by Gail Hewitt
Hurriedly, she shoved the magazine into the envelope. All these years, she'd avoided to the extent possible seeing, hearing, or reading anything about Tom Scott. It hadn't been easy. He'd gone west, taken an idea about device compatibility and turned it into one of the largest privately held companies in the world, which he'd sold the year before to a gargantuan European concern for several billion dollars. It had been impossible to avoid knowing that much, for from within two or three years of his move to Silicon Valley his face had been regularly plastered on the covers of business magazines and, later, his opinions cited by interviewers on business-focused web, TV and radio sites. She'd heard a few years ago that Biography was doing a special on him during its "uncrowned heads of computerdom" week. She wondered at the time if she'd be mentioned, but realized it was highly unlikely. Their affair had been too secret, too private, entirely too much a solitary world. But could you even call it an affair? That sounded grown-up and she'd been so young, seventeen to his twenty-six. She supposed some people would call what had been between them a romance. It had certainly had its romantic elements, but the way it ended removed any possibility of her thinking of it in that way.
Situation, that was it, their situation had been specific to that time and place and hadn't gone on for very long, she now realized, although then those four months had seemed like a lifetime. So she'd avoided Biography fame and any exposure to the Merriman Scott myth, just as she'd barely glanced at the business section of the Times when he was featured and had not joined in the occasional conversations that, over the years, had casually mentioned him in airports and conference hallways. She couldn't change the past, but she didn't have to wallow in it.
She gathered up the mail and put all of it back into the Manila envelope, then tossed it on the floor and turned out the light. It was odd that it was here, of all places, that she found herself reencountering Tom Scott. How many hours had she lain in this very bed, probably on the same sheets or their near-predecessors, and felt she would perish for the sight of him, for the touch of his hands, for the solid, muscular heft of his body against her, around her, atop her, inside her? She blushed as she remembered, recapturing for a split second both her naïveté and the burning need of him that had suffused her every waking moment for much longer than the four months that marked the calendar sum of their involvement. The moment passed, of course. She, too, was older, that naïve girl only a memory and what had followed a cautionary tale.
She lay there in the near dark, the only light a faint gold around the edge of the shades from the outside spotlight that her mother insisted on keeping aglow through the night. She was tired, and her eyes closed naturally, only to pop open again, the magazine cover imprinted so clearly on her consciousness that she might as well still be looking at it. She supposed that, to some extent, she had never completely stopped thinking about the situation in which she and Tom had been involved. It had been so personally traumatic that she tended to measure bad things by where they stood on the scale of awfulness when compared to what that long-ago four months had done to her.
Of Tom himself, oddly enough, she rarely thought. After the situation was over and done with, that had been a deliberate choice made of necessity — if she'd continued to dwell on him, she'd have gone under; part, however, was due to the years that had gone by. Much as her seventeen-year-old self would have rejected the possibility, time had taken the edge off the pain and embarrassment. She had to think consciously, and hard, to bring back even the memory of how truly dreadful that period in her life had been. But, when she did, as now, her heart felt like ice, and she became aware of the old familiar ache in her stomach. If she asked herself what had been so terrible about those four months, the only possible answer was: what hadn't? Terrible and wonderful. The happiest time of her life, and the worst.
She finally fell asleep, woke up, fell asleep again. It was a miserably uncomfortable night.
What A Dutiful Daughter Would Do
Maggie awoke with gray daylight seeping around the edges of the shades and Amanda knocking on the door. She rubbed sleep from her eyes and looked at the clock. She'd be late if she didn't hurry. She jumped out of bed, tripping over the Manila envelope. When she grabbed it, the magazine with Tom's image half-slid out. She hurriedly pushed it back into the envelope, which she tossed into her open briefcase. Today she had to deal with a current problem, not one that had, albeit painfully, resolved itself years before. After a rushed shower, she toweled at her damp hair and put on the conservative navy-blue pant suit she'd pulled out of her bag the night before. Somewhere in the briefcase was a legal pad with a list of questions she'd prepared earlier in the week after the unnerving exchange of phone calls with the doctor's office. Finding the pad, she quickly applied lipstick, ran her fingers through her hair and hurried downstairs.
Amanda met her in the hallway with a tray holding coffee and toast. "That doctor's office called while you were getting ready. He's held up at the hospital. So I thought you might want a quick bite while we wait."
Maggie followed her into the sitting room, where a fire was already laid. It struck her that the house was unusually quiet. "Where's Mother?"
"I had to give her one of those extra-strong sleeping tablets they said she should have when she gets over-agitated. She had a hard time sleeping last night. She kept going on about you."
"She's never comfortable when I'm here. She never has been, not since I went away to college in North Carolina."
"She kept saying something about some boy you should marry. Someone named Scotty. Scotty . . . Williams. That was it. Scotty Williams, the one she mentioned to you yesterday. She seems to miss him real bad."
Maggie shook her head. "He would come by to see her when he was in town sometimes. He was the older brother of one of my school friends, and his parents were friends with my parents."
"So he was somebody you dated?"
"Sort of. Our mothers coerced us into going out a few times over the years."
"But you didn't like him?"
"It wasn't that." Maggie hesitated. "He was a really great guy, but he was gay."
"Oh." Amanda shook her head understandingly. "Do you ever see him anymore?"
"He died," Maggie said briefly. "Years ago."
"AIDS?"
"Probably. It was the late eighties."
"And your mama knew that?"
"Oh yes. We went to the funeral. She was so upset you'd have thought Scotty and I had been engaged, even married. She'd have loved it if we'd married."
"That's a crying shame," Amanda said. "But she sure has forgotten about the dying part. It's like she expects him to walk in from another room or for you to show up with him on your arm."
There was the noise of a heavy car on gravel. Maggie walked over to one of the tall windows facing the drive to see a large Mercedes easing to a stop.
"I think the doctor has arrived," she announced.
Amanda had the front door open by the time Dr. Fowler, tall and trim, reached the stoop. Maggie noticed that he was wearing a well-cut suit in pale gray, an Ermenegildo Zegna, she thought, carrying a small, sleek case, almost certainly Gucci. The black Mercedes gleamed behind him in the thin, uncertain light. It was clear that, whatever financial storm might be sweeping the general economy, that part of the Atlanta medical profession to which Dr. Fowler belonged was weathering it nicely.
"Dr. Fowler," Amanda said, "you remember Mrs. McLaurin's daughter, Maggie? Why don't you make yourselves comfortable in the sitting room and I'll make fresh coffee."
The doctor barely glanced at Maggie as they crossed the hall, focusing instead on the house, which he seemed to find unusually interesting. Maggie realized he was probably looking for his patient.
"Mother's sleeping a little late," she told him. "Amanda will get her shortly, but it's just as well that we have a chance to talk before she comes down. I've some questions."
"Yes," the physician agreed, following her into the sitting room. "We do need to talk."
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Once they were settled, he turned his full attention to Maggie. "I'm glad we've had this chance to speak first. I'm puzzled about your mother's situation. I take it she lives here alone with Mrs. Perry to look after her?"
"Yes. I work in New York City, and Amanda's been a godsend."
I can understand that. So few professionals can take the time to be with their parents very often, and I understand you're an only child?"
"Yes, but I don't see what that has to do with . . . "
Dr. Fowler looked around, as if checking to verify that they were alone. "Are you quite sure that Mrs. Perry is totally reliable?"
"I would trust Amanda with anything," Maggie said firmly. "I don't understand why you're asking these questions. I thought we were here to discuss Mother's condition."
"I'd be interested in your assessment of Mrs. McLaurin's condition," Dr. Fowler said, a certain snideness in his voice implying that he very much wondered if she had noticed anything about her mother. She forced her voice to remain calm. "As your office's files should indicate, my mother always had a somewhat nervous temperament. Five years ago, her behavior became increasingly erratic and unpredictable, and it was clear that she needed fulltime supervision."
"And she's living here because . . . "
"It's her home," Maggie said impatiently. "The house was built by my grandfather when this stretch of West Paces Ferry was first developed. My father grew up here. When my grandparents died, my father inherited. My mother has lived here for almost fifty years."
"It's a charming house," Dr. Fowler commented, looking around approvingly. "I can understand your sentimental attachment to it, as your childhood home, but you must understand that the preferences of adult children do not always reflect the reality of parental needs."
"What do my preferences have to do with it?" Maggie demanded, knowing that she was beginning to sound stressed but unable to keep her voice from rising.
Dr. Fowler made a soothing gesture with his well-manicured hand. "Now, now, Miss McLaurin. It is 'Miss,' isn't it?" He managed to make even that innocuous question sound insulting.
"Why don't you just say whatever it is you're getting at?" Maggie asked, staring him down.
"All right. Are you confident that your mother likes living here?"
"What makes you think she doesn't?"
"She expressed to me during her last visit to my office that she was being held prisoner."
Maggie looked at him in amazement. "I know you've been Mother's physician for only a few months, but haven't you read her file, the one that Dr. Sherrill kept? She's been suffering from some form of dementia for years. One of the symptoms is that she says all these bizarre things. At one time or another, she's accused just about everyone of stealing from her, or harming her in some way. Dr. Sherrill told me that the best thing for her was to keep her in her home, in familiar circumstances, for as long as possible. He said that moving her to another environment would almost certainly accelerate the deterioration of her mental state. He's the one who found Amanda for me. He said that keeping Mother here with a sympathetic caretaker was the best thing for her. I've done everything he said. Now you're implying that there is something wrong in that."
Dr. Fowler relaxed somewhat. "I appreciate what you're saying, but you understand that my office has to walk a fine line in such cases. There is much more elder abuse than the public realizes. Even the most respectable-appearing households hide unexpected cruelties, and you can hardly fault us for . . . "
There was a clattering on the stairs. "Now, Mrs. McLaurin," Amanda called out. "You'd better slow down on those stairs or you'll hurt yourself . . . Mrs. McLaurin!"
Elizabeth McLaurin, wearing a printed silk dressing gown and silk mules, ran into the sitting room, closely followed by Amanda. Seeing Dr. Fowler, she stopped abruptly and pointed at him. "What's he doing here? He isn't supposed to be here." She thought about it for a moment, glaring at the physician the entire while, and then a crazed comprehension appeared in her still-lovely blue eyes. "He's come to kill me, hasn't he? The time has come and you are going to have me put down like a dog you don't want any more, and he's the one you've sent for."
She began screaming and ran back into the hallway, Amanda grabbing futilely at the long, loose silk sleeves of her gown. They could hear the mules clattering toward the rear of the house, Amanda's heavy tread behind.
After that, there was no more questioning of need or motives. Having joined the club of those accused by Elizabeth McLaurin, Dr. Fowler finally proved his competence, providing Maggie with a newly updated booklet on the stages through which dementia progressed and the form of assistance best suited to each.
"You'll have to accept the fact that your mother's illness will continue to grow worse, and she will almost certainly ultimately have to be institutionalized unless you can arrange to have full-time medical care for her here, which is not always possible. I assume you would want her to remain in Atlanta. Here are some brochures on the best area facilities. As most of them have lengthy waiting periods, I'd suggest you select one with the features you think your mother would value most and reserve a place now. If it opens up in advance of need, you can always ask to have your name moved down the list."
Maggie looked at the brochures. "I hope we can keep her here," she said. "It's difficult, but . . . "
"It isn't always easy to set aside one's personal lifestyle preferences to help aging parents," Dr. Fowler interjected, "but you'll find that, in the long run, you'll be glad you did the best you could by your mother. Which brings me to the next issue we need to address. I assume my office has spoken to you about the medical billing issues?"
"It was mentioned but not explained," Maggie said cautiously. "Your office manager said you'd discuss it with me today."
"As you doubtless know, your mother's care has been paid for by Medicare and supplemental health coverage."
"Yes," Maggie said. "Is there a problem with that?"
"Not specifically in relation to your mother's account. The issue is that, in twelve months, Sherrill, Fowler & Hobbs will no longer accept Medicare and related coverages."
"Is there a particular reason?" she asked.
"Let's just say we're concerned regarding the possible direction in which the incoming administration may take Medicare reimbursement."
Maggie bit her tongue. Dr. Fowler didn't seem to be faring too badly accepting Medicare. Still, she supposed he was typical of many people. She knew others who were disturbed by the result of the election – her mother, an unrepentant racist, certainly would have been had she still been herself – but this was the first instance she'd come across of a business actually changing its income model. She realized that she disliked Fowler even more intensely than she'd thought, but it was not her feelings that were the point here, but rather the well-being of her mother.
"We are trying to give everyone enough notice so that they can prepare to assume responsibility themselves at that time," Fowler continued. He pulled a file from the black Gucci case, removed a spreadsheet, and handed it to Maggie. "To help you plan, this is a printout of the expenses incurred by our office in connection with your mother's care during the last two years. The total is at the end of the column on the far right-hand side."
Maggie looked at the number immediately. It was impressively large, impossibly large. She gasped slightly. There was no way, she knew, she could handle this.
Dr. Fowler read her reaction correctly. "Or, if a patient prefers, we'll refer to a very competent practice that continues to accept Medicare. The only problem is that they are willing to accept only a certain number of new patients, so if a patient requires the referral, we need to be told as soon as possible. We think, naturally, that patients are better served remaining in the care of a practice that they've known for years, and many of our patients' families are agreeing with us."
"I'm sure your office provides excellent care, but some families may not have that option.," Maggie pointed out.
"It's surprising the assets that most families have, whether they realize it immediately or not," Dr. Fowler said. "If there's a parental home, for example, a reverse mortgage is a possibility. Some families borrow against education funds that won't be needed for a few years. If the parent has valuable art, a private sale or auction might produce the necessary funds, although that is undoubtedly more difficult nowadays."
He looked around the living room, seemingly assessing the value of every item in it. Maggie wondered what he was envisioning — a Waterford chandelier for a couple of office visits, an eighteenth-century Hogarth print for a minor surgery, the Tiffany desk set for a series of special therapies? The process seemed like the most-invasive form of barter.
Suddenly Maggie was exhausted. She lay the spreadsheet on the coffee table. "I'll look it over later," she told him.
Dr. Fowler closed the Gucci case. "Meanwhile," he said, "I strongly recommend that you hire a second practical nurse or at least a housekeeper to spell Mrs. Perry. I'm not sure that one person can provide adequate care, given the obvious worsening of your mother's mental state."
"I'll see what I can do," Maggie said tonelessly, getting up and leading him to the door.
Dr. Fowler paused on the stoop and turned back to her, sympathy in his eyes for the first time. "I know such decisions are difficult for families, but you have obviously done the best you could for your mother and if you put your mind to it you'll be able to find a compromise that will work for you and her."
"Thank you," Maggie said, her voice flat. She forced herself to shut the door quietly rather than administering the solid slam that she wanted to give it.
When she turned around, she saw that Amanda was heading purposefully toward her, lips already forming a question, but she didn't feel like talking about any of this right now.
"I've got a blinding headache," she told the caretaker. "I need to lie down. Don't wait lunch on me."
In the lilac-and-white bedroom, she put the pad with the unasked questions on the desk, kicked off her shoes, gulped some water with an Advil, and flopped down on the bed. What on earth was she to do? Various scenarios played themselves out in her mind. Dr. Fowler had mentioned a reverse mortgage on this place, but she was the owner, not her mother, and she didn't qualify. She'd explored that option the year before. Then it suddenly hit her. She owned the house free and clear, and her family had been doing business with SunTrust Bank since the days when the bank was known as Trust Company of Georgia and Mr. Robinson, the president, lived up the street. She'd delay her return to New York until Monday afternoon and pay their trust officer a visit. Maybe they'd make a standard mortgage loan, or at least give her a line of credit with the house as collateral.
