“What?”
“For that other little boy,” he said. He had the strangest expression on his face, stranger than I had ever seen. “She was with me the whole time. She comforted me about Willie, but she practically whispered in my ear when I looked in at that other little boy.”
“The poisoned boy?”
“Yes, the poisoned boy.”
“Why?”
“No one can be more traumatized than that little boy.”
I could feel my eyelids narrow. Rage that had been subdued under wave after wave of heavier grief was rising up. Grandma Arnold used to say that Willie and I were the most traumatized that children could be because we had lost both our parents in a terrible accident.
“He has no one, Clara Sue,” Grandpa said, seeing the confusion and anger in my face. “You remember how your grandmother felt about grief-stricken children. There’s no one here for him—or anywhere, it seems. I’m going to make sure he gets the best medical treatment.”
I knew in my heart of hearts that this act of kindness was something to be proud of my grandfather for doing, but it just didn’t seem like the right time to be doing anything for anyone else. Everyone should be doing things for us now.
Suddenly, I hated this strange little boy. Why would anyone blame me? I wanted to devote all my energy and strength, and I wanted Grandpa to devote all of his, to mourning my brother. I didn’t want anyone else stepping onto his stage, his final place in our lives. Willie deserved every moment of our attention. Worrying about someone else’s child, especially that of someone who didn’t care about his or her own child, denied my brother what he deserved. But I could see that Grandpa was determined to do this—and all because he believed my grandmother had appeared like a ghost and whispered in his ear?
Where did this come from? My grandfather wasn’t a particularly spiritual man. He wasn’t one to believe in miracles of any kind. It was my grandma Lucy who had persuaded him to go to church occasionally, and after she died, he wouldn’t go to any church except for funerals and weddings. If anything, the tragedies in our lives had made him more cynical. He was always impatient with the minister’s “stock talk,” as he called it. “They don’t know any more than we do about why this world is the way it is,” he often mumbled, maybe more out of pain than anger.
I shook my head. Tears began to well up in my eyes. I thought I might start screaming again.
Suddenly, he put his hands on my shoulders and looked firmly into my tearful eyes. Then he took my right hand firmly into his left hand. He was gripping so tightly that he was on the verge of hurting me, but I was afraid to move.
“Do you realize, Clara Sue,” Grandpa whispered, “that the same hour your brother passed, this little boy was brought to the emergency room to fight for his life? That means something.” He repeated it in a whisper, looking past me as if he was talking about it with my dead grandmother. “That means something.”
It would be a long time before it would mean anything remotely close to what he was suggesting to me.
The truth be told . . .
I never wanted it to.
2
I wasn’t sure whether My Faith had told Grandpa what happened to me that first night after the accident. I had awoken and thought I couldn’t breathe. It was like the room had closed in on me, all the walls had moved, and I was trapped inside a very small space. What had happened to Willie was truly more like a nightmare now. Who could blame me for hoping that was all it had been?
I got out of bed and walked softly out of my room, moving like someone walking in her sleep, and was actually surprised to find myself outside Willie’s room. The door was closed, but I opened it and tiptoed in, hoping not to wake him. I saw that his bed was still unslept in, and I stood there staring at it for I don’t know how long before I began to cry, the pain in my stomach so fierce that I had to squat and hold myself. Apparently, no one had heard me leave my room. I lay down on my right side and kept my body folded tightly, my hand over my mouth, and I fell asleep again right there on the floor.
My Faith discovered me much later. She had come up to my room because Myra had told her to see how I was. When she saw I wasn’t there, she came immediately to Willie’s room.
“Oh, you poor child,” she said, kneeling down to embrace me when I opened my eyes. “You poor, poor child.”
It had been a long time since I had cried in anyone else’s arms, my head snugly against anyone’s breast except my mother’s and my grandmother’s, but I couldn’t help it. My Faith helped me up and back to my room. She tucked me in, and I fell asleep again. I remained in bed all the following morning, anticipating Grandpa Arnold coming in to see me, but he never did. My Faith told me he had gone to see about Willie’s funeral and then to the hospital. I could see she didn’t know why he would return to the hospital, but I knew. It was surely about that boy.
However, I had no idea what Grandpa Arnold was doing or planning for the poisoned boy. Apparently, because he had been brought in and left and was in a coma-like state, no one knew his name. I didn’t want to think about him anymore. I didn’t want to remember anything about him or the hospital. Despite my not finding Willie in his bed, my mind was still trying to reject reality. How many times can you survive your whole life being turned inside out and upside down? It had happened with my parents dying, it had happened when Grandma Arnold died, and now it was happening because of Willie’s death. I was afraid to look at myself in the mirror, thinking I might see Death hovering over my shoulder and smiling gleefully, especially after what Grandpa had said in his office, and there were mirrors everywhere in this house, on almost every wall, most of them antiques. It didn’t help to avoid looking left or right. You’d have to keep your eyes closed to escape your reflected image when you walked through the Arnold mansion.
Myra came up to see me, despite how hard it was for her to navigate the stairs. She was upset that I hadn’t eaten any of my breakfast. I thought she might say something about my grandfather returning to the hospital, but all she talked about was how she and I had to be strong for him. I promised to eat something, mostly to please her, and then she went back down to her room to rest, but before she left, she assured me she wasn’t going to take any more of those dreadful pain pills: “They should call them ‘fog pills,’ because that’s where they put you.”
When I had dressed and gone down, Myra was still trying to move about and see after the things that had to be done, despite her pain. I didn’t want to trouble her with any more of my questions about Grandpa. She looked like just the mention of something related to what had happened would drop her to her knees. I couldn’t stand watching all the preparation in anticipation of mourners. I returned to my room and finally decided to answer my phone when it rang. I knew it was Lila.
“Everyone I speak to is devastated,” she began. “I started out for your house twice and broke down twice and had to go back. I wouldn’t have been any good to you.”
“I understand.”
“I can’t believe Willie will not be there when I do come.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak. I thought she knew it, knew the words were crashing together somewhere in the base of my throat.