If Edward was the catalyst, if his name and his work was what had carried us to Hawthorne Court, it was my determination, my will to be extraordinary, that made us the envy of everyone. People were eager to attend our parties, to stand on the expansive lawn with the sun going down, pretending to be us. Colleagues, neighbors, friends, acquaintances—they eagerly ate off my china and wallowed in the luxury that I put forth before them. Edward knew nothing about the floor that needed replacing (can we just patch it up?), the money it took to keep up the landscaping, and I doubt he had ever heard of a retaining wall, and what kept the water from flooding the basement was nothing he concerned himself with. What he created, I sustained. And it wasn’t an easy feat.
There was this silver maple at Hawthorne Court, must have been a hundred years old, according to the arborist. It had severe damage from a yellow-bellied sapsucker, which is like a woodpecker, only worse. The bird had pecked away at the trunk and left holes in horizontal lines with sap running down and bacteria entering, causing extensive damage. No one can fault the sapsuckers, all the bird is trying to do is to get at the sap, and it did what mothers do, it fed insects to its young, but the bird was about to kill the tree. The arborist said not to bother but against his advice I sprayed the damaged areas with hydrogen peroxide, filled in the holes with goop I purchased at a garden store, slathered the entire trunk in an attempt to save the tree. And I brought it back to life.
I can admit it now. I was embarrassed. Not for Penny but for myself. How did I manage to create this picture-perfect life while she ran through my fingers like sand? I had saved a tree from certain death, yet I couldn’t help my daughter?
The reason I feel slighted when it comes to Hawthorne Court, the purpose of coming back was not to claim the house but to claim the truth, yes, the truth is what I’m after, I now know that all I ever wanted was a place for Penelope to be safe. But it didn’t do any good. I want to spare myself the memories of what happened next but I’ve come this far, haven’t I?
* * *
• • •
It goes against all reason that we should end up here, in this kitchen, in the middle of the night, the lights bouncing off the royal blue stove. Edward’s words are like a beacon and once I catch a glimpse of something, though it doesn’t come back all at once and it isn’t there all the time, it bobs up just to withdraw as fast as it appeared.
How old and haggard Edward looks in this light. His left eyelid twitches. Is he still the man he used to be, still the surgeon people flock to? Can he still hold a scalpel steady, can he stay on his feet without tiring through eight-hour operations, and most of all, does he still have the power to make me believe I am the one to blame for everything?
PART III
HEAVEN
Heaven wheels above you, displaying to you her eternal glories, and still your eyes are on the ground.
—DANTE ALIGHIERI
37
DONNA
The kitchen has a built-in desk where women used to sit and make grocery lists, a whimsical detail in an old-timey kind of way, but in reality it turned into a catchall spot for receipts and bills and newspapers. That’s where Edward stands and stares at a framed photograph pushed into the corner of that desk; Edward and Penelope stand behind me as I sit on a chair. Penelope looks to be about twelve or so. I remember the day because we had an argument about her outfit. Looking back, it was unnecessary to quarrel about it but in the moment it seemed significant. Her eyes look empty, her smile forced. I shouldn’t have been so hard on her, but that too is hindsight. I get lost in these moments, ponder every single action, every word I ever said to her. There’s so much I’m not explaining right, so many things incongruent with what I remember and what I’ve forgotten. If I think about it hard enough, maybe I’ll be able to pinpoint where I went wrong.
“What happened to Penelope’s room?” I ask.
“That’s what you want to know?”
“Yes, what’s happened to it?” I insist. “There’re holes in the wall.”
“After all this time, you come here and ask me about holes in the wall?”
“Just one of the many things I don’t understand.” I panic for a second—the letters, where are the letters? Then I remember, I shoved them into my tote. “I want to know where my daughter is. I want to know what happened because nothing makes sense to me anymore. I fell and I hurt my hip and I was taken to the hospital. I recall nothing after that but not being able to get out of bed. And you deserted me because . . .” I can’t finish the sentence. My voice sounds overly loud as I demand answers but this blame is a curious thing; Edward seems mad when prompted for details.
“How did you fall, Donna? How did you hurt your hip?”
“I don’t remember. I had a car accident? A slip on the back porch maybe? I was out on a walk and a car hit me? It’s all the same to me. I don’t care, really. This isn’t about me.”
“Come with me,” Edward says and marches me out of the kitchen and to the center of the foyer, his fingers digging into my arm.
“Here, right here,” he says and points down to the black-and-white checkered tile. One has a crack. “Does that jog your memory?”
I pull away from him.
“Jog it for me, Edward, why don’t you?”
38
EDWARD
If Edward were to get Penelope out of the car, it was going to be nothing short of a miracle. She clung to the steering wheel with such ferocity that he feared he might snap her joints out of place. Every time he loosened one finger, another one tensed its grip. As he managed to undo one hand, the other one clutched tighter. The steering wheel was sticky with blood and her face was smeared with what had by then turned into a brown mud-like layer, like sap from a tree. A trail of tears had made their way through the bloody landscape of her face and down her neck.
Trauma assessment. In sequence actions must be performed, preventing mortality. Not something he’d encountered in recent years, decades even. Vital organs must be oxygenated, stop the bleeding if there’s any.
That’s my child, my own flesh and blood—oh, the irony—my daughter blabbering without rhyme or reason, shaking violently, her knees hitting the steering wheel, over and over.
He rattles the list off inside his brain. Information gathering: time of injury, related events, patient history. Key elements of injury to alert the trauma team to the degree and type of injury.
There were predictable patterns in which trauma mortality occurs and though he went through the motions, he wasn’t equipped to do anything but an initial assessment.
Stabilize the patient.