Read Online The Wife Tree by Dorothy Speak - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dorothy Speak
Ads: Link
him, and he closed his eyes once more and seemed to sleep, though differently now, for his colour was brighter and there was a glimmer of life and intelligence in his face.
The nurse noticed my weeping. I hardly knew myself what to make of my tears.
“I’m sorry,” I said, wondering if she thought I didn’t welcome William’s revival.
“We put up these walls to protect ourselves against what we fear is going to happen,” she said, gently, “and then things change, events take us by surprise. We hardly know what to feel, do we? It’s confusing.”
“Yes.”
October 30
Dear girls,
…Since your father regained consciousness, he has slept less, and is able to sit up in bed, though they keep the tubes in him. Still, though I’ve encouraged him to talk, he remains silent. Finally I asked one of the nurses, William isn’t speaking. Is he ever going to talk again?
We don’t know at this point, she said, smiling at me kindly. Maybe he simply hasn’t anything to say to us yet. Try to be patient, Mrs. Hazzard. Silence can be a great healer.
I considered this for a while, but when I went into your father’s room in the afternoon, I felt very cold toward him, because possibly, I thought, this is deliberate and William has decided to stop talking to me, just as all those times in the past he hasn’t found me intelligent enough to converse with. I reflected to myself: Why, Morgan, do you sit here begging William to speak, because isn’t that just what you’ve done all your life? And I remembered that he’d once said to me, Silence is power, Morgan…
Dear girls,
…Yesterday I tried to read one of my books aloud to your father, thinking it would distract him from his solitude, but my voice came out so thin and wavery, like a fading radio signal, that it frightened me and I stopped. A good thing too, probably, because your father, looking up from a copy of
The Fall of Rome
or
A History of the World
or
The Life and Times of Charlemagne
, used to say to me,How can you waste your time on those shallow romances, Morgan? Don’t you see they’re just trash? Why can’t you pick up something that will feed your mind? Which surprised me, of course, because it always seemed to me he thought he had a monopoly on brains…
Dear girls,
…Do you ever think of the picture of the Garden of Gethsemane that hung all those years on our living-room wall? Your father never wanted it there. He said it was a portrait in cowardice: that Christ escaped to the garden the night of the Last Supper because he couldn’t face the mission he’d been given. And if there was one thing your father couldn’t stand it was weakness. When he swung his axe the night of the stroke, he struck Christ down before Judas had a chance to arrive in the garden and offer his betraying kiss. And now, like the soldier who lost his ear to Peter’s sword, your father seems to have lost his voice…
October 31
Dear girls,
…This afternoon, remembering that Hallowe’en had arrived, I brought out the brown sugar and the corn syrup to make a batch of fudge. By five o’clock it was dark. I sat down expectantly in your father’s chair with the plate of fudge balanced on my knee and listened to the hours ticking away. Eight o’clock arrived and at last I heard aknock. I hurried to the door and flung it open. A girl of twelve or so stood on the porch. I’ve waited all night for a child, I told her. She was wearing a short skirt, black ankle boots, a puffy silver jacket, a silver helmet. You’ve had an accident, I observed. Blood was running from her knee.
There was a porch without a rail, the girl told me. Two doors back. I didn’t notice. It was dark. They didn’t even have candy to give out. They’re renovating, they said.
Come in and let me help you.
I’m all right, she told me. It doesn’t hurt.
Let me at least wash the blood off.
I led her in and sat her down at the kitchen table. I’ll see if I have a Band-Aid, I said. I went to the
The nurse noticed my weeping. I hardly knew myself what to make of my tears.
“I’m sorry,” I said, wondering if she thought I didn’t welcome William’s revival.
“We put up these walls to protect ourselves against what we fear is going to happen,” she said, gently, “and then things change, events take us by surprise. We hardly know what to feel, do we? It’s confusing.”
“Yes.”
October 30
Dear girls,
…Since your father regained consciousness, he has slept less, and is able to sit up in bed, though they keep the tubes in him. Still, though I’ve encouraged him to talk, he remains silent. Finally I asked one of the nurses, William isn’t speaking. Is he ever going to talk again?
We don’t know at this point, she said, smiling at me kindly. Maybe he simply hasn’t anything to say to us yet. Try to be patient, Mrs. Hazzard. Silence can be a great healer.
I considered this for a while, but when I went into your father’s room in the afternoon, I felt very cold toward him, because possibly, I thought, this is deliberate and William has decided to stop talking to me, just as all those times in the past he hasn’t found me intelligent enough to converse with. I reflected to myself: Why, Morgan, do you sit here begging William to speak, because isn’t that just what you’ve done all your life? And I remembered that he’d once said to me, Silence is power, Morgan…
Dear girls,
…Yesterday I tried to read one of my books aloud to your father, thinking it would distract him from his solitude, but my voice came out so thin and wavery, like a fading radio signal, that it frightened me and I stopped. A good thing too, probably, because your father, looking up from a copy of
The Fall of Rome
or
A History of the World
or
The Life and Times of Charlemagne
, used to say to me,How can you waste your time on those shallow romances, Morgan? Don’t you see they’re just trash? Why can’t you pick up something that will feed your mind? Which surprised me, of course, because it always seemed to me he thought he had a monopoly on brains…
Dear girls,
…Do you ever think of the picture of the Garden of Gethsemane that hung all those years on our living-room wall? Your father never wanted it there. He said it was a portrait in cowardice: that Christ escaped to the garden the night of the Last Supper because he couldn’t face the mission he’d been given. And if there was one thing your father couldn’t stand it was weakness. When he swung his axe the night of the stroke, he struck Christ down before Judas had a chance to arrive in the garden and offer his betraying kiss. And now, like the soldier who lost his ear to Peter’s sword, your father seems to have lost his voice…
October 31
Dear girls,
…This afternoon, remembering that Hallowe’en had arrived, I brought out the brown sugar and the corn syrup to make a batch of fudge. By five o’clock it was dark. I sat down expectantly in your father’s chair with the plate of fudge balanced on my knee and listened to the hours ticking away. Eight o’clock arrived and at last I heard aknock. I hurried to the door and flung it open. A girl of twelve or so stood on the porch. I’ve waited all night for a child, I told her. She was wearing a short skirt, black ankle boots, a puffy silver jacket, a silver helmet. You’ve had an accident, I observed. Blood was running from her knee.
There was a porch without a rail, the girl told me. Two doors back. I didn’t notice. It was dark. They didn’t even have candy to give out. They’re renovating, they said.
Come in and let me help you.
I’m all right, she told me. It doesn’t hurt.
Let me at least wash the blood off.
I led her in and sat her down at the kitchen table. I’ll see if I have a Band-Aid, I said. I went to the
Similar Books
