13th Hour

by Tammie Painter

  "It'll be better for you, Dad. You'll be around people who know how to care for you and you'll have friends your own age to talk to."

  "Just what I want, extra time with a bunch of grumpy old farts." Twenty years ago Ella insisted her father move from the East Coast town he'd lived in for five decades telling him she could care for him in Portland. Now she was sending him away. Paul knew that husband of hers was behind it; his Ella would never abandon him like this. "Why would I wanna be around people who're gonna die in their sleep the day after I meet them?"

  "Dad, this isn't easy. If you get care now—" she trailed off.

  "Care for what?" Paul scoffed. "Forgetting a few things? Just a brain fart."

  "You forgot Jacob's name."

  "Jacob who?"

  "My husband, Jacob." Ella's panic vanished at the sight of her father's teasing grin. "It's not funny, Dad. This is serious. These people can help."

  Paul doubted it. He knew Alzheimer's. He'd feared it since he'd first heard the term. He knew being locked away with a bunch of fuddy-duddies and undertrained attendants wouldn't help. He ought to travel, stimulate his mind as they say. Screw word problems and Sudoku, he wanted adventure. He could do it; he had the means. Even Ella didn't know about that. Whenever he brought up going somewhere on his own Ella would refuse and argue: "What if you can't remember where you are or how to get back?"

  To which he always responded: "I'll find a friendly local girl to watch over me."

  The last time they had the argument, rather than roll her eyes, Ella handed him the brochure for Century Acres. The glossy piece of propaganda made it look like a swank hotel where the company holiday party might be held, but Paul knew the brochure for the animal shelter gave the same impression. And look what happened to those inmates – either adopted and saved or sent to chase the great chew bone in the sky.

  Paul fought it, but that Jacob must have swayed Ella to get rid of him.

  And so, four months ago, Paul was left on the steps of Century Acres like a mutt being ditched at the pound. Ella came by three times a week that first month, then once a week, and now – to be honest, he didn't recall how long it had been and it sent shivers through him. Had she been here and he didn't remember, or had she simply stopped coming? Either option was terrible to consider.

  ***

  There he is sulking, always sulking. Flipping the pages of his National Geographic Traveler and chewing on his lip as he always does, never settling on any one page. I know what he's going though. He hasn't had a visitor since the first of May. I used to wish I had a daughter, thinking they were more caring, more loyal, and would never abandon a parent. But here he is, left in this place just as I was by my ingrate son.

  I was never any trouble to him. Just that one day I walked out of the condo with no pants – or underwear. Someone called the cops and, after they'd gotten a towel around my bum, I had a little trouble remembering the condo's number.

  "It's that building there," I pointed, "The Henry. I'll figure out which apartment it is once I get back inside, if you don't mind."

  They did mind and the doorman – I never did like him, not for his color mind you, but because he always flirted with the girls in the building as if a woman living in a half-million dollar condo would take up with a doorman regardless if he's black, pink, or green – gave the police my son's number.

  And do you know what he said? The dear boy I fed and cleaned and educated wasn't concerned about my health or my mental state at all. When he came to get me at the station, he didn't ask if I was okay or why I was out with no bottoms (I swear I put them on, no wonder it felt so drafty). All he said was, "I hope none of my friends saw you." All snotty-like.

  Well, I had to reply. "Why, worried they might want to ask a looker like me out on a date?"

  And that started it.

  "I think it's time you found a care facility."

  "An old folks' home, you mean? You don’t have to be politically correct around me, I've heard what you call the doorman."

  "You need to be somewhere where people know how to deal with you."

  "Because I walked out without my pants?"

  "For the third time, Mother."

  Had it been? He must be making that up. And he knows it irks me when he calls me Mother in that tone.

  "Fine,” I huffed, “I'll pack tonight."

  The next day he took me to Century Acres and hasn't visited since. Although he does call now and then, but only on weekends so as to not "waste his minutes." Whatever that means.

  I'd been here about a month when I saw Paul being dropped off like a scared and grumpy child at his first day of kindergarten. I thought he was the bee's knees the second I saw him haul – on his own, mind you - three suitcases from the curb and on up the stairs to his room.

  I hoped I wouldn't forget him. And do you know what? I didn't.

  Each day I'd seek him out and sit across from him as he read a travel magazine and chewed on his lip. And one day a funny thought crept into my head that I'd like to chew on his lip too. My giggle drew attention from the attending nurse.

  "Mrs. Cohen, everything alright?" She eyed me warily as if I might go on a rampage because I wasn't being morose like the other recliner-dwelling dullards here.

  "What? We're not allowed to have funny thoughts? I was under the impression that not thinking was the bad thing."

  She shot me daggers with her eyes. "I'm only being concerned."

  And I thought, You only want to up my meds and knock me out to make your job easier. But that kind of talk would get me nowhere so I just said, "Of course, dear."

  When I looked back, Paul was staring at me with his devilish green eyes and I could tell from the still-dark fringe of lashes that his hair had been black, before it turned its current steely gray.

  ***

  Paul watched the exchange between the nurse and the woman. He’d noticed this petite woman try to speak to him a few times, but he didn't want any friends so each time he pretended to be enthralled with his reading. What was the point of meeting anyone in Century Acres? He pondered the irony of being locked away and forgotten by a daughter who complained about his forgetfulness. Why meet anyone else, especially in a place where the people were guaranteed to forget you in a year, a month, hell, even a day? Who could say how long any of their memories would hold out? He endured the nurses' encouragement and when the doctors asked for drug trial volunteers Paul signed up figuring life as a guinea pig would at least give him something to do.

  Paul didn't want to admit it also gave him hope. Hoping seemed pointless in a place like Century Acres. With its supposedly soothing color scheme, stale scent of the elderly and falsely chipper staff, most things seemed pointless at Century Acres. So he withdrew into his travel magazines and books, dreaming of where he could be while the woman sat across from him on the verge of speaking, but halted by his interest in the pages.

  But when the nurse addressed the woman as Mrs. Cohen and he saw the woman's underlying desire to smart mouth back (oh, he recognized the look and knew she was holding back a zinger), he had a strange moment of curiosity and a feeling he hadn't experienced in four months: Paul wanted to meet someone.

  "My name's Cohen too," he said cringing at the sound of his own voice. It sounded so old, so gruff. And to think he'd been good at flirting with the ladies in his day.

  ***

  My face burned. Paul was speaking to me. Oh, I hope he hadn’t read my earlier thought about his lips. It’s like ages ago when I'd go to the dance halls and chat up any plain fellow who looked my way, but if the handsomest man in the room asked me to dance I'd be too nervous to give anything other than mumbled one-word responses. That's probably why I ended up with such a homely husband. Now the most attractive man I've seen in years is speaking to me and I feel like I'm back at the dances. Only now I know I need to reply before he thinks I'm one of the Century Acres Crazies.

  ***

  The woman stared at him. Paul wondered if this one alread
y had her mind eaten away by the Big A. But after a long pause she spoke.

  "I know. I thought it was funny when I first learned your last name was Cohen too. My late husband was Jewish, it drove my Catholic mother to her wit's end." She smiled and Paul thought his heart was troubling him before recalling the drop and thud in the chest at the realization a crush was in the making. He was too old to have a crush, wasn't he?

  "My name's Vivian. And you're Paul."

  "You seem to know a lot about me, Vivian."

  "Not much more than your name," she paused. "And that, like me, you don’t have many visitors."

  He wanted to hold back. It was rude to gripe to a stranger, but she didn't seem unfamiliar to him and the words he'd been holding back for four months tumbled out. "Kids are rotten. You think they'd treat us better. I worked, sent her to school, made the down payment on her first house and what do I get in return? My freedom taken away. I wanted to go here," he stabbed at the magazine cover, "and instead I end up in this place. I'm sorry, Vivian. I sound like a bitter old fool."

  "You've every right to be, Paul."

  She smiled at him and his heart trotted through his chest again.

  ***

  I loved saying his name and I loved how my name sounded coming off his lips. Each day we talked more, often spending the entire day chatting away like two old hens. We'd skip craft time inside to walk outside, and skip outdoor time to be crafty with each other inside. Although I grappled with the names of the nurses and sometimes forgot who the people in my framed photos were, I always felt witty and spry with Paul.

  Then one day I visited Paul in his room. He sat on the edge of the bed, but wouldn't look at me.

  "Vivian, I have something I need to confess."

  My mind, dull as it can be these days, raced. Blanche Botish had her eye on him for weeks. Was he leaving me for that hussy? I promised I wouldn't cry or get angry.

  "Well, get to your confession," I said with charm school poise.

  "Vivian, you ought to know I'm part of a drug trial. I think it's the only thing I haven't told you."

  I was so relieved I laughed at him. I thought my hip would break with the fit.

  "You had me so worried, you fool. Don't you know we're all part of a drug trial here at Guinea Pig Acres? Do you really think our kids pay for our entire upkeep? Merzer Pharmaceuticals pays the director here to have access to us. They only pretend to ask for our consent as part of the experiment - to see if hope plays a factor in their hocus pocus. In truth, the consent is written into the contract our kids sign to put us in here. They know the ungrateful little turds will never read the entire form. Some of us get placebos and some of us get something that may actually help. I figured everyone knew."

  "Guess I spent too long sulking to notice."

  "Well, now you know—" I tried to say his name, but the word vanished. A tear welled up in the corner of my eye. "If you don't mind, I think I'll go lay down now."

  ***

  Paul noticed the fumble and the tear. Were they really all part of a science experiment? He watched to make sure Vivian went to the right room when she left to rest and it gave him hope that she didn't hesitate at any doors that weren't hers. Paul paced the empty hallways. Most everyone was on a tour to the art museum. He knew what he needed to do.

  In the file room, Paul flipped through to the tab for C and saw his and Vivian's folders, his first, hers next, lying next to each other in the dark of a latched drawer. Paul shook off the image of them side by side in a morgue.

  Just as he feared, Vivian was receiving a placebo. Mentally, Paul felt as good as ever and tested himself daily with lists of presidents, countries' capitals and state birds. He never once faltered. Although Paul knew what it would say, he checked his file - he was receiving the drug. He slammed the drawer and returned to the common room feeling heavy and lost.

  The woman he loved was going to forget him, just as everyone else had done.

  Paul fought for ideas. Break into the pharmacy? Give her half his dose? Give her all his dose? Switch her pills with someone else's? Why her? Why did it have to play out this way? What good were memories if you had no one to share them with? What good was love if it could be forgotten?

  ***

  I feel so stupid. Paul. His name is Paul. Like the church in England, like the apostle, like the chipmunk-cheeked Beatle. Paul.

  When he knocked on my door I didn't want to open it, but I did anyway. I wanted to see his face and feared the day I would forget his face. I didn't say anything, but the red contrasting his green eyes gave away that he'd been crying. He took me in his arms and squeezed me tighter than anyone has done as if he was holding on to keep from losing me.

  "Come to my room," he whispered in my ear.

  "We can do that in here."

  "No, I need you to do something."

  Intrigued, I followed him. He pointed to his stack of travel books.

  "Where do you want to go?"

  "How should I know? I've only ever been to Canada to fill a prescription."

  "Anywhere," Paul urged. "You can go anywhere. Where will it be?"

  I thought he was joking so I picked the first book my eyes landed on.

  "Sicily."

  "Get your things together. Whatever you can pack into two small bags."

  "What's going on, Paul?" My heart skipped at the sound of my voice saying his name, at my mind remembering his name.

  "Trust me?"

  I couldn't resist that glittering spark in his eyes. I kissed him and rushed off to pack.

  ***

  Paul's daughter never knew, but one account remained in his name. It started years ago as a college fund for Ella's brother. But when Edmund committed suicide at seventeen, the account was ignored. It had gained and lost, but mostly gained for over thirty years. When Ella told him of her plan to dump him in Century Acres, Paul cashed out the account worried that he might one day forget about its contents.

  He knew what he was doing was crazy. He knew without the experimental meds he would forget, and Vivian was already heading down that road. But forgetting themselves on an island in the Mediterranean seemed a far better option than rotting away in Century Acres watching his new found love deteriorate while he remained healthy.

  ***

  I'm running away with—with—oh, dear. Well, I'm running away with Mr. Cohen, at least I know that much.

  ***

  The villagers adopted the Americans as Nonno and Nonna Cohen. At the old couple's request, the town artist drew their portraits, labeling each face with its name. The Swiss couple they rented from checked in daily to remind them to shop and eat, and the local children left flowers and lemons at their doorstep. Paul and Vivian enjoyed the sun, loved each other, and never looked back.

  ***

  I can't remember the name of this little village. It's beautiful and the people treat us as if we’re long lost relatives. Are we? I don't remember, but I don't remember this place either so perhaps they're new. I think I had children although the feeling isn't very strong. I suppose I would recall them if they cared for me like these villagers do.

  I do know my feelings for the handsome man lying next to me. I stare at him each morning waiting for memories of our life together to kick in. He seems familiar, like someone I've always known, but I can only remember the past year. Perhaps that’s all we’ve had.

  I look over his shoulder. I don't know why, but it strikes me as a habit I need to keep up. Then, on his nightstand I see his portrait. Oh, yes.

  "Good morning, Paul."

  I know from the perplexed look on his face that overnight he's forgotten who I am too, but then he checks my nightstand and love jogs his memory.

  "Hello, Vivian."

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Heron

  WHEN THE DECEMBERISTS came out with their song "The Crane Wife," I was fascinated by the beautiful Japanese story of a man falling in love with a crane and her turning human to become his wife. Seeing that this could b
e retold as a magical, modern tale, "The Heron" was born. It's a tale of giving too much of yourself to be loved. This story won Honorable Mention from the Alabama Writers Conclave and from Writer's Journal magazine.

  ***

  Looking over his shoulder, he discovered the truth. All her efforts, the sickness from exhaustion she endured, were they worth putting her through this? He wanted to say no, to be the kind of guy who put others first; instead he only hoped she could continue making him rich.

  ***

  The dripping Northwest day filled with misting clouds bleeding through fabric to skin found Arno roaming Forest Park's weaving trails. He couldn't afford a rain jacket. With what they’d given him upon release he couldn't even afford a drink to loiter in the overheated confines of a coffee shop. The park's looming conifers offered little protection from the penetrating winter wet, but the movement of walking warmed him just enough.

  Rounding the bend along the portion of the Wildwood Trail that veered off to Pittock Mansion, he noticed a white, rain-sodden animal on the path. His eyes pushed through the haze to see the long legs and wisps of feathers. Inching forward he expected it to fly away, but it stayed; its beak gaping open then closed was the only motion. Open then closed like a stranded fish straining to breathe air as if fear of death could force spontaneous evolution. Approaching closer he detected a spot on the bird's breast with blood dribbling down into the mud. Half of her shined white, the other was muddy chocolate; the halves linked with a filament of blood.

  He lifted the elegant bird. As it fixed a steady blue eye on him he marveled at the lightness of her. A flickering memory of high school biology class reminded him bird's bones were hollow, but he equated the weightlessness to her life slipping away. He wrapped her in his sweatshirt hoping the action wasn't a jailable offence. He couldn't risk another sentence so soon.

  "Don't worry, Cole’ll fix you." The bird stared at him before laying its curving neck down to nestle her head into the shirt.

  "It's a BB." Cole's forceps dipped into the anesthetized bird's chest. "When'd you get out?"

  Arno ignored the question. "How can you tell?"