Travelers Rest Page 3

  The man put one large hand on each of his knees and absently began to knead muscle and bone, as though to subdue an ache. He winced, and Jane noticed for the first time the freckles that lay across his cheekbones and nose like Zorro’s mask. His wiry hair was a white hood, a sign of age in stark contrast to his alert and youthful eyes. He licked his lips and opened his mouth a time or two, as if trying to decide how to respond. Finally he simply said, “I see.”

  When he didn’t say anything more, Jane blurted awkwardly, “Seth doesn’t have a sister. Just a brother. David. He’s something of a wanderer. Right now he’s up in Alaska, doing some sort of work on a fishing boat. But he’ll be back. He promised to be best man at the wedding.”

  She was rambling. She didn’t know why, except perhaps to keep the man from saying something she didn’t want to hear. Something like I’m sorry. Or Are you sure? Or How can you expect to marry a man who no longer moves from the neck down?

  But when he spoke, he didn’t say any of those things. “Remind me,” he said. “Was Seth regular army?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “National Guard.”

  “Old Hickory, I suppose?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Jane smiled at the nickname given to the National Guard’s 30th Heavy Brigade Combat Team, of which Seth had been a part.

  “They were the first, you know.”

  “The first?”

  “Yes. The first Guard Brigade Combat Team to deploy to war since my own war—Korea. You must be proud of Seth.”

  “I’m very proud of him, yes. I see him as having played a part in history. You know, Operation Iraqi Freedom and all that. Seth was there.”

  The old gentleman nodded. “Too few people see it that way. So much anger about the war, people forget to be proud of our troops.”

  “I don’t forget.”

  “That’s good.” Quietly, almost tenderly, he said, “But while he was there, Seth took a bullet to the neck.”

  “Yes. A sniper’s bullet hit him.”

  “It fractured his vertebrae between the C-5 and C-6 levels. Did you know that?”

  Jane held his gaze for a long moment before nodding slightly. “Yes. His mother told me he’s what they call a C-5.”

  “Yes, that’s right. While he was still at Landstuhl, in Germany,” the man went on, “they performed a cervical fusion to stabilize the area of injury. That was almost six months ago now, I believe.”

  “That’s right. He was wounded right before Christmas last year, but—”

  “And then from Germany he was sent on to Walter Reed, where he was determined by the doctors to be incomplete.”

  “Incomplete?”

  “Yes. Has anyone told you that?”

  “No. No one told me.”

  “Do you know what incomplete means?”

  Jane nodded slowly. She felt a small surge of hope. “It means he might regain some movement below the level of injury, doesn’t it?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed slightly in thought. “He might, yes. But according to the ASIA classification—”

  “The ASIA classification?”

  “The American Spinal Injury Association.”

  “Okay.”

  “He’s been classified as a C.”

  “C?”

  “He may regain some voluntary motor function, but it will be minimal.”

  Jane felt herself frown as she considered the man’s words. “Maybe the doctors are wrong,” she countered. “Maybe he’ll do better than they think.”

  The man shrugged and offered Jane a smile. “Maybe. Medicine is an art, after all, not an exact science. A prognosis is often little more than a best guess.”

  Jane smiled in return, a slow quizzical smile. “How do you know all this?” she asked.

  “I’m a doctor.” The man peered at Jane and laughed lightly. “Don’t look so surprised.”

  “I’m not surprised, I—” She what? She was surprised. Not to learn that a black man was a doctor, but that this man was. “I thought you were a veteran.”

  “I’m that too. Like I said, I saw action in Korea.”

  “But you work here?”

  “Oh no. I’m retired. I live here.” He nodded over his shoulder. “This part of the facility is the Community Living Center. I took a couple bullets myself in the battle for Yechon. They didn’t do much harm, more or less just passed on through. Of course, it hurt like the dickens at the time.” He looked down at his hands and chuckled. “But being wounded earned me the right to spend my last days here.”

  “But how do you know so much about—”

  “About Seth? I make it my business to know about all the patients laid up in the hospital here. The staff, they let me keep an eye on things. It gives me something to do, and the doctors and nurses, they don’t mind having an extra pair of eyes. It’s like any hospital: too many patients, too few staff. I’ve actually been able to intervene a time or two, catch something that might have otherwise been missed. There’s a certain satisfaction in that.”

  “Yes, I can imagine there is,” Jane said.

  The man stretched out a hand across the length of the gazebo. “My name’s Truman Rockaway, by the way.”

  Jane took his hand and squeezed it gently. “Jane Morrow. I’m happy to meet you, Dr. Rockaway.”

  “Truman,” he said. “It’s easiest all around.”

  “Well, all right.”

  “I’m going to keep a special watch over Seth. I’ll do what I can.” He took a cell phone out of his breast pocket and looked at it, as if he was expecting to be paged at any moment. Satisfied that he had no messages, he tucked it back into his pocket and smiled again at Jane.

  “I appreciate you keeping an eye on Seth,” she said. “Speaking of which, I guess I’d better go up and see him.”

  As Jane rose to leave, Truman Rockaway stood also. “Jane?”

  “Yes?” She looked up into those eyes.

  “Don’t worry. You will make the right decision.”

  He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to. Jane understood. Though how he knew her heart, she couldn’t say. Neither could she find the words to respond. She merely nodded, then turned and stepped out of the gazebo into the hot noonday sun.

  5

  As soon as the elevator doors slid open, Jane saw the middle-aged couple lingering in the hallway outside Seth’s room. She smiled as a feeling of warmth came over her. Sid and Jewel Ballantine, Seth’s parents, were more father and mother to her than her own parents had ever been, and when she became engaged to their son, they had lovingly welcomed her into the family.

  Because Troy was a small town, the Morrows and the Ballantines had known each other all their lives. Not intimately, but at least by name and by sight. Ballantine’s Garage had been a landmark in Troy since the 1940s, when Seth’s grandfather opened the gas station and auto repair shop on East Main Street. Sid had worked there from the time he was big enough to pump gas and wash windshields and finally took over ownership when Ballantine Senior retired in 1976. Sid was newly married by then and brought on his wife, Jewel, as primary bookkeeper. They’d been working together for nearly thirty years now at a business that allowed them little time away. In fact, the first time they stayed away from the garage for more than a weekend was in February of that year, when Seth was transferred from Germany to Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C. They stayed a month. Now that Seth was closer—though it was still a good four-hour drive from Troy to Asheville—they were determined to come up every weekend possible to be with their son.

  Jane moved toward the couple with open arms. “It’s so good to see you here,” she said, hugging Jewel first, then Sid.

  “I was hoping we’d see you today,” Jewel said. “Did you get settled in all right?”

  “Just fine. The Penlands have a wonderful old house up on Montford Avenue. Where are you staying?”

  “At the Best Western, out on Tunnel Road.”

  “Is it comfortable?”

  �
��It’s great,” Sid said. “And between AAA and AARP, we get a pretty good discount.”

  That was Sid Ballantine for you, always counting pennies. It came from years of having to be frugal, of having to make a dollar stretch like warm taffy so all the many expenses of life were covered.

  Jane could hear her grandmother now. “You’re marrying beneath you, Jane.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, just think about it, dear. They’ve never had any money, you know.”

  “You mean the Ballantines?”

  “Of course I mean the Ballantines.”

  “Oh, Gram, don’t be such a snob. They’re good, honest, hardworking people. What more can you ask for?”

  “Yes, they’re decent people. I’m not saying they’re not. But money always helps in a marriage.”

  “Seth and I will make our own money. That’s what most couples do.”

  “But it’s not just that. There’s also education, you know.”

  “What do you mean? Seth went to college.”

  “Yes, and now he’s a carpenter.”

  “So? You know he intends to start his own business. He earned a degree in business, Gram. Don’t you remember?”

  Grandmother wrung her hands and sighed. “I just want what’s best for you, Jane. I want you to be happy.”

  “I am happy, Gram. You worry too much about things that don’t matter.”

  Jane looked into Seth’s room, found it empty, and turned back to his parents for an explanation.

  “They’ve got him down in physical therapy,” Jewel said. “We had about twenty minutes with him before they came and whisked him away.”

  Jane wondered briefly what Seth might do in physical therapy. What does one do with a body that can’t move below the neck? But of course, the muscles had to stay toned, and the limbs couldn’t be allowed to atrophy, just in case . . . someday . . .

  “We were just about to find the cafeteria and get some lunch,” Sid said. “Want to join us?”

  Jane shook her head. “I had a late breakfast. But you go on.”

  “Are you sure, Janie?” Jewel asked. “Do you want some coffee or something?”

  “No thanks. I’ll wait here for Seth. You’re coming back up after lunch, aren’t you?”

  “Oh yes. We plan to be here most of the afternoon.”

  Jane smiled. “Then I’ll see you when you get back.”

  Jewel leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Jane again. She was a short, solid woman, the tip of her gray head barely reaching Jane’s chin. In spite of her age, her skin was still smooth, her eyes still bright, her unmade-up face as homey and comforting as a Norman Rockwell painting. She took her husband’s arm and they turned away. He towered over her as they walked together down the corridor, his beefy shoulders reminiscent of his high school football days, his bald spot proof that those days were long ago.

  Her heart ached with love for them. And with sorrow for the burden the three of them bore together.

  ———

  She was standing at the window looking down at the gardens below when a commotion at the doorway let her know Seth was back.

  “Watch it, man! Suzy will have your head if you total another wheelchair!”

  “Another one, nothing. It’s not my fault what happened to that other chair. I’m the best driver on the floor.”

  “A-ha! If that is so, we are all in danger.”

  The bantering came from two male aides, both tall and wiry, with skin like darkest ink and eyes like roasted chestnuts on small white saucers. Their speech was melodious, with rounded vowels and a tinge of the British Isles, though the young men themselves had obviously sprung from Africa.

  As they worked on maneuvering the wheelchair into the room—knocking first into the doorway and then into the side of the bed—Seth’s face registered mock horror. “Listen, Hoboken, I’m with Sausalito,” he said. “I think your license needs to be revoked.”

  “Ah no!” the one called Hoboken said. When he smiled a full-tooth smile, his mouth was a crescent moon in the middle of a night sky. “I have never lost a patient yet. I am an excellent driver.”

  Seth turned his eyes to Jane. “If these two clowns dump me out of this chair,” he said, “you’re a witness.”

  The first aide nodded toward the other. “Only he is a clown. I am the straight man. I’m the responsible one.”

  “Oh sure, Sausalito,” Seth said. “Should I pretend I didn’t see you making balloons out of rubber gloves yesterday?”

  The young man raised one long finger to his lips. “Shh. If Suzy finds out, I don’t have a job anymore. All right now, wait right here. I’ll bring in the lift.”

  Seth said, “Yeah, well, I’m not going anywhere.”

  The room fell quiet as the one called Sausalito left. Finally Seth said, “So you decided to come back.”

  It took Jane a moment to realize he was talking to her rather than to the remaining aide. “Well, yes,” she said quietly, glancing at the aide, then back at Seth. “I told you I would.”

  They got no further than that when Sausalito reappeared, pulling a metal contraption into the room. “Okay, Mr. Seth, you ready to fly?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No, unfortunately. We’re the boss of you, and you must do whatever we say,” Sausalito said with a snicker.

  “I thought I was supposed to spend most of my time in a wheelchair rather than the bed.”

  “That’s right. You are.”

  “Well?”

  “Right now we need the chair for someone else. We’ll get you out of the bed again later.”

  “I’d like to file a formal complaint about this.”

  “You are free to do that, Mr. Seth,” Hoboken chimed in, “but you know it will end up where all the other complaints end up. In the . . . what do you say? . . . in the black hole of bureaucracy.”

  “Very good, Hoboken!” Seth exclaimed. “You’re learning our American ways.”

  The three men laughed as Hoboken and Sausalito went about the task of hooking Seth up to the lift. As they worked, Jane began to understand that Seth was already cradled in a huge sling that would carry him from the chair to the bed. When all the clasps were in place, Sausalito gingerly unhooked Seth’s urine bag from the chair and settled it on Seth’s stomach. Then he began pumping a lever on the side of the lift. A few swift pumps rendered Seth airborne, dangling like a baby from the beak of a stork.

  “Move the chair! Move the chair!” Sausalito demanded.

  “I’m moving it. Calm down,” Hoboken responded. “Anyway, you may be the boss of Mr. Seth here, but you are not the boss of me.”

  “Yes, I am. And I always have been, little brother.”

  In another moment, Seth dangled over the bed as Sausalito once again vigorously pumped the lever, this time lowering the sling.

  “They’re not really brothers,” Seth told Jane. “They’re cousins. From Uganda.”

  “I see.”

  “No one can pronounce their real names, so everyone just calls them Hoboken and Sausalito.”

  “And”—Jane looked from one to the other—“which is which?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sausalito said. “We will answer to either name.”

  “But our real names are not so hard,” Hoboken added. “They are Hangson Bwambale and Bwanandeke Baluku. Easier than the nicknames we’ve been given.”

  “That’s what you think,” Seth said. “By the way, I haven’t introduced you to . . . ” He paused a moment before going on. “ . . . to my friend, Jane Morrow.”

  The young men acknowledged her with smiles and nods. “So how long have you been in the States?” Jane asked.

  “Almost two years,” Sausalito replied. He was on one side of the bed now, unlatching the straps, while Hoboken was on the other side doing the same. “We are both students at the university. We work here at the hospital part-time.”

  When the straps were unlatched, the two young men rolled Se
th onto his side, tucked the sling up against his back, rolled Seth onto his other side, then pulled the sling out from under him.

  It’s like rolling a log, Jane thought. Insentient wood. Dead weight. Anyone could do anything to Seth, and he couldn’t stop them.

  “What are you studying?” Jane asked, trying hard not to feel unnerved.

  Sausalito lifted the bag of urine and hooked it onto the side of the bed. The catheter snaked its way upward from the bag and disappeared underneath Seth’s shirt. “We are both in the nursing school,” he said. “We have an uncle in Uganda who is a doctor. Right now he works in a hospital in Kampala, the capital, but he wants to open a rural clinic where there has never been one. We will work for him.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  Seth said, “Hoboken is taking special classes in how to push a wheelchair without killing the patient.”

  The cousins laughed again, and Jane joined in. Seth was still there, his sense of humor still in place. It made her feel hopeful.

  Sausalito began to pull the sheet up to Seth’s shoulders and then paused, looking thoughtful. “Mr. Seth, why don’t you show Miss Jane what you accomplished in physical therapy today?”

  Seth looked up at Sausalito, then looked away. “It’s nothing.”

  “Oh no, Mr. Seth. It’s not nothing. It’s something very good.”

  “What is it, Seth?” Jane asked. She took a step closer to the bed.

  “Come on,” Sausalito prodded. “Show her what you can do.”

  The luster evaporated from Seth’s eyes, and his face turned stony. For a moment Jane wasn’t sure whether he was angry or simply concentrating. Then, finally, she saw the movement, the slightest bit of lift to his left shoulder. His arm rose from the bed an inch, maybe two, before falling again.

  “Seth! You can raise your arm!” Jane cried.

  Both of the cousins smiled proudly. “He did it for the first time today,” Hoboken explained. “It’s a huge accomplishment. It is for Mr. Seth . . . how do you say? It’s a red-letter day!”

  “Oh, Seth, it’s wonderful,” Jane said.

  Seth looked at her, said nothing, looked away.

  After a few more words of encouragement, the two aides left, taking the wheelchair and the lift with them. The room was suddenly very large and very quiet.