The Fall

The Keeper of Hours

Chapter 27: The Fall

She went into the kitchen at two fifty-seven on Wednesday morning, the ninth of September, alone.

It was an ordinary step. She had been taking the same step for sixty-four years. She had been taking it, since the disease had begun taking the nights from her in the summer, with her hand on the wall — Yvonne had installed small low rails along the hallway in August, gently, with only a small half-sentence of explanation — and she had been managing. This morning her body had decided, without telling her, that the wall was not needed.

She walked the hall without the rail.

She reached the kitchen.

She did not, immediately, turn on the light. The small light over the sink was, as always, on. The light over the stove was off. She had not wanted to wake Yvonne, who was, for the first time in a week, sleeping more deeply than she had been sleeping. Mama Tate had decided in bed at two forty-five — the body was waking on its old schedule again; the body was having a good week — that she would go to the kitchen on her own, would pour herself a small glass of warm water, and would sit at the table and wait for Tiana at four. The decision had been the small private decision of a woman who had been asking nothing of herself for two months and had, this morning, wanted to ask something.

She walked to the counter.

The counter was the counter. The blue mug was in the cabinet above it, second shelf, where it had been since 1994. She reached for it.

She reached up with her right hand.

The shoulder did a small new thing.

The shoulder had been, for ten years, the shoulder of an aging woman. The shoulder had been, for two years, the shoulder of an aging woman with arthritis. The shoulder had not, in any of those years, done the specific thing it did this morning. The shoulder did not, this morning, hold.

She reached. The hand went up. The shoulder, mid-reach, gave. The body that had been balancing on the ball of the left foot found itself, for one half-second, not balancing on anything.

She turned.

She turned to try to put her hand on the counter to catch herself.

She did not turn fast enough.

She went down.

The small careful fall of an eighty-two-year-old woman is not a fast thing. The body, knowing it is going, arranges itself in small involuntary ways to minimize the damage — the hip turning slightly, the elbow trying, the head tucking. She did these. Her body, which had been her ally for eighty-two years, did them. It did them imperfectly. Her right hip hit the corner of the lower cabinet as she went. Her shoulder — the shoulder that had not held — took part of the fall. Her head did not, by the small grace of the Lord who arranges such things, hit the counter.

She landed.

She lay on the kitchen floor.

The blue mug, which had not been pulled down, was still in the cabinet. The small light over the sink was still on. The percolator was not yet on. The kitchen was the kitchen. She was, for the first time in eighty-two years, on the floor of her own kitchen.

She did not, at first, move.

She did not, at first, call.

She took a small inventory. The hip was bad. The hip was bad in the specific way a hip is bad when a person her age falls on it — not a break, she thought, because she had been at enough bedsides in her life to know the sound of a break, and her hip had not made the sound — but bruised in a way that meant she was not going to get up quickly.

Her shoulder was aching.

Her head was, thank the Lord, intact.

She breathed.

She said, quietly, to the kitchen: "Yvonne."

The call was quieter than her July call from the hall. Yvonne, from the spare room down the hall, did not, at first, hear it.

She said it again.

"Yvonne."

A third time. Louder.

"Yvonne."

This time Yvonne heard. Yvonne came out of the spare room in two seconds, in her nightgown, with her phone in her hand.

"Mama — where — Mama, where are you?"

"Kitchen, baby. On the floor. I am not hurt bad. But I cannot get up."

Yvonne came into the kitchen. Yvonne's face did the fast thing it did when a thing was worse than she had prepared for. Yvonne dropped to her knees beside her mother on the linoleum.

"Mama. Mama. What happened."

"I reached for the mug. The shoulder gave. I went down. My hip hit the cabinet. I do not think it is broken, baby. I think it is badly bruised. But I cannot stand up."

"Mama — did your head —"

"The head did not hit, baby. The Lord held the head."

"Yes, Mama. Okay. Mama. I am going to call Tiana. I am going to call the ambulance. I know you are going to tell me not to call the ambulance. Please, Mama. Please let me. I need the professionals to move you. If it is a break I do not want to make it worse. Please."

Mama Tate closed her eyes.

She had, for two years, been preparing what she would say when the ambulance question came up. She had been planning, in her own head, to say baby, no, we will drive to the hospital ourselves. She had been planning to say it with dignity.

She said now, from the kitchen floor, in the small tired voice of a woman who had learned this morning that the dignity she had been preparing was not the dignity the morning required:

"Baby. Call the ambulance. I am not going to fight you."

"Yes, Mama."

Yvonne called.

The ambulance came in eleven minutes.

Yvonne had called Tiana at the same time, and Tiana had said she was on her way — she had been at home and was in her scrubs in three minutes — and by the time the paramedics were in the kitchen Tiana was at the kitchen door with her own small nurse's bag.

The paramedics were two men. One was older — Black, gray at the temples, maybe fifty — and the other was younger, white, with a careful blond mustache, maybe twenty-six. The older one knelt by Mama Tate. The younger one stood back.

"Ma'am. What's your name?"

"Ola Mae Tate."

"And today's date?"

"September ninth, twenty twenty-six."

"What happened, ma'am?"

"Reached for a mug. Shoulder gave. Fell. Hip hit the cabinet. Head did not."

"Any loss of consciousness?"

"No, sir."

"Any numbness in the legs?"

"No, sir."

"Any chest pain?"

"No, sir."

"Ma'am, I'm going to check your hip."

He checked her hip. He did it carefully. He did it the way paramedics check the hips of eighty-two-year-old Black women in their own kitchens, which was with the small steady respect of a man who had been trained by his grandmother before he had been trained at the academy.

"Ma'am. I don't feel a break. I don't rule out a crack. We'll get an X-ray. We're going to take you to Methodist Le Bonheur. Your daughter will follow. Is there anyone you need to call before we go?"

"Tiana."

"Tiana is here, ma'am."

"I know, son. I see her. I mean — call the pastor. Yvonne, call Pastor Honeycutt. Call him at the house. His home line. Tell him I have fallen and I am going to Methodist Le Bonheur. Tell him not to come to the hospital today. Tell him to come to the house tomorrow afternoon at two. Tell him I have something I want to discuss with him."

"Yes, Mama."

The older paramedic nodded. He and the younger man got the small stretcher from the porch. They lifted Mama Tate onto it with the small careful lift they had been trained to do and that the older paramedic's hands had been doing for twenty-five years. They carried her out. Yvonne followed with her purse and the small overnight bag she had packed in July and kept by the kitchen door for exactly this morning.

Tiana rode in the ambulance. Yvonne drove behind.

Methodist Le Bonheur kept her for thirteen hours.

The X-ray showed no break. The hip was badly bruised. The shoulder had a minor strain but no tear. The head was fine. The blood pressure was high, but not catastrophically so. Dr. Akinyele had been called — Tobi was not on the hospital team, but Tiana had called her from the waiting room at five-thirty in the morning because Tobi had, in June, given Yvonne the sentence if anything happens that puts her in the hospital, you call me; I will coordinate — and Tobi had driven over at six and had been in the room with Mama Tate by seven.

They did the rounds.

They did the small tests that the fall had made necessary. They upgraded two medications. They added a new one for the bruising. They talked, at length, with Yvonne and Tiana about the logistics of the next week.

By five in the afternoon Mama Tate was in her own bed at home, with the small new arrangement of pillows under her hip Tiana had organized and a bottle of the new pain medication on the nightstand and Yvonne in the doorway with a cup of tea and Carl in the front room on the phone with Marcus explaining what had happened, which was that his grandmother had fallen but was all right and was at home and would be all right and that he did not need to fly in tonight.

Marcus, Carl would later report, had asked three times if Mama Tate was all right.

Carl had told him each time, she is, son; she is in bed; she is resting; the hip is bruised; the shoulder is strained; the head is fine; she is all right; do not get on a plane tonight; you come this weekend; she wants you to come this weekend.

Marcus had said, I will come this weekend.

Carl had said, Yes, son.

At six-thirty that evening, in the front room, the four of them — Mama Tate on Eldridge's chair with the small pillow under her hip, Yvonne on the couch, Tiana in the armchair, Carl on the small wooden chair by the door — had the conversation they had been putting off for a month.

Yvonne opened it.

"Mama. I want to talk about a thing."

"Say it, baby."

"I want to move in. Not for a week. Not until things settle. I want to move in. I want to move in full-time. Starting tonight. I want to give up the house in Cordova — not sell it, but leave it to Carl — and I want my days to be here with you."

Mama Tate did not, for a moment, speak.

"Yvonne."

"Yes, Mama."

"What does Carl say."

Carl did not wait for Yvonne to answer.

"Mama. Yvonne and I have talked. We talked all afternoon at the hospital. Yvonne will be here. I will come every day after lunch. I will stay until after dinner. I will sleep at our house some nights and yours others. The house in Cordova will be the place I go to do my tools and my tinkering, which I cannot do here because you have no garage. It is a working arrangement, Mama. It is not a separation. We have been married twenty-nine years. We have had our own small separations every time I have gone on a fishing trip. This is a longer one, but it is a good one. I am not losing Yvonne. Yvonne is going to be with her mother. That is the right thing. I support it. I am the one suggesting, in fact, that she do it, because Yvonne would not have told you without my saying yes first. I said yes this afternoon. I am saying yes now."

Mama Tate nodded slowly.

"Carl."

"Yes, Mama."

"You are a good man."

"I am a working husband, Mama. That is what you and Eldridge taught me."

"And Yvonne."

"Yes, Mama."

"You are sure, baby."

"I am sure, Mama. I have been thinking about it since June. I have been waiting to ask you. The hospital made me stop waiting. I am asking now."

"Yvonne — you have a job."

"Mama. The school year started three weeks ago. I have been on hybrid for six months. I can do half the school work from this kitchen. The other half — I will go in two or three days a week. The school has been ready for this conversation. The assistant principal has been preparing. I am not resigning. I am shifting. It will be — Mama, it will be fine."

"And you want this."

"I want this, Mama."

"And Tiana."

"Yes, Grandma."

"What do you think, baby."

"I think it is the right shape, Grandma. I think Mom has been waiting to ask. I think tonight is the night to let her. I think we have been running the household in three shifts — mine, Mom's, Carl's — and the shifts will be cleaner if Mom is resident. I will still come for mornings. Carl will still come afternoons and evenings. Mom will be the resident keeper. The Lord has been arranging this for a year. The fall this morning was — Grandma, the fall was His signal."

Mama Tate closed her eyes.

She did not, for a long moment, speak.

She had known. She had known since August, when Dr. Akinyele had said — in a quiet follow-up visit at the office — that the body would begin to join the mind in declining and that one of the things she should be prepared for was a fall. She had known that Yvonne would want to move in. She had known that Carl would be the one who made it possible for Yvonne to do it without losing Carl. She had known that Tiana would be the medical bridge. She had known.

Knowing, it turned out, was not the same as accepting.

Accepting was the harder work.

She did the accepting now.

"Babies."

"Yes, Mama," they said, almost together.

"You move in, Yvonne. Carl, you come every day. Tiana, you stay on the mornings. We do this. We do it starting tonight. The arrangement is the arrangement. The Lord has been arranging. We receive the arrangement. I am — I am grateful, babies. I am also afraid. I am going to be afraid for some time. That is normal. You do not take my fear personally. You keep doing the work. The fear will settle into its place. I have been afraid before. I know the shape of it."

Yvonne came across the room. She knelt in front of her mother's chair. She put her face against her mother's knee.

Mama Tate put her hand on her daughter's head.

She held it there for a long while.

Carl, at the door, did not move. Tiana, in the armchair, had her hand over her mouth.

After a long minute Mama Tate said: "Yvonne."

"Yes, Mama."

"Tonight you sleep in the spare room. You bring what you need tomorrow. You do not rush the moving. You take the week. You make the move slow. The moving has to be slow because my hip has to heal. We are not going to be in any hurry about anything this week."

"Yes, Mama."

"And Carl."

"Yes, Mama."

"You come tomorrow at noon. You bring your tools. You install the shower grab bar we have been meaning to install for two years. You do not ask. You install it. Tiana will tell you where. I am done arguing with the grab bar. Today was the answer to the grab bar argument. The Lord was clear."

"Yes, Mama."

"And Tiana."

"Yes, Grandma."

"You call Tobi tomorrow. You tell her the arrangement. You tell her I have accepted it. You tell her we are going to call her in two weeks for a follow-up. You tell her I want her to come for dinner at some point this month. Not as a doctor. As a friend. I want Yvonne to cook for her. I want Tobi to sit at my table as the granddaughter of Mama Funmi, not as my physician. I think it is time."

"Yes, Grandma."

Yvonne helped her to bed at eight-thirty. Yvonne sat on the edge of the bed while her mother took the evening pill. Yvonne brushed her mother's hair out with the small silver-handled brush Mama Tate had had since 1957. Yvonne pulled the quilt up. Yvonne did not, at first, leave.

"Mama."

"Yes, baby."

"I love you."

"I love you, Yvonne."

"I am sorry the hip hurts."

"The hip will hurt for a while. The Lord will hold the hurt. I will be all right by Sunday for the porch."

"Yes, Mama."

"Go to sleep, baby. You sleep in the spare room across the hall tonight with the door open. I will call if I need. You sleep deep. The worst of today is over. Tomorrow is just the new arrangement beginning."

"Yes, Mama."

Yvonne kissed her forehead. She went to the spare room. Mama Tate listened to the small sounds of her daughter moving through the small bedtime things. After a while the house went quiet.

Mama Tate did not, for a long time, sleep.

She lay in the bed Eldridge had bought her in 1987 when they had replaced the one Yvonne had been conceived in, and she looked up at the ceiling, and she let the fear do what the fear did when a woman of her age has been told, on the same day, that her body is no longer the body she had been pretending it was.

She prayed.

Lord. I fell today. I had not, in eighty-two years, fallen in my own kitchen. You were with me. You held the head. You did not let the hip break. You sent the paramedic who had been trained by his grandmother. You sent Yvonne down the hall. You sent Tiana from her own kitchen in five minutes. You sent Tobi at six. You sent Carl home at noon with grab bars to install in the morning. You arranged the evening conversation. You arranged my daughter's yes. You arranged my son-in-law's yes. You have been arranging this day — this specific day, with this specific morning — since some hour before the world was made. I am receiving the arrangement. I am tired. I am going to sleep now. I ask for the dawn.

She paused.

And Lord. The book. Please let Tiana read for me again tomorrow. I will sit on the couch. I will listen. I will be there. You keep the names. The hip is bruised. The keeping is not.

She closed her eyes.

She slept.

In the front room, after Yvonne had gone to sleep, Carl sat up a while longer in the small wooden chair by the door, with his cap in his hands. He did not, in the sitting, do anything. He was, Carl Brooks-style, being the man at the door for the night. He sat until eleven. Then he got up slowly and walked through the house and checked — the lights over the sink, the lock on the back door, the small night-light in the hall — and he went to the small loveseat in the front room and lay down in his clothes.

He did not sleep immediately.

He said, in the small interior voice Brooks men used for the prayers they did not say aloud:

Lord. My mother-in-law fell this morning. She is alive. She is in bed. Yvonne is in the house. Tiana is at her own apartment. Marcus is in Atlanta. Naomi is in Whitehaven. The family is — Lord, the family is holding together the way families hold together when one of them starts the process of going. I ask You to hold us. I ask You to give me what I need to be the quiet door for the next months. That is my part. You know my hands. You made them. I am here. I am Yours.

He closed his eyes.

He slept.

In the kitchen the small light over the sink stayed on. The pecan tree shifted in the small September wind. The first cool front of the coming fall had not yet arrived, but was, somewhere over Arkansas, on its way.

The house held them. The keeping continued.

In her bed, Mama Tate dreamed of the kitchen of her childhood in Mississippi, and of her mother at the stove in 1949, and of her own daughter — who was, tonight, sleeping across the hall for the first night of the new arrangement — as a small girl in a pale blue dress reaching up for a biscuit, and the Lord, who had been the Lord, was in the dream with them all.

She slept until morning.

The next morning, Tiana came at four as always, and the reading began.

The long evening, in the ninth of September, entered its deeper hour.