Part 13 (1/2)
* 93 *
Mrs. Kelly was too tired to have to make introductions. ”I'm Michele Knight.”
”Oh, yes, Barbara mentioned you,” Mrs. Kelly said.
”I have a lot of respect for Barbara,” I said, not sure that I should ask in what context Barbara had mentioned me.
”Thank you. Would you mind if I impose on you for a few minutes?” she asked.
”No, not at all.”
”I've got to make a few phone calls and I hate to leave the kids.”
”No problem. Take your time. Get some coffee if you want.” Give me some outlet for my guilt.
She got up and headed for wherever the phones were. Patrick and Cissy stared at me, another strange adult in days now filled with strange adults. There was an awkward silence, at least on my part; I doubted that they cared. If I were a kid, how would I want an adult to treat me in a situation like this? What I had hated most, when my father died, were the lies and evasions, the ”protection of the child.” I realized the best thing I could do was tell Patrick and Cissy the truth. It was their mother lying on that hospital bed.
”I'm a private detective,” I started out. ”And I was working for the police doing an investigation of Jambalaya.”
”Why?” Patrick wanted to know.
”They're smuggling drugs.” Their expressions didn't change.
At this point, they were probably too numb for anything. ”Your mom helped me get some information for the police. But we got caught.”
”And they shot her,” Patrick said. Kids don't bother with polite evasions. ”And beat you up.”
”Yeah,” I said, fingering my bruised jaw.
”How come they didn't shoot you, too?” Cissy asked.
”I got away,” I said and told them about my adventures in the coal chute.
”Did you see my mom get shot?” Patrick asked.
”No.” I shook my head. I was glad I didn't have to tell him what it looked like. If I had seen it, I would have told him what happened. He wanted to know. He, they both, wanted to know any and everything that could explain why their mother was in a coma.
”I really like your mom,” I said.
”Yeah, Mom's neat,” Patrick answered, a high accolade from an * 94 *
eleven-year-old boy. Cissy was starting to cry. I put my arms around her and hugged her close.
”It's been real hard on Cissy,” Patrick said, the epitome of a strong, big brother. ”Dad just left us when she was four.” (And he was six, I noted.) ”Took all the money. Mom and Grandma have been taking care of us ever since. Cissy and I both have paper routes to try and help out.”
I had to say something or I'd start sniffling.
”The Times-Picayune? I carried that when I was about your age.”
”Yeah,” he said. We had a point in common.
”It's hard on you, too,” I said.
”I'm older. I can take care of myself,” he replied. ”I'm just tired of people telling us they know how we feel. They don't unless...” He trailed off, still a young kid himself.
Of course, it took an eleven-year-old boy to point out to me why I was identifying so strongly with this boy and this girl.
”You're right,” I said. ”No one ever knows exactly how you feel.
People often can't imagine pain so they try to remember it.”
Patrick looked puzzled.
I wasn't explaining myself clearly to these kids, perhaps not even to myself. I started again. ”When I was five, my mother left. I don't know why. I've never seen her since. When I was ten...my dad was killed. It's not the same thing that happened to you, but...”
”But it's pretty close,” Patrick finished for me.
”Yes, so I kind of know how you feel, but not exactly.”
”Yeah, you're one of us,” Patrick said and he smiled at me. He had Barbara's smile, warm and wide.
”How did your dad die?” Cissy asked, looking up at me.
I couldn't think of what to say, how to explain something that I tried my best never to think about. ”He died in a fire,” I finally said, leaving it as simple as I could.
”Did you see it?” Patrick asked, with the simple innocence of a child trying to understand death and dying because he had to.
”Yes,” I answered, staring at the green wall.
”I'm sorry,” said Cissy.
Mrs. Kelly came back. She was carrying a cup of coffee and a can of soda for Patrick and Cissy to share.
”I'm sorry I was gone so long,” she apologized for an offense she hadn't committed.
* 95 *
A nurse stuck her head in.
”Mrs. Kelly? You and the kids can sit with her for twenty minutes, if you want,” the nurse said.
”Oh, thank you,” she replied to the nurse. ”I'm sorry, Miss Knight.”
”Go sit with your daughter,” I answered.
They got up and started to leave. I wrote down my name and phone number twice and gave one copy to Patrick and one to Cissy. I told them to call me if they needed to.