember how much I love you and how much it will hurt me if you do anything horrible.”

Ruth buried her head in my father’s side. She seemed unsure as to why everyone was so upset.

My mother folded over onto the bed and bawled, gasping for air between sobs, her hair coming unpinned. He always knew what to say to her. She couldn’t carry out some dramatic rampage of grief if she knew he wouldn’t approve. She loved him too much. She needed him—we needed him. I needed him. He couldn’t die. He wouldn’t die when we needed him. He was strong. He would be strong because he knew how much we needed him.

His somber gaze circled the room, meeting our eyes one by one. “I love you all so much.” His voice broke and he heaved. He closed his eyes, took in a deep breath and choked on it. For the first time in my life, I watched my father cry. I watched him weep.

After the operation, my mother refused to leave Father. She sat there all night and day, staring at him. After a particularly long night, I insisted she eat something and get some sleep. I told her to take just an hour while I sat with Father.