The Enchanted Life of Adam Hope (34 page)

In the months following Momma’s death, I was afraid for all of us. An unraveling had begun. Even the farm, my refuge since I was a girl, seemed dissonant, indifferent. The same mute slopes, the same red earth, and the same sky above the distant tree line. The apple tree bare now as it was every winter. The place where Frank ran over Jennie was visible from the back porch. I could have walked the exact trail of her blood across the field to the driveway. That part of the field and the top of the driveway, where the truck was stopped when I saw that last pulse in her neck, were my view from the kitchen window over the sink. These had been my two favorite places to look out over the farm.

Beyond the farm were the people I had grown up with—people who now shunned my husband. My anger at them seemed to backwash, flooding the very land I had so loved, leaving me helpless and poorer.

W
e had been approached several times about selling some of the land. There were no malls in Clarion then. Everyone still shopped downtown, but with the interstate on the northern boundary of the land and the state road on the east, we were sitting on prime commercial real estate. The first offer was so high we ignored it as a mistake.

A few months after Momma died, Clyde Brewer, the oldest brother in a family of local realtors came puffing up to the front door. He spread his map out on the front-porch table, pointed to the corner acre, and quoted us a price that was twice what we had been offered before—enough to support us for two years. His client, some company from out of town, wanted to open a new kind of store—a “convenience” store.

Even then we didn’t realize what the land would eventually be worth. We didn’t foresee the malls, movie theaters, and restaurants that would one day crowd the highway. We had no intention of selling the farm. We didn’t need the cash. We raised most of our own food, had no rent or mortgage. With that and what Adam earned, we were doing well. But Clyde Brewer wanted just an acre, as far from the house as it could be. Out of curiosity, we added ten percent to his offer and called him back. He took it in a heartbeat. Fate had taken with one hand and now gave with the other.

I was waiting. Waiting for Adam to come back to himself, for people to forget what he had done, for the land around us to take on new associations and cease being sorrow’s postcards.

L
ate that winter, a light, sticking snow fell one morning after the kids had left for school. I’d baked cookies for Sarah’s teacher’s birthday. The scents of cinnamon and ginger permeated the house as I packed the treats. On the way to the elementary school, I dropped by to see Daddy and leave him some of the beef stew we’d had for supper the night before. After I dropped off the cookies, I headed home.

As I turned off the road and up the driveway to the farm, Wallace leapt off the front porch, waving both arms. I pulled up behind the house. The stable door stood open. Inside the door, dark red blood puddled in a small oval on the floor. Nearby, a long smear of red and two bloody footprints.

“Adam?” I called. “Adam!”

Wallace jogged up behind me. “They took him to the hospital!” He tapped himself in the middle of his sternum. “He got kicked in the chest, then fell back and banged his head. He went down and I couldn’t get him to come to. He was bleeding bad. You know I don’t have my car with me. I called the ambulance. They took him to Mercy Hospital.” Wallace talked faster as we ran back to the truck, telling me how he’d been leading out one of the stallions when something spooked the horse. A single kick had knocked Adam up against a stall post.

I sped away. Adam had never been to a doctor or a hospital.

A pretty, stout nurse pushed a clipboard at me. “Here.” She handed me a pen. “These are just standard forms. They should have been signed when he was admitted, but he was unconscious.”

I stared at the forms, then signed.

She took the clipboard, then thrust another form at me. “This release, too,” she said as she dove for the telephone.

I hesitated, blinking at the words, but could not focus.

The nurse muttered impatiently into the phone, then put her palm over the receiver. “Honey, could you go ahead and sign? I’ve got to get this one and there’s a call light on.”

I signed the rest of the forms and pushed them toward her, hoping she would tell me where my husband was. Instead, she asked me to sit in an ugly, blue-gray waiting room until Adam was sent up from X-ray. Finally, another nurse appeared, smiling at me as if I were a celebrity, and announced Adam’s room number.

Adam slept propped up on pillows, his head back and his mouth open. A bandage circled his head above his eyebrows. Another covered him from his armpits almost down to his navel. His sickly pale color alarmed me. Was there a looseness about his features? I opened the curtains to let some natural light in. Except for a yellow tint to his color, he looked normal.

I lightly touched the bandage on his chest. A nurse charged in, jerked the curtains closed again, cranked his bed up a notch higher, and started to take his blood pressure. “Don’t put any pressure there, honey.” She pointed at my hand on his chest, muttered her approval at his blood pressure, and then marched out.

“Adam?” I touched his face. “Wake up. Please wake up!” Nothing. I squeezed his hand, then shook it a little. Nothing. I held his hand and watched his chest rise and fall. The walls were close. Slowly, a wave of panic rose from the base of my spine up through my stomach. What would they find out about him and what would they do with him? To him?

I could hardly breathe as I called Bertie and asked her to pick the girls up after school and take them to her house for supper.

Adam slept peacefully. I prayed, appealing to the God I doubted. Please don’t take Adam, too. Outside, the afternoon sun fell. The hospital lights shimmered on the thin snow below.

About six, I left and went back to the house to pick up clothes for the girls to wear to school the next day. I ate supper with them at Bertie’s. “Your dad’s fine. Just a little bang on the head,” I told them.

“When will he be home?” Rosie asked.

“Probably tomorrow,” I lied and tried to keep my face neutral, confident.

Neither she nor Gracie seemed convinced, but the dinner table crowded with the chaos of Bertie’s kids distracted them.

“Are they going to shoot the horse?” Lil asked.

“They shoot horses only when they hurt themselves, not when they hurt people,” Gracie told her.

Sarah’s face darkened and she began to cry. “That’s not fair.”

I assured her that Wallace was taking care of the horses and none of them were being shot.

After dinner, I returned to the hospital and stayed by Adam’s side all night, watching his face, hoping for change, fearing for the worst. “Wake up, wake up,” I prayed over and over.

Near dawn, they came in to take his blood pressure again. “Go home,” one of the nurses told me. “There’s nothing you can do. Go home and get breakfast. Get your mind off of it.”

As I left Adam’s room, the lack of sleep bitter in my mouth, a young doctor strode up to me. “Mrs. Hope, I’m glad I caught you. This accident may have been a blessing for your husband. His injuries don’t seem to be severe, but he is a very sick man. There’s an abnormal growth in his chest.” He waved a large white envelope, “The X-rays also show abnormalities in the brain, but we can’t be sure. It could be a tumor. No swelling from the head injury, but the lobe formation is unusual. Has your husband recently had problems breathing or speaking? Doing simple math? Walking or working with his hands? Has he been moody or erratic in his behavior?” He talked faster and more excitedly with each question.

I shook my head stupidly at everything he said, barely able to hear him for the pounding in my chest and ears.

“I’ve never seen anything like this before. No impediments at all on his part? Nothing unusual?”

Again, I shook my head.

“Dr. Rumsted will be in soon. He’ll look at these immediately. I’ve already talked to him. Your husband is a priority for us, Mrs. Hope. A priority. The nurses need you to sign some paperwork. You need to go by the desk first.” He was a little boy with a new bug for his collection. He shook my hand, then walked away, disappearing into Adam’s room.

I ate breakfast alone, standing up in the kitchen, then hurried back to the hospital.

I found Adam’s bed empty, the sheets stripped. I ran to the nurses’ station and slapped my hand on the counter to get her attention. “Where’s my husband? Where is he? What have you done to him?”

She shoved more papers across the counter. One was a map. They had transferred him. The doctor would be right out if I would just calm down. I looked at the map: Duke University Research Hospital.

“They’re the best for rare cases like his. He regained consciousness for a little while, so that’s a good sign. They’ll be able to anesthetize him for the surgery. The surgery will be scheduled as soon as possible,” she assured me. “Just have a seat, Mrs. Hope, the doctors can explain more. Just wait here.”

“I have to go to the restroom,” I told her.

She pointed me down the hall and smiled. I dashed around the corner and ran to the car.

On the road, every light turned red at my approach, every driver took his time. I drove back to the house, threw up my breakfast, brushed my teeth, combed my hair, tossed a set of clothes and Adam’s hat into the station wagon. I had to calm myself, keep my voice even as I lied, assuring Wallace that Adam was okay.

The drive sharpened me and pulled me back into myself. The snow had melted and the day began to warm. I’d never been to Duke University. I passed farms and houses and towns. People drove to work. Children played in school yards. By the time I got to the hospital, a hard calm had come over me.

I parked the car and grabbed Adam’s clothes. When I asked for his room number, a nurse handed me more papers. I pretended to read them till the nurse turned her head, then dashed for Adam’s room. Two young men in hospital uniforms pushed an empty gurney out of the room as I reached the door. “My husband,” I volunteered, stretching a smile across my face. “Just want to see him for a minute.”

The taller one answered, “You won’t have much time. They’ve prepped him already. They’re in a hurry on this one. He’s pretty dopey.”

Adam slept propped up in bed, pale yellow against the white sheets. The bandages on his head were new and smaller, but no hair stuck out above them. He had been completely shaved. I took his hand, the one not attached to the IV bag, rubbed it, and called his name. His eyes half-opened. He looked drunk, drugged, his eyes bloodshot and glassy. He garbled my name.

“Ya here,” he said and closed his eyes. “Th’ X-ray me ’gain.”

“Are you okay?”

“Thin’ so. The’ don’t. Won’t let m’ sleep, eat, walk. Lots o’ doctors.” He stopped and looked at me, his eyes half-open. Then, slowly, his head drooped forward. He passed out again.

My heart raced. I balled my hands up and pressed them into my stomach to stop my trembling. I held Adam’s chin and gave him little slaps till he opened his eyes again. “Adam, I’m taking you home.”

He grinned sloppily, but did not open his eyes. “ ’Ood, ’m hungry.”

I peeked out into the hall. Then, quickly, I untaped Adam’s IV, slipped the needle out, and started dressing him. He mumbled incoherently. I got the gown off and his shirt on. Then his pants. He was almost too tall and heavy for me, a bigger, looser version of the being I’d dragged out of the mud years before.

I supported his head and shoulders as I slid him sideways into the wheelchair. Only once did he seem to be in pain—when he went down hard into the chair. The bandages would give him away. After belting him into the chair, I perched his hat gently on his head, then slipped his shoes on.

I surveyed the hall again quickly. A nurse strolled around a corner. We made it past the nurses’ station and to the elevator. Two orderlies maneuvered a gurney out past us. I tried to make it look like affection as I held Adam’s head up steady with one hand.

On the ground floor, I wheeled him across the lobby as fast as I could without being conspicuous. Adam slumped like a rag doll. I chattered away to him as if he could hear me.

No one grabbed my shoulder, no one shouted from behind us.

Outside, I wheeled him straight to the car. I got in the backseat and quickly, gently as I could, pulled him into the car and onto the seat. Then we took off.

As soon as we were out of sight of the hospital, I pulled over and checked Adam. He slept curled up on his side, seemingly oblivious. I stripped off my jacket and wedged it under his head.

I drove just under the speed limit all the way home with the rearview mirror angled so I could see most of Adam in the backseat. The nervous stink of my own sweat filled the front seat. The metallic taste of panic filled in my mouth. I wanted Momma. All the way home, I felt the memory of his limp weight in my arms.

The sky had dimmed to twilight by the time we pulled into the backyard. Wallace jogged out of the stable to help us. He and I carried Adam in, his feet dragging between us at each step up to the porch. Wallace glanced at me over Adam’s head. I saw the question on his face. He thought I was crazy to be bringing Adam home.

“It’s just the dope they gave him for the pain,” I said.

Wallace was no fool. I’m sure he smelled my fear. He shook his head, then bent over, gently picked Adam up, and carried him down the hall in his arms like a child. I followed close, supporting Adam’s head. Wallace paused in the kitchen. I pointed to the hall and told him which bedroom. Wallace eased sideways down the hall.

Adam came to consciousness on the way in, knew he was at home, and asked for food. But he was out again before we had him settled on the bed and rolled over on his side.

After Wallace left the bedroom, I took off Adam’s pants and put some shorts on him—I had not bothered with underwear in the hospital. He looked less yellow now. Was the sleepiness from the head injury or the drugs they gave him for surgery?

I brought fresh bandages and a basin of hot water into the bedroom. Carefully holding his head, I unwrapped the swaths of gauze. A smaller, square bandage centered on the back of his head. A faint blue line started at his crown, just past his hairline, and disappeared under the bandage. Slowly, I peeled the square bandage off. Centered in a blue-green bruise the width of a tablespoon was a cut about an inch and a half, a check mark with nine crude black stitches on the long part of it, five on the short end. I picked up the bedside lamp and held it over his head. The clean edges of the cut were pink, not red, already a scar as much as a wound. Very little swelling. His head remained smooth and rounded there, no dent in the bone.