Eye of the Storm Read online

  immediately.

  "I spoke to your nurses at the hospital and

  found out what you like" she explained briskly.. "It

  saves waste and time."

  She put the tray table over my legs, pulled me

  into a sitting position and patted down two pillows

  behind me so quickly and efficiently. I barely had

  time to take a breath. Then she stepped back and

  suggested I start eating before my soup got cold. "Thank you," I muttered, She stood watching

  me for a moment. I half-expected her to begin

  criticizing the way I ate and telling me how she knew

  a better way because of her experience with

  paraplegics.

  "Have you lost much weight since the

  accident?" she asked.

  "Seven or eight pounds. I suppose," I said. "You're better off being lighter," she said. "not

  that I imagine you were ever heavy. You don't look

  like the type."

  "What type is that?"

  "The type who would let her figure go," she

  explained. "I've had to deal with patients nearly twice your size. It's no picnic, believe me," she said. The moment she said it, she paused. I looked at her and I thought for a moment, she would smile or laugh and

  the ice wall between us would finally crack.

  But just at that moment instead, we heard the

  front door open and close and the unmistakable click,

  clack of Aunt Victoria's heavy-heeled shoes as she

  came marching into the house and down the corridor

  toward us. Mrs. Bogart spun around to greet her. "How's she doing?" I heard Aunt Victoria ask. "As well as could be expected," Mrs. Bogart

  replied in a rather noncommittal voice. She glanced

  through the door at me and then walked away as Aunt

  Victoria turned into my room.

  She wore a much more stylish blue skirt suit

  and again surprised me with some makeup on her

  face. I even thought she had taken greater pains with

  her normally dull, clipped hair. It had been blown

  dried and styled,

  "Rain, I'm sorry I wasn't here to help settle you

  in. but I had a very important meeting with a group of

  developers out of New York who are thinking of

  building a theme park much like a Disney World on

  one of our properties. It could be a very, very big deal.

  It's actually exciting. I'll tell you more about it as the details develop. Go on, finish eating your lunch," she

  said with a wave of her hand.

  I was hungry so I returned to it.

  "Well." she said moving closer as she inspected

  the equipment. "I hope you're happy with what I've

  had done. I consulted with a therapist first, of course.

  We didn't spare any expense."

  "What did you do with the furniture that was

  here?" I asked.

  "Oh. I've turned it over to a consignment

  company. Maybe we'll get something back on it." "I wished you had left it. I'd much rather have

  had that precious old bed than this."

  "Nonsense, my dear. It wouldn't have been half

  as practical. Why make things more difficult for you

  than they already are?

  "Of course. I've discussed most of this with

  Grant. I wanted to talk to Megan and get her involved

  in the events and actions that concern you, but she's

  now worse than ever when it comes to facing

  difficulties. She couldn't stand even hearing about

  you," she gleefully reported. "Grant's beside himself

  about it all, of course. As a matter of fact. I was just

  on the phone with him. He may even come here and

  pay you a visit. By himself?" she added.

  "What for?" I asked quickly.

  "What for?" She laughed, "Why, to do the

  responsible thing. He feels he has to take up the slack

  Megan has left and continues to leave."

  She smiled, really very happy about all this. "I'm surprised to hear he would worry about

  me." I said skeptically.

  "Don't be. You know that vow husbands and

  wives take when they get married-- that for better or

  worse one? Well. Grant is the type of man who takes

  such things seriously. He's inherited Megan's mistakes

  and he's not the sort who runs away from obligations. "Mistakes? If I heard that word used one more

  time in reference to me. I'll scream loud enough for

  my mother to hear," I threatened.

  "Sometimes." she said ignoring me and running

  her right forefinger along the top of my wheelchair. "I

  wish my father would have had a son like Grant.

  Why. if I had a brother with those qualities Grant

  possesses, the family business would be so much

  greater than it is. It's not easy for a woman in the

  business world, no matter what sort of facade I

  present.

  "My mother was right about that." she said

  looking up quickly. "but I didn't want to admit it so I pretended I was having no problems when I was always fighting an uphill battle. I really needed

  someone like Grant at my side."

  "Didn't you ever have anyone at your side?" I

  asked her, half out of curiosity and half out of a desire

  to press a needle into that self-contented smile. She stopped moving her finger, straightening

  up, the soft, wistful look flying off her face as if I had

  seized her shoulders and shaken her.

  "No. But not because I didn't want to," she

  added firmly. Her expression soured. "While my sister

  was off playing with her rebellious college friends. I

  was helping my father. He had far more health

  problems than anyone knew, especially Megan. He

  wanted it that way. It was always. 'Don't tell Megan.

  Protect Megan-- precious. fragile Megan.

  "Do you know where she was the day he died?

  Modeling clothes for a charity at a yacht patty. She

  knew he was seriously ill, but she wouldn't accept it. I

  had to call her at that party and get her back here.

  Grant was in court, but he came as soon as he was

  able. I was there at my father's side when he took his

  last breath. not Megan, not his favorite.

  "And then all of it fell on my shoulders. Who

  had time to develop romances?

  "But why are we talking about all this?" She

  cried, realizing she was being too honest and

  revealing. "Let's talk about your situation and what

  has to be done now." she insisted and began to rattle

  everything off in her usual indifferent manner of

  cataloguing.

  "First. I've contracted with a private therapy

  company and they are sending their best man over

  tomorrow. He should be here by ten and he will know

  your condition thoroughly before he arrives. Second.

  I've spoken with Jake about the Rolls-Royce. It's

  superfluous and ostentatious now. Actually. I thought

  it always was. but Mother liked to hold onto those

  vestigial organs of high social standing.

  "Jake is going to see about trading it in on a van

  that we'll have specially equipped for you."

  "I don't want us to sell that car. It's

  Grandmother Hudson's car. It's -"

  "Rain, dear," she said smiling. as painful as it is

  for all of us continually to face it, the fact is my

  mother is dead and
buried. There's no point in holding

  onto the car. I thought you were set on a more

  reasonable road these days. Why do you want to hold

  onto a car that you will have to be carried into every

  time you want to go somewhere, not to mention carried out of. How will that make you feel to see people watching you delivered like an infant from

  place to place?

  "Well?" she pursued.

  "You're right," I said reluctantly. She was, of

  course, especially when I envisioned myself being

  held like a baby or guided into my chair at street

  corners and curbs and parking lots.

  "Good." She walked to the closet and opened it

  for me. "Third, as you can see, all of your clothing has

  been brought down for you. Everything you need is

  here, shoes, undergarments, everything."

  She turned and looked around, nodding with

  pleasure. "Is there anything else you'd like in your

  room?"

  "I don't have a telephone. I noticed," I said. "Oh. That's right. I didn't think of that. I'll look

  into it ASAP. I wasn't sure if you would be too tired

  to discuss business with me, so I left the papers at the

  office. I'll bring it all around by the end of the week.

  How's that?"

  "Fine," I said.

  "Okay. I'm going to go talk with Mrs. Bogart to

  make sure she understands what's expected of her. I

  don't want the upstairs to go to pot just because you're not using it," she said. "I'll check on you again

  tomorrow,"

  She gave me a flashbulb smile and left. I

  finished my sandwich and sat back, my mind flooding

  with regrets. I wanted to defy everything in this room:

  the mechanized bed, the equipment, the railings, all

  that reaffirmed my state of invalidism, but whatever

  rebellion was left in me was muted and cowering in

  some dark corner of my tired heart.

  Instead. I reached for the television remote and

  like a good veteran of hospital wars. I turned on the

  set and let the screen light up with distractions,

  images and words, music and stories to keep me from

  thinking about myself, video Valium to ease the pain

  of reality and welcome me to some cloudlike

  existence in the Land of Forget.

  My first day at home was close to being over.

  Netted like some wild bird. I was now left to perch in

  my cage and look out at the world through bars,

  wondering what I had left to look forward to and how

  I would ever retrieve the song that had once come so

  easily from my now silent tongue.

  Mrs. Bogart had a way of keeping me aware of

  her proximity. From time to time. I could hear her

  moving things about in other rooms, clanking dishes and silverware as if we had just finished serving a houseful of guests, vacuuming, polishing and dusting. Even when she was upstairs. I could hear her feet thumping into the rugs and on the wood. Furniture squealed when she moved it. Drawers were banged so

  hard, they sounded like they had exploded.

  Periodically, that first day and night, she looked

  in on me. Sometimes, she just appeared in the

  doorway, glanced at me and moved on. Sometimes,

  she asked if I wanted something to drink, had gone to

  the bathroom, needed help in moving about, anything,

  it seemed to keep her voice in the air like some kite

  that looked like it was losing wind and would float

  down if it wasn't jerked and pulled.

  I requested very little. My curiosity about the

  house, my initial desire to wheel myself through the

  downstairs, gazing at the rooms and the furniture

  dissipated like a balloon with a slow leak. I felt myself

  fold up in bed, close my eyes, and with the television

  running a stream of low noise and flickering shadows

  on the walls. I'd fall in and out of sleep until the first

  light of morning trickled through the curtains, parting

  the darkness as if I was being unearthed and

  discovered once again.

  Who'd want to be discovered like this? I

  thought. . . I was certainly no treasure.

  Mrs. Bogart was there almost as soon as I

  opened my eyes. I knew she had been installed

  upstairs in one of the West bedrooms. What was she

  doing, sleeping with her ear on the floor waiting for

  my waking groans?

  "Good morning."" she said barely looking at me

  as she crossed the room to open the curtains wider.

  She went into the bathroom and started to run my tub.

  When she returned, she carried something green in a

  jar.

  "What's that?" I asked.

  "I was just going to explain it to you. Ms.

  Randolph let me order a case of it for you. It's an

  herbal bath powder that all my patients enjoy. It helps

  keep your skin healthy. The water will look green, but

  don't mind that."

  "Oh. Thank you," I said. She nodded and

  started to help me out of bed.

  I went into the wheelchair to the bathroom

  where she practically pulled off my nightgown. I

  quickly covered myself and then realized there was no

  point to my modesty. That's one of the first things that

  goes for someone in my condition. I thought. My

  body no longer felt like it belonged to me anyway. She glanced at me while she continued to

  prepare my bath.

  "You're a pretty girl," she said surprising me.

  "I've seen pretty girls wilt like sun-starved flowers in

  hospitals. They lose that glow, but you haven't. Yet,"

  she added. Then she considered me again and nodded.

  "Maybe you won't, but you got to care about

  yourself."

  "I don't know if I can." I admitted.

  "If you can't, you can't," she said with a shrug.

  "No one's going to be hurt more than you."

  "Thanks for the encouragement," I muttered. Finally, she smiled, but it wasn't a warm smile.

  It was a smile of irony and self-satisfaction.

  "Hell, girl. I'm not hired here to be your

  cheerleader. I'm here to help you help yourself and

  keep this place looking decent so folks will not feel

  disgusted when they come. Most of it is up to you and

  your doctor and therapist. I'm just telling you what

  I've seen over the years. what I know."

  "Why do you want to do this kind of work? It

  seems so hard," I said as she helped me get out of the

  chair and into the tub.

  "Pay's good." she said. "Besides," she continued

  as I began to enjoy the soak. "I had early experience at it. My father was crippled early with arthritis and in a

  wheelchair and my mother was..."

  "What?" I asked when she hesitated.

  She looked down at me.

  "No damn good," she said and left me to bathe. She took so long to return. I wondered if she

  expected I would get myself out and dried and in the

  chair. I've got to get to where I can anyway, I thought

  and started to do just that.

  "Just hold on there. Miss Impatience," she said

  charging back into the bathroom. "You're not ready

  for that yet and if you go and fall and break something

  else, guess who's going to be blamed?"

  She was efficient about ge
tting me out, dry and

  dressed. She opened the closet and asked me what I

  wanted to wear.

  "Don't forget," she reminded me. "the physical

  therapist will be here this morning."

  I chose a sweat suit outfit. After I put it on, she

  stepped back and looked at me.

  "You going to just leave your hair a mess after

  we worked so hard getting you clean and smelling

  good? Run a brush through it at least," she told me.

  "After that, wheel yourself down to the kitchen for

  breakfast."

  I felt almost like a kid being told she could take

  the family car for a ride herself. Maybe her sassiness

  worked. I thought. because I did get myself over to

  the vanity table and brushed my hair. Then, surprised

  at how hungry I was. I wheeled out of the room and

  down the corridor.

  Finally. I felt like I was home.

  Perhaps it was because we were in the kitchen

  and not in my hospital-like bedroom, but while I ate

  my breakfast. Mrs. Bogart became more talkative,

  especially about herself. She ate her breakfast with me

  and told me about some of her former patients. One

  was particularly sad: a twelve-year-old boy with

  multiple sclerosis who died while she was caring for

  him.

  She came from a small town north of Richmond

  and had never left the state of Virginia. She told me

  she had spent most of her teenage years and early

  twenties caring for her father: the men with whom she

  did develop some sort of romantic relationship

  eventually grew tired of sharing her energy and

  attention with him.

  "Some people are just meant to spend their

  whole lives taking care of other people. I guess," she

  concluded. "At least. I'm not ashamed of it." "Why should you be?" I asked her.

  She looked at me with those ebony eyes

  flashing with heat and fired back. "Would you like to

  be doing this your whole life. child?"

  I hesitated and decided this was a woman who

  only wanted to hear the truth. In same ways that was

  refreshing.

  "No, ma'am," I said with conviction.

  She stared a moment. Was the wall of ice

  cracking?

  "So who's your mama? Not Ms. Victoria. I

  imagine," she said, folding her rolling-pin arms under

  her small bosom.

  "No. Her Younger sister. Megan."

  "She's not married to your daddy, right?" she