“Drunk?”
“Drunk! This early in the day. Drunk!”
“What did he do?”
“Do? He lost control and hit the sidewalk, and instead of pressing down on his brakes, he apparently pressed down on his accelerator and smashed right into them. He couldn’t have done worse if he had done it on purpose,” he said.
“Who is he?” I asked. I just wanted to keep on talking and keep my grandfather talking. My heart was still beating so hard I was sure that if we were silent, he would hear it, too.
“Some rover. Jimmy says he works for Mackingberry’s Plumbing Supply,” he said, and took a breath. “He’ll never work again if I have any say about it,” he added. “And that company won’t do another thing in any home around here if he isn’t immediately fired.”
Grandpa drove so fast that we were only about a minute behind the ambulance. The paramedics and hospital personnel had just carried Willie and Myra into the emergency room. Grandpa pulled into a no-parking zone and bolted out, barely closing his door. I ran to keep up with him. He looked like he would walk right through the emergency room’s glass door rather than take a second to open it. In fact, when he did open it, he nearly ripped it off its hinges. The sight of him, his face flushed, his eyes still burning with rage, stopped people talking.
There were many other adults in the lobby, mostly patients waiting to be seen because of minor accidents or illnesses and some of their relatives or friends. We could see there was a great deal of commotion in the hallways. My grandfather was never one to stand and wait for someone to ask if he needed help. He marched in past the admittance nurse despite her protests, and I followed in his wake.
When one of the doctors stepped out of an examination room and looked at us, Grandpa simply said, “It’s my grandson.”
“Which one?” the doctor replied.
“What?”
“We have two little boys just brought here. One brought by ambulance and one left here by some idi—” He sucked in what he was going to say when he saw me standing there, too. “Someone who left without giving any information.”
“My grandson was in the ambulance. He was hit by a drunk driver, and his nanny was also brought in.”
“Okay. Just give me a minute to check on your grandson. The nanny is in the far right exam room,” he said, and went down the hallway to a room where some doctors and nurses had gathered.
When a fancy-looking machine was wheeled into that room, Grandpa looked at me gravely. “Stay here,” he ordered, and walked ahead, even though the doctor had told him to wait. He looked into the busy room and then took a step in.
I waited, holding my breath. No one seemed to notice me. I think everyone was simply too busy to waste time inquiring about my presence. Nurses rushed by. Another doctor appeared, this one in a suit and tie but with a stethoscope around his neck. He went quickly into the room Grandpa had entered. I had no idea how much time had passed; to me, every second was a minute, and every minute was an hour. When I finally saw my grandpa emerge, he had his head down, and the doctor in the suit was standing beside him, talking to him softly, his hand on Grandpa’s shoulder. The doctor stepped away, but Grandpa remained there, looking down.
I know anyone would think I made it up, but there was the same high whistle I’d heard when I was told our parents had been killed in a freak boating accident thousands of miles away on a blue sea with the sun shining and excitement and laughter whirling about them. It was as if all the air was being sucked away from me. I could hear it seeping off—the whistling sound. I heard the same sound years later, when Grandpa returned from the hospital to tell me Grandma Arnold had died from a massive stroke. I didn’t think I was breathing either time, and I didn’t think I was breathing now.
When Grandpa Arnold finally lifted his head and looked at me, I knew: Willie was gone.
But I would soon learn in a strange way that he would not be gone forever.
1
Just like when I heard the terrible news about our parents and the news years later about Grandma Arnold, I didn’t cry immediately. Something inside me wouldn’t let me understand what I was being told. The words kept floating away like tiny bubbles caught in a breeze and bursting before I could bring them back. Nevertheless, I knew. Deep inside, where I went to find love and hope, where my best dreams were on shelves waiting to be plucked like books and opened during sleep, a cold, dark realization boiled and threatened to spill over and into every part of me. I fought it back, but it was oozing in everywhere. Despite my effort, I knew I would be soaked in the dark sadness in moments and be unable to deny it.
We had retreated to the lobby in silence, Grandpa resting his large right hand over the back of my neck and me clutching his shirt with my left hand. We needed to keep touching each other, comforting each other.
We sat on a pair of chairs facing the exam rooms. He held my hand and stared ahead; his face had never been more stone-cold. Somehow all the noise around us seemed to disappear. It was as if I had lost my hearing. We were waiting now to learn about Myra. She was having an X-ray. Would she die, too? Suddenly, my grandfather looked up. The doctor he had first spoken to was out in the hallway again, this time talking to a nurse. Grandpa rose and walked over to him. I couldn’t imagine what he was asking, but whatever he said interested the doctor. Moments later, he was leading my grandfather back toward the exam rooms. I saw them disappear around a turn. Maybe Grandpa was finding out about Myra, I thought.
I certainly didn’t move. I didn’t know if I could even stand. My legs were still trembling. I was afraid to look at anyone, even though I could feel people staring at me. Had they heard about Willie? Were they waiting to see me crumple up in uncontrollable sobs? Some looked terrified themselves.
For some reason, I began to wonder what my friends were doing at that moment. Were they planning lunch, watching television, talking on the phone and giggling about silly things? What were Willie’s teachers doing? Was anyone else anywhere thinking about him? How tense was the atmosphere around my grandfather’s estate? Was anyone laughing or smiling? Were they all holding their breath, waiting for a phone call? Did someone call the hospital?
I looked at a little boy who was holding his mother’s hand and had the thumb of his other hand in his mouth while he bounced against her. Most people avoided looking at one another. A look might bring bad news. Everyone’s eyes appeared shut down, as if they had turned to glass.
Finally, my grandfather came back around the corner, obviously having realized he had left me sitting there. He beckoned to me, and I hurried to join him. Maybe what we were told was untrue. Maybe Willie didn’t die after all.
“They’re putting a cast on Myra’s left arm. It was broken, and she has three fractured ribs, a few bruises, and a slight concussion. It’ll be a while,” he said.
Our concern was no surprise. Myra was part of our family now. Grandpa Arnold and Grandma Arnold’s housekeeper of many, many years, Myra Potter became our nanny the day the terrible news arrived from Italy. She had also been a nanny for my mother and her younger brother, Uncle Bobby. A business associate of my grandpa had recommended Myra, who had been working for a Lord and Lady Willowsby in London. She came to America to work for my grandparents after Lady Willowsby died and Lord Willowsby moved to Cornwall to live with his son and daughter-in-law. Neither Grandpa nor I could imagine the house without Myra. She treated everything in it like her personal possessions and was, according to my grandmother, “more protective of it and your grandfather than I am.”
Myra was barely five feet four but had gray-black eyes that seemed to double in size when something annoyed or angered her. She had a habitually stern, lean face on which smiles seemed to bubble up from some hidden place whenever she permitted them. I knew the maids my grandparents had were terrified of her, most not lasting