Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [16]
When I took my son to the hospital for the first time, it was one of those bleak January days. We came off the elevator and ran smack into Spec. It was a Snow Day, and Etta was home from school, so she came along. Spec made a big fuss over them, threw them both up in the air, then sent them off to look at the newborn babies behind glass.
“What the hell you doin’ here?” Spec asked with a smile.
“Joe has a bad bruise.”
“Did he get in a fight?”
“No.”
“Well, you know boys, they fall a lot. Who’s his doctor?”
“Dr. Bakagese.”
“The Indian? He’s right good. I ran Myra Poff over here the other day, and he caught the first start of pneumonia in her chest.”
“That’s good to know.”
Spec put his arm around me, which, in all the years I had known him, he had never done. I assisted him for eleven years on the Rescue Squad; in the face of sickness and accidents, I never flinched. I followed his instructions and never panicked. I think he appreciated that I could deal with things without emotion.
“Why are you gittin’ yourself all upset?”
“What if it’s serious?”
“Good God a-mighty, Avuh. You can’t be the mother of a son and hit the panic button every time he takes a tumble. Boys are a mess. I got me two; one was a head-banger in the crib and the other one set fires. It’s just how they are.”
Somehow the thought of Spec’s sons, one a self-flagellator and the other a pyromaniac, soothed me. I had been fighting feelings of doom for months; maybe the long winter had me in a state. Hadn’t I read that folks get depressed this time of year? That the short days and overcast skies can chemically alter the brain into sadness? Hadn’t I noticed that the mountains surrounded us like brown metal walls and the sky, a dismal patch of faded blue flannel, had made everything seem worse on the drive up to the hospital that day? I thought then, as Spec looked at me like I was crazy, that there was a chance I was making the whole thing up. How I wanted to believe Joe was fine. For those few seconds, I did. I gave Spec, the Mighty Oak, a big hug. He pulled away quickly, embarrassed, and said, “See ye,” then off he went. That was the last time I felt hope throughout Joe’s entire ordeal.
I owe Spec. He knows it and so do I. How can I say no to Spec Broadwater now?
“Okay, Spec.”
“You’ll come back on?”
“Yes sir. But only one week a month. I’m a mother. I can’t be hightailing it all over Wise County with you.”
“I’ll take you. Even one week a month. Better than nothin’. See ye.” Spec goes out the door, whistling.
“You’re a fool.” Fleeta clucks and reloads the candy bar display.
“I know.”
“You got enough on your plate.”
As I load Mary Lipps’s insulin into a plastic case, I am sure that Fleeta is right.
“Oughtn’t you check with Jack Mac? Don’t he have no say?”
“I never once heard you say you checked with Portly about anything, so lay off,” I tell her pleasantly.
“I may never have said it, but I done did it,” Fleeta says as she stuffs overflow Goo Goo Clusters into a basket. “I done did it.”
It’s dark in Cracker’s Neck Holler as I drive home from work. I stopped at Buckles for milk and talked too long with Faith Cox, who is taking names for the bus trip to the revival of Carousel starring John Raitt next month. (Etta would love it, so I took a flyer.)
I take the curves of the roads gingerly. I’m crawling along so slowly, you’d think that I don’t want to go home. Truth is, I’m tired and don’t want to take a dip over the side. I don’t drive as fast as I used to. (I don’t do a lot of things since I became a mother.) I love my time alone going to and from work. It’s my time to think and sort things out. Right now I’m reconstructing all the little day-to-day decisions I’ve made that led us to our present situation. It’s what I always do when I have a big problem to contend with and feel stumped. I’ve been doing this a lot since Jack told me about the mines closing.