I have grown accustomed to strange faces, but why would the staff hang pictures of strangers in my room? When I mention the oddity about the images to the man who identifies himself as “Steven,” he says he will ask the nurses, but the rotating pictures continue.
“Oh, those pictures.” Gwendolyn taps artificial sweetener over her oatmeal. “It’s Simon. The poor thing belongs in the Alzheimer’s unit, but somehow he manages to slip out and hang the pictures that he takes from other rooms. Don’t mind Simon. He’s harmless.”
I nod. I understand her answer. It’s the apparent norm that confuses me. But the hangings aren’t bothersome. They make the room more interesting.
“People seem in a bit of a hurry this morning.” I dab a half spoon of apple jelly on my plate, failing to see what has their interest.
“We get our costumes today,” Eleanor says.
I glance up. “Is there a ball?” Nothing—and I do mean nothing—surprises me around here.
“No, today is Halloween.” Gwendolyn leans closer. “You do remember Halloween, don’t you? Costumes. Candy. Trick or treat?”
“Of course I recall the…” I search for a word. “Publicity.”
I don’t recognize the word Halloween, but Gwendolyn makes the event sound like a big deal, and I want in.
“Candy? I got sticky, unwrapped popcorn balls,” Frances grouses.
“Same here—and pieces of broken cookies.” Eleanor bites into a prune.
“The fudge was tasty,” Gwendolyn admits. “When I get new teeth, I’m going to tell my daughter to put nuts in mine this Christmas.”
Eleanor shakes her head. “Sad those days have passed. Today’s parent is forced to lead the toddlers to neighborhood parking lots and let them select their treats from the back of a car or pickup truck. I imagine it’s the same old Tootsie Pops and Skittles, year after year after year.”
“You mentioned costumes?” I might have lost my mind, but I still know everyone at the table is much too old to be trick-or-treating.
“Arlene, you were here last year.” Gwendolyn pauses. “I forget, you were new last year, and you didn’t come out of your room for the party.” She pats my shoulder. “This year you’ll be joining the fun. The staff will hand out costumes shortly and assign stations.”
I’m sure my expression is as blank as air. All this chatter about costumes and suckers. I can’t follow the conversation. I wave Eleanor’s offer of a prune away.
“Everyone gets to be something special on Halloween,” Gwendolyn says. “The place that you want to shoot for is the main entrance. If you nail that one, you get the Cinderella costume and hand out candy at the front door. The families and employees bring their small children through the facility. It’s a special night.”
I shake my head. “I have nothing to give them.” I still haven’t found my purse.
“Don’t worry, the nurses supply the candy. It’s a riot.”
I focus on her excitement, trying to imagine myself dressed as Cinderella. “Do you want to be Cinderella this year?”
“I wish.” Gwendolyn sighs. “I got to be her last year. I’ll be stuck with either Red Riding Hood or the fox but I don’t care.”
“Now Gwendolyn, you know that’s a fib.” Frances glances my way. “She wants to be Cinderella. Every woman in here wants the position, but we have to share.”
Eleanor nibbles on her toast. “I was a chicken last year.”
“You were a rooster,” Gwendolyn corrects. “There is a difference.”
My eyes ping-pong back and forth, trying to follow the conversation. Chickens. Roosters. I want to contribute something to the inane conversation, but I’m blank.
“Hush up, Gwendolyn. You get to do everything. High time you set back and take your turn.”
Was that a touch of petulance in Frances’s tone?
Gwendolyn’s chin lifts for battle. “You can fold napkins for the chefs, too, if you’d get up early enough. You’re just jealous.”
“What about the popcorn?” Frances asks.
The two women’s forks pause in midair like battle shields coming up.
I hurry to change the subject. I am not accustomed to confrontations. Jack and I rarely lift our voices to each other, not since our children left home. “Ladies,” I caution.
Other residents start to stare.
“So?” Gwendolyn challenges. “I work hard to get that position. It’s mine.”
Eleanor bends closer. “Ignore them. Popcorn is a touchy subject around here.”
“Why so?” I can’t imagine why there is such crackling tension over a bag of popped corn.
Eleanor’s eyes dart to the sparring pair. “Gwendolyn got the corn-popping job for Bingo games a couple of years ago when Laverne… suddenly departed. Frances holds a grudge. She wants the job.”
I guess I understand the disagreement, but the idea of two grown women squabbling over corn seems petty and pointless. The whole conversation enforces my original thoughts. I want out of here.
After breakfast, I trail the women to corridor one for the costume distribution. Gwendolyn insists that I participate. If the subject of corn upsets the women, I shudder to think how they’ll react if I refuse a costume, so I go.
The following hour consists of endless squabbles, hair pulling, shoving and high-pitched squeals. Somehow I lose a shoe, and I’m never able to locate it. My head throbs. And my toes. An irate eighty-year-old brings her cane solidly down on my right foot, on my toes, and I think she breaks the middle one. When the dust settles, the women clutch their spoils to their chests and make a beeline for their rooms. Gwendolyn proudly carries the Red Riding Hood dress, though she denies that she knocked Shelly Middleton off her feet to get it.
I, on the other hand, feel like an intruder when the Cinderella costume accidently lands in my arms, and I find myself acting as selfish as the others. During a scuffle impasse, someone loses her false teeth, and I think, Ew! What am I doing here?
A white-haired lady jerks the Cinderella dress from my hands, and I jerk right back. Hard. Two can play this game.
Fabric rips, and a nurse steps in to break up the fracas.
But fair is fair, and I latch onto the costume. Hugging the musty-smelling cloth to my chest, I straighten, and with as much dignity as possible, I lopsidedly walk back down the hallway. I need my other shoe, but I’ll get it later.
Safely inside my room, I slip the dress over my head and parade before the full-length mirror. I don’t recognize the image of the older woman with mussed hair and a missing sneaker. It sure isn’t me, but nonrecognition is the norm nowadays. The garment fits perfectly, and I have to admit that the costume is adorable.
For the first time in a very long time, hope springs anew, and the thick gray veil of darkness that has draped me in despair slowly starts to lift. Perhaps there is hope for me. I am Cinderella.
I actually look forward to the Halloween event tonight.
The festivities start early. Perching on a bar stool, I sit on my throne and hand out candy. Sticky fingers and cherubic grins meet my efforts, and I find myself smiling—even laughing when eager hands grab more than their share.
Candy is flowing when Steven and Julee (the couple who claim they are my younger son and daughter-in-law) come through the line. I realize that I have not thought about anyone I know coming to the party, but the darling little girl they carry in their arms is about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Long, dark blond hair; big round blue eyes; maybe two years old; and wearing a Tinker Bell costume, even down to the lovely green slippers. My heart melts like ice cream on a summer sidewalk when the child leans out to give me a big smack on my right cheek.
“My goodness! I believe this calls for two pieces of candy!” The spot where her lips touched feels warm and most likely gummy. And precious. Her baby scent fills my senses, and I draw deep of the Fountain of Youth.
“Steven,” I chide, hoping I have the name right, “who is this lovely child?”
“Mom…
” He glances at Julee. “This is Ella—your grandbaby.”
“Ella?” My smile wanes to a cold stare. My grandbaby—baby Ella? Anger impedes my throat, and I spring to my feet. Candy spills to the floor. “Steven! Why would you fib to me and say this child is my Ella! My Ella is a newborn—this child is not.”
His gaze drops, and he changes the subject. “Hey little girl. Look at all the candy!”
I bend to rescue the candy that smaller children scramble to stuff in bags and orange buckets. My hands shake. Why would Steven mislead me when he knows how I long to see my grandbaby? I straighten to face him. “Don’t do that to me again. Ever.”
“Sorry, Mom.” He hefts the little girl higher. “Want some candy from the nice lady? It’s all right to take it.”
I grudgingly fish in my basket and find a couple of bags of Skittles. Not that the child isn’t adorable, but no one is going to replace my Ella.
Nobody better try.
“Well, she is special, Steven,” I allow. “I have a new grandbaby—she’s six weeks old, and her name is Ella Parker. I’m going to meet her soon.” Julee hands me a tissue, and I wipe my eyes. I can’t recall ever getting this upset. I must be getting better.
“That’s wonderful, Mom. I’m sure she’s adorable.”
“Ohhh… oh yes! You can have candy, too!” I laugh when eager hands compel Steven, Julee, and the little girl farther down the line. I glance back, fascinated with the angel Steven carries in his arms. Someday I’ll carry my Ella like that.
The child’s memory stays with me long after the treats are gone and the front doors are locked for the night. I lie in my bed, watching a flurry of colorful dry leaves skip across the lighted parking lot. Baby Ella. I haven’t thought about my grandchild in a while. There’s so much going on—so many changes. Has Jack phoned Steven to tell him that we are detained by ice?
“The plane is sound. Nothing to worry about, Arlene.”
Words form in the darkness. “But I do worry, Jack. I want you to come home—I want to go home with you and sit before our fire and feel alive again.”
“Good night, Milady.”
“Good night, my love.” Yawning, I roll to my side and close my eyes. Being Cinderella is fun. Maybe next year I’ll have to be the rooster, but there are worse things in life.
As I drift off, thunder sounds in the distance, and a soft rain patters against the windowpane.
Today hasn’t been so bad, Arlene. Maybe you’re yodeling…. No, that isn’t the word. Clocking. That’s it, I’m clocking.
Or is that, coping?
Chapter Five
Year Three
Rehab. Now there’s a place that strikes fear in you. I have to bat a silly balloon around, lift a few small weights, and touch my toes while I’m sitting down. This morning a nurse remarks, “Arlene, I bet you worked out before the accident. You’re in pretty good shape.”
“I do,” I say, hefting twice the weight of the others. “Nine days a week.” Jack and I are fitness freaks. We ride bikes on long Sunday afternoons, play tennis. Jack even belongs to the racquetball club. The nurse’s remark brightens my morning because to me it looks like my body is falling apart. Loose skin. Pulled-pork underarms. I lower the weight and study my right forearm. Once smooth, soft skin now resembles parchment paper—either that or I am wearing a garment in bad need of ironing.
A man wearing a doctor’s coat almost runs me over when he hurries down the hallway. I’ve seen the man before, always in a rush as though he is needed at a fire. He was in the dining room this morning, and Gwendolyn said that everyone thinks that he is a smart aleck. Even I have started to call him “Dr. Important” behind his back, which I’m aware isn’t nice.
I step aside and watch him stride to the nurse’s station and leisurely pick up a copy of the morning newspaper and peruse the headlines.
My gaze focuses on his shiny leather loafers. Dr. Important is the kind one would like to see wearing scuffed shoes and baggy trousers to make him more likeable. Maybe he’d even bend over someday and turn into Refrigerator Man. That would be funny.
But not today. Everything is in place. Tasteful. Fastidious.
Perhaps if he ever took the time to speak, to say, “Excuse me, Arlene,” like most of the staff did, I would like him more.
Angry voices filter from my room when I approach. A man and woman—their voices restrained to a civil level but sharp. “Get off my back, Melissa. I’m doing the best that I can.”
“You? What about me, Jack? What about me. Do you think these past years have been a piece of cake? I told you it would be easier to bring her to our house. She is never going to be happy here. And the inconvenience you’ve brought upon the whole family is intolerable. We’ll remodel a couple of rooms and hire a private nurse. The Lord knows our house can use a change.”
“And let her die of loneliness and neglect? How often are you home for any length of time, Melissa? Once—maybe twice a week? She loves people, and she’ll wither away in our stuffy crypt.”
“Are you insinuating that our home is cold?” The woman’s voice has assumed an icy likeness.
I pause some twenty feet away from the doorway to allow a man mopping the floor to slide his cleaning bucket aside.
“I didn’t ask for this,” Jack Jr.’s voice reminds her. “Do you think managing the toy business and my office in Vermont and commuting to long-standing clients and my partners in Atlanta is easy?”
“How would I know? You never talk to me about anything these days, and you’ve missed the last two counseling sessions. I can’t recall the last time we worshipped together. Or made love.”
“I’m one person. I don’t need a pastor or a high-priced shrink to tell me that I have a problem.”
“We, Jack. We have a problem, and I am trying my best to correct it, but I can’t if you refuse to cooperate. If you can’t bear the sight of me, then maybe we should separate.” Her tone softens. “That isn’t what I want, and I don’t believe you want it either. Don’t give up on this marriage, Jack. I haven’t.”
“Love. The most highly overrated sentiment in the English language. Love cannot heal all problems, Melissa. Grow up and live in the real world.”
The janitor moves on, yet I hesitate. Something is wrong. Terribly wrong. I wonder if I should interrupt what sounds like a private conversation.
The woman’s soft voice drifts to me. “Is there another woman?”
“There isn’t another woman. I have a woman. I don’t need another headache.”
“That’s what I am now? A headache?”
“This is not the place to have this discussion, Melissa. Mother will be here anytime.”
The woman’s tone cools. “You aren’t being fair, Jack. I do my part in this marriage. You’re the one who slaves twenty hours a day, refusing to take a break, ignores family life, and goes out of your way to avoid your wife. I know you’re overwhelmed with losing your father, with work, and your mother’s illness, but I do everything possible to make your losses easier—”
“Easier? Be serious. I barely have time to eat these days.”
Her tone drops to menacing. “Don’t tell me you aren’t going to be there. Julee has the turkey in the oven, the table is set and guests invited—the Johnsons are coming this year. It was your idea to have Julee invite them. You can’t leave me to entertain alone.”
“The Johnsons are your friends, not mine.”
“What a horrible thing to say! You know I wouldn’t associate with them if they didn’t provide your law office a healthy income every year. You told me to invite them.”
His tone rises. “Make my apologies.”
“You make room for the things that are important to you. Somehow you manage to show up for golf dates.”
“You’re right. When you’re in yoga five times a week and most Saturdays, I’m on the golf course trying to close a deal. Try having responsibilities, Melissa, like running two businesses—”
I’ve heard enough. Whatever
the problem, this anger has to stop. Broadcasting one’s problems through the corridors is no solution. Summoning a smile, I step into the room, pretending great surprise to see company. “My goodness! I see that I have guests.”
Jack Jr. turns from the window and offers a strained smile. “Happy Thanksgiving, Mom.”
“Thanksgiving?” This part still confuses me. I have celebrated Thanksgiving already. Jack bought a roasted hen at the market, and I tossed a salad. Later we dozed in our recliners. But I’ve learned to smile and nod when someone says something mystifying. “The same to you.” I turn to the woman. “So nice to see you, Julee.”
“Melissa,” she gently corrects and bends to hug me. Gold bracelets tinkle, and a lovely scent enfolds me. Elizabeth Taylor’s Passion. Judging by the woman’s smell, we’ve met before.
“Please.” I gesture to the sofa. “Sit with me awhile.”
The couple settles on the sofa at a safe distance, and we chat about inane things. How nice to have the weather hold. Yes, the facility was quite comfortable, but I miss my home. I ache for my comfy bed. The familiar feel of Jack lying next to me at night, moonlight streaming through our bedroom window.
“Have you made any new friends this month?” the woman inquires.
“Oh yes.” I tell her about Gwendolyn. And Eleanor and Frances, but by her squirmy expression, I think I might have mentioned the tablemates before.
Jack Jr. lifts a brow. “Surely you meet many people here. Not just Gwendolyn, Eleanor, and Frances.”
“Not really. There are a lot of people here, and they’re okay, but I don’t associate—I don’t think. But if you want, I’ll try harder.”
I should tell him that I prefer to sit in my room and gaze out the window in lovely silence more than listen to the inane babble that goes on here. I play games like car counting—how many white vehicles come and go each day? Make up stories about the owners and their lives, where they’re going when they leave here. Total the amount of falling leaves when a wind gust drops dying foliage. I counted fourteen squirrels skimming across the ground this morning—but one kept running back and forth….
Beautiful Star of Bethlehem Page 3
