there in the shadow of the huge furnace, and watched as he held the smallest bolts almost lovingly in his large hands, smoothing and oiling them, fitting the pieces together so that the bicycle would be whole again.
Some nights after supper he sat quietly in his big chair, ignoring the evening paper; and if we went to him, Marcus or Stephie or I, he would take us into his lap and stroke our hair in silence.
After three weeks, Mother told Marcus and me that we could go to the hospital to see Tom. We were too young, and it was against the rules; but they would make an exception for us. We went with her in the afternoon, after school, and we were frightened. In the hospital room, Marcus and I stood beside each other and looked apprehensively at the bandaged stranger in the bed.
"Thomas," Mother said, leaning over him and
speaking in her normal, everyday voice, "it's a beautiful day, and I saw a bright red cardinal in the yard this morning.
"And today I've brought Marcus and Louise to see you," she added cheerfully.
She nudged us forward. "Say hello to him," she said.
"Hello, Tom," I whispered.
"Hi," Marcus said.
"Tell him what's going on in school," Mother suggested.
Talking to someone whose eyes were closed and who didn't respond made me uncomfortable and scared. But I took a deep breath and said, "Today we played softball at recess and Charlie Clancy got picked off second base when he tried to steal third. And, let's see, ah, Nancy Brinkerhoff has chicken pox, but Mother says we all had it when we were little, so we can go down to her house after school and play with her." I poked Marcus, so that he would take over.
"We had a spelling bee," Marcus said, "and I missed 'receive,' like I always do. What else? Oh yes, Kenny Stratton had to stay after school because he wrote a swear word inside his arithmetic book and the teacher saw it, andâ"
He looked at Mother. "I can't think of anything else," he said apologetically.
At the end of our brief and miserable visit, Mother walked us to the elevator. She would stay until suppertime, and Marcus and I could go on
home. We both tried to think of something cheerful to say.
"I think his bandages are neat," Marcus said. "I always wished I could have a broken arm so that I could have a cast and people could sign their names on it."
"Yeah. Me, too," I said.
Suddenly Marcus's eyes filled with tears. "He looks
dead!
" he wailed.
Mother put her arm around him. She led both of us into a small waiting room nearby. "He's just asleep," she said. "That's what a coma is, you know. I explained that to youâit's a very, very deep sleep."
Marcus's outburst had freed my own tears, and now I cried, too. "Why do you keep talking to him? Why did you make us
talk
to him? That felt terrible!"
She sat us both down, and she sat beside us on the stiff, uncomfortable couch. "The doctors told Father and me," she explained, "that although they can't be sure, they think that sometimes a person in a coma can hear. Tom can't open his eyes yet, and he can't speak, of course, but maybe he can hear us. So I talk to him all day, and Father does, too, when he's here."
I thought about what an agonizing effort it had been for me to say a few sentences to Tom. "Don't you get tired?"
It was a foolish question because I could see how tired she was. It showed in her eyes.
"Yes," she said. "Of course I do. It's hard to think of things to say, all day long. But I keep talking because it may be the thing that wakes him up."
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. "I could try harder," I said. "I promise I will. Can I come back, if I promise to try harder?"
Marcus nodded in agreement. "I will, too," he said.
And so the schedule changed. Every day, after school, Marcus and I trudged to the hospital, so that Mother could go home and rest. Every day until suppertime, Marcus and I stood beside that bed and talked endlessly. We became accustomed to it, the bizarre act of talking to a motionless,
Some nights after supper he sat quietly in his big chair, ignoring the evening paper; and if we went to him, Marcus or Stephie or I, he would take us into his lap and stroke our hair in silence.
After three weeks, Mother told Marcus and me that we could go to the hospital to see Tom. We were too young, and it was against the rules; but they would make an exception for us. We went with her in the afternoon, after school, and we were frightened. In the hospital room, Marcus and I stood beside each other and looked apprehensively at the bandaged stranger in the bed.
"Thomas," Mother said, leaning over him and
speaking in her normal, everyday voice, "it's a beautiful day, and I saw a bright red cardinal in the yard this morning.
"And today I've brought Marcus and Louise to see you," she added cheerfully.
She nudged us forward. "Say hello to him," she said.
"Hello, Tom," I whispered.
"Hi," Marcus said.
"Tell him what's going on in school," Mother suggested.
Talking to someone whose eyes were closed and who didn't respond made me uncomfortable and scared. But I took a deep breath and said, "Today we played softball at recess and Charlie Clancy got picked off second base when he tried to steal third. And, let's see, ah, Nancy Brinkerhoff has chicken pox, but Mother says we all had it when we were little, so we can go down to her house after school and play with her." I poked Marcus, so that he would take over.
"We had a spelling bee," Marcus said, "and I missed 'receive,' like I always do. What else? Oh yes, Kenny Stratton had to stay after school because he wrote a swear word inside his arithmetic book and the teacher saw it, andâ"
He looked at Mother. "I can't think of anything else," he said apologetically.
At the end of our brief and miserable visit, Mother walked us to the elevator. She would stay until suppertime, and Marcus and I could go on
home. We both tried to think of something cheerful to say.
"I think his bandages are neat," Marcus said. "I always wished I could have a broken arm so that I could have a cast and people could sign their names on it."
"Yeah. Me, too," I said.
Suddenly Marcus's eyes filled with tears. "He looks
dead!
" he wailed.
Mother put her arm around him. She led both of us into a small waiting room nearby. "He's just asleep," she said. "That's what a coma is, you know. I explained that to youâit's a very, very deep sleep."
Marcus's outburst had freed my own tears, and now I cried, too. "Why do you keep talking to him? Why did you make us
talk
to him? That felt terrible!"
She sat us both down, and she sat beside us on the stiff, uncomfortable couch. "The doctors told Father and me," she explained, "that although they can't be sure, they think that sometimes a person in a coma can hear. Tom can't open his eyes yet, and he can't speak, of course, but maybe he can hear us. So I talk to him all day, and Father does, too, when he's here."
I thought about what an agonizing effort it had been for me to say a few sentences to Tom. "Don't you get tired?"
It was a foolish question because I could see how tired she was. It showed in her eyes.
"Yes," she said. "Of course I do. It's hard to think of things to say, all day long. But I keep talking because it may be the thing that wakes him up."
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. "I could try harder," I said. "I promise I will. Can I come back, if I promise to try harder?"
Marcus nodded in agreement. "I will, too," he said.
And so the schedule changed. Every day, after school, Marcus and I trudged to the hospital, so that Mother could go home and rest. Every day until suppertime, Marcus and I stood beside that bed and talked endlessly. We became accustomed to it, the bizarre act of talking to a motionless,
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