"You'll be happy to know Melodie is no longer suffering from morning sickness. But she's tired most of the time. I remember I was tired, too, when I was pregnant with you."
I bit down on my tongue, for I'd lost Julian not long after I knew I was with child. "It's a strange kind of summer, Jory. I can't say I really care for Joel. He seems very fond of Bart, but he does nothing but criticize Cindy. She can do nothing right in Joel's eyes, or in Bart's. I'm
thinking it would be a good idea to send Cindy off to a summer camp until school starts in the fall. You don't think Cindy is
misbehaving, do you?"
No answer.
I tried not to sigh, or look at him with impatience. I drew a chair close to Jory's bed and caught hold of his limp hand. No response. It was like holding a dead fish. "Jory, they're going to keep on feeding you intravenously," I warned. "And if you still refuse to eat, they will put tubes in other veins, and use other methods to keep you alive, even if we have to eventually put you on every machine that will keep you going until you stop acting stubborn and come back to us."
He didn't blink, or speak.
"All right, Jory. I've been easy on you up until now--but I've had enough!" My tone turned harsh. "I love you too much to see you lie there and will yourself to die. So you don't care about anything, anymore, do you?
"So you're crippled and you'll have to sit in a wheelchair until you can manage crutches, if you ever have that much ambition. So you're feeling sorry for yourself, and wondering how you can go on. Others have done it. Others have made lives for themselves, and been in worse condition than you are. So you tell yourself what others do doesn't count when it's your body, and your life--and maybe you're right. It doesn't matter what others do, if you want to think selfishly.
"Tell me that the future holds nothing for you now. I thought that, too, at first. I don't like to see you lying there so still, Jory. It breaks my heart, your father's heart, and Cindy is beside herself with worry. Bart is so concerned he can't bear to come and see you lying there so withdrawn. And what do you think you're doing to Melodie? She's carrying your child, Jory. She's crying all day long. She's changing into a different person because she hears us talking about your lack of response and your stubborn inability to accept what can't be changed. We're sorry, terribly sorry you've lost the use of your legs--but what can any of us do but make the best out of a miserable situation? Jory, come back to us. We need you with us. We're not willing to stand back and watch you kill yourself. We love you. We don't give a damn if you can't dance and can't walk, we just want you alive, where we can see you, talk to you. Speak to us, Jory. Say something, anything. Speak to Melodie when she comes. Respond when she touches you . . . or you'll lose Melodie and your child. She loves you, you know that. But no woman can live on love when the object of her love turns away and rejects her. She doesn't come because she can't face the rejection that she knows you give us."
During this long, impassioned speech, I'd kept my eyes on his face, hoping for some slight change of expression. I was rewarded by seeing a muscle near his tight lips twitch.
Encouraged, I went on. "Melodie's parents have called and suggested that she return to them to have the baby. Do you want Melodie to go, thinking she can't do anything more for you? Jory, please, please, don't do this to all of us, to yourself. You have so much you can give the world. You're more than just a dancer, don't you know that? When you have talent it's only one branch on a tree full of many limbs. Why, you've never begun to explore the other branches. Who knows just what you might discover? Remember, I, too, made dancing my life, and when I couldn't dance, I didn't know what to do with myself. I'd hear the music playing, and you'd be dancing with Melodie in our family room. I'd stiffen inside and try to shut out the music that made my legs want to dance. My soul went soaring . . . and then I'd crash to earth and cry. But when I started writing, I stopped thinking about dancing. Jory, you'll find something of interest to replace dancing, I know you will."
For the first time since he'd known he would never walk or dance again, Jory turned his head. That alone filled me with breathless joy.
He met my eyes briefly. I saw the tears there, unshed but shining. "Mel is thinking about going to her parents?" he asked in a hoarse voice.
Hope struggled to survive within me. I didn't know what Melodie would do now, even if he did come back to being himself. Yet I had to say everything right, and so seldom was I adequate. I'd failed with Julian, failed with Carrie. Please, God, don't let me fail with Jory.
"She'd never leave you if you'd come back to her. She needs you, wants you. You turn away from us, proving to her that you'll turn from her as well. Your prolonged silence and unwillingness to eat say so much, Jory, so much to keep Melodie afraid. She's not like me. She doesn't bounce back, spring forth and kick and yell. She cries all the time. She only half eats . . . and she's pregnant, Jory. Pregnant with your baby. You think about how you felt when you heard what your father did and consider the effects your death will have on your child. Think long and hard about that before you continue with what you've got your mind set on. Think about yourself, and how much you wanted to have your own natural father. Jory, don't be like your father and leave a fatherless child behind you. Don't destroy us, when you destroy yourself!"
"But, Mom!" he cried in great distress. "What am I going to do? I don't want to sit in a wheelchair the rest of my life! I'm angry, so damned angry I want to strike out and hurt everyone! What have I done to deserve this kind of punishment? I've been a good son, a faithful husband. But I can't be a husband now. There's no excitement down there anymore. I feel nothing below my waist. I'd be better off dead than like this!"
My head lowered to press my cheek against his inert hand. "Maybe you would be, Jory. So go on and starve yourself, and will yourself to die, and never sit in a wheelchair--and don't think about any of us. Forget the grief you'll bring into our lives when you're gone. Forget about all those Chris and I have lost before. We can adjust, we're used to losing those we love most. We'll just add you to our long list of those to feel guilty about . . . for we will feel guilty. We'll search and search until we find something we failed to do right, and we'll enlarge that and make it grow, until it shuts out the sun and all happiness, and we'll go into our graves blaming ourselves for yet another life gone."
"Mom! Stop! I can't stand to hear you talk like that!"
"I can't stand what you're doing to us! Jory! Don't give up. It's not like you to even think of surrendering. Fight back. Tell yourself you're going to lick this and turn out a better, stronger person because you've faced up to adversities others can't even imagine."
He was listening. "I don't know if I want to fight back. I've lain here since that night and thought about what I could do. Don't tell me I don't have to do anything because you're rich, and I've got money, too. Life is nothing without a goal, you know that."
"Your child . . . make your child your goal. Making Melodie happy, another goal. Stay, Jory, stay . . . I can't bear to lose another, I can't, can't . . ." And then I was crying.
And I'd determined not to show weakness and cry. I sobbed brokenly without looking at him. "After your father died, I made my baby the most important thing in my life. Maybe I did that to ease a guilty conscience, I don't know. But when you came along on Valentine's night and they laid you on my stomach so I could see you, my heart almost burst with pride. You were so strong looking, and your blue eyes were so bright. You grasped my finger and didn't want to let go. Paul was there, and Chris, too. They both adored you right from the beginning. You were such a happy, well-behaved baby. I think we all spoiled you, and you never had to cry to get what you wanted. Jory, now I know you are incapable of being spoiled. You've got an inner strength that will see you through. Eventually you'll be glad you hung on to see that child of yours. I know you'll be glad."
During all of this, I'd sobbed my words almost incoherently. I think Jory felt sorry for me. His hand moved so he could wipe away my tears with the edge of his white sheet.
"Got any ideas about what I could do in a wheelchair?" he asked in a small, mocking voice.
"A thousand ideas, Jory. Why, this day isn't long enough to list them. You can learn to play the piano, study art, learn to write. Or you can become a ballet instructor. You don't have to strut around to do that--all you need is a good vocabulary and an untiring tongue. Or you can do something more mundane, like become a CPA, study law and give Bart so
me competition. In fact, there is very little you can't do. We're all handicapped in one way or another. You should know that. Bart's got his invisible handicap, worse than any you'll ever have. Think back to all his problems while you were dancing and having the time of your life. He was tormented by psychiatrists probing painfully into his deepest self."
His eyes were brighter now, filling with vague hope that tried to find a mooring.
"And think about the swimming pool Bart put in the yard. Your doctors say your arms are very strong, and after some physical therapy you can swim again."
"What do you want me to do, Mom?" His voice was soft, gentle as his hand moved over my hair, and his gaze was tender.