Promises to Keep - Ann Tatlock [58]
Finally Tom Barrows gathered his wits about him and said, “I’m quite sure you’re right about anger, Tillie. It can be very destructive, but – ” he shot a worried look at Mom – “I don’t think the country’s in all that much danger of self-destruction, do you?”
“I certainly do, Tom,” Tillie said. “Mark my words. America has one foot in the grave and the other on an oil-slicked roller skate, and it’s too late to turn back now.”
“Well – ” Mom patted her lips with a napkin – “maybe there are more pleasant topics of conversation . . .” She looked around the table, as though frantically searching for one. Landing on me, she exclaimed, “Roz, you haven’t eaten a bite of your supper!”
I looked down at my plate. She was right; instead of eating I’d been pushing mashed potatoes around with my fork. “I’m not hungry,” I said.
“You’re not? What’s the matter?”
“She’s probably nervous,” Tillie noted.
“Nervous?” Mom cast a questioning glance at me. “What about?”
Had she forgotten, I wondered?
“Don’t you remember?” Tillie echoed. “Poor child’s getting her tonsils out tomorrow.”
“Of course, I know,” Mom said, “but . . . oh, Roz, is that what’s bothering you?”
I winced and looked away.
“Well, listen, honey. Everybody gets their tonsils out sooner or later. There’s nothing to it.”
“That’s right, Roz,” Tom Barrows added, smiling at me as though we actually liked each other. “Don’t worry for even a minute. Very few people die as a result of getting their tonsils out, you know.”
The next moment was pandemonium. Mom’s cry of “Tom!” collided with Tillie’s howl of “Merciful heavens!” just as the fork fell out of my hand and landed with a clatter on the floor. I jumped from the table, ran to my room, and threw myself on my bed. I couldn’t hold back the tears as I looked at the clock and considered what was coming. By this time tomorrow night, my surgery would be over, my tonsils would be out, and I might very well be dead. Now there, mind you, was something to be angry about.
chapter
23
“Tillie?”
“Yes, child?”
I shifted my weight on the stretcher, trying to still the butterflies beating against the lining of my empty stomach. I hadn’t slept well, wasn’t allowed to eat breakfast, and was about to be wheeled into the unknown. I was certain the Grim Reaper was waiting for me in the operating room at Riverside Hospital, waiting to slash me right into the kingdom of unlucky statistics. I would be one of the few who died while getting her tonsils out. Too much anesthesia, a slip of the knife, an allergic reaction – the reasons were endless, the possibility of death just around the corner and moving closer by the minute.
“Tillie?”
“Yes, Roz. What is it?”
I found little comfort in the grip of her hand. It would be my last human contact before . . .
“You’ve been sedated, child. Just close your eyes and relax.”
“But, Tillie?”
She sighed.
My mouth felt dry and hollow, a barren cave. I gritted my teeth and tried to work up some spit, then moistened my lips with the tip of my tongue. Finally I managed to ask, “How do you know if you’re going to end up in heaven or . . . you know . . . the other place?”
Her hand came up and gently pushed my hair off my forehead. “Well now,” she said with a smile, “as my dear mother always said, that all depends on who your father is.”
“Who your father is?” The butterflies threw themselves against my stomach wall in one huge rebellion. I was certain I was going to be sick.
“Tillie,” Mom said, suddenly there, “the nurse says they’re ready to take her now.”
“But – ”
Tillie patted my shoulder. “I’m glad you asked, Roz, but we’ll talk more about all that later.”
Mom kissed my forehead. “I love you, Roz. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
And then I was being wheeled down a long lifeless corridor by wordless people wearing white. I stifled a scream as the foot of the stretcher bumped up against a pair of double doors, pushing them open and letting me in to what I could only imagine was the gateway to death