CHAPTER EIGHT: Sunday, January 13, 2013, 10:53 a.m.
John was sleeping with very little commotion. Joan didn't know if this was a good or bad thing, but he did seem to be a little less fretful. It horrified her to then start thinking about her son.
Her son had been sick most of his young life. He had been in pain for about as long as he had been alive. She believed her family thought she was not fit enough to care for her own son, so they swarmed around her and him until the day he died.
The morning before he died, he looked peaceful like a little angel. She tried to tell everyone he was about to die, but they put her off, whispering amongst themselves that she was becoming more and more unstable. She knew her little angel was about to die, but her family just hugged her and told her not to worry. They told her his angelic form was a good sign that he was getting better. Her instinct, however, told her that he was going to die soon. And he did.
When he died, she began hating her family for patronizing her with sorrowful glances then turning around and telling her that he was better off now because he was with God. She stopped talking to God at that moment. Then she stopped talking to her family. Then one day she abruptly left her home, leaving no note or forwarding address.
There was no forwarding address. She went under a bridge and wept in the arms of an old homeless lady named Geraldine. Geraldine didn't chastise her for her anger toward God or her family. Geraldine patted her back and let her cry for days.
Joan never returned home.
Reaching out to pat the cool cloth against John's feverish cheeks, Joan couldn't help but think that he had been sent to her—twice now— to give her life a sense of purpose, to connect her to something bigger and more important. She placed her hand on his forehead to see if she could tell if his temperature had changed. She couldn't tell. She had heard through the network to expect a bottle or antibiotics, but she didn't know whether or not they would help his temperature go down. She closed her eyes and leaned against the brick wall her tent was beside.
Several hours later Joan awoke to John shouting. She couldn't understand what he was saying.
"Vy ne slomatʹ menya! YA ne boyusʹ smerti!" John screamed.
"John…John…I do not understand. I don't know what you want," Joan pleaded. She shook him awake. "John…what do you need?"
John's eyes opened and affixed on Joan.
They were both quiet for a few minutes.
"John, what can I do for you?" she quietly asked.
"There were five of them…four men and a woman. They were going to kill an old woman," John whispered.
"Were you trying to stop them from killing her?" Joan asked.
"They were trying to make me talk, but I told them that they could not break me. I am not afraid of death," he answered.
Joan poured some more water on the cloth and continued wiping his face. She noticed that he closed his eyes to her touch. "How about some water?" she asked.
He shook his head up and down a few times.
She left the tent and came back with a bottle of water. She unscrewed the top and nudged it against his right hand. His eyes were still closed. "John, you might not be afraid of death, but I couldn't bear it if you died," she muttered.
"Joan, there's too much left in this world for me to do than to die right now," he responded. With his eyes still closed, he turned up the corners of his mouth to display a small smile for her.
She smiled as she pulled him into her. She had rarely allowed herself to exhibit such a sign of emotion, but John was special to her. She also knew that John was not one to be overly emotional, but it was she who needed him at that moment. She needed to feel like a mother again…she needed to feel connected to the world. She could feel him lightly breathing as she hugged him. "John, I just don't know what else to do for you," she implored.
"You are giving me exactly what I need," John answered quietly. "Okay, then drink some more water. Since you're counting on me to see you through this rough patch, then you need to listen to me…okay?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am," John answered as he drank most of the water in the bottle. "I'm going to fix you something to eat, too, and I want you to eat it," Joan instructed.
John responded with a smile. He lay back down as she left the tent to round up something for Sunday morning breakfast. When she returned a little later, John was back asleep again. She had smeared peanut butter on saltine crackers and had brought the crackers and an apple and some orange juice in a box into the tent for them to share. Shaking his arm with one hand, she held out in front of him a piece of cardboard that served as a plate.
He awoke easily this time. Seeing her, he smiled.
"Scoot up…okay?" she asked.
John sat up and leaned against the brick wall.
She put the cardboard between them. She could tell by his facial expression that he wasn't hungry but was eating out of obligation. "Peanut butter will help you feel stronger. I want you to eat all these crackers," she demanded.
After getting down two peanut butter crackers, John said, "I'm feeling better already." His eyes still drooped, and his flushed cheeks were the only coloring he had.
"John, now it's not nice to lie to an old lady," Joan teased.
As they sat there, bells from the nearby Catholic Church started to ring.
John tilted his head to try to figure out what they were playing.
"They're pretty, aren't they?" Joan asked.
John smiled. "That's the nicest thing I've heard in a long time," he answered.
She nudged his hand with the orange juice box, and he took it from her. He finished the little juice box in several gulps.
"That's good, John. You keep doing this, and you'll be out of here in no time," she said. She had mixed feelings about him leaving, though.