Recessional by James A. Michener
Andy should have been relieved by the letter, but he was so afraid of yet another lawsuit of some kind that he sat numbly for several minutes. Finally he grabbed the phone nervously, found Zembright’s number by calling information, and said, his voice trembling: ‘It’s Dr. Zorn. I received your letter. What does it mean?’
‘What is says. Nothing to fear from this end.’
When Zorn sighed in relief, Zembright explained: ‘Oliver Cawthorn, Betsy’s father, is a first-class human being. One of God’s finest. He knows you saved his daughter’s life and wants to see you on a most important mission.’
‘Like what?’
‘Not over the phone.’
‘Should I let him come?’
‘Yes. I think highly of him, the way he’s behaved the past several months, and I want to come down with him.’
‘Is it that important?’
‘Yes.’
‘In spite of the advice you gave me? To get the hell out if you interfere in a car wreck?’
‘Conditions vary.’
Reluctantly Andy agreed that Zembright should fly down to Tampa right away and bring Oliver Cawthorn with him.
Still apprehensive about the purpose of the visit, Andy drove north to Tampa International and waited nervously for his guests to deplane, but as soon as he saw big, gruff Otto Zembright and his smiling face he began to relax, thinking: If he’s engaged in some conspiracy to do me in, then the whole world is rotten. And when Oliver Cawthorn stepped forward to be introduced, his anxiety vanished, for the man, who was lean, with sandy hair and sparkling eyes, had an obvious desire to be his friend: ‘Dr. Zorn! Our family owes you a tremendous debt, me more than the others. You gave me back my daughter.’ He did not try to embrace Andy or shake his hand excessively, but his fervent tone conveyed his deep gratitude.
As Zorn sped them south along Route 78 and turned right on the cutoff to the Palms, the visitors saw the stately march of Washingtonias facing the brilliant oleanders and were impressed by the aesthetics of the place. When Andy took them briefly through Gateways and Health, they found much to admire there also.
‘You seem to know what you’re doing,’ Zembright said, and Cawthorn agreed: ‘A person in this place wouldn’t feel she was in prison—or the morgue.’
‘But could we see the rehab center?’ Zembright asked. ‘That’s why we’re here,’ and when Andy showed them the spacious quarters with the most modern machines, the older doctor said to the other visitor: ‘Oliver, they definitely have the wherewithal. But do they have the experts?’
‘We’ll see the man in charge later,’ Andy said.
Discussion of their trip started immediately upon their return to Andy’s office: ‘Dr. Zorn, my daughter Betsy believes, and with good reason, that you saved her life. Dr. Zembright agrees. And we’re all most deeply grateful to you for your timely help. You didn’t have to do what you did, or stay with her at the hospital.’ Cawthorn continued: ‘But her health … her recovery, it’s not going well. Primarily because she’s given up hope.’ With tears starting to fill his eyes, he reached in his pocket for a series of photographs showing his legless daughter reclining languidly among pillows, her face ashen, her eyes listless.
Andy was interested to see that the girl in whose life he had played an important role was even more attractive than he remembered, but was saddened by her obvious loss of interest in life: ‘She was a more determined fighter that morning when I lifted her into the helicopter. Haven’t you started therapy?’
‘Yes,’ her father said. ‘Dr. Zembright’s been insistent. But she refuses to cooperate. Has even suggested, once or twice, that her life is over.’
‘Oh, no!’ Andy cried. ‘You must force her to get out of bed—to try to walk, as soon as she’s fitted with artificial legs.’ Turning to Zembright he asked: ‘Have the stumps healed properly?’
‘Better than could have been expected, considering the crushing and splintering. They’re solid, like rocks.’
‘And her knees?’
‘We saved them.’
‘Then you must get on with the job. Around here we perform miracles with people who’ve run into bad luck.’
Cawthorn interrupted: ‘Losing both legs isn’t bad luck. It’s a horrendous experience, and Betsy is terrified.’
‘I apologize,’ Andy said. ‘It must have sounded like a doctor’s mechanical response to a personal tragedy.’
Cawthorn thrust out a big, competent hand and gripped the younger man: ‘You must help. She’s given up hope,’ and Andy could see that the big man was again close to tears.
‘It’s simple,’ Andy said with great force: ‘You’ve got to jolt her out of such defeatism. It can be done, you know. We do it here all the time, and a good therapist in Chattanooga could do the same.’
‘I know that,’ Cawthorn said. ‘But Betsy’s hooked into a kind of monomania, they call it. She’s convinced that since you were the one who saved her life, only you can save her now.’
Andy stared at the floor. Very softly he said: ‘All doctors encounter monomanias that cannot be explained. They make no sense, but if they persist they can destroy a life.’ Lifting his head, he stared at Cawthorn and asked: ‘But if she’s stuck on this idea, what might I do to help? Fly back to Chattanooga with you and talk to her?’
‘No,’ Zembright interrupted. ‘We discussed that and concluded that a brief visit from you might do more harm than good.’
Now Cawthorn took over: ‘We want to find her a place in your institution—away from Chattanooga and its negative memories—a new life, new hope.’
Andy considered this radical suggestion, then said carefully: ‘Are you men aware that I’m not certified to practice medicine here in Florida? I’m just the director of the Palms.’
Cawthorn turned to Zembright: ‘Does that change anything?’ and the Tennessee doctor said: ‘Not at all. I know that Florida makes it extremely difficult for an outsider to come in here and take business away from the locals. Zorn wouldn’t have to be her doctor. Administrative overseer would be enough. Surely he has a licensed therapist on board.’
‘One of the best,’ Zorn said and phoned to have Bedford Yancey, the demon practitioner from Georgia, come in, but before he arrived Nurse Varney entered with a routine message from the dining room. Zorn said: ‘If your daughter were to come here, it wouldn’t be me or the therapist who saves her. It would be this therapeutic genius. Nora is a healing angel.’
‘That’s a wonderful skill to have,’ Zembright said. ‘We could use you in our shop.’
‘I try,’ Nora said as she smiled at the visitors, and when she was gone, Zorn said: ‘That wasn’t flattery. Nora has healing in her hands, her smile, and her laugh. I couldn’t run the place without her.’
Now Bedford Yancey entered, all enthusiasm and cracker charm, but before he could speak Dr. Zembright sprang to his side and cried ‘Yancey?’ as he extended his hand.
‘The same.’
‘The wizard from Vidalia? We heard about you in Chattanooga.’ Turning to Cawthorn, he explained: ‘This man performs wonders with professional athletes. Saves careers.’
‘But can he do the same for a young woman who lost her legs?’
Andy broke in: ‘He’s wonderful with young people, I saw him treating them in Georgia.’
‘So you’re working down here now?’ Zembright asked, and when Yancey nodded, Zembright assured Cawthorn: ‘Your daughter would be in good safe hands with this one.’
Now Zorn interrupted to explain: ‘Mr. Cawthorn’s daughter lost both legs in a car crash, and these men are thinking about bringing her down here for us to rehabilitate her—get her to walk again.’
Yancey impressed the others by his barrage of sharp questions: ‘How old is she?’ Twenty three. ‘Were her knees saved?’ They were. ‘Are the stumps solidly healed?’ Surprisingly so. ‘With a strong skin flap covering them?’ Yes. ‘Before her accident, was she ever in any way athletic? I mean, could she move about freely?’ Very st
Cawthorn, afraid that Yancey was throwing words around loosely, interrupted: ‘Could you give me an idea of how long it would take to get her walking?’
Yancey turned immediately to Dr. Zembright: ‘Stumps tough to the touch?’
‘Very clean. Sutures out. The very best, I assure you.’
‘Good! I accept your diagnosis, so now I’ll give mine. Pencil ready, Mr. Cawthorn?’ and with the ebullience of a confident young man who knew his business he rattled off the astonishing figures: ‘Today’s the first of May. Let’s say you get her down here by May fifth.’
‘We’ll have her here tomorrow.’
‘May second I see her for the first time. She gets her temporary legs the next day. She starts with her walker on May third.’
‘Do you mean that, seriously?’ Dr. Zembright asked, for Yancey’s program was far faster and more optimistic than any with which he was familiar.
Yancey turned to address him: ‘Dr. Zembright, you appear to have done a great job with your surgery. With the toughened stumps you’re sending me I can do miracles. But your therapist is generations behind the times. He’s wasted four months. But we can catch up, and maybe the rest period will have done her good.’
Solemnly Zembright said: ‘Don’t blame the therapist only. Betsy has given up. She’s convinced her life is over and wouldn’t have accepted therapy, not even from you. She’s been wasting her time convinced that she was dying.’
‘He’s right,’ Cawthorn broke in. ‘She’s in dreadful shape, really, much worse than he says.’ He broke into tears. ‘And we’ve been powerless to help her feel hopeful. That’s why we need you, Dr. Zorn.’
‘No,’ Andy said. ‘What she needs is Bedford Yancey. If I didn’t believe she’d get the best possible physical therapy here I wouldn’t let her come. Yancey will not let her feel sorry for herself. He’s quite remarkable, Mr. Cawthorn.’
Brushing aside the compliment, Yancey resumed his timetable: ‘On May fourth she will walk, with her walker and me behind to protect her, from where we stand to twenty yards in that direction. I guarantee it … unless’—he paused ominously—‘unless her spirit has been completely broken and she refuses to respond. You say she was a tennis player.’
‘Amateur category,’ Cawthorn said. ‘But she and I won father-daughter doubles at the club.’
Yancey smiled at Cawthorn: ‘Your daughter will be walking without a crutch or walker by the first of July, and she will be able to dance on Thanksgiving Day. I guarantee it.’ He looked triumphantly at Dr. Zembright and said: ‘Bring her down immediately. I’m ready!’
The visitors needed to hear no more, and they all agreed that Betsy Cawthorn, profoundly depressed but in remarkably good physical condition, would be transferred immediately to the Palms. That decided, the men toured Gateways to inspect various rooms suitable for a young woman in a wheelchair, but Yancey protested: ‘Don’t get hung up on that wheelchair bit. And don’t buy her one. Rent it so she knows from the start it’s temporary. And when she does get it, I’ll hide it, ’cause she’ll be walkin’ shortly, and dancin’, too.’
Choosing a room in the Peninsula projection that looked out on the river, Cawthorn said: ‘I find that one of the comforting things about this place, Doctor, is that it’s solidly built,’ and Zembright explained: ‘He ought to know. He’s one of Chattanooga’s biggest builders.’
Cawthorn laughed: ‘I get by. Why do you call this place Gateways?’ and Andy repeated the explanation he had once heard Nurse Varney give: ‘Because it’s the gateway to a better life.’
As the visitors drove away from the Palms, Oliver Cawthorn, an experienced judge of men, said: ‘Otto, I’m so happy with our decision. Betsy has used up what we have to offer in Chattanooga—she deserves new blood, younger men. I liked Zorn and he’ll start with a great advantage. She’s convinced herself that he can help her. Is that fellow Yancey as good as you said?’
‘Excellent reputation for baseball players and quarterbacks. He must be equally good with ordinary people, or a place like the Palms wouldn’t have hired him.’
As they flew home to complete arrangements for their patient to transfer to the Palms each devoutly hoped that her life would again be one that was worth living.
EXPLORATIONS
Betsy Cawthorn’s rehabilitation started three minutes after her father wheeled her into the entrance to the Palms. It began not with instructions from Bedford Yancey, the therapist, but with Dr. Zorn. As he stepped forward to greet her, he really saw her for the first time; in January at the bloody scene of the accident he had been aware only of a woman in terrible pain.
Now he saw a person with a lovely face, though drawn and pale. A wan smile of great beauty suffused her face as she grasped his hand and whispered: ‘Thank God they found you. If anybody can help me it would be you.…’ and her voice trailed off.
Her introduction to Yancey was decidedly dramatic. He rushed up to her and, grasping her hands, pulled her toward him, saying: ‘A big hello from the Palms, where your new life begins. Here you are not going to be coddled like a fragile Southern belle’—he slapped the metal arm of the wheelchair—‘and we’ll get rid of this contraption as soon as possible, surely by next month, because I refuse to say you are bedridden or chair-ridden. What you are, Miss Betsy, is a tough, feisty tennis player who has run into temporary misfortune. Your cure here will be spectacular. You’ll be movin’ about, you’ll be crawlin’, you’ll be standin’, and so help me God, you’ll be walkin’ and you will not be relyin’ on this damned chair.’
‘How soon can she be on crutches?’ her father asked.
Yancey looked at him in amazement: ‘Mr. Cawthorn! We haven’t used crutches in donkey’s years. Too cruel, and they delay muscular regeneration. What do we use?’ Yancey almost shouted. ‘We use the four-footed walker, one of the great inventions of the twentieth century, the man who thought it up should win the Nobel Prize.’ And he called for an assistant to bring out that marvel of modern rehabilitation, a rather large device made of lightweight burnished hollow steel with four widely spaced legs, each ending in a heavy rubber tip. ‘This ensures solid footing,’ he said, kicking one of the legs roughly. ‘And since the height of the leg is adjustable, a perfect fit is guaranteed.’
Yancey now called for Nurse Varney to assist him, and when the big black woman came forward, she gave the younger woman a look of motherly reassurance and affection.
‘Let’s lift her up, Mrs. Varney, and fit her for size in her walker,’ Yancey said and skillfully he and Nora pulled Betsy out of her chair and moved her into the position she would soon be able to take without help. For the present she was held in an upright position within the protection of the walker the way she would stand as she learned to use her new legs. In this unorthodox way she began to feel comfortable with the two officials at the Palms who would guide her life for the next months, a redheaded cracker from Georgia and a black nurse from Alabama.
When Yancey lifted her back to her chair he did something that only a supremely confident young therapist would have dared. Without explanation or apologies he lifted the heavy denim skirt that she was using to cover what was left of her legs, pushed it aside, and knelt to examine the two stumps, which everyone else in the reception area now could also see. After assuring himself that they had healed nicely he astonished everyone by actually thumping on them so hard that they made a sound. Then, from his kneeling position he looked up at the astonished Mr. Cawthorn and said: ‘Whatever you paid the doctor who cared for these stumps, send him a check tonight for double. This is not good work. Miss Betsy, this is perfection,’ and with a forefinger he indicated precisely w
‘My God, he’s treating her rough,’ Andy whispered, but Nora had watched Yancey at work before, and defended him: ‘He’s knocking her down to ground zero, so she can rebuild.’
‘On Thanksgiving Day, lass,’ Yancey continued, ‘we’ll be waltzin’.’ Then he quietly told the Cawthorns: ‘In this place we perform miracles, but only with the help of our collaborators—we never use the word patient around here because no one is sick. Just discommoded for the moment. And in Miss Betsy we have a young woman who’s already made half the recovery. She has her knees; her stumps—we never use nice-nelly evasions for that word—have healed magnificently and are clean and powerful guarantees of her recovery. Nora and I will do our best.’ Then he became a stern taskmaster: ‘Miss Betsy, you’ve been allowed to waste four months of your life. If you’d flown down here the day after your accident, you’d be walkin’ now. You’ve been a bad girl and I ought to give you a good, old-fashioned spankin’ on your bottom.’
‘Good God!’ Andy cried as he saw the familiarity with which Yancey treated Betsy. ‘She could sue us all for sexual harassment,’ but again Nora defended him: ‘Look at how she’s reacting,’ Andy studied his newest resident, and saw to his surprise that she was gravely shaking hands with the Georgian: ‘Up there I wasn’t ready for treatment, but now I am, Mr. Yancey. I want to walk. Teach me how.’ He squeezed her hand, but her gaze was fixed on Andy.
That evening, as if nothing unusual had occurred at the Palms during the day, one of the young waiters was sent to Betsy’s room to help her into her wheelchair and bring her down to the dining room. Dr. Zorn had arranged for her to dine with the Mallorys, who were such a lively couple, and Lincoln Noble, the black judge. He had placed them at table eight, which was as far from the entrance as possible, for he wanted the maximum number of residents to become acquainted with the newcomer.