“Ned,” he whispers. “I named him.”
“You see? That’s the only son you’re going to get from me. Death and grief and loss and—”
“I don’t care.”
“How can you—”
“Ten years we’ve been married. Ten years to love you and share space with you. Yes, I wanted a kid. I wanted to see what you and I could make together, like a child would be—I don’t know—more than either of us alone. A brand-new being that we created together. But I can live without that. I’m not sure I can live without you.”
His words, and the passion behind them, sweep me away. Tears are flowing down my cheeks, and I don’t even care.
Kat is made of harder stuff.
“You’ve been living up until now. Seemingly fine. You look healthy. I suspect your mom has been feeding you—”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what, talk about your family? You are your family; your family is you. Maybe you can give up on having kids, but your mother never will. My mother will lament and rail against the fates, but I’m her flesh and blood and she’s stuck with me. Yours will remind you that there are other women—”
“Not for me.”
“You say that now.” Her voice gentles, but her resolve doesn’t falter. “You’ll get over me. You’ll move on. You’ll see.” She stops. Takes a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about everything, but if we’re together it will always be like this.”
“Katya.” It’s a plea, a cry, a prayer. His hand reaches for hers, nearly touches. I hold my breath, but at the last instant she snatches her hand away.
“Why did you come?” The dam holding back her tears breaks, and they burst out in a torrent.
“Katya,” Tom says again. “Let me in.”
She shakes her head, violently. Her words are twisted by sobs, but there’s no missing them for all that. “I can’t do this. I won’t.”
Painfully, she swivels her body away from us and reaches for the walker. “Take me back, Rae.”
“No. You—”
“You did this. The least you can do is take me where I want to go. Or I can walk, if you’d rather.”
“Walk, then. Or Tom can drive you.”
Tears continue to pour down Kat’s face, but my refusal jolts her out of her weeping. She stares at me, incredulous. “You owe me! You can’t just leave me here.”
Tom says nothing. He sits at the table, head buried in his hands. His shoulders are rounded in defeat. They begin to shake, and I realize that he, too, is utterly undone.
Remorse floods me. This is my fault. It’s my responsibility to fix it.
A set of words surfaces from my memory and nudges me, demanding attention. I try to swat them away. Not now, I’m busy. But they are insistent, wedging themselves into the middle of the guilt-ridden answer I’m formulating. Instead of I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ll lie down in the mud and you can both trample on me, what comes out of my mouth is “Oh, now I get it.”
“You get what?”
My attention is at least half on what’s happening inside my head. Maybe they’ll both think I’m psychotic. I don’t care.
“I just remembered. I’m responsible to you, not responsible for you.”
“What does that even mean?”
“I think it means that I should not have brought Tom here under false pretenses.”
“Lies, you mean,” Kat says. “Also, duh.”
“I think it also means that since he is here, whatever happens between the two of you is between the two of you, and I don’t need to be your dramatic exit.”
“My what? Rae. Rae! Come back here! You can’t leave me like this.”
“Since I’m leaving you with your husband, who doesn’t beat you and doesn’t care if you have babies and really loves you very much, I think I don’t feel bad about that.”
She tries to pursue me, but of course she’s slow and ungainly, and I’m driving away before she gets anywhere near my car. As she grows smaller and smaller in my rearview mirror she raises one hand, middle finger extended in a last gesture of defiance.
I show up for work a full twenty minutes early, a bit of a miracle for me, but blow the whole thing by standing out front trying to work up the nerve to go in. The emotions let loose this morning would suffice to fill an entire season of a soap opera, and I’m not at all sure I can handle whatever this shift has to throw at me.
Tentatively, I let my mind run back over the scene in the park, looking for my own wrongdoing. Guilt for lying to Tom, guilt for ambushing Kat. Check, check. Guilt for leaving her there with him? Nothing, zip, nada.
Corinne comes out to join me, the report binder tucked under one arm.
“Saw you on the security cam. Are we doing report out here now? I think that’s a fabulous idea. A little hot, but if we sit over under the tree, it will be perfect. How are the kitties? They were so good for the residents, I think. Can’t you bring them back? Or get another animal. Maybe another rat?”
She doesn’t require answers from me before moving on, and I let her ramble, closing my eyes and turning my face up to the sun.
Cor’s comfortable presence eases me, and I feel my muscles start to unclench, one at a time. Just when my defenses are down and I’m half drifting on a current of words and birdsongs, she strikes.
“What about that scrumptious Cole? Are you sleeping with him yet?”
“God, no.” I jolt upright, eyes wide open.
“Why? Is there something wrong with him? He has got it for you so bad his tongue is practically hanging out of his mouth every time he looks at you. What is it? Is he married? Into kink? Not that kink would be so bad. I’ve always been curious—”
“Corinne.”
“What?”
“I do not want to hear about you and kink.”
“Well, is he?”
“Is he what?”
She sighs, elaborately. “Into weird stuff. Or married.”
“No. At least, not that I know. It’s complicated.”
“Men are never that complicated. Food. Sex. Beer.”
“Oh, come on. You know that’s not true.”
“Do I? Been married for thirty years, and that’s pretty much what I can see. Oh, all right. Hunting, fishing, sports. A little porn, maybe.” She pushes her lips out in a pout and flips nonexistent luxuriant locks over her shoulder. “Not that I mind porn so much, myself.”
“Cor!”
“You’re a prude. Who knew?” She laughs at me, then grows serious. “Come on. Let me play matchmaker. You like him, and he obviously has a thing for you. Where’s the problem?”
“I said something I shouldn’t have.”
“Oh, a fight!”
“It was much more civilized than that.”
She purses her lips. “How long ago?”
“Four days. He said he’d call. He hasn’t. Also, he thinks I’m broken and in need of fixing, and I did something today that pretty much confirms his belief, so I think this relationship is doomed. Can we move on to report now?” I reach for the binder, but she holds it above her head, out of reach.
“Nothing is doomed. Call him.”
Now there’s a thought that hadn’t even occurred to me. “No way. I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . . because . . .”
“See?” she says. “You don’t have an answer. You’re just scared.”
“It’s not that simple.” I realize I’m repeating myself, and Cor of course latches onto that and runs with it.
“Everything is not so complicated. You think too much; that’s your problem. What did you say to him? No, never mind. It doesn’t matter. You don’t even have to apologize, just make him think you’re apologizing.”
“Say that again.” I turn toward her, laughing in spite of the loss that hits me every time I think about what I might have built with Cole if I hadn’t ruined it.
“I don’t need to. Look. He’s a man. Sure, he’s probably more complica
ted than my Charlie, but a man’s a man for all that. Make him a sandwich. Add a beer for good measure. Tell him you’re sorry—”
She holds up a hand to cut off my protest. “You don’t have to be sorry for what you said. It was probably true, right? Right. That’s the worst. Just tell him you’re sorry you hurt him or whatever. Feed him. Alcohol him. Kiss him. Bam. Done.”
“It can’t be that easy, Cor.”
“Thirty years,” she says. “Take it or leave it. Oh goodness. Look at the time. Let me give you the rundown. There’s been one sad development, not that I’m surprised.”
I steel myself for the news of a newly diagnosed cancer or a resident accelerating toward death, but I’m not prepared for what she tells me.
“Mason called this morning. Said he’s a coward and a drunk and couldn’t face his mother. He has a flight booked for”—she checks her watch—“right about now. Said to tell you good-bye and that you’re right. He’s not from here. Whatever that means.”
“Oh no! Nancy will be devastated.”
Corinne sighs. “Men. What are you gonna do?” From there, with no more than a shrug and a half breath, she launches into a dizzying, whirlwind tour of what is going on with the residents.
My mind wanders, and I give up on trying to follow.
I shouldn’t be surprised that Mason would skip town. It’s in his character. But the news of his defection leaves me feeling like a cast-off sock. Tentatively, I probe at the emotion—Rae, or not Rae—and am taken aback to discover how deeply I, personally, feel betrayed and abandoned.
If Mason is a coward, so am I, and I put off talking to Nancy until it’s time to check her blood sugar.
When I enter her room, the chair is empty. Her bed is neatly made. Books are stacked on the bedside table, the TV is off, and an untouched dinner tray sits on her bedside table.
In my entire time employed in this facility she has never once been out of her room at this hour. When I step into the hallway, Tia nearly knocks me over with an overflowing laundry hamper. She skids to a halt in the nick of time, soiled laundry swaying dangerously and wafting less-than-pleasant odors into my face.
“Seems to be poop night in this fine facility,” she says, with a grin. “You were nearly a casualty.”
“Speaking of casualties, have you seen Nancy?” I wince internally at the awkward segue, but she accepts it at face value. We don’t have time on this job to worry about social finesse.
“Yeah. Saw her at about three. Flipping me a boatload of sass as usual.”
“Any idea where she might be now?”
Tia steps around me to look into the empty room, her brow furrowed in concentration. “I have no idea. She never leaves her room unless somebody drags her.”
“Maybe somebody dragged her.”
“Hopefully a staff member,” she says, and then realizes the implications of what she’s just said, and an uneasy silence descends.
“That’s probably it. Carry on with Mission Poopy Laundry. I’ll find her.”
I look in the dining room, the games room, even the chapel, as unlikely as that seems as a destination for Nancy. I ask all of the staff. Nobody has seen her.
Of course there’s a protocol for runaway residents. Check with the family, call the cops and ask them to look for wandering strays. But escapees are usually patients with dementia, trying to get back to a home that no longer exists, or to find loved ones whose deaths have been forgotten while distant memory still burns bright.
Nancy can’t walk, and she’s not adept at rolling herself around in the wheelchair. Even if she was, surely somebody would have noticed and called in an old woman in a sparkly red dress rolling down the street in a wheelchair.
With sickness sloshing around in my belly, I remember her little stash of pills, her suicidal statements, and the way I dismissed them in my head as drama. Maybe she meant it, after all, and Mason’s abandonment pushed her over the edge. Even so, where could she go? Where would she hide?
When you don’t know what else to do, follow protocol. I call dispatch and give them the specifics. I try to call Mason, but his phone goes straight to voice mail. I almost feel bad leaving him a message, knowing he’ll get it the minute his plane hits the runway in Chicago, but he deserves it, and I don’t even try to be gentle.
The rest of the shift, I’m braced for tragedy. The only road leading away from Valley View is a steep descent. I picture a runaway wheelchair careening down that hill, gathering speed, carrying a screaming old woman in a scarlet dress toward disaster. I picture a car with an inattentive driver coming up that hill. A crunch, the horrible sensation of tires passing over flesh, and it’s me in the car again with Katya in the road.
With that memory comes an attack of guilt-laced panic and a movie-worthy replay of the events of the crash and its aftermath. Did Tom get Katya back to the crisis house? As hard as I’m trying to avoid lapsing into feeling responsible for her situation, I can’t seem to turn it off.
I try Mason’s phone again. Still no answer.
Officer Mendez comes by to pick up a photo. “How do you lose an old woman in a wheelchair?” he asks, and I know he’s thinking of his own father, who has quietly gone to bed without any trouble. He refrains from further judgment, promising to search the ditch on the sides of the drive, and to call the minute he finds her.
All night long the phone fails to ring.
At 10:35 p.m., while I’m in the office finishing up charts before giving report to Jennifer who comes on at eleven, the buzzer goes off for the front doors. They’re open during the day, but we lock up right after dinner, when all the visitors are gone and the wandering spirit tends to grow stronger in our confused residents.
The aides are all busy, so I head for the door, thinking maybe somebody on the night-shift team has forgotten their badge.
But no. Waiting outside the door is an old woman in a wheelchair, and standing behind her is her delinquent son. Neither one of them looks shamefaced or repentant. Nancy waves an imperious hand at me, as if she’s a queen on a throne.
“If you could just move out of the way, Rae, instead of gawking, we could come in and stop feeding mosquitoes.”
Relief transmogrifies into anger, and I stay right where I am. “If you would sign out when you leave, we wouldn’t have to waste time looking for you. Or file a missing persons report with the cops.”
“The cops are looking for us?” Nancy whoops and cackles with outright glee. “I’m a wanted woman at my age. One more thing off the bucket list.”
Mason swats at a mosquito on his cheek. When I step aside and he rolls his mother into the brightness of the fluorescent lights, I see his eyes are bloodshot. His face is pale, and despite the cool of the evening, a sheen of perspiration covers his forehead.
“I thought you were on a plane.”
“Drove to Spokane. Made it all the way to the airport.”
“And?”
“I decided I was tired of running away.”
His gaze meets mine. Level. Something has shifted in him, but I can’t identify the change.
“I’ve been worried sick. Why on earth didn’t you tell us you were taking her out?”
He runs an unsteady hand through his hair. “She wanted to escape. I figured I owed her.”
“The cops really are looking for her. How drunk are you?”
“Not drunk at all, God help me.” There’s a light of mischief in his eyes that matches his mother’s. “Forty-eight hours sober. Librium on board. AA meetings located. I’m a new man.”
“Wow. And your first action in this shiny new existence is to kidnap an old woman from a nursing home?” My anger is drifting away, mist on the wind.
Mason laughs, ruefully. “Here I thought sobriety was boring.”
“Take me home, James,” Nancy orders.
He touches his fingers to his brow in a small salute. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he looks at me. “May I?”
Nancy yawns. “That’s not a good expression for you, R
ae. Your face will get stuck that way and you’ll need enough Botox to kill an elephant just to undo the damage.”
“You are incorrigible.”
She sticks her tongue out at me, and that does it. All three of us are laughing as I step aside and Mason rolls her down the hall to her room.
Exhausted as I am, I toss all night like a ship at sea, and drag out of bed, feeling weighted and slow.
Last night’s laughter has evaporated, and the moment of incredible lightness I felt at my wishing beach is a faint memory. I miss Bernie. I miss sitting down in her office and unloading everything, as if that somehow releases me from responsibility and transfers it to her. It’s not her job to fix me, though. It never was. I can’t imagine trying to catch her up on how much has changed for me since I saw her last.
Sitting down at the table with a mug of coffee, I find myself face-to-face with Tana’s photograph of me, laughing under the tree with the golden orb above my head. Beside it, folded in half and almost hidden by a stack of unopened junk mail, is the loving-kindness meditation she printed off for me.
I unfold the paper and scan the words. Before I get to the bottom of the page, a crowd of people are already lined up in the wings as candidates for what reads to me like a blessing. Ignoring the instructions that clearly say to start with myself, I move on to a person for whom I feel strong, unconditional love.
Corinne.
Loving, good-hearted Cor. Holding her in my mind, I run through the phrases of the meditation.
May you be free from inner and outer harm and danger.
May you be free of mental suffering or distress.
May you be happy.
The meditation reminds me of skimming stones. The words quiet my mind and soothe my soul. Drawing a deep breath, feeling the irritable tension easing out of me, I move on to the next person on my mind.
Mason is not quite so easy as Corinne, but still, it is not difficult to wish all of these good things for him.
I know full well that Mason and Corinne are only practice runs. I want to stop here, feeling calm and easy, but Kat is waiting for me. My anger, my hurt, my guilt. Her darkness, the heaviness of her grief. I remember the wishing stone I tried to cast for her and the way it slipped through my fingers.
I Wish You Happy: A Novel Page 25
