James knew they would arrive fast, they usually did when the neighbors called, hearing his mama’s screams from their house next door. He scrubbed his hands in the sink and rushed to his room, wiping his wet hands on the legs of his jeans. He kicked his shoes off and laid down on his bed, wondering what he should do next. Noticing his book on the nightstand, James picked it up and settled down to read. He was only a few chapters in when there was a sharp rap on his door. He quickly put the book back on the nightstand and stood up. Would it be rude to lay there reading while his father was in the recliner missing the back part of his head? James didn’t know, he was never good at knowing what was rude. His mama was constantly telling him, “James you can’t say things like that,” or, “James be nice.” Nice was so confusing, but he loved her, and she had so few pleasures in their miserable life, so he tried. For her.
He was halfway to the door when it opened from the other side and a somber-faced policeman stepped into his room. It was Williams. He had stayed with James a few times before, when the cops had to come talk to his parents. He answered the questions as politely as he knew how, and just like his mama said to, before Williams closed his notebook and stuck it back in his pocket.
“Can I go see my mama now?”
The officer tilted his head, “Of course son, no one said you couldn’t.”
His mama had convinced them she was protecting James. With the hand marks on his throat, her injuries from being knocked to the floor, and their history, it was believable. If they had doubts, they didn’t show it. They all looked relieved that their days of rushing to the Porter house were over. No more time wasted interviewing a beaten woman who kept refusing to press charges.
He stood by his mama on the front porch as the ambulance that carried his dad’s body pulled out of their driveway and headed down the road. Years of tension and stress rode with it. James reached out and held his mom’s hand.
He supposed there would be a funeral, and they would have to pretend to be sad. That was fine. As long as his dad was gone, James could do anything.
8
Rebecca drove to San Antonio the next day, pulling into the nursing home’s parking lot a little after noon. She sat in the car with the engine running and reconsidered her trip for at least the tenth time that morning. Claire was in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s and, depending on the day, might know who Rebecca was, understand what she was telling her, and have her heart broken; or not remember who she was, and it would be a wasted trip. She should have just stayed home. Home. An empty building with nothing but echoes of life that threatened to consume her. She was glad at least to be out of that place, even if turned out that she wouldn’t be able to talk to Claire.
She angled the rear-view mirror down to check her makeup and glimpsed the booster chair secured to the middle seat. Her hand froze on the edge of the mirror. Oliver was sitting there, kicking his heels against the hard plastic booster and waving to her. The grin on his sweet face crinkled to the edges of his big blue eyes, and wayward strands of curly blond hair tickled the tops of his eyelashes. He tilted his head to the side to see around his hair, still smiling. His small, not pale arms reached out to her with grasping fingers.
Gulping, Rebecca didn’t dare move. She wasn’t sure why Oliver was in her backseat, but she was glad for it. Tears rolled down her face as she held her breath and stared at him in the mirror. Unable to resist any longer, she turned away from the mirror to face the backseat. There was his booster, snugly secured to the middle seat.
Empty.
She wiped her tears away and shook her head.
The car door opened with a click and she stepped out into the parking lot. The black asphalt crunched beneath her feet while she made her way to the sidewalk. It had been over six months since they were there last. That trip had been harder than most; they were all crying by the time they poured themselves back into the car. Even Oliver, who hadn’t been sure what he was crying about. Claire had been more alert than usual, angry even. They were trying to enjoy the nice weather on the back patio, but Claire wanted Jon to take her back to her home. Jon gently reminded her – again – that she no longer had a house; they had sold it to help pay for the nursing home. She tried to walk to the parking lot to get in Jon’s car and the nurses had to force her back into her room. Confusion only fueled her anger. Yelling at Jon and Rebecca to help her, they had to look her in her eyes as they shook their heads. The only thing they could do to help at that moment was leave. Their presence obviously made her situation worse. The visits weren’t always like that, but it made it hard to want to go back. Jon said they should stay away for his mother, so she wouldn’t be as confused by her old life walking into her new one. Rebecca agreed, but for her it was so she, Jon, and Oliver wouldn’t have to witness another episode like that.
Selfishly, she was glad they no longer went to visit Claire. Nursing homes had always given her the creeps, with their death smells and vacant-eyed patrons. It was too clear a reminder that no matter how hard one fought it, age crept up and consumed everyone.
But Claire, the Claire before the Alzheimer’s claimed her, loved Jon and Oliver almost as much as Rebecca did. She was Rebecca’s last connection to them, the only person left in the world who would truly know her pain – on a good day, anyway. She shook her head and frowned as she made her way down the sidewalk. She knew it was selfish, wishing a good day for Claire’s mental faculties so Rebecca could break her heart, but she needed someone to mourn with her. Someone who knew.
The bell over the door tinkled when Rebecca pushed it open and stepped into the foyer. An umbrella and coat stand, empty but for a single forgotten yellow umbrella, stood to her right. Past the front desk to the left of the entrance was a sitting area, three long couches with soft pillows and worn blankets draped over the backs of each. In the corner waited a small basket of toys for younger children to occupy themselves with. It was the visiting area people used if the weather outside was bad or they just preferred to sit indoors. The antiseptic mustiness of it all enveloped Rebecca immediately. A small woman sat at the front desk. Her long hair, dark brown except for about an inch and a half of gray roots, cascaded down her shoulders. She furiously typed away at her computer, oblivious to the sound of the bell over the door. Startled, her head jerked up when Rebecca said hello.
“Well my goodness, if it isn’t Mrs. Crow! You scared the daylights outta me. How are ya, hon?” She looked around Rebecca to the door behind her, “Where’s Jon and the little one?”
“Hi, they... um...” Rebecca hesitated before clearing her throat. “They couldn’t make it today.”
“Well, that’s okay now, what a fine idea for you to come see her by yourself. She’s having a much better day than that last time. Wasn’t that just awful, poor Claire was just screaming and...” She stopped as she noticed Rebecca fidgeting, her skin pale. “Hon, are you all right? You don’t look so good.”
Coming around from behind the counter, she stepped closer, but Rebecca held up her hand, “I’m okay, really I am. It was just a long drive in, that’s all. I’m going to run to the restroom before I see her.”
Needing to get away from the woman, despite her well-intentioned sweet nature, Rebecca turned down her offer to walk her to the bathroom, insisting she remembered the way. That woman, with her unknowing cheerfulness or her pity, was the last thing Rebecca needed. She avoided looking at herself in the mirror as she washed her hands, afraid she would once again see an Oliver that wasn’t really there. She knew she looked awful anyway; she didn’t need a reminder. Dark circles had taken up permanent residence underneath her eyes, she had pimples for the first time in years, and had thrown on her clothes without care. At least she had showered, she thought, drying off her hands.
Leaving the restroom, she made her way towards Claire’s room, careful to avoid being seen by the woman at the front desk. She passed mostly closed doors on her way down the hall, some with cheerful homemade signs, others left undecorated as the occupa
nt had no family left, or at least none that visited enough to care about what their door looked like. A few doors were open just enough to let snippets of TV shows, radios, or the rare visitor chatter trickle out into the hallway. Some open doors revealed nothing but quiet and darkness, leaving Rebecca to wonder why they were open at all. Stepping around a corner, she saw the closed door to Claire’s room. She stood before it with her knuckles raised to knock and paused, staring at the blank white surface of the door. It was possible Claire was taking a nap or reading, but she didn’t want to interrupt the silence on the other side of the door. She lowered her hand and quietly turned the handle.
Claire was asleep in her bed, her time-ravaged face framed by thin, silver hair. Her closed eyelids twitched rapidly. Dreaming of better days, Rebecca hoped. Someone had drawn a patchwork quilt up beneath her chin, its colors and stitching faded with time. Jon’s mom had been quite the quilter in her day, when she could still hold a needle steady and firm. A lace doily covered the wooden nightstand beside the bed on which sat a lamp, a pair of reading glasses, an emergency button on a string, and a single framed picture. The picture, like the frame, was timeworn. There were spots scattered around the wooden edge of the frame, made smooth over the years by caressing fingers. Inside, a picture of Claire and Tomas, Jon’s dad. They were kneeling in the grass in the shade of a large oak tree, its branches heavy with Spanish moss. Jon, just a baby at the time, was sitting between them on a blanket, grinning that silly wondrous smile that babies do. Claire and Tomas were looking at him and beaming with pride. It was the perfect family, full of love.
Until it wasn’t.
Shortly after that picnic beneath the tree, doctors diagnosed Tomas with colon cancer, stage four. Within a month, the illness had reduced the robust man smiling in the picture to a frail, thin man, with a gaunt face and hollow eyes. Claire had taken one last family picture of her and Jon sitting on the edge of his dad’s hospital bed. That one didn’t make the doily-covered nightstand. That one was tucked away in a box on a high shelf of Rebecca and Jon’s closet. No one was smiling. The treatment had taken Jon’s father from them before the cancer ever did. It was one thing they had bonded over on their first date, the understanding you only gain after watching someone you love suffer like that. Claire never recovered. He was the love of her life, and she had no desire to meet anyone else or take her time away from raising Jon. Rebecca touched the baby’s cheek in the photograph and smiled. Claire had done an excellent job raising her son in a peaceful home full of love and affection; no one could ever doubt that.
She wiped the tear that had found its way down her cheek and looked around the room, unsure how to proceed. Rebecca knew if she turned around and left, she would lose the nerve to do what she came for, so she settled into the old chair next to the window and waited.
Claire had one of the best views in the building. About fifteen feet from the window, there was a sitting area with wooden benches surrounded by perfectly maintained shrubs, blue and yellow flowers planted with care in perfect rows, and tall oak trees whose leaves rustled with a light breeze. Like the tree in the picture on Claire’s nightstand, they were also adorned with Spanish moss, gently waving as it cascaded down towards the grass. Beyond the trees, she could barely make out a wooden fence line. It was a fine balance, showing the beauty of the nearby forest but still needing to keep the elderly residents contained.
A stooped, elderly man shuffled alone towards the fence. Almost there, he stopped and stared out into the woods. What he was looking at, Rebecca couldn’t tell. But he stood there, watching something while she watched him. Perhaps he had caught sight of a bird or a rabbit. Or, maybe he was thinking about his old life, past that fence. A life in which he would never again be an active participant. His shoulders seemed to sag a little more as he turned back towards the benches. Rebecca was still watching as he turned to face the woods again and carefully lowered himself down onto the bench. Old joints required a slower transition. Rebecca herself could feel the years settle in as she drew a foot underneath her and nestled further down into the chair, leaning her head back. A lone mosquito buzzed around the windowsill as she twirled her wedding ring around her finger and watched the back of the man’s head. Wisps of thin gray strands peeked out from his threadbare tan fedora, contrasting with the chestnut skin at the back of his neck. Jon had finally started to show gray, but it was contained to the area around his temples. In their earlier years, Rebecca had run her fingers through it as they talked about growing old together.
Rebecca’s arms flailed as she awoke with a jerk. Exhausted, she had dozed off while waiting for Claire to wake up. Looking towards the bed, she watched as the old woman’s chest moved up and down with every ragged breath. Relieved that she hadn’t missed her waking up, she turned back towards the window. Outside, the man was still sitting on the bench but his head had fallen into a sharp angle. That couldn’t be comfortable. A bird landed on his shoulder, and still he didn’t move. Rebecca knew without knowing, that he was gone. It was such a peaceful way to go. Perhaps when he woke up that morning he knew it would be his final day. Maybe he dressed himself in those corduroy pants, tan loafers, and pearl snapped shirt knowing it would be the last time. Had he lived a good life?
What was a good life? Was it having people to love who loved you back? Was it doing good deeds? Was it righting the wrongs of others? Rebecca didn’t know anymore. Her good life was becoming a distant memory. Now a good day meant getting dressed, eating a meal, the things most people could do easily.
She knew she needed to tell someone, the staff would need to collect his body and notify his family. They would mourn, as they should. But it wouldn’t wreck them. Their lives wouldn’t be completely torn apart. Nursing homes were, after all, transitional places as much as places of care. Sons and daughters adjusted to lives without their parents, grandchildren without their Paw-paw or Granny. So, when the news came, it was expected and everyone was ready. Still, Rebecca sat in the chair facing the window. He was peaceful, and they were blissfully ignorant. Maybe things should stay like that as long as they could.
She straightened her leg out in front of her, and hundreds of tiny pins pricked her foot as the blood rushed back into it. Rebecca massaged her foot and glanced again towards Claire’s bed. She was still sleeping, her mouth open, spittle escaping and making its way towards her pillow. Rebecca stood and walked to the side of Claire’s bed. She reached down and picked up her frail, wrinkled hand. The skin shifted under Rebecca’s touch, threatening to slide off altogether.
She braced herself and whispered, “Mother, it’s me, Rebecca. Can you wake up for a few minutes? Please wake up, I need to talk to you.”
Claire didn’t budge.
“Mother, mom...” Rebecca raised her voice and squeezed her hand. Still nothing. She glanced towards the door. Maybe an orderly would come in to give medicine or check on her and they could wake her up. But no one came.
She had to do it.
“Mom...” She leaned in closer to Claire’s ear, “Mom. MOM!”
Claire coughed as her milky blue eyes slowly opened, filled with confusion. For a second, Rebecca worried she had come all that way for nothing, that Claire wouldn’t remember her. She watched the memories trickle in behind her eyes while Claire wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, squeezed Rebecca’s with the other, and smiled.
“Becky, honey, is that you?”
Relieved, Rebecca squeezed her hand. “Yes, mother. It’s me.”
Looking around the room, Claire asked in a weak, still sleepy voice, “Where’s Jon and Ollie?”
Rebecca took a deep breath and carefully placed Claire’s hand back on the edge of the bed. Dragging the chair over to the side of the bed, she sat and picked Claire’s hand back up, holding it in both of hers.
“They’re gone...” Rebecca’s eyes filled with tears. “Jon is missing and Oliver is... Oliver is…” She couldn’t bring herself to say her Ollie was dead, cold and buried among dirt and pebb
les. Claire’s brow furrowed and her bottom lip began to quiver.
Louder this time, she asked, “Missing? What do you mean, Becky? And Ollie is what?”
Rebecca took a deep breath and proceeded to tell her mother-in-law everything that had happened in the last week. The frail woman’s once twinkling blue eyes filled with despair. Tears coursed their way down the deep lines on her face, but she didn’t move to wipe them away.
Rebecca held Claire’s hand as she cried, overcome with grief. She grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and wiped tears from Claire’s face, wondering if she did the right thing in coming here. As she settled back down and the tears slowed, Claire looked at her, confused.
“Becky honey, is that you?”
Rebecca squeezed her hand again and said “Yes, mother. It’s me.”
Looking around the room, Claire again asked “Where’s Jon and Ollie?”
Rebecca sighed, unsure how to proceed. “Remember mother, we just talked about it...”
Claire stared at her blankly.
Rebecca told her again what happened, or what the cops thought happened, and hoped it was the last time she would have to relive those moments. It wasn’t. Rebecca recounted the horrible events a total of four times that day before she just couldn’t any more.
“Becky honey, is that you?”
“Yes, mother. It’s me.”
“Where’s Jon and Ollie?”
Rebecca stared into the hazy blue eyes. Her shoulders slumped as she answered, “They’re just outside, mother. They’ll be here in a minute.”
“Oh okay, that’s nice. Did you see they gave me new curtains?” Claire pointed to the window.
“Yes, they’re beautiful.” Rebecca leaned over, inhaling the stale aroma of dust and old sheets as she kissed Claire on the forehead.
Squeezing her hand one last time, she released it and said goodbye. Rebecca knew she wouldn’t be returning. The one person who loved Jon and Oliver the way she had... was gone. Her presence didn’t bring Claire comfort or peace, but confusion and grief.
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