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“You know, of course, we
can’t treat Rhonda any longer unless you leave her here full time.”
My first reaction was one of incredulity.
There was just no way this woman could have made this statement, I was
thinking. Had these people not seen how devoted I was to this little bit
of humanity who was so at risk? How could this woman open her mouth with
such a blasphemous, loose statement? What constituted her thinking to
believe that someone could simply hand over something so precious as their
own blood and to do so with ease? To further abuse a life that already had
been put at risk was beyond my comprehension. My mouth wouldn’t open to
answer her. For a
moment I dropped my eyes to the Swedish lace around Rhonda’s dress.
Something about the power this bit of fabric had to resist stress gave me
strength. Maybe it was only machine made but certainly the original
artisan’s work had been caught and rendered intricately beautiful. It
wasn’t the delicate lace of a Spanish lady but had a heavier and more
durable look to it. I couldn’t have voiced my opinion at the time as to
how I felt about it but for some reason it represented a depth of caring
and desire to create something of value for whoever picked it up and was
to be pleasured by it. Certainly if a cold set of threads could be worked
into an art piece then why couldn’t something as complex as flesh and
blood be valuable?
With no sound made from my voice tears began rushing down the sides of my
face and I was embarrassed but there was no stopping the flow. Without a
word, I stood up and with Rhonda in my arms I turned and walked straight
away from the office, down the hallway, through the front door and to my
car. I don’t remember driving home, changing Rhonda into play clothes, and
leaving the house with her in the stroller. When the strange neighborhood
around me brought the realization that I had been walking for a length a
time and this was the time I began to think.
“I must call Uncle Dennis. He will know what
to do.” I was admitting that this was more than I knew how to handle.
We had not been home but for a short time when
Auntie Pud came to the door. She was the professional and the customary
cigarette the woman always smoked was held casually in one hand.
“The center called and said you left somewhat
abruptly and they were concerned about you.” She was certainly, still
honestly trying to maneuver what she had discovered was a delicate
situation. By this
time I had begun to understand that I was on shaky ground. I had no idea
what was working behind my back and it made me very cautious about what I
said to her. “I am
just very upset at the moment, but I’ll be better. Rod will be home soon
and I’m sure he will help me with all the in’s and outs’ of things.”
“You are depressed?” Auntie wanted to know.
“To be sure.” This statement, at least, was
innocent but very true.
My girl-like behavior Auntie probably defined
as unsophisticated and inexperienced as only a child’s actions might be.
“I’ll leave something to settle you down. You
have been crying. Your face is all swollen.”
As she turned to leave, she pulled a bottle
from her pocket and left it on the top of the television set.
After she left instead of picking up the
bottle I picked up the phone and called home.
“Mom! Did I wake you?” Even as I asked the
question I knew this was true.
“What’s the matter?” Mother was instantly
awake and alert even though I had only spoken one sentence.
“Oh there are things going on here that I’m
not sure I can handle. Do you think you can ask Uncle Dennis to come down?
We continued to talk for a brief time and I
explained what had happened.
“He’ll be there in a little over a couple of
hours,” Mother reassured me.
“There’s no hurry, Rod will be here at five
o’clock.” I didn’t want my uncle to worry.
“Your uncle will be there before that.” |
