No answer? Alma's heart quickens. “I just spoke to Helen about an hour ago.” Could something have happened since then? Helen had said that she was feeling better. It could be she is napping or didn't get to the phone on time. That happens a lot. There is no jack in the bedroom, and though Claudine has loaned Helen a portable, Helen often knocks it over as she flails around trying to reach it. More than once, Alma has had to get down on all fours to retrieve it from under the bed or the chest of drawers by the door.
“Well, I'm going over there right now,” Alma says, cranberry sauce can in hand. She'd better hurry, just in case. But, as she turns to go, it occurs to her that if Helen is dying this might be the last chance to see her son. She turns back. “You want to come?”
She can tell from Hannah's brightened look that this is precisely what she had in mind. It's Mickey who seems unsure, scanning the shelves as if avoiding Alma's gaze, for once. From what she's seen, Alma would say that Hannah is a lot more with it than Mickey. But then Hannah's probably still on her meds. And Helen is Mickey's
mother. So much easier to access equanimity toward someone else's painful childhood.
Mickey turns his eyes back on her. What he says surprises her. “I don't have anything for her.”
Of course, Alma thinks. That was always the pattern. Mickey came back with a gift, his peace offering. It could be he is speaking metaphorically, he has nothing left in his heart to give his mother, but Alma takes him at his word, his literal word. “Here,” she says, handing him the can of cranberry sauce. It's not flatware from Thailand or a painted fan from Taiwan or a silver spoon from Ireland. “She said this was all she wanted for Thanksgiving. That and seeing you.” Since when did Alma earn the right to make a story out of other people's lives?
Mickey stares at the can in his hand for a long moment, then sets it in the basket. This must mean he is coming.
“My name is Hannah,” the woman says, oddly introducing herself just as they are parting. She holds out a wan hand for Alma. “Mickey's told me all about you.”
For some reason, Alma doesn't like the sound of this. What all is there for Mickey to tell about? A few driveway and hallway conversations. She could come back to Hannah with her own rejoinder. I'm one of the people you infected with your psychic AIDS. Don't be mean, Alma reminds herself. This is Helen's daughter-in-law. And they are all about to have Thanksgiving together. Thanks to Alma.
L
ATER, THE SEQUENCE OF
events will seem like a historic film clip of a moment gone awry, to be played over and over by the networks, the gunshot incredibly hitting the president in his motorcade, the airplanes impossibly flying into the towers.
Alma will replay these Thanksgiving moments over and over, trying to register that indeed unfortunate things do happen on a balmy November day with the sky slightly overcast, too warm for children to be skating on the pond at the edge of the woods. She is wearing only a sweater, and as she drives by on her way to Helen's she notices the
opened windows in the houses along the road. It must be downright hot inside with all the baking going on.
The pickup pulls in beside her car, but Alma is already at the door knocking, not expecting Helen to answer, wondering if to go in first and alert her. She waves to Mickey and Hannah, then enters the house, calling out in the old way, “Helen, it's me!” No answer. She hurries toward the bedroom, trying to stay calm, an apprehensive sense growing in her gut, because already Alma knows what she will see, although she will want to rewind to the very moment and look at it in disbelief, Helen unconscious on the floor, maybe en route to the phone, who knows, but still alive, still breathing, which is why Alma cries out, “Helen! Helen!” as if she can bring Helen back if only she calls out loud enough.
Mickey is suddenly beside her, no lapsing synapses now, springing into actionâthe Marine under fireâtaking a pulse, checking Helen's vital signs, calling to Hannah to bring him something from his pickup, in the glove compartment, a first-aid kit, his nurse bag, Alma can't be sure, because meanwhile she is crawling around, searching for the portable, which she finds right where it should be, by Helen's bedside. She steps out in the hall to call 911 for an ambulance, suspecting Mickey might not approve and not caring to ask him either.
And here is another moment to rewind and look at, this moment with the hysterical sound of the sirens coming closer, stopping at their very driveway, and Mickey looking up startled from the bed where he has carried his mother, “Did you call an ambulance?” as if there were something so very wrong in calling for help when someone has collapsed!
Then the huge bangs at the door, and Alma transfixed, all of her focused on that syringe in Mickey's hand, wondering, What the hell is Mickey about to inject Helen with? And maybe it's because both Hannah, standing on the other side, and Mickey, sitting on this side of the bed, are glaring at the offending portable in her hand that Alma gets the idea, which is too trigger-quick a response to be a full-blown idea, of hurling the phone at Mickey and knocking the syringe out of his
hand, and then as he cries out, racing down the hall, flinging the door open, grabbing the paramedics by the arms, screaming, “Please, please, help, he's trying to kill her!”
The two men look around, alarmed. “Who? What?”
But Alma doesn't answer because already she is running back down the hall, the two men behind her, into the bedroom, where they find Mickey on his knees picking up the broken pieces of whatever the phone knocked out of his hands, dabbing at the floor with the towel he had used to wipe Helen's face.
“What is wrong with you?” Mickey stumbles to his feet and comes toward her, as the two paramedics, animal instinct kicking in, lunge toward the other male in the room. They each grab Mickey by an arm. Meanwhile, a third man, the driver, has hurried in and is calling the police on his cell phone, as Alma sobs out that Mickey was about to give his mother an injection when he isn't her doctor. And everyone sort of calming down when she says so and looking at her, as if to say, Is that all?
“He's not her doctor,” she repeats, sobbing. “They've been estranged. He shouldn't be treating her.” Each accusation less vehement than the one before, because Alma is already asking herself if she hasn't overreacted after all.
What exonerates her: the commotion that ensues when the paramedics try to approach the bed and Mickey plants himself before them, refusing to let them get near his mother. One of the paramedicsâthe one who keeps advising everyone to stay calmâtries to go around him, but Mickey swings, and so the guy backs off, and Hannah starts to scream, and the paramedic guy holds up both hands and says, “Hey, buddy, we're just trying to help out. Let's take it easy, okay?”
Then there are more sirens as the sheriff, who lives only a mile awayâhis cruiser always parked front end out in his driveway giving Alma a scare when she is speeding home the back wayâpulls in, followed by his deputy, and the men all start trying to talk to Mickey, who takes a few more swings and manages only to hit the sheriff, who brings Mickey down with him, the deputy diving on top, securing
Mickey, handcuffing him, leading him out the door to the cruiser, the sheriff following, massaging his bruised jaw.
And Alma will rewind to this crazed and wild moment because otherwise she might miss Hannah, slinking into the shadows, terrified, mute, after what seemed an interminable bout of screaming, and slipping out of the bedroom just as the thought crosses Alma's mind that Hannah has been released into the custody of her husband who is now in the sheriff's custody, and will she be all right?
The paramedics spring into swift action, checking on Helen, hooking her up to oxygen, lifting her onto a stretcher that materializes from who knows where, and rolling her out, Alma hurrying alongside, trying to get a hold of Helen's hand, thinking, Oh Helen, forgive me, what a miserable last Thanksgiving I've brought to your house.
A
T THE HOSPITAL, THE
sheriff drops by to get Alma's testimony of what she witnessed at the Marshall residence. Alma doesn't know what to say. She doesn't want to get Mickey into any more trouble than he's already in. The sheriff's jaw is swollen. “Is it broken?” Alma asks. “It's fine,” he says curtly. He doesn't want to talk about it. He wants to talk about what Alma saw over at Helen's house, and he is getting increasingly impatient with her vague answers, with her not being sure.
“I want to call someone from Helen's hospice team,” Alma tells him. He looks too young to be a sheriff, with his big hands and pink skin showing under his severe crew cut. A half century ago he would have been milking cows on his father's farm. Now he has a cruiser and at his hip a holster with what looks like a toy gun.
Claudine drives over, followed by Becky and Shawn, little pieces of pie crumbs still in the laps of their skirts and pants, vague scent of food on their breath. A little later Cheryl joins them. Sherry is out of town. No one thinks to call Reverend Don. Who wants a twenty-something-year-old trying to cheer them all up in the waiting room with talk of paradise?
“I made a mistake,” Alma admits to the assembled team. “I never should have invited Mickey over.” And then she tells them the whole
story, how she can't swear that Mickey was going to harm his mother, just that he was about to inject Helen with some medication that could have been harmless. “I mean he is a nurse. Maybe I just panicked.” The deputy and another officer have been back to the house, and no one has come up with what they are calling hard evidence, the syringe, its contents. As for Hannah, she has vanished in the pickup, and there is a call out to the state police to stop her if they find her.
The doctor on call comes out to announce to the hodgepodge collection of people in the waiting room that Helen is stable. She has had a ministroke, but she is going to be okay.
Okay? Alma wonders if the doctor even knows Helen has cancer. Maybe he doesn't realize how bad things are. Helen has told Alma that she has a living will. Should Alma bring that up now?
“Nothing more to do tonight,” the doctor advises the team. He seems weary, bags under his eyes, his hair looks unwashed. What a life, bringing people news of their mortality. “Why don't we all touch base tomorrow?”
Soon after the doctor leaves, the group disperses as if taking his advice. Claudine better get back to her girls and Dwayne and both their assembled families. “You all take care.” Shawn follows. “You going to be all right?” Becky asks Alma, before taking off herself. Now that it's dark outside, the large picture window in the waiting room reflects all these leave-takings. The clouds have dispersed. The night is turning cold. The stars are sharp-edged, numerous, bold.
Before Alma leaves, she asks the on-duty nurse if she can just go in a minute to say good-bye to Helen.
The woman glances up from her island where she has been checking paperwork. She is tired, overworked. The cheerful demeanor of a few hours ago is gone. All of this commotion she has heard about is nothing that can be helpful to her patient. “It's better if she rests,” she tells Alma, but then, maybe because it's Thanksgivingâa cutout turkey hangs from an orange streamer above her headâshe relents. “She was asking for Mickey.” Maybe the nurse thinks Alma is Mickey? Alma holds her tongue.
The room is dark except for the lighted-up dials of machines, the indirect light falling in from the hall. Helen is getting oxygen, her arm's hooked up to an IV. Tubes crisscross the bed, connecting Helen to sundry ticking machines. As Alma looks for a patch of unoccupied skin to stroke, Helen's eyes open, and her scared and sorry look is the saddest thing in the world.
“You just had a little setback,” Alma whispers. “The doctor said you'll be home in no time.”
Helen's eyes close, but from the edges of them tears roll out. This isn't what Helen wants, Alma thinks. Whatever Mickey was going to give her in that injection was probably a lot better than this. Alma wonders if Helen knows what is going on. Could she have heard the whole commotion in her house even if she'd had a stroke?
The nurse is at the door. Time to go. Alma squeezes Helen's hand. “I'm sorry, Helen,” she says, brushing her lips against Helen's forehead. It feels damp, smells cold-creamy, Helen's smell the hospital odors haven't completely obscured. “Everything's going to be okay,” she adds, lamely.
Pulling into the driveway of her dark house, Alma wants Richard to be home so much, she could weep. She wants to tell him the story of this crazy day, so he can tell her that she did the right thing, that she had no way of knowing what Mickey was up to. It is a little after midnight. Maybe she'll try calling him. Maybe luck is on her side and Richard'll just happen to be in the Swan office, reading by the office's generator light, who knows. Or maybe she'll dispense with long distance altogether and instead call the airlines, buy a ticket, get on a plane tomorrow, be gone by the time the sheriff comes by to get her sworn testimony, before Mickey is released on bail.
She walks into the house, feeling unsure, shaken, suddenly frightened: of Mickey, of Hannah, of this bad blood in the air. The answering machine is emitting its reassuring beep that means a message is waiting for her. Four to be exact. She plays them in the dark, the voices seeming strangely present. Happy Thanksgiving from her parents! Happy Thanksgiving from David and Ben, together in New York!
How sweet of them to remember her. Sam out in San Francisco will probably not call, as his father's not around. The third message makes her breath catch. Emerson. His voice too calm, controlled. Could Alma please call him no matter what time she gets in. He gives her his cell phone number, which Alma scrambles to write down, then several alternative numbers in case she doesn't get through on his cell.
His cell phone number goes right into voice mail. He's probably talking to someone else. “Emerson, I'm home. Please call me.” The other numbers are busy. But Alma feels so desperate she keeps trying one number after another, reminding herself of how Emerson closed his message. “Richard is okay. I don't want you to worry about that. But do call me no matter what time you get in.”