make too much money,” he says. “That’s the problem, don’t you see? They get corrupted. Lila will be seduced by the money. Mark my words, she’ll forget that she set out to save lives.”
“I’m not sure why Lila set out to be a doctor,” I say, and then shake my head sharply. I am not myself today. I should have changed the subject or just nodded in agreement. I should not have argued.
Ryan is worked up now. He pats the framed picture of Jesus that he has hung on the side of his wheelchair. “Doctors have not been good to us, Mother. Remember when Daddy pushed Pat by mistake and he fell and Dr. O’Malley wasn’t able to set the bone in his arm correctly? And before that he couldn’t save my big sister, and I never even got to meet her. And doctors certainly have been no good to me. Trying to put me to sleep like you would a dog or a cat. But don’t worry, you guys”—he is talking to the birds now, his eyes upward—“I won’t let them touch you. No needles, no pills. No, no. I promise. I’ll take care of you.”
I am standing up now, my purse in my hand. “I must go, Ryan. Dinner is served early today. I’ll see you next Tuesday.”
“Tuesday,” he says as he wheels after me to the door. “Drive carefully, Mother. I’ll pray for you.”
And I hear my youngest child pray as I make my way down the front steps of the apartment building. His voice wafts out behind me, making its way through chinks in the walls and the cracks in the windows of the seedy, run-down building he has lived in for nearly twenty years. Ryan has a beautiful voice, the voice of a senator, or a priest. It follows me down the front walk to my car, to the inside of my car, where I shut the door and there is no sound. And still I hear him. I hear every syllable.
Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.
I look around me for neglected children, examples of injustice, specters from my past. I see only a barking dog a few houses down, a man cutting his lawn, a sprinkler watering an overturned garden. My body begins to unclench. I give a small practice smile, just to make sure I am still able to. My muscles oblige. Slowly I regain my even heartbeat, my balance, my sense of self.
“Amen,” I say, and start the car’s engine.
KELLY IS waiting for me when I get back to my room, which is a shame, because I don’t feel strong enough to fight with my oldest daughter. And it is clear, from the first sight of her, that she is here for a fight. But still, I’m happy to see her. I have been happy, in a new, thankful way, to see each of my children, since my car accident. I have struggled for a way to express my gratitude, to speak to them in a new way, but so far I haven’t found a successful method.
“I can’t believe you were out driving, Mother. Did you take the main roads?”
I set my purse down on the desk. “As opposed to what, Kelly? Driving on the sidewalks?”
Kelly is sitting in the corner of my room in an armchair. She is tapping her fingernails against the sloping arms. Her tone changes, and suddenly she is apologizing to me, though I can’t discern for what.
“Louis should have called me the moment he saw that you were in trouble,” she says. “At the very least he should have called when you reached the hospital. I could have been there in ten minutes.”
“There was no reason for you to be there,” I say. “I’m glad Louis didn’t call.”
“Well, pardon me for thinking I could have been of some help to my own mother.”
I shake my head. I am not interested in talking about the accident. It is behind me. I need to focus on the here and now to make sure I don’t drift away again. I want to stay myself. I want to appreciate this moment. And I want to make a confession of my own.