From Stories from Jones Farm
Copyright May 1992
[Part 2]
Alice was busy folding
washcloths upstairs, so I picked up Nicky out of his playpen in the living room
and had just buckled him into his highchair in the kitchen and sprinkled a
few Cheerios into his tray when I heard the most terrible THUD I had ever heard
in my life. I must have been up the stairs in two seconds flat.
As I got to the top of
the stairs, I could see the seven-day chest lying on top of Alice as she sank
into the covers of the comforter. A tiny writing desk that folded out above the
seven drawers had saved her life by keeping the piece from falling flat on the
floor. Now the writing desk, just above her head, was holding the piece off the
floor at an angle that protected Alice. The thick comforter, too, was protecting
her to some extent, but the writing desk hinge had burst upon impact and wouldn’t
holding indefinitely.
My mind flashed to the INCREDIBLE HULK series where David
Banner had tried to lift a car off his wife pinned underneath. I knew I could
lift it. This was the piece of furniture that Alice’s Godfather, Jerry, in Iowa
had once teased us about and called “the coffin” as he’d helped us load it into
a U-Haul. It was an awkward piece made of solid pecan with smooth sides. I
wished Alice’s Godmother, LouAnn, a nurse, could be beside me at this moment. I
grasped the middle, and as I gave it a mighty lift, it flipped easily away from
Alice. I guess that was the problem, with the right tug even Alice could flip
it over, and her toy jump rope was tangled in one of the drawer handles.
At the first sight of her
little face, relief and thanksgiving washed over me. She was not bleeding and
was conscious. The first danger was past, but the second danger—going into shock—was
still a possibility. Having been reared in a medical family, I immediately went
to medical calm and spoke quietly, trying not to let Alice know how scared I
was.
“Are you okay, Alice?” I
asked gently.
“Get Cat,” she said.
“Oh,
thank you, Lord,” I said silently. “she can still talk.”
“Do
you think you can stand up, Alice?” I asked.
She
let me help her to her feet. At her age her bones were mostly cartilage, and
she could survive more than an adult could; but I remembered seeing a QUINCY rerun the night before. In it a boxer
had suffered a break to the septum of his nose in one fight, so that a slight
jarring to his nose in a second fight had killed him. I knew something could be broken and bleeding inside Alice where I
couldn’t see. I gently picked her up and moved as quickly as I could down the
steps and out to the car, jarring her as little as possible and placing her in
the middle of the front seat. I was afraid to leave her side but had to get
Nicky.
“Sit
very still, Alice,” I said, “and I’ll get Nicky.”
“Get
Cat,” Alice said
Cat
was Alice’s favorite stuffed animal. He was flat, quilted, and made of calico
fabric in a cat shape about nine inches high and five inches wide. She liked to carry him around with her and to “feed” him
baby food at the table. That meant that half the time he was in the wash. I
unbuckled Nicky from his high chair, and in a quick scan didn’t see Cat, so I picked
up another favorite, a Raggedy Andy stuffed pillow. I had heard of children in
the hospital holding onto a stuffed animal until they died, but I couldn’t let
myself think of that. I had to drive.
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