A beam of sunlight squeezed between the window slats and burned against the man’s closed eyes. He lay inert in the narrow bed, yearning for the familiar chirp of birds voicing their wake-up melody. Moving with caution, he shifted his left arm to test its mobility. With elbow only part-bent, the pain’s fierceness became intolerable. Relaxing his muscle, his arm dropped to the bed’s surface.
The man groaned, frustrated with his body’s continual failure to obey his mind’s commands. Anxiety over his debilitated condition brought spasms of constriction in his chest. He took several raspy breaths, willing his body’s muscles to relax. By the flush of light filling the room, he knew that soon food carts would begin to clatter down the hallway, announcing the start of another day’s activities. The halt-and-start of rubber-wheeled carts and rattling metal lids drew nearer as breakfast trays were delivered, room by room. Awaiting arrival of his own, he had taken to filling this empty period each morning with roaming the compartments of his mind, seeking thoughts of more pleasant times.
The minutes dragged by as with eyes closed, he envisioned incidents from his childhood, reliving the wonders of discovery revealed as he explored the farmland their family worked and from which they drew their living.
Seeping past his closed door, the smell of brewed coffee invaded his sterile surroundings and accompanied his thoughts down a well-traveled path in his mind. He saw himself as a young adult standing in the furrowed earth of a garden, his garden. The sun glared from directly overhead, its heat penetrating through his thin shirt to his skin. If felt good to be alive this spring morning. He paused in his labors, took time to inhale deeply the rich, fertile earth-smell that floated around him. From where he stood, rows of emerging plants traced a delicate design in the black dirt and radiated in all directions. Lifting his gaze, his view took in a nearby field, pear trees in full bloom. From a distance, the soft hum of bees working among the white blossoms disturbed the settled quiet, a promise of an abundant harvest.
He bent once again to his work, enjoying the flexing and relaxing of muscles as he raised and lowered his hoe. The tool sliced through chunks of dirt, chopping weeds and unwanted growth with ease. Strong hands gripped a handle smoothed by years of use. Days like this, filled with strength-testing chores, satisfied his soul even as they left him tired but fulfilled. Sleep came easy at night, just drop on the bed, close your eyes and instantly find yourself deep in a night filled with restful, refreshing sleep.
It was still easier to stretch out under a tree, the shimmering of sunlight teasing as it filtered through the leafy canopy overhead. He allowed his thoughts to drift back to the latest book he’d checked out of the library and read. Interesting how similar was his life to Wang Lung, the character Pearl Buck wrote about in The Good Earth. He too was brought up on a farm, a worker of the soil. Yet, how different his life from that young man. His thoughts grew fuzzy as sleep overtook him. Some minutes later, he opened his eyes, confused as to how long he had napped. The scent of crushed wild mint tickled his nose. Recharged, he jumped to his feet, ready to plunge into unfinished chores.
A distant rumbling distracted him. He looked to the sky for clouds, puzzled by the clear azure overhead. The sound intensified, penetrated his reveries and drew him back to the present.
His door swished open; soft footfalls on the carpet approached his bed. "Good morning." The nurse’s voice reminded him of a deep river, the tone of her modulated words a slow flow into his consciousness. She set down the tray she carried and moved to raise the window’s Venetian blinds. Harsh white light flooded the room. His right hand rose in an automatic motion to shade his eyes. Returned to the foot of his bed, she pushed a button and raised its head to an inclined position.
"Have a good night, Mistah Walsh?" Her soft smile brought a light to her eyes. "You look mighty rested this morning."
"Not bad," he answered. "What’s the weather like today?"
"Looking good right now but gonna get bad later, I’m afraid." A frown puckered her brow. "They’re predictin’ sixty percent rain and flash flooding." With quick movements, she adjusted the pillows, easing one down into a favored place.
"Good day to stay inside." He chuckled at his private joke even as she slipped out the door.
With deliberate moves, he inched his body into a more comfortable position before taking the cover off his breakfast tray. Disappointment replaced his anticipation when he looked down at what he called ‘machine food’. Recalling the savor of fresh eggs and homegrown bacon, the kind of food that used to begin his days, caused his taste buds salivate. Pushing the tray of barely tasted food aside, his discomfort reached for new levels. He could feel the pain ratcheting to higher levels the longer he remained in this elevated position. Screaming silently, he tried without success to adjust to a more comfortable state.
Forced to confront his helplessness, frustration built. He punched the call button, anxiety driving his appeal for help. An attendant poked his head in the room and responded to his request. Getting the patient once again horizontal, the attendant removed the breakfast tray. Shortly thereafter came his bath and the ordeal of changing into a fresh gown. Recovered from the expended exertion, he shifted to his wheelchair and maneuvered out the room and down the hall to the activity area. Exchanging pleasantries with a few familiar faces served to submerge his growing dread of the approaching session in the physical therapy room. Just as he finished his tour of the room, he spied the therapist threading his path toward him.
He groaned. Of everything his disability necessitated he endure, the torture of physical therapy disturbed him most. In the beginning, when he first began these sessions, his humiliation raged each time a stranger saw and handled his naked body. Over time, he learned to abstract himself, retreating from the present and revisiting the past. On rare occasions, the memories were of pleasanter times. Most days, it was memories of those war years that bombarded him during the therapy ordeals; as if what was being done to his body recalled the day’s events responsible for his present condition.
His thoughts would jump back to those harrowing days. Days of crawling through dense underbrush, all senses on hyper-alert, as he inched his way toward the day’s objective. It always ended with the blinding flash of light, the rattle of released gunshots, soon followed by a chorus of screams and yells. Again came that sense of shock followed by intense pain. The pattern never varied. Over time, his anger and frustration had diminished, but he still couldn’t reconcile to the loss of his physical capabilities.
Inside the white-walled area, attendants lifted his body onto the Gurney table. He winced at the shock-wave of pain that gripped like a vise after the therapist’s first grasp. A fleeting mental image of a younger self, coasting over the pasture fence, rose up to mock him. Now he could only lie there and allow his limbs to be plummeted and kneaded. Early on, he learned to resign himself to the futility of this torture designed by a medical profession that thrived on optimism.
His muscles slowly relaxed. His eyelids drooped. In no time, he passed into that nether-land of dreamy half-sleep. A parade of faces filed across the landscape of his mind. One in particular paused while his imagination filled in the scene.
He watched sunlight create a halo of gentle Annie’s hair. Laughter filled her mouth as Rover crowded her with his boisterous greeting. That dog would rush for her attention every time an errand brought her out the back door. His affection accepted, the dog would then express his joy by tearing off in a wild, mad dash through the trees.
“Ready to go back to your room, Sir?” The attendant’s question shattered his mental images. Once settled, he forced himself to return to past days with Annie and Rover.
A sharp knock at the door jarred him from his reveries. He resented the nurse’s intrusion with his lunch. The manipulation of bed and adjustment of pillows chased away any remaining wisps of memories. He lifted the lid and the aroma of vegetable soup enveloped him. Resigned to its innocuous contents, he picked up the spoon and started to eat.
&nbs
p; Suddenly, the spoon flew to the floor. A sharp piercing stab in his shoulder made him flinch. It felt like something had cut off his breathing and he gasped for air. He struggled to relax and allow the flaming muscles to resume normality. Through the waves of excruciating pain, he inched his hand closer to the control box. With a stab at the button, he clenched his teeth to keep back the scream.
The responding nurse took one look at his facial expression and yelled to others for assistance. Within moments, the room’s space became crowded with nurses and attendants. His lunch tray disappeared, his bed lowered and blinds snapped down. While one attendant held his body propped sideways, the nurse injected pain-dissipating medication with swiftness. It took effect almost immediately and he felt himself drift into nothingness, only the buzz produced by a vibrating muscle relaxer placed under his shoulder accompanying him in his mind-blanking journey.
He fought his way out of the blankness, pushing at the fog of his consciousness. The numbness in his upper left side reminded him of the latest muscle spasm. His state of exhaustion denied the short amount of time recorded by the clock’s face. Outside the room, snatches of vague murmurings indicated visiting hours were in progress. Ignoring the fading sunlight beyond the window’s glass, he turned his face to the wall. No visitor would enter his room.
Now fully conscious, he felt the invasion of excruciating pain each time he tried to adjust his position. Why had the pain-reliever worn off so quickly? A black cloud of gloom threatened to engulf him and he forced his mind to resist. A peal of laughter drifted in from outside and he squinted his eyes to halt the threatening tears. Afternoon on weekends were the most difficult to endure. On occasion, the sound of smothered conversation sneaked under the threshold, mocking his solitude. He turned to his only recourse, escape from reality and return to happier times in his memories.
The darkened room faded. In his mind’s eye, a house appeared in the foreground. Outlined against the distant hills, the frame structure appeared settled into its environment. Two towering cedars flanked the front entrance as if to emphasize its importance. A broad porch smiled its welcome across the face of the building.
He remained rooted, drunk on the peace and quiet that flowed from the rural surroundings. A ramshackle barn peeked from behind the house, its weathered boards struggling against the restraint of rusty nails. Although too faint to be certain, he thought he detected the earthy scents contained within its grayed boards. Bedraggled chickens scratched with vigor at the bare yard’s dirt, their tail feathers ruffled by a light breeze.
The sharp crack as a screen door slammed shut announced the emergence of a woman, of an age hard to define. She had left behind adolescent dreams but still foretold years of promise. With an ease of movement, she settled into a nearby rocking chair, a shallow pan of unshelled peas covering her lap. He watched as she leaned her head back, emitting a soft sigh. After a moment’s pause, her fingers took up their task, the soft snap-snap floating his way. Sometimes her hands would still as the notes of a nearby mockingbird’s song disturbed the quiet. She rocked back and forth, her hands skillful at their task, and he could see contentment etched on her face.
He recalled those happier times as a growing child, roaming the fields and woods; the times he would come running across the fields, hands grasping tightly to the treasure he wanted to share. Sometimes it would be an empty bird’s nest found in the tangled branches of a bush. Other times, he’d bring her a butterfly he’d captured, hoping his mother could identify it for him. She never hesitated to stop whatever she was doing and give his discovery her full attention. He could still see the dismay registered on her face when he announced his noble intentions. She never spoke of her fears and concerns. Would he make a different decision if he had his life to live over? Not if it meant Annie would never be a part of his life, however short a time. How had he ever deserved such an angel to put up with his less-than-whole body?
Against his will, images rushed past, one overtaking another, until they became a blur in their haste. The reviewing came to a halt and one scenario blazed to fullness in his mind’s eye. Once more, he saw the blinding headlights. He heard the screech of brakes as he tried to avoid the oncoming vehicle. He felt the twist of the wheel as the truck slammed into his car. Then a shower of splintering glass followed by a jolting sensation as the car toppled over and over before coming to rest.
The shock of remembering caused his eyes to fly open. He was in his darkened room. Now in full control, he recalled plunging into deep anguish when the doctor gently broke the news. The pain, still fresh and intense as that day, tore at him. As if it were then, it ripped his heart to shreds as he relived the loss of his sweet Annie, his bride of two months. Lost in his misery, he did not hear the door open and admit the doctor. Remaining at the bed’s side, he scanned his patient’s chart.
"I hear you had a bad go-round earlier today." The doctor’s comment echoed in the silence. "How are you feeling now? Resting easier?"
Unable to control the tears sliding down his cheeks, he could only shake his head in answer.
The doctor put aside the clipboard and came closer to check his pulse. "Your pulse rate is back to normal. How’s the pain in your shoulder?"
"Okay," he answered, his voice muffled as he struggled to regain control of his emotions.
"Has the staff psychiatrist been in to see you yet? She could help you deal with your wife’s death. I feel like that would do as much good as my medicine. We can give your body what it needs to heal itself, but until you decide life is worth living again…" His words trailed off.
Hearing reference to his mental state spoken aloud brought spasms of panic that gripped him. He remained voiceless in his fears.
The doctor kept his look on his patient. When there was no response, he turned to go. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" he asked, hand on the door’s handle.. When no reply came from the bed’s resident, he shrugged his shoulders and left the room.
He felt the stillness settle about him; the swirl of his emotions gradually subside. Turning to the only occupation that eased the misery, he willed his mind to conjure up pleasant things. Once again, thoughts of Annie filled his mind. He remembered his pride looking down on his soon-to-be bride. She seemed an angel of beauty, her face bathed in the rainbow coming through the stained glass window. He recalled how filled with joy and laughter their few years together were, even when time together had to be squeezed between classes and long work hours. How he wished now he had appreciated more the preciousness of their relationship. It had taken time to realize Annie’s unique specialness. Now, it was too late to tell her so. With that thought, it felt like a knife twisted in his gut. How could fate be so cruel as to take such a vital, loving person? Trying to avoid the pain, his mind reached back to life before Annie had entered it.
He recalled being a young child barely high enough to see over the tractor’s steering wheel; remembered the thrill of driving the machine up and down the field, watching the furrowed rows emerge when he plowed a field for the first time. Farm life demanded much; never an end to what needed doing. His mother and father set the example. They showed him the satisfaction of work well done. He remembered the long sweltering days of his mother chopping and canning the harvested vegetables. The times when she just sat seemed to be few in number. Even when fierce storms kept them housebound, her hands kept busy. Sometimes it was a sweater for the new baby at church or the next quilt whose material came from that everlasting rag-bag.
His father spoke seldom; he expressed his feelings with action. There was that one day he came upon his father in the far pasture. Hunched over, his body shaking with silent sobs, all the while his rough hands stroked the mutilated body of a new-born calf. Not wishing to be noticed, he had turned and slipped away.
His thoughts roamed forward to those early college years. It took concentrated effort to keep his parents a part of his life, writing long letters, sometimes staying up into the early morning hours to do so. In spit
e of the letters back and forth, catching up had to wait for summer breaks, to those long breakfasts when he tried to share his excitement between bites of his mother’s honey-smeared biscuits. Most of the dairy herd had been sold by then so his father sat with him, enjoying that second cup of coffee. Remembered with fondness were lazy afternoons beside a nearby creek, fishing pole doing its own thing as he watched the water flow past. Sometimes his father would join him, carrying a jug of icy lemon-aid his mother had made.
In his imagination, he found himself once again stretched out under the filtered shade of that big oak tree. He brushed fingertips along the rough bark of a nearby root jutting up from its green carpet. The day was so still and quiet. Yet, the silence throbbed with countless voices, all sounding in harmony with the song of life. He closed his eyes and could almost hear the grass being torn by the teeth of horses grazing behind him. The peace of the moment surrounded him; his mind began to resemble the wispy clouds overhead.
As he slowly drifted into deeper levels, he didn’t hear the harsh, intermittent buzzing coming from a distance. As nurses and attendants rushed to his side, he reached for Annie’s out-stretched hand, a long, slow smile softening the deep lines on his face.
THE END
LALA SALAAMA
by Iain Parke
https://bad-press.co.uk/