With a Hammer for My Heart: A Novel

MAMAW

MAMAW: They wouldn't let us stay with Lawanda. Had to see how bad off she was, they said, and get her evened out. They steered her into a holding room and sent me out a-shaking. June, who until that night had always sneaked off to smoke, was puffing the waiting room full. "I don't know which direction to cry in," she said as a few tears squoze down her face. June never was a crier. If she did get tearful as a youngun, she ran the whole time so you couldn't watch the tears. I didn't expect her to break down yet. We was quiet. I was breathing a prayer when June's pastor showed up. Hardly older than Lawanda, he had put on a hard-times face. He said we must turn to the Lord in our hour of need. Where did he think we'd been facing? He said God wouldn't put on us more than we could bear. "She won't," I told him, "but we do." "Pardon?" "This ain't the Lord's doing," I said. "This is a mess of sin we cooked up." He scooted deeper into his seat. "Mother Jesus"—breathe in. "Heal Lawanda"—breathe out. I was about to find the rhythm when the doctor came in, tall and puny, sweet-faced. 188 MAMAW "You're the Ingle family?" he asked. We all stood up. June grabbed my hand. "I'm Dr. Graboe. And please, sit down," he said, bending himself into one of the shoehorns they got for chairs. "She's going to make it, isn't she?" June asked, leaning forward, her grip on me tight as a claw. "I wish I could tell you that for sure," the doctor said. "God knows," the preacher put in. "Looking at the percentage and degree of her burns, it could go either way." "What does that mean?" June asked him. He sat poker-straight. "We predict recovery on the basis of how much of the body is burned and how deeply. Anything more than twenty percent we classify as critical. Closer to sixty percent and some of it third-degree, then—" "Them's Lawanda's figures?" I had to know. He nodded. Then said, "Roughly. The depth of burns isn't always evident at the outset." "How about Howard?" This was June. "Both arms are significantly burned," Dr. Graboe told us, "but he's not in real danger. Depending on the scarring, he could have limited mobility on the left side. If that's the case, we'll do what we can to relieve it." "Lawanda's face?" June asked, her own gone white and bony with pain. The doctor slumped a little, looked at his hands. "You have to understand, it was the gasoline fumes that ignited. They were disbursed in the air. And the patient had no clothing to protect her face." June moaned. Dr. Graboe reached out like he was going to pat her shoulder, but he didn't. "Mrs. Ingle, right now our concern is keeping your daughter alive. With so much skin gone, it's very hard to keep enough fluid in her body. Blood pressure drops. . . . " He cleared his throat. "To survive , she's going to need skin grafts as soon as she can take 189 WITH A HAMMER FOR MY HEART them. But before that, she's going to need care we can't give her here." "Where are you taking her?" I asked. "To the UK Medical Center in Lexington. The helicopter is on its way now." "Helicopter?" June sounded about five years old. "Her condition's too critical for a three-hour ambulance ride." "She's never been on a plane," June said. "She just took her first bus trip last week." "Can we go with her?' I asked him. Dr. Graboe flipped through papers on his clipboard, like the answer was there. "Not in the helicopter," he said. "There's room only for medical staff. And they'll be working. But we'll give you directions to the hospital, and by the time you get there, she'll be settled and you can see her." My lips was shaking. "We need to see her before she goes," I said. "You can do that," he said. "But only for a minute, and one at a time. Mrs. Ingle, would you—" June about ran over him...