“You have no right to talk to me that way! No right at all!”
“I’m exercising my right as Johnny’s dad,” he said grimly. “Maybe for the last time in my life. And you better not get in my way, Vera. You understand? Not you, not God, not the bleeding holy Jesus. You follow?”
She glared at him sullenly and said nothing.
“He’s going to have enough to do just coping with the idea that he’s been out like a light for four-and-a-half years. We don’t know if he’ll be able to walk again, in spite of the therapist that came in. We do know there’ll have to be an operation on his ligaments, if he even wants to try; Weizak told us that. Probably more than one. And more therapy, and a lot of it’s going to hurt him like hell. So tomorrow you’re just going to be his mother.”
“Don’t you dare talk to me that way! Don’t you dare!”
“If you start in sermonizing, Vera, I’ll drag you out of his room by the hair of your head.”
She stared at him, white-faced and trembling. Joy and fury were at war in her eyes.
“You better get dressed,” Herb said. “We ought to get going. ”
It was a long, silent ride up to Bangor. The happiness they should have felt between them was not there; only Vera’s hot and militant joy. She sat bolt upright in the passenger seat, her Bible in her lap, open to the twenty-third Psalm.
6
At quarter of nine the next morning, Marie came into Johnny’s room and said, “Your mom and dad are here, if you’re up to seeing them.”
“Yes, I’d like that.” He felt much better this morning, stronger and less disoriented. But the thought of seeing them scared him a little. In terms of his conscious recollection, he had seen them about five months ago. His father had been working on the foundation of a house that had now probably been standing for three years or more. His mom had fixed him home-baked beans and apple pie for dessert and had clucked over how thin he was getting.
He caught Marie’s hand weakly as she turned to go.
“Do they look all right? I mean ...”
“They look fine.”
“Oh. Good.”
“You can only have half an hour with them now. Some more time this evening if the neurology series doesn’t prove too tiring.”
“Dr. Brown’s orders?”
“And Dr. Weizak’s.”
“All right. For a while. I’m not sure how long I want to be poked and prodded.”
Marie hesitated.
“Something?” Johnny asked.
“No ... not now. You must be anxious to see your folks. I’ll send them in.”
He waited, nervous. The other bed was empty; the cancer patient had been moved out while Johnny slept off his Valium pop.
The door opened. His mother and father came in. Johnny felt simultaneous shock and relief: shock because they had aged, it was all true; relief because the changes in them did not yet seem mortal. And if that could be said of them, perhaps it could be said of him as well.
But something in him had changed, changed drastically—and it might be mortal.
That was all he had time to think before his mother’s arms were around him, her violet sachet strong in his nostrils, and she was whispering: “Thank God, Johnny, thank God, thank God you’re awake.”
He hugged her back as best he could—his arms still had no power to grip and fell away quickly—and suddenly, in six seconds, he knew how it was with her, what she thought, and what was going to happen to her. Then it was gone, fading like that dream of the dark corridor. But when she broke the embrace to look at him, the look of zealous joy in her eyes had been replaced with one of thoughtful consideration.
The words seemed to come out of him of their own: “Let them give you the medicine. Mom. That’s best.”
Her eyes widened, she wet her lips—and then Herb was beside her, his eyes filled with tears. He had lost some weight—not as much as Vera had put on, but he was noticeably thinner. His hair was going fast but the face was the same, homely and plain and well-loved. He took a large brakeman’s bandanna from his back pocket and wiped his eyes with it. Then he stuck out his hand.
“Hi, son,” he said. “Good to have you back.”
Johnny shook his father’s hand as well as he could; his pale and strengthless fingers were swallowed up in his father’s red hand. Johnny looked from one