I listened hard, but heard nothing from above. They surely heard me. I thought, They surely heard me but didn't care or didn't believe me.
What would I do?
I didn't want to leave him lying here so I scooped my arms under his and lifted him as best I could. Then I started to drag him back. With my ankle still very sensitive, it was hard, painstaking work. I kept hoping he would wake and be all right, but even after all this, he still had his eyes closed, his lips just slightly open.
The most difficult part was getting him through the opening without hurting him. I don't know where I found the strength. but I lifted him and then dropped him gently to the floor. I brought him to the bed and managed to get him up and on it, putting his head on the pillow. Then I hurried to get a cold cloth to put on his forehead.
"Harley, please wake up. Harley," I cried. I shook him and his eyelids fluttered again, but didn't open.
I crawled up beside him and held him and rocked with him on the bed.
"Mommy," I muttered. "Daddy. Please, help us. Someone, help us,"
The cuckoo clock struck the hour and the dancers emerged. They twirled about and retreated.
Then all was silent again.
All I heard was my own moans, my own soft prayers.
15
Darkness Rushes In
.
A Groan slipped through Harley's lips. I shook
him gently and repeated his name. His eyelids fluttered harder, but he didn't open them, though his eyeballs were moving frantically beneath. It was as if his lids had been glued shut and he couldn't open them no matter how he tried.
When I brought my lips to his cheek. I felt how warm his skin had become. He was running a high fever. I thought for a moment and then quickly went to get him a glass of cold water. Lifting his head gently. I brought the glass to his lips and poured a little into his mouth. Some ran out and down his chin, but I got enough in so he could swallow. He groaned again and I poured some more water until he coughed and his eyelids began to open.
He had such a dazed look. It was as if he didn't know who I was or where he was. He just lazed at me.
"Harley, what's wrong? Harley?"
"Momma," he muttered. "Momma. I don't feel so good." "Harley, it's me, Summer. What's wrong?"
"Mamma, my stomach feels like I swallowed a barbecue coal. I didn't mean it. I ate my hotdog too fast again. Roy's mad. I bet."
He was hallucinating. Was it the fever or something Suze had put into the food that was doing this to him? I wondered,
"Momma, hold me. hold me," he begged. 'Don't be mad. Please. I won't do it again. I promise."
I crawled beside him on the bed and put my arm around his shoulders, pressing his face gently against my breast. He was so hot, I could feel the heat through my blouse and bra.
"It's all right. Harley," I said kissing his forehead. It was like pressing my lips to a car window after it had been left a while in the noonday sun. I rocked him gently. No one's mad at you."
"Momma... Momma..." he muttered, his eyes closing. "Don't be mad at me for being sick."
I knew that after Latisha had died. Aunt Glenda was always very nervous whenever Harley got sick, even if it was just a cold. That was understandable, no matter how frantic she would become. However, his high fever was making me just as nervous right now.
I remembered how many times my mother had suffered fevers in her life, sometimes hallucinating, too. Daddy told me her condition made her more susceptible to certain infections. The doctors tried not to pump her so fill of antibiotics in fear of her body developing resistant strains, because they would then be forced to use stronger and stronger medications to cure her each time and eventually, they wouldn't work. Often. Daddy would try to break her fevers by lowering her into an ice-cold bath and sponging her down.
Recalling that. I returned to the kitchenette, found a large pot and filled it with water, running it until I got it as cold as it could be. Then I cleaned a sponge and returned to the bed. Harley looked like he was in a deep sleep again. I carefully peeled off the sweater and took off his pants. He didn't open his eves or moan. He seemed more like someone in a coma now. I started to sponge him, talking softly to comfort him as I did so. I was frightened. I needed to hear his voice.
His eyes finally opened again and he cried out for more cold water. I helped him sip some, and he fell back to sleep almost instantly. He called repeatedly for his mother in his sleep and surprised me by even calling out for Roy. I continued to sponge him and replaced the water in the pot with fresh, colder water and did it again. His breathing finally seemed to get less labored so I stopped and watched him sleep peacefully for a while.
How often. I thought. had I tiptoed into Mommy's room when she was sick and watched her sleep. I was always so afraid I would lose her. Her being in a wheelchair always made her seem so vulnerable to every illness, every kind of pain, no matter how brave a face she wore for my benefit.