He drew me into his embrace and bowed his head into my hair, his breath stirring it as he spoke in a choked way. "He'll survive, darling. Isn't that what all of us do when tragedy comes into our lives? We take it, grin and bear it and make the best of what we have left. We forget what we had yesterday and concentrate on what we have today, and when we can teach Jory how to accept what has happened, we will have our son back again--disabled, but alive, intelligent, organically healthy."
I was jerking with sobs as he talked on. His hands ran up and down my back, his lips brushed over my eyes, my lips, finding ways to calm me.
"We've got to be strong for him, darling. Cry all you want now, for you can't cry when he opens his eyes and sees you. You can't show pity. You can't be too sympathetic. When he wakes up, he's going to look into your eyes, and he's going to read your mind. Whatever fears or pity that you show on your face or in your eyes is going to determine how he looks and feels about his handicap. He's going to be devastated, we both know that. He'll want to die. He'll think about his father and how Julian escaped his plight, we have to keep that in mind as well. We'll have to talk to Cindy and Bart and explain to them the roles they'll play in his recovery. We have to form a strong family unit to see him through this ordeal, for it's going to be rough, Cathy, very rough."
I nodded, trying to control my flow of tears, feeling I was inside Jory, knowing every tormented moment he had ahead was going to tear me apart, too.
Chris went on while he kept his arms about me for support. "Jory's constructed his entire life around dancing, and he will never dance again. No, don't look at me with that hope. NEVER AGAIN! There is some possibility someday he'll have enough strength to get up on his feet and pull himself around on crutches . . . but he'll never walk normally. Accept that, Cathy.
"We have to convince him that his handicap doesn't matter, that he's the same person he was before. And, most importantly, we have to convince ourselves that he's just as manly, just as human . . . for many families change when a member becomes disabled. They either become too sympathetic, or they become alienated, as if the handicap changes the person they used to love and know. We have to keep to middle ground and help Jory find the strength to see this through."
I heard a little of what he said.
Crippled! My Jory was crippled. A paraplegic. I shook my head, disbelieving that fate would keep him that way. Tears fell like rain upon Chris's soiled, ruffled, dress shirt. How would Jory live when he found out he was going to spend the rest of his life confined to a wheelchair?
Cruel Fate
. The sun was noon high and still Jory hadn't opened his eyes. Chris decided we both needed a hearty meal, and hospital food was always seasonless sawdust or shoe leather. "Try to nap while I'm gone, and hold on to your control. If he awakens, try not to panic, keep your cool and smile, smile, smile. He'll be fuzzy-minded and won't be fully cognizant. I'll try to hurry back . . ."
I'd never sleep; I was too busy planning on how to act when Jory eventually woke up long enough to start asking questions. Chris had no sooner closed the door behind him than Jory stirred, turned his head and weakly smiled at me. "Hey, you been there all night? Or two nights? When was it?"
"Last night," I whispered hoarsely, hoping he wouldn't notice my throaty voice. "You've been sleeping for hours and hours."
"You look exhausted," he said weakly, touchingly showing more concern for me than for himself. "Why don't you go back to the Hall and sleep? I'm okay. I've fallen before, and, like before, in a few days I'll be whirling all over that house again. Where's my wife?"
Why wasn't he noticing the cast that bulged out his chest? Then I saw his eyes were unfocused and he hadn't fully pulled out of the sedatives given him to ease the pain. Good . . . if only he wouldn't start asking questions I wanted Chris to answer.
Sleepily he closed his eyes and dozed off, but ten minutes later he was again awake and asking questions. "Mom, I feel strange. Never felt like this before. Can't say I like the way I feel. Why this cast? Did I break something?"
"The temple papier-mache 'columns fell," I weakly explained. "Knocked you out. What a way to end the ballet--too real."
"Did I bring down the house --or the sky?" he quipped, his eyes opening and brightening as the sedative I'd hoped would keep him hazy wore off. "Cindy was great, wasn't she? You know, each time I see her, she's more beautiful. And she's really a very good dancer. She's like you, Mom, improving with age."
I sat on my hands to keep them from twisting in the betraying way my mother used to use her hands. I smiled, got up to pour a glass of water. "Doctor's orders. You've got to drink a lot."
He sipped as I supported his head. It was so strange to see him helpless, when he'd never been bedridden. His colds had come and gone in a matter of days, and not once had he missed a day in school or ballet class, except in order to visit Bart in the hospital after one of his many accidents that never left him permanently damaged. Jory had sprained his ankles dozens of times, torn ligaments, fallen, gotten up, but he'd never had a serious injury until now. All dancers spent some time tending small injuries, and
sometimes even larger ones, but a broken back, a damaged spinal cord--it was every dancer's most dreaded nightmare.
Again he dozed off
, but before long he had his eyes open and was asking questions about himself. Perched on the side of his bed, I rattled on and on nonsensically, praying that Chris would come back. A pretty nurse came in with Jory's lunch tray, all liquids. That gave me something to do. I fiddled with a halfpint milk carton, opened yogurt, poured milk and orange juice, tucked a napkin under his chin and began with the strawberry yogurt. Immediately he gagged and made a face. He shoved my hands away, saying he could feed himself, but he didn't have an appetite.
Once I had the tray out of the way, I hoped he'd fall asleep. Instead he lay there staring at me, his eyes lucid. "Can you tell me now why I feel so weak? Why I can't eat? Why I can't move my legs?"
"Your father has gone out to bring in food for the two of us, snack food that's not good for you, but it will be tastier than what we can eat in the cafeteria downstairs. Let him tell you. He knows all the technical terms that I don't."
"Mom, I wouldn't understand technical terms. Tell me in your own layman's words--why can't I feel or move my legs?"
His dark sapphire eyes riveted on me. "Mom, I'm not a coward. I can take whatever you have to say. Now spill it out, or else I'm going to presume my back is broken and my legs are paralyzed and I'm never going to walk again."
My heart quickened as my head lowered. He'd said all this in a jocular way, as if none of it could possibly be true . . . and he'd stated his condition exactly.
Desperation came to his eyes as I faltered, trying to find just the right words, and even the right ones would rip out his heart. Just then Chris strode in the door, carrying a paper sack with cheeseburgers. "Well," he said brightly, throwing Jory a pleased smile, "look who's awake and talking." He took out a burger and handed it to me. "Sorry, Jory, you can't have anything solid for a few days due to your operation. Cathy, eat that thing while it's still hot," he ordered, sitting down himself and immediately unwrapping his burger. I saw he'd bought two super ones for himself. He bit into it with relish before he brought out the cola drinks. "Didn't have the lime you wanted, Cathy. It's Pepsi."
"It's cold, with lots of ice, that's all I want." Jory watched us narrowly as we ate. I forced down the cheeseburger, knowing he was suspicious. Chris did an admirable job of eating two burgers and one cardboard dish of French fries while I managed to eat only half of my burger, and didn't touch the greasy potatoes. Chris balled up his napkin and tossed it in a can, along with our other trash.
By this time Jory's lids were growing heavy. He was struggling hard to stay awake. "Dad . . . are you going to tell me now?"