Blink Of An Eye. Rexanne Becnel
Читать онлайн книгу.
to be. Because I’d promised Bradley that I’d take care of his dog. Because after only a couple of days working at the medical tent, I felt better than I had in years.
“Because I want to,” I finally answered.
“Man, you ought to see how bad it is down on the coast.” He talked for a while, about his work and his demolished truck and his frustration with the no-liquor situation.
It’s funny, because I didn’t really miss drinking. I’d been so overwhelmed by all that had happened that any withdrawals I might have had must have blended in with all the other stresses of the past weeks. Or else it had been suppressed by my near-constant adrenaline high.
“Look, Hank,” I said, breaking into this monologue. “It’s hard to get a phone charged up around here, so I have to conserve its use.”
“Yeah. Okay. Look, I’ll try to get reassigned to a crew working New Orleans. I bet Molly’s is still open. And Johnny White’s. They never close. Anyway, I just wanted to be sure I had a place to stay.”
Now why did the thought of him showing up at my house repulse me? “There’s no electricity here,” I said.
“No duh.”
“And you can’t drink the water.”
He laughed. “Yeah, but you can drink the beer. At least the Saints won,” he added. “Ain’t that something? I’ll see you one of these days, babe. You can count on it.”
After we hung up, I couldn’t go back to sleep. I didn’t want Hank here. Not in my apartment, not in Washington Square Park, not in my life. It wasn’t his fault. He was the same man he’d always been. But I’d changed. Don’t ask me why or how, but I knew I had.
Since the phone lines seemed partially open, I decided to call the group home where Clark had been taken. It took five tries to get through, and the phone rang a long time before someone picked up. It was, after all, two in the morning.
“Bethany Group Home,” a drowsy voice answered. “This better be important.”
“It is. It is. I’m calling from New Orleans, and I’m sorry to wake you, but I haven’t been able to get through during the day.”
“That’s okay. That’s all right,” the woman said. “You have family with us?”
“Yes. My brother Clark evacuated with Community Homes. Clark Falgoust. Is he still there? Is he okay?”
“Clark, Clark. Oh, yes. Down syndrome, very sweet disposition?”
“That’s him. How’s he doing?”
“He’s doing fine. Very well. And you are?”
“Jane Falgoust, his sister.”
“Hi, Jane. I’m Alma Charles, assistant director at Bethany. So you’re calling from New Orleans. Did you stay through the storm?”
I gave her the short version. She filled me in on Clark’s adjustment. Like all the evacuated group-home residents, he’d had his difficult moments. He liked his routine and got upset when it was disrupted. But he wasn’t as difficult as the autistic residents. All Clark usually needed was a little extra attention and coddling. Then he’d attach himself to a couple of aides and be a happy camper once more.
“He’s a real sweetheart,” Alma said. “Everybody at Bethany just loves him.”
“Does that mean he’ll be staying there a while?”
“That I can’t say. But if he does get transferred, we’ll know where and when. I take it you can’t keep him with you.”
I laughed. “No drinking water, no electricity and the military powers that be are trying to kick all of us diehards out of town.” Diehard. Now that was an ironic choice of words. It described me perfectly, though not precisely as intended.
“I see. Any idea how the Community Homes facility fared?” she asked.
“It was in Gentilly, so probably not too well.”
“Lord almighty.” Then she sighed. “Well, don’t you worry, sugar. Your brother’s going to be just fine wherever he lands. Give me your phone number. I promise to keep track of him so you can always find him through me. Okay? And take my cell number, too.”
“Thanks, Alma. Thanks so much.”
After I hung up, I felt enormously relieved. Through the years I’d discovered that most of the people involved in long-term care for people like Clark were great. There was always the occasional bad apple. But for the most part they were good folks—massively underpaid, of course—but genuinely involved with their clients’ lives. Like Verna Jenkins, Alma Charles definitely belonged in that group, an angel who would make sure that Clark and the others from his group home were well served.
“Thank you,” I whispered into the sweltering night. Thank you to who? Alma? Verna? God?
I’m not a churchgoer. I quit after Dad left us. Mom was too depressed to force the issue, and other than a Christmas manger scene, God didn’t make much of an appearance in our household. But all the while I’d tried to talk my first boyfriend, Gary, out of being gay, I’d prayed a lot. And later when I’d tried to get pregnant, six years of heavy-duty praying.
God hadn’t listened—if there was a God. Or else he’d decided I was an opportunist who only prayed when she wanted something. That was the more likely scenario. I’d prayed briefly when Tom had gotten into trouble with the insurance fraud, but it was halfhearted, as if I knew it wasn’t going to help.
Since Tom’s conviction, I hadn’t prayed for anything. Why bother? And I hadn’t thought much about God either, not even in the height of the storm when I wasn’t sure Lucky and I would make it to that porch.
But I was thankful to God tonight, because He was taking good care of my brother. I was thankful, but I was lonesome.
How I missed Clark, his funny smile and silly giggle. My forty-two-year-old kindergarten kid. How long would it be before I saw him again?
I know it seems stupid, me getting all teary-eyed missing my brother. If I’d followed through with my suicide plan I would never have seen him again. But I wasn’t suicidal anymore. The moment had passed. That wasn’t to say it might not come again. But the impulse had subsided just as the opportunity had.
Beside me, Lucky woofed in his sleep and his feet twitched in hot pursuit of some dream squirrel or cat. I turned to face him, grateful to have him with me. If he hadn’t slammed into my windshield…
Closing my eyes, I vowed not to go there. Life was what it was. From now on I wouldn’t look back with regret. One day at a time, that was my new mantra—more stuff left over from rehab and my forced participation in AA. I’d hated every minute of it, resented being stuck in the same category as some of the really down-and-out folks who straggled into the meetings. At the same time, I’d resented the presence of the longtime sober ones who lived and breathed AA.
But as much as I hated to admit it, AA did have a few good points. Like that one-day-at-a-time thing.
A mosquito buzzed near my ear and I swatted blindly at it. One day at a time. I’d lost track of the days though. How many weeks since Hurricane Katrina had wiped out the whole damned Gulf Coast? Since I’d abandoned my suicide plan? Since I’d had a drink?
And how long since I’d met Ben—or should I say since I’d stepped back into nursing mode?
So which one was it that had me happier than I’d been in years: the teetotaling, the job or the man?
I actually smiled as I admitted to myself that I didn’t know. And I didn’t much care. I was bathing in a swimming pool and living without electricity, but I felt really good these days. Needed. And that was enough for me.
The next day we needed every helping hand we could get. Word had gotten around, as it always does, and