When all the others
Have gone and hurt you
Who won't desert you?
Oh, it will be me
Weighing the options
So much to think of
But when you think love
It will be me
You may not see it now
Love is strange that way
But someday, someway, baby somehow
When you've been broken
And dreams don't oblige ya
Who's that beside ya?
Oh, it will be me
--Kristin Chenoweth, "It Will Be Me"
IT WILL BE ME
The hospital was beginning to feel like home. In three days, Joan had already developed a reputation with the staff. That bossy girl who thinks she knows more than we do. But she received good-natured smiles in the hall, and no one could fault her for wanting the best treatment possible for her friend, who had a steady stream of visitors each afternoon and well into the evening, though none as faithful as Joan.
Ruthie's condition wasn't serious. At least that's what the kind strawberry-blonde woman named Dr. Wilbur said. Under normal circumstances a hospital stay wouldn't have been necessary at all. But given the pregnancy and the physical and emotional stress of the mother, not to mention two trips to the ER within the span of an hour, rest and observation were prescribed. And rest Ruthie did. If not for the comings and goings of nearly half the Arcadia High student body and many of the teachers too, she might have done nothing but sleep.
Nobody reprimanded Joan for skipping school to be with Ruthie. In fact, Helen gave her blessing, and Grace used it as an excuse to cut class also, hanging out in the cafeteria and allowing Joan to drag her to the second floor just once, where she had her first real introduction to her neighbor. Awkward though it was, Ruthie put everyone at ease and thanked Grace without saying what for, asking that word be passed on to Rabbi Polonski.
Later, when they were alone, Grace told Joan that Ruthie "turned out cooler than I expected."
A bit less reserved, the sentiments expressed in dozens of cards and notes accompanied by floral arrangements decorated Ruthie's room and proved how much of an impact she had made in a relatively short amount of time. "To our favorite teacher" said one noticeable card with purple and green hearts on the front, and skeins of glitter. Inside, carefully printed in ink that matched the cover, were the lines of an ABBA song:
Thank you for the music
The songs I'm singing
Thanks for all the joy
They're bringing
Who can live without it?
I ask in all honesty
What would life be
Without a song or a dance what are we
So I say thank you for the music
For giving it to me
"Love, Dorothy & Jennifer," it was signed. Ruthie made quite a fuss over the girls when they dropped it off, each bearing a white rose and heart-shaped balloon. She kept the gifts next to her bedside, along with the fluffy teddy bear Friedman had delivered under the watchful eye of Joan, his conversation stilted and his body language apologetic. Ruthie was gracious with him and all the others, but, afterwards, her sighs were wistful, silences deep. "I didn't know," Joan remembered telling her. Before. "I didn't want you to," Ruthie had replied.
That seemed like years ago rather than a few weeks. Joan felt a decade older and stripped of some innocence she couldn't get back, maybe didn't want back. She had given up wishing time could be reversed so her and Ruthie's friendship wouldn't be bogged down in secrecy. The secret was over, and they had surpassed the mere title of "friend." Their bond went to the core, forged in flesh and blood -- they would have the scars to prove it. It took five stitches to mend Ruthie's chin, five more to lace the gash at Joan's left cheekbone. As if they were completing a set, evening out each other's pain.
"After a while you'll forget it's there," Dr. Wilbur had said to Ruthie, busy suturing, referring to the inevitable flaw her handiwork would leave behind.
Joan doubted the truth of that.
On the last day at the hospital, she sat in the ugly brown upholstered chair she had grown attached to, a sorry piece of furniture but a comfy one, and she watched Ruthie sleep, her eyes wandering over the zigzag of thread. When that was snipped away, the imprint would run from below Ruthie's chin and curve upward just enough to be visible without her tilting her head back. The bruises were already healing, if taking on the appearance of damaged fruit could be called healing. But the scar. It was hers to keep... for always.
Delicately, Joan reached to brush aside a lock of Ruthie's hair. Didn't need to be done, but she did it anyway.
"Hmm?" Ruthie stirred from her catlike position, body curled in on itself, an arm draped carelessly - no, protectively - across her belly. She pointed her toes below the bed covers, stretching. Her eyes were the last thing to move, lazy as they opened to see who had disturbed her. "Joanie," she said, and smiled.
An odd desire to laugh and cry passed through Joan. She wasn't a spontaneous hugger, but she had the sudden urge to be. Ruthie wouldn't object, no question there. Still, Joan settled for returning the smile. "You know, nobody ever called me that, even when I was little," she said.
"It doesn't bother you, does it?"
"Nope." Definitely not. "But you're the only one allowed to use it. You and the kids."
"Well, of course. You're our Joanie."
"Unchallenged."
When Ruthie's drowsy blinking had stopped and she was situated more comfortably against the inclined mattress, Joan handed her a small gift bag with pink and orange bubble designs and tissue paper blooming from the top.
"Brought you this. It's kind of a... 'going home this afternoon' present... thing."
"Aww. Thanks, darlin'," Ruthie said, before she had seen the bag's contents. Eager as a child on Christmas morning, she rummaged inside with her good hand and jiggled until it reappeared holding a figurine -- a tiny angel that fit the length of her palm and fingers.
"They sell those in a shop across from where I work. Every time I go by the window display, I think of you."
Ruthie traced her thumb over the resin figure's intricate details -- the girlish body clothed in a pink tunic and flowing white skirt, the realistic face and short-cropped hair adorned by a flower chain instead of a halo, the wings that resembled a cream-colored butterfly.
"There's a whole bunch of them. A couple different series, like one for each month and stuff. She's not any certain month, though. I just liked her." Joan left out that she had intended to buy November, then changed her mind because, of the collection, it was one of the few angels on its knees rather than standing. For reasons she didn't dwell on, she couldn't bring herself to purchase it.
Ruthie hadn't looked up yet.
Joan fretted her bottom lip. "I'm sorry," she finally said. "I should've got you something else..."
"No. She's beautiful." Ruthie drew the angel to her chest, held it there. "I love her."
The words were heartfelt, the expression sincere. Joan watched for tears, but none came. It occurred to her she had begun to anticipate the crying as often as she used to wait for the laughter. But the past three days had seen very little emotion from Ruthie. She didn't weep when the woman doctor looked grim and took an eternity longer than God to discover a heartbeat on the fetal monitor. Neither did she react to Charlie's announcement, "Daddy gived Mama owwie," after he and June got their first glimpse of her, of the outcome to their nightmare. ("Where's Daddy?" he had added, gazing around the room, from Ruthie in her hospital bed to Joan in the ugly chair.) And she hadn't responded to the news of Donovan, either. Donovan who died on a gurney while she lay on one too. Donovan whose heart quit pumping while his unborn baby's kept going strong. Donovan who could never harm his wife again.
"I can't. Not yet," Ruthie had said, when Joan assured her it was okay to speak of him, to voice any thought or feeling. Hand over her chest, same as now, she gave the explanation: "I'm afraid of what I'll find."
Joan didn't push.
"Whatcha thinkin'?" Ruthie tipped her head and peered at Joan.
"Oh, nothin'."
Ruthie carefully set the angel on the table next to her then patted the empty space on the bed, near her hip. "Come sit by me."
Ready and willing, Joan obliged. It made up for the missed hug, getting to snuggle in beside Ruthie, having her cuddle even closer. She had lost weight. A whopping two pounds, she joked, as if promoting a miracle diet. But Dr. Wilbur warned that ninety-two was an unhealthy weight for her, naturally tiny or not, and for the baby. Joan could tell why as she slipped an arm around Ruthie and felt how frail she was.
"Did you eat breakfast?"
"Mm-hmm," Ruthie replied, playing with Joan's fingers. She noticed the stern look directed her way, and teased, "Yes, Mother."
"How's the Little Bee treating you?"
"Pretty good." Ruthie patted her stomach. "Doesn't much care for eggs though. Just like-"
Joan held her breath, but Ruthie moved on.
"How's your dad?"
"He's fine. Back to work. He said to tell you hello."
"And your mom? How's she?"
"She's... painting a lot."
"She didn't visit yesterday." The statement was soft, hard to hear. "I hoped she'd come today."
Joan watched as her thumb ring was twisted round and round by Ruthie.
After a moment, Ruthie glanced up, her head light against the cushiony spot on Joan's shoulder, her eyes a shade greener than usual. Like slick wet grass, following a heavy rain. "Is she mad at me?" she asked timidly.
"There's no reason for her to be mad at you, Ruthie. I think she's worried you're mad at her."
"But I'm not. If she hadn't..." Trailing off, Ruthie touched the backs of her fingers to Joan's temple, where skin and hair converged, almost concealing the patch of violet, the faint swelling. Her face was remorseful as she stroked Joan's, cautious of the stitches. "You tell her I want to see her."
They talked on, discussing the plans for that afternoon, Ruthie's eagerness to be reunited with June and Charlie, whose days were split between the nanny in the morning and the Girardis at night, and her excitement for her mother's arrival on a flight from Tulsa. Deedee Sullivan, by all accounts, sounded like a force of nature, and Joan couldn't wait to meet her. But something about the way Ruthie spoke of Deedee now, the name rolling off her tongue as if it were the solution to a well-pondered equation, bothered Joan. Without knowing why, she dreaded what would come as the chatter faded.
First, Ruthie cleared her throat, then she did it again. "Joan," she began, and went ahead shakily when there was no answer, "I've been doing a lot of thinking... about what the kids and I should do now that it's just us. I've never actually been on my own before. I lived with my mom until I got married and then Don and I- well, he made his plans and I followed them. It was his idea to move to Maryland. He has family here."
"Had," Joan said, voice catching on the small word.
Ruthie nodded. "But my family. Mama and I haven't seen each other in almost a year. He made it difficult for her and me to spend time together. She barely knows her grandkids. And with everything else that's happened, and with the baby coming..."
Joan wouldn't gaze down though Ruthie waited.
"I've decided we'll probably move back to Tulsa, get a place near my mom. Things would be easier there."
The bump on Joan's head throbbed as if she had gotten socked a second time. She had feared this. Oh, she was used to people coming in and out of her life, creating a relationship only to have it drift away when her job was done, like tossing bottles into the sea, notes inside that might someday get a reply but most likely wouldn't. Why, though, did she have to lose the important ones - the Rockys, the Judiths, the Adams, the Ruthies - people whose lives touched hers as much as, or more than, she theirs? If being an instrument of God meant having to say goodbye to those she loved best, then it wasn't worth it. God could find a new instrument.
"No," Joan said, aware she was pouting, but not caring.
"I don't mean right away. I want June and Charlie to at least have a normal Christmas. I'd wait till after-"
"No."
"Joanie, honey-"
"What about the choir? We've got that competition in January. You have to be there. Everyone's looking forward to it, and you know how hard we've worked."
"I could stay for that."
"Yeah, but then it will be, like, the dead of winter. You can't move then. And when winter's over with, you'll be, what, four months along? You really wanna go from Maryland to Oklahoma and haul all your stuff, too, while you're that pregnant? So, you wait till after Bee comes, but by then it'll be almost time for June to start school. She already knows people here, it'll be scarier for her if she has to go someplace new and go to school for the first time."
Ruthie chewed at her thumbnail.
"It doesn't have to be complicated here. You've got a job, your house, a bunch of students who'd be really sad to see you go. If you need help with the kids, I'll always be around. You wouldn't have to pay me to watch them or anything. And my mom would help out. So, see, you won't be alone. I know I'm not family, but..." Joan's chin quivered, working as a trigger, her eyes suddenly awash with tears. "I do love you, and that counts for something, right? Look at what we've been through together." She tried wiping away the tears as they ran into her stitches. "If that's not enough, you could- you could ask your mom to move here... Please don't go, Ruthie."
"Oh." Ruthie didn't sound able to manage much else. She guided Joan's head to her shoulder, their positions reversed, and planted several kisses onto the mane of dark hair until the sobs quieted. "Good gracious," she said, and laugh-sighed. "Break my heart, why don't you?"
"Sorry." Joan's feeble attempt at a laugh died before it hit the air. She snuffled, collecting herself, and drew back, hoping for a change, a yes, I'll stay. You win, Joan. I will never leave you.
Dry-eyed, Ruthie said none of those things. What she did say was a soft and sweet, "I love you too," that would have incited more crying from Joan, had there not come a tapping on the hospital room door as it was eased open.
"Knock, knock." The owner of the lilting voice, a brunette woman Joan didn't recognize, peeked around the door, caught sight of Ruthie, and wasted no time crossing to the bedside and enveloping her in a hug that - after she exclaimed, "Mama!" - made Ruthie wheeze, "Sweetie, I can't breathe."
"Oh, baby girl, baby girl." Deedee Sullivan didn't let go. She patted and caressed Ruthie's back, rocking her from side to side in a pair of slender yet capable arms.
"You're here early," Ruthie said, when they separated, but she was hard to understand, panting as if she had just completed a vigorous exercise and talking through lips that were puckered together between Deedee's fingers, primed for kissing.
Smooch. "I found myself a better flight. I couldn't just sit around on my hands while my little girl needed me." Smooch, smooch. Deedee's eyes blazed as she tilted her daughter's face upwards, studying the injuries, tucking blonde hair behind dainty ears, pecking Ruthie on the forehead. "That monster," she growled through clenched teeth, as intense in her fury as she was in her affection. "So help me God, I would kill him if he wasn't already dead."
"Mama."
"I can't believe I didn't know. All these years..."
"It doesn't matter now."
"You were only nineteen, a baby. I shouldn't have let you marry him. Strutting around like an ol' peacock, that nasty smirk, always eyeing you up. I wanted to break his fingers every time he touched you. And I was still too damn blind and stupid to figure it out. I'm sorry, darlin'. I'm so sorry."
"Don't say that," Ruthie scolded gently. But she allowed herself to be embraced again, sinking so deep into the folds of Deedee's festive turtleneck and sweater set that she had to repeat, "Mama, we're being rude to Joan," because the first was too muffled.
"No, it's okay." Joan had inched off the bed and stood next to it. "I think I'll go find a snack or something and let you guys catch up."
Deedee had other plans. "This is Joan?" she asked, grinning as she helped Ruthie towards her pillow and bustled to the opposite side of the bed, clacking up a storm in tan loafers. "Girl, you are just the person I've had a hankerin' to meet. Ruthie told me all about you on the phone. I'm her mama, Deedee. And you are every bit the doll she said you'd be. Look at that face."
Not only did Deedee look at it, she took hold and kissed it too, smack on the mouth, as she had done with Ruthie.
"Um, h-hi," Joan said, giggling uncertainly, making Ruthie snicker in a mischievous "I warned you" way.
Deedee had russet brown hair with a coppery sheen and penny-brown eyes to match. She was bigger than her daughter, but not much. And apart from her higher, sharply defined cheekbones, she had the same ageless features, whether she was young or old anybody's guess, and the same button nose and chin. But it was the smile which confirmed her as Ruthie's mother -- wide and ready, full of straight teeth, the two in front a hint more pronounced, adding youthful charm to the dazzle of white. She flashed it, that killer smile, and said, "All right, Miss Joan, back me up on something. This child of mine is entirely too thin, isn't she? She's a twig! You and I are gonna have to get her good 'n' fat."
Whatever resentment had been building for the woman who might take Ruthie away, Joan placed it aside right then. "Dude, I know," she agreed, glad to have someone in cahoots with her. "I keep bringing her candy bars, but she claims Bee doesn't like them. Seems to me there's not much Bee does like."
Ruthie clucked her tongue but had no defense.
"Who's Bea?" Deedee asked.
"Bee, Mama. As in buzz, buzz," Ruthie said, dreamy, her eyelashes fluttering closed for a moment as she enjoyed the feel of Deedee's palm gliding over her hair, loving and harmless.
"Oh." Deedee nodded as if she understood, then wrinkled her nose, perplexed, and glanced to Joan. "Huh?"
"That's what we nicknamed the baby. 'Cause the doctor compared her to a honeybee on the sonogram. And it's better than calling her-"
"Or him," Ruthie put in.
"- calling her 'it.' And I'm telling you, it's going to be a girl. You'll see."
"If you say so."
"I do."
Deedee held a silencing finger in the air, pretending to listen for an answer, her hand on the meager stretch of blanket with Ruthie's belly underneath. "Yep," she said, a second later, "Joan's got it. You're having a girl. And she'll be the spittin' image of her Mamaw Dee, personality included."
"Oh, Lord," Ruthie drawled, and received a light swat on the thigh. Her adoration for Deedee was obvious as they exchanged grins, and again Joan felt like an intruder.
"Speaking of my grandbabies. How are June Amelia and Charles Henry? Still ornery as stink?"
"Charlie's a wild man. Just your style. You won't believe it, Mama, he's gotten so big. The rate he's going, he'll be taller than me by kindergarten." Ruthie sat forward, the topic of her children enlivening her, brightening the twinkle Deedee's arrival had ignited in her eyes. "And June... she's perfect. All she's missing are some wings."
"The apple didn't fall far from the tree."
"Exactly."
"My angel of music here ever tell you the story 'bout the time she tried to fly?" Deedee asked Joan, while gesturing to Ruthie.
"Nope." Joan cast a sly gaze at Ruthie, who had groaned and made a show of not wanting to hear another word. She egged Deedee on with an inverted wave. Let's have it.
"Well, it was a few days after a dance recital she had participated in. You ever seen her dance? I oughta make her get out of bed and wiggle that fanny right this minute, much as I paid for them lessons. Tap, jazz, ballet, gymnastics -- it's a wonder I didn't end up in the poor house."
"Boohoo, Momma Rose," Ruthie added.
"Hush." Deedee kissed her fingertip and pressed it to her daughter's lips, leaving it there until Ruthie giggled and shooed her away. "Anyhow. For one of the routines, she had an itty bitty angel costume to wear -- white leotard that rode up and kept her diggin' through the whole song-"
"Mama!"
"-long mesh tutu full of snags five seconds after she put it on, her brown curls going flat under that droopy tinsel halo. She was the most adorable child on stage, stole the show. I have photos and video, if you're interested."
"Oh, indubitably," Joan said.
"Traitor," Ruthie accused. "Remind me later to tell you what I know of you and a certain gentleman named Mr. Claus."
Joan gasped a perfect horror-stricken gasp, the type directors such as Wes Craven strive to create, but Deedee hadn't finished.
"Afterwards she wouldn't change out of that costume, come hell or high water. She wore it three days straight, and finally I told her, 'Ruthie Anne, either put something else on or run around nekked, 'cause that's going in the wash.' So she says to me, all sweet and innocent-" Deedee batted her eyelashes, raising her voice to a childish timbre not unlike her own, "'Okay, Mama, but let me try this one thing. Then you can have it.'"
Ruthie's attempt to hide her amusement produced a quiet snort.
"Being the trusting soul I am, I let her have her way. And what happens? 'Bout ten minutes later, I'm standing in the kitchen and I hear the pitter-patter of tiny Ruthie feet up on the roof. Except, I don't know that's what it is, not yet. No, I happen to be by the window, and I look out expecting to see the sky falling. Instead, I see my baby girl hurtling through thin air and landing in the bushes thirty feet below."
Ruthie snorted again, louder, her free shoulder bouncing with suppressed giggles. "You add five feet each time you tell this."
"Was she hurt?" Joan asked.
"Yes, ma'am. Broke her leg and missed too many classes to be in the next recital. Which was probably a blessing since her costume for that would've been a mermaid -- don't ask me how it worked. I hate to think what she might have done in that one."
"Now Mama, I told you why I did it."
"That's right," Deedee informed Joan. "She was all laid up in a hospital bed, leg in a cast, and I asked, 'Darlin', what on earth possessed you to jump off the roof?' She looked at me with those big gorgeous eyes. 'It wadn't Earth, Mama, it was Heaven. You always say I came from there. I just wanted to fly home for a bit so they won't miss me.'"
"Awwwww." Joan had the scene pictured in her mind, but it required little imagination. She need only distort the years some; the rest was staged before her. More or less. "How old was she?"
"Here's the kicker," Deedee said solemnly, dropping to a whisper that both members of her audience leaned in to hear, "She was seventeen." Index finger near her ear, she began tracing slow, revolving circles, the signal for stark raving madness.
Ruthie flumped against her pillow, head tossed back, peals of tinkly fairy-dust laughter wafting to the ceiling, flitting in and out of Deedee's brassy laugh and Joan's dubious one, a symphony of merry sounds. With the breaths she was able to capture, she declared, "I... was... seven, you fibber!"
"Oh, well, my memory must be poopin' out on me." Deedee winked at Joan, chuckling. Then she turned a tender gaze on Ruthie, heart in her eyes and, judging by the sudden thickness to her voice, in her throat as well. "Seven and goin' to Heaven," she murmured.
"Almost made it there, too, didn't I?" Ruthie said into the palm she had used to cover her face. She hunched forward then, bent at the waist, knees slightly upraised beneath the blanket and close enough she could have rested her forehead on them. A tremor skittered down her back, followed by another, and soon her whole body responded with the aftershock. She reached for Deedee, who was also shaking as she got on the bed. Mother and daughter wrapped themselves into each other like kittens in a litter, personal space a foreign concept, an undesirable one.
For a moment, Joan thought they were still laughing. But there was a sharp intake of air, a high, thin wail, who it came from impossible to tell while their heads were lowered, their hair forming dark and light veils. Just like that, Ruthie's mourning had begun. Joan wondered though... what grief was this? For Donovan? Or for Ruthie herself, the life she had been robbed of for the past eleven years?
The answer would have to wait. Joan's feet were sluggish as they carried her quietly to the door, and she hesitated once, turning to see the spot Deedee filled by Ruthie's side. The very same spot Joan had been in earlier. And, as she stepped into the hall, she vowed to be there again, whenever she was needed.
An old woman was placing a basket of assorted cookies at the edge of the information desk when Joan passed by. Drawing closer, with plans of intercepting a treat from the chocolate chip pile, Joan got a better look at the woman's bob of wheat-colored hair, spectacles under stick-straight bangs, and that unmistakable face.
They stared at each other for a while, Joan and Old Lady God.
"Have one." God tipped the basket towards Joan.
"No, thanks."
"Would you like me to wrap one up for you? For later?"
"If you're trying to bribe me so I won't be mad, you're doing a crappy job of it."
Old Lady God remained placid, hands folded. "I don't bribe. I just know how much you enjoy chocolate chip."
"Yeah, well..." Joan huffed, letting her hands slap against her thighs. Why was she standing here arguing about cookies? "You also know I don't enjoy maniacs breaking into my house and trying to kill my friends. Guess you were too busy baking while that happened, huh?"
"No, I was there. I sat with you and Ruthie on the floor. I was with Helen when she ran for the gun and with June and Charlie while they hid in the darkness. Nothing separates you from me, Joan. Neither death, nor life, nor angels. Not even Donovan Snow. I would never abandon you."
"Tell that to Ruthie."
"She already knows. What do you think has sustained her so long?"
Joan opened her mouth, but no witty response came. She couldn't do that, make light of Ruthie's faith, no matter how much her own was shaken. And though she had saved it and cultivated it for the last three days, she found her anger lacking the passion she originally expected. Frustrated, she leaned on the ledge between her and God, elbows on it, head resting in her palm.
"I'm not going to ask why about a bunch of stuff," she said, after a moment, tapping her pinky to the corner of her mouth. She absent-mindedly inspected the sprigs of lilac on Old Lady God's patterned blouse, connecting them with invisible lines. "I thought I would, but I suppose I have most of it figured out by now."
"You've learned from previous experience."
"Yeah." Lucky me, she almost added then didn't. "Answer me this, though. Did I totally screw this up? Is that why things went so badly?"
"Sometimes things have to get worse before they get better." Old Lady God tipped his head, looking down his nose and out through his spectacles. "You did the best you could, Joan. Stop blaming yourself for the wrongs Donovan committed."
Joan fiddled with a scrap of paper on the desk, bending back its corners. "So... my mom's not in trouble then. For shooting him." She was careful to leave off the question marks, since she had made a big deal of understanding.
"Helen was protecting the people she loves. She didn't intend to kill Donovan, it was just his time to go. She wouldn't be punished for that."
"Is... he being punished?" Joan glanced up briefly.
"That's between Donovan and me."
Yeah, she had expected as much.
"Here," Old Lady God said, digging into the basket and presenting Joan with three of the largest chocolate chip cookies it held. "Take one to Ruthie and Deedee too. They're wondering where you are right about now."
Joan took the sweets, having to use both hands. She tried to smile but frowned instead, on the verge of tears. "So, this is how it ends. I keep losing people until everybody's gone and it's just me, all alone."
God's face softened as he reached to pat Joan's cheek. "You'll never walk alone, remember? And as for the end... that, dear heart, has yet to be written."