All the way into Charlottesville, until I was parking in the hospital lot, Melodie trembled, sobbed and tried to convince me she'd harm Jory more than she'd help him. And all the way, I'd tried to give her confidence that she could handle the situation.
"Please, Melodie, walk into that room with a smile. Put on your nobility, that regal princess air that you used to wear all the time. Then when you're near his bed, take him in your arms and kiss him."
Numbly she nodded, as a terrified child would.
I shoved the roses I'd purchased into her arms, and other gifts I'd wrapped prettily, one she'd chosen to give him after Bart's party. "Now, tell him you haven't been before because you've been feeling weak, sleepy and sick. Tell him all your other concerns if you want to. But don't you dare even hint that you can't feel toward him like a wife anymore."
Like a blind, automated robot she nodded stiffly, forcing herself to keep pace with me.
We ran into Chris coming down the hall as we left the elevator on the sixth floor. He beamed happily to see Melodie with me. "How wonderful, Melodic," he said, giving her a quick hug before he turned to me. "I went out and bought Jory his dinner, and enough for me as well. He's in a fairly good mood. He drank all his milk and ate two bites of the pecan pie. And usually he adores pecan pie. Melodie, if you can, try to see that he eats more of that pie. He's losing weight rapidly, and I'd like to see him gain some back."
Still speechless, her eyes wide and blank, Melodie nodded, looking toward the door numbered 606 as if she faced the electric chair. Chris gave her a friendly, understanding pat on her back, kissed me, then strode off. "I'm going to talk to his doctors. I will join you later on and follow you home in my car."
For the life of me I couldn't feel confident as I ushered Melodie toward Jory's closed door. He had a privacy fetish about keeping his door closed at all times so no one could see a former premier danseur lying helpless on his bed. I rapped once, then twice, our signal. "Jory, it's only I, your mother."
"Come in, Mom," he called with more welcome than he'd used before. "Dad told me you'd be showing up any second. I hope you brought me a good book to read. I've finished--"
He broke off and stared as I shoved Melodie into his room first.
Because I'd called Chris to tell him my plans, Chris had helped Jory out of his hospital garment, and he was now wearing
a blue silk pajama top. His hair was neatly brushed, his face was clean shaven and he'd had his first haircut since his accident. He looked better than he had since that horrible night.
He tried to smile. Hope flared in his eyes, so glad to see her again.
She stood where I'd pushed her and didn't take another step toward his bed. This caused his tentative smile to freeze on his face as he tried to hide his hunger . . . his faltering flame of hope as his eyes tried to meet with hers. She refused to meet his eyes. Quickly the smile vanished as the flame in his eyes sputtered, flickered, then went out. Dead eyes now. He turned his face toward the wall.
Instantly I stepped up behind Melodie, pushing her toward his bed, before I moved to see what she was revealing on her face. She stood there with her arms full of red roses and gifts, rooted to the floor and trembling like an aspen tree in a high wind. I gave her a sharp nudge. "Say something," I whispered.
"Hi, Jory," she said in a quivery, small voice, her eyes desperate. I shoved her closer to him. "I've brought you roses . . ." she added.
Still he kept his face to the wall.
Again I nudged her, thinking I should get out and leave them alone; yet I feared the minute I did she'd whirl about and run.
"I'm sorry I haven't visited before," she said in a stumbling way, inching bit by bit closer to his bed. "I've also brought you gifts . . . a few things your mother said you needed."
He whipped his head about, his dark blue eyes full of smoldering rage and resentment. "And my mother forced you to come, right? Well, you don't have to stay. You've delivered your roses and your gifts--now GET OUT!"
Melodie broke, dropping the roses onto his bed, her gifts to the floor. She cried out as she tried to take his hand, a hand he quickly snatched away. "I love you, Jory . . . and I'm sorry, so sorry . . ."
"I don't doubt for a minute you are sorry!" he shouted. "So sorry to see all the glamour disappear in a flashing moment, and now you're stuck with a crippled husband! Well, you're not stuck, Melodie! You can file for divorce tomorrow and leave!"
Backing toward the door, I was filled with pity for him--and for her. Gently I eased out but left the door ajar just enough to hear and see what went on. I was so afraid Melodie would take this chance to leave, or else she'd do something to kill his desire to live . . . and if I could, I would do anything to stop her.
One by one Melodie picked up the fallen roses. She threw old, dying flowers into the trash basket, filled the vase with water in the small adjacent bath, then carefully arranged the red roses, so carefully, taking so long, as if just by doing something she could hold off destroying him When she'd done that, she turned again to the bed and picked up the three gifts. "Don't you want to open them?" she asked weakly.
"I don't need anything," he said flatly, again staring at the wall so she saw only the back of his curly head.
From somewhere she drew courage. "I think you'll like what's inside. I've heard you say many a time what you wanted . . ."
"All I ever wanted was to dance until I was forty," he choked'out. "Now that is over, and I don't need a wife or a dance partner, I don't need or want anything."
She put the gifts on the bed and stood there wringing her pale, thin hands, her silent tears beginning to fall. "I love you, Jory," she choked. "I want to do everything right, but I'm not brave like your mother and father, and that's why I didn't visit before. Your mother wanted me to say I was sick, unable to come, but I could have come. I stayed in that house and cried, hoping I could find the strength I needed to smile when I did eventually come. I'm coming apart with shame for being weak, for not doing all I should for you when you need me . . . and the longer I stayed away, the harder it became for me to show up. I feared you wouldn't talk to me, wouldn't look at me, and I'd do something stupid to make you hate me. I don't want a divorce, Jory. I'm still your wife. Chris took me to an obstetrician yesterday, and our baby is progressing normally."
Pausing, she tentatively reached to touch his arm, He jerked spasmodically, as if her hand burned, but he didn't snatch his arm away--she snatched hers.
From where I stood in the hallway, I could see enough of Jory's face to know he was crying and trying hard not to let Melodie know that. Tears were in my eyes, too, as I cringed there, feeling a sneaky intruder who had no right to watch and listen. Even so I couldn't move away, when I'd moved from Julian's side only to find him dead the next time I looked. Like father, like son, like father like son beat the unhappy tattoo of the drums of fear in my head.