The Enchanted Life of Adam Hope (35 page)

I ran my hand gently over the back of his head. He moaned softly. His baldness and the intent behind the blue line that divided the crown of his head into a neat rectangle were as disturbing as the injury. I washed his head—the blue came off with a gentle scrubbing—and rebandaged the cut. I didn’t swathe his whole head, just wrapped it once in a clean white strip of sheet and tied it at the side.

I rolled two towels up into tubes and lay them on the bed behind him. Then I carefully rolled him onto them, one to support his neck and the other for the top of his head. The cut on his shaved chest, just to the left of his breastbone, formed the wide, shallow U-curve of a horseshoe. Fifteen stitches, and the same pink scarring, but the bruising around it gleamed darker and larger. The same blue line paralleled the length of his breastbone. Two perpendicular lines crossed it just above the U.

The cleanness and size of his injuries were a relief. The blue lines unnerved me. The map of someone else’s work on my husband’s body. Cuts to remove the essence of him. Washing the blue lines from his chest, I knew with an iron conviction he would be gone if they had operated on him. He didn’t need surgery.

But I wasn’t certain what he did need.

I left him there on his back, chest unbandaged, and dashed into the kitchen. I poured myself a whiskey, straight, and took it back to the bedroom. The burn in my throat and belly helped steady my hands. I rebandaged Adam’s chest, rolled him onto his side, and covered him up. He slept peacefully.

Bertie brought the girls home, sniffing on her way in so I knew she had caught the scent of the whiskey. I tried to act as if nothing was wrong, but felt completely transparent. Bertie, the girls, and I walked single-file down the hall and stood crammed in the doorway. I pressed my finger to my lips, as if it were possible to disturb him. Sarah grinned up at me, her happy-Cheshire-cat grin.

Gracie stood behind me, her chin digging into my shoulder. “He looks okay, Momma,” she said softly, but her voice sounded thick.

Rosie passed her hand over her own head, as if feeling for injuries.

“He doesn’t smell bad,” Lil said. She must have been remembering Momma’s last days.

“Oh, he’s not sick.” I pulled Lil farther into the room so she could see better. “They shaved his head so no hair would get in the stitches. About a dozen stitches here and fifteen here where the horse kicked him.” I touched Sarah on the back of the head and Lil on her chest. I kept my hand there a second, feeling the movement of her breath.

For a moment, we all watched Adam sleep. Then one of the girls farted. They turned accusing looks on each other. Lil hissed and soft-punched Sarah. Bertie wheezed a suppressed laugh.

“Enough. Dinnertime,” I whispered and shooed them out of the room.

“No beans though, Momma. Lil’s already tooting,” Rosie said.

“No, I’m not. That was Sarah.”

It is not possible to take four daughters quietly down a hall after one of them has farted. But for a moment they did not think of their bald father.

Later, I paid Wallace for his week’s work and took him down the hall to see Adam again. Looking bigger in the dimness of the bedroom, Wallace bent silently over Adam and touched him lightly on the wrist. “He went down so hard and so fast. I couldn’t bring him to. You think he’s gonna be all right?”

“Yes,” I replied and told him how good the wounds looked, then we tiptoed out of the room. Before that morning, Wallace had never been down the hall and into the bedrooms. He looked relieved when we were back in the kitchen. With Adam down, we would need extra help. He would work longer hours, he assured me.

Somehow I got through the evening. I prepared a light supper for the girls and checked to make sure they did their homework and chores. I held myself tight and kept myself in line. As soon as I got the girls in bed, I called old Dr. Raymond, the man who had been our family doctor when I was a girl. He had been retired for years. I called his home.

My hands shook when I dialed. He seemed surprised to hear from me at that hour but he was cordial. I told him what had happened to Adam, as if it had just occurred. I didn’t mention the hospital. He asked about the bleeding. The chest injury would be sore for a while, but if Adam’s pain did not increase when he took a breath, we could assume there were no broken ribs. He should be fine, Dr. Raymond said, just keep the wounds clean. He explained what to look for, the signs of concussion or brain injury—dizziness, nausea, different-size pupils. Then drowsiness. “If you can’t keep him awake, take him over to the hospital, Evelyn. You don’t want to mess with a head injury. I thought I’d already heard something about your Adam—that he was sent over to Duke for something pretty rare. That wasn’t him, huh? Wonder who it was.” I didn’t correct him, just thanked him and hung up. My sides felt sticky with sweat.

I went back to Adam. Rosie sat on the side of the bed, holding his hand. She put her finger up to her lips and whispered, “He’s asleep again.”

“He woke up? Did he say anything?”

“He was hungry and he wanted to know how we were. I told him we were fine. Then I think he asked for some corn bread. Something about a ‘damn horse,’ too.” She smiled and wrinkled her nose up at me. “His scalp feels weird. He’s going to be okay, Momma?”

I made myself smile back and led her to the door. “Of course he will be. But we’ll need your help, okay?”

She kissed me and went back to bed.

My last remnant of calm dissolved. I needed to move. I wanted to run, scream, cry, or fight. Instead, I paced the front porch outside our bedroom window. Each time I checked on Adam, he slept peacefully. Finally, I poured myself another whiskey and took it to bed. I cried, my face pressed into my pillow, until I fell asleep.

I woke in the morning still curled on my side next to him, clutching my pillow. Adam’s hand cupped my head.

“Adam?” I rubbed his hand and patted his cheek. “Wake up.”

He moaned and turned over on his side. “A little longer, Evelyn.” His regular sweet, sleepy voice!

Almost giddy with relief, I got the girls up and off to school. They waved happily as they left. They were halfway down the road to the bus stop when I saw a sheriff’s car clear the curve and start up our road. I waited on the corner of the back porch. Wallace’s voice carried from the barn, accompanied by the snort and impatient paw of the horses.

The car pulled deep into the driveway, almost up to the house. The local deputy, Harley Brown, stepped out, the leather on his policeman’s belt creaking loudly as he shut the car door and leaned against it. I’d gone to school with his younger brother, Clifton.

“Morning, Evelyn.”

I nodded. “It is a pretty one all right.”

“You don’t look like a woman who is missing her husband.”

“I’m not, Harley. He’s right in there, in our bed.” I pointed back toward the house but stepped down toward him. “They doped him up pretty good at the hospital, but he’s okay. He wanted me to make him some corn bread. But he’s sleeping now. It was a pretty good kick he got.”

“Well”—he consulted a piece of paper he pulled out of his pocket—“it seems Duke University Hospital and the CDC down in Atlanta didn’t know he was going home and they’re worried about him. Wanted to make sure that at least you know where he is.”

“I do, Harley. You want me to wake him up? You need to come in and see him?”

He got back in his car and shrugged. “I don’t know why I’m here. I should be out catching bad guys, but they wanted me to come by, said it was important. Wanted me to come by last night after supper. But Alice heard from Bertie that he was home and safe, so I waited until now. Adam is all right, you say?”

“Tired and banged up, but already cussing the horse that got him. You sure?” I pointed back toward the house again.

He laughed, shook his head, and started backing his car up. As soon as his car rolled out of sight, I ran and checked on Adam. I shook his shoulder.

“What?” he muttered.

“How do you feel?”

“My head hurts. Let me sleep.” His voice was still normal, his color good.

“Does it hurt bad?”

“No.” He rolled over to face the wall and went back to sleep.

Neither Addie nor Adam had ever really been sick. They both slept a lot if they did not feel well. Remembering that made me feel better. He was healing quickly, too. The bruising visible around the bandage on his chest had lightened overnight.

I’d chosen a path. They could not be allowed to take from him what they thought to be abnormal. I could not let them have him. If they discovered how different he was, would they want to examine the girls, too?

I was sorting clothes on the back porch, preparing to wash them, when I heard another car come up the drive. I looked around the corner of the house. A big car, one I had never seen before, shiny and black, had stopped midway up the drive where people parked when they were coming to the front door. I went back inside and paused at the hall mirror to smooth down my hair. I looked tired, but not half as crazy as I felt.

The sheriff and another man knocked and called my name at the screen door. I didn’t know the sheriff or any of his kin, but I recognized him from pictures I’d seen in the paper. He took his hat off but the sunglasses stayed on. The man beside him, a meat-faced older man, wore a dark suit. The one in the suit held a briefcase and a large white envelope. “Mrs. Hope?” the sheriff asked.

I nodded but did not open the screen door. Then the other man took a step closer. “I’m Dr. Crenshaw. I’m from Mercy Hospital, but I represent Duke University’s research hospital.” I opened the screen, put one foot out on the porch, but didn’t close the door behind me. He offered his hand, a thick, dry slab. “I understand that you took your husband out of the hospital yesterday without physician’s approval.”

“I did bring my husband home, yes.” I looked at the sheriff. He did not seem any more interested than his deputy had been earlier.

The doctor eyed me critically. “Mrs. Hope, your husband is a very sick man. He was ill before he came to the . . .”

“He was healthy and working horses before he went to the hospital.”

“I have X-rays I’d like to show you. There are multiple abnormalities. We scheduled the exploratory surgery for removal and biopsy. Your husband needs surgery badly.”

“I’ve heard about the X-rays, doctor. Something in his chest and something in his brain. The lobes are unusual.”

“That’s right, Mrs. Hope.” He smiled as if I were a well-trained dog. “But that’s not all. His blood work shows some abnormal cells. It could be a pathogen or a rare form of cancer. We need to test him further.”

I turned to the sheriff. “Have we broken a law?”

He pulled at his shirt and turned his blank face to me at the mention of law. “No, ma’am, none that I know of. But if your husband is sick, maybe you should bring him back to the hospital.”

The doctor pulled an X-ray out of the envelope and held it up. “You say your husband has no trouble breathing, Mrs. Hope. Well, that is miraculous. There is this region of the chest—” The X-ray showed a collarbone, rib cage, and a fainter, milky area vaguely shaped like a star in the center of his chest. A sudden desire surged through me. I wanted to touch that image. My hand shot out.

The doctor jerked the X-ray away. The sheriff shifted his weight.

I forced myself to look away from the pale, broad star to the doctor’s face and stepped back inside, putting my hand up near the screen-door latch.

“Whatever this lesion is, it may have something to do with his unusual blood cells. Mrs. Hope, if I came in and took a few more blood samples, then when you brought him back to the hospital, we would know more by the time you arrive. If this is a pathogen, it could be dangerous to you or your children.” Polite authority filled his voice as if he spoke to a stupid but obedient child.

“My husband is resting and should be left alone.”

“Mrs. Hope, you must bring your husband back to the hospital. The sample has been sent to the Centers for Disease Control. He may need to be quarantined. If I could just take a few more blood samples now . . .” He stepped closer to the door. I did not step back. I smelled the musk of my fear and felt it solid in my chest. Suddenly, I couldn’t remember what quarantine was.

“Sheriff, have I broken a law?”

A wrong move. The sheriff uncrossed his arms and took a step toward the door. “Ma’am, there is no law against leaving a hospital. But if, by refusing to return your husband to the hospital, you are endangering his life and possibly your children’s, then you could be held accountable should any of them suffer harm or die. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.” My face reddened. I slipped the latch down. My hand trembled and they heard the lock slide into place. “You can’t cut on him. You can’t take anything out. I won’t let you.” The doctor opened his mouth to interrupt but I kept on, lowering my voice to steady it. I didn’t trust myself to look at them. “I’ll have him there by noon tomorrow for your blood test, at Duke University Hospital. No sooner. You should go now.”

The doctor started again, his face redder, his voice rising, “Don’t be stupid! Your husband is very sick. You need to bring him in now. Today.”

But the sheriff turned and walked off the porch. Sputtering, the doctor followed. Halfway down the steps, he turned to glare back at me. “Your husband needs help. He needs surgery, Mrs. Hope. We can explain everything to you.”

“No, you can’t. He’s not like us, doctor. He’s not one of us. And he doesn’t need your help.” I had never said those words out loud before. My whole body shook.

After a long, puzzled squint, the doctor trudged off.

From the bedroom window, I watched as they got in the car. The doctor shook his head and said something about “goddamn hillbillies.”

I had a little less than twenty-four hours. I wasted the first hour pacing the house. We had to leave, that much was clear. But where could we go? Adam made frequent trips to Kentucky and Tennessee for his work. I or one of the girls had gone with him a few times. Lots of people we could stay with there, but the police would look in that direction first, where he had the most connections. The mountains were an option. Adam knew them well and could vanish there on his own. But the six of us roughing it? And for how long? My cousin Pauline was still in Florida, my only relation living more than a hundred miles away. Adam and I hadn’t been back to her house since our honeymoon, and she hadn’t been to Clarion in a couple of years though we exchanged Christmas cards. Every spring, I sent her the kids’ school pictures. I trusted her. She didn’t live on the lake anymore. But her little town south of Gainesville—Micanopy—was easy to find on the road map.