Finding Nicholas
Mrs. Moody is asleep when I enter her room. And since I don’t really feel like hanging out in the activity room during Parcheesi hour, I figure I’ll just chill in here until she wakes up and see if she wants me to read to her. But since there are not many exciting things to do in an old lady’s bedroom, I decide to explore, hoping to get a better idea of who Mrs. Moody is and what makes her quite so…well, moody.
I don’t really find all that much. The top of her dresser is crammed with miscellaneous knickknacks that look like the result of a long career as a garage sale scavenger. Her picture frames are filled with photographs of what appear to be the same yellow dog and her bookshelf, as we already know, houses nothing but You Choose the Story novels, with a dinged-up copy of the Bible thrown in among them. So I abandon my search, grab one of the books from the shelf—a title I haven’t had the privilege of reading yet—sit down in the plastic visitor’s chair, and examine the cover. This one is about a mission to Mars and fighting evil aliens. I dive in, eager to finally have a chance to choose the story myself, without Mrs. Moody’s bad judgment getting in the way.
I prop my legs up on the edge of the bed and start reading.
Within the first two pages, I’ve already blasted off into space toward the red planet and made the prudent decision to send my rover craft down to explore before I disembark. But my spaceship is soon sucked into the gravitational force field of an invisible enemy ship and I have to make the choice to get into my space suit and jump ship or let the force pull me to wherever it’s going.
I turn to page twenty-three, electing to get the heck out of there, but instead of discovering my fate as a lost soul in space, I discover something else.
A photograph.
It looks rather old and discolored but I can still see the subject clearly. It’s a young blond boy dressed in red overalls and a white T-shirt. He’s standing in the middle of an open field, holding out a freshly picked daisy in his hand, as though he’s offering it to the camera.
I study it curiously before flipping it over and reading the back.
In tidy cursive, the following is written:
Nicholas, age 4.
This must be the mysterious Nicholas Townley who Mrs. Moody refuses to talk about. Why she refuses to talk about him or why just the mention of his name nearly sent her into cardiac arrest, I still have no idea, but I have a strong feeling he’s not just some guy she bought books from on the Internet.
Mrs. Moody stirs in her bed and I quickly slip the photograph back in the book and slide the book into my bag. When she opens her eyes, I greet her with a bright “Good morning, Mrs. Moody!”
“Humph,” she grumbles groggily. “You again, huh?”
At least now she remembers who I am. I suppose that’s an improvement.
“Yep,” I reply cheerfully. “It’s me.”
“Whaddya want this time?”
I do actually have something in mind, but I realize that I’m going to need to put her in a better mood (if such a thing even exists for this woman) before I can execute my plan.
“This dog is really cute,” I remark, picking up one of the framed photographs on her dresser and bringing it over to the bedside. “What kind is it?”
The subject matter appears to put her at ease right away. “It’s a mix,” she grumbles, but this time, with noticeably less bitterness in her voice. She takes the photograph from my hand and gazes into it. For a second there, I almost think I see longing in her eyes.
Figuring I must be on the right track, I press on. “What kind of mix?”
“Golden retriever and poodle.” The crinkles around her mouth soften just a fraction as she stares at her former companion.
“Oh, a golden doodle!” I say, excited that I actually know the name of the breed thanks to Brian and his little Heimlich maneuver pine cone story.
But my fortuitous knowledge seems to have the opposite effect as she drops the frame, photo-side down, on her bed and grunts. “Those mamsy pamsy dog breeders have to have a name for everything. Back when I had Ruby here, we called her what she was. A mutt.”
“Ruby. That’s a cute name. I like that.”
“Humph. Wouldn’t let me keep her.”
“Who wouldn’t?” I make an obvious show of my astonishment.
“The losers who run this place. Had to give her up.”
I sit down on the edge of her bed, thinking that I might have just made some kind of breakthrough. “I’m sorry,” I offer in a somber tone, hoping my sympathy will open some doors and possibly lead me to some answers.
But any semblance of a mood shift is already long gone. “Doesn’t matter anymore,” she growls. “I’m sure she’s long dead by now.”
I opt not to even go there as it’s clearly a dead end (no pun intended) and instead move forward with my plan. “Well,” I say, looking pensive. “I was hoping you might be able to help me with something.”
She grunts again and pulls the covers up under her chin. “Doubtful.”
I locate a piece of paper and a pencil on her desk and bring them over. Then I hold up my right hand and twist my wrist in a circle, feigning discomfort. “I think I sprained my wrist the other day playing rugby and I really need to document my hours and activities for Gail. Would you mind writing them down for me?”
I can tell from the way Mrs. Moody wiggles her lips around that she’s contemplating my request. After a few moments pass, she finally scoots herself up and mutters an unenthusiastic “Fine.”
I breathe out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Oh, thank you! That would be so helpful.”
I maneuver her food tray over the bed so that it acts as a desk, then I set the paper down on top of it and hand her the pencil. She grips it so tightly between her fingers I’m worried she might snap it in two.
“Okay,” I say. “Please write: Saturday, four hours, helped Mr. Nichols with his luggage.”
She starts to scribble and I tilt my head to watch her shaky letters appear on the page.
Saturday, four hours, helped Mr. Nichols…
“Actually,” I interrupt, pointing to the page. “I need you to write the number 4, not spell it out.”
“What the heck for?” Mrs. Moody protests.
I shrug and roll my eyes. “Don’t ask me. Gail is just so anal about stuff like that.”
“Fine,” she concedes with a scoff and erases the word “four,” replacing it with a numeral. Then I repeat the remainder of the sentence as she finishes writing.
…with his luggige.
“Oops,” I cut in again. “You spelled luggage wrong. It’s actually a-g-e not i-g-e.”
She gives me the stink eye and I throw my hands up in surrender. “I’m telling you. She’s a stickler for the details.”
Once again, Mrs. Moody erases her text and rewrites the word.
“Thanks!” I exclaim, sliding the paper out from under her hand and relieving her of the pencil. “You’re the best!”
She peers at me with suspicion. “That’s all?”
“Yep,” I reply, folding up the page and stuffing it into my pocket. “That’s it.”
The intercom screeches to life just then and Carol’s annoying voice (made even more annoying by the scratchy effect of the dilapidated old PA system) comes on. “Brooklyn Pierce. Please report to the activity room.” As usual, her disdain for me is evident in the way she pronounces my name. As though it’s riddled with disease. And she does little to hide it.
Regardless of Carol’s feelings toward me, I’m grateful for an excuse to exit. I gather up my book bag and sling it over my shoulder. “Well, I better turn this in and get to the activity room. Gail probably needs help setting up Family Feud for game show hour.”
Mrs. Moody slumps back down into her bed and turns to look at the wall. “Humph.”
I stop just short of the door and glance back at her, studying her closed-off body language. I take a shot in the dark. “Do you want to play Family Feud with us?”
>
Her body tenses up even more. “Ha!” she quips sarcastically. “Like I would ever want to do anything with those old clowns.”
I study her taut mouth and white fingers gripping the sheets around her chin and wonder if she really does mean that. Somehow I don’t think so. But who I am to psychoanalyze a ninety-year-old lady? So I just shrug and go, “Okay, suit yourself,” before disappearing out the door.
As soon as I’m in the hallway, I remove the photograph from my bag and the piece of scratch paper from my pocket. I squat down against the wall and balance each item on opposite knees. I carefully compare the last name “Nichols” to the first name “Nicholas” on the back of the photograph, then I look at the letters “age” in “luggage” and compare it to the “age” in “age 4.” And last, I study the two fours, noticing how each of them has a unique arch to its edges with short, curling tails ticked at the bottom.
The cursive on the page is definitely shakier and a bit more fragile than the writing on the back of the photograph, but there’s no doubt in my mind they originated from the same hand. And that can only mean one thing: Mrs. Moody has a secret that she refuses to talk about. A secret involving someone named Nicholas Townley.
Dead End
I head down the hallway toward the front desk, careful to duck past the activity room so that Gail doesn’t spot me. Once I reach the lobby, I look for someone besides Carol to approach, but she appears to be the only one around. So I take a deep breath, cringe, and walk up to her. “Good morning, Carol,” I say, trying to sound friendly and upbeat.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in the activity room?” she snarls back at me with an exasperated sigh. “I paged you there ten minutes ago.”
I conceal my annoyance with a beaming smile. “I know. I’m heading over there. I just had a quick question.”
She opens her eyes wide at me, as if to say “And your question is?”
I force out a laugh. “Sorry. I wanted to know if Mrs. Moody in 4A has any relatives named Nicholas Townley.”
She flips a page in the magazine that’s lying open across her desk. “I don’t know,” she replies dismissively. “I’d have to check her file.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes and shoot back some kind of snotty remark and just maintain my smile until my cheeks start to ache. “Well, would you mind checking her file?” I ask as politely as I can.
“Why? What is this regarding?”
“Oh, I’m just curious.”
“Well,” she huffs. “I’m not really at liberty to start rummaging through confidential patient files just to satisfy your curiosity.”
Jeez, I think. Apparently Mrs. Moody isn’t the only person around here with an attitude problem. What did I ever do to this woman?
I struggle to keep grinning through gritted teeth as I turn on my heels and mutter, “Thanks, anyway.” Then I head for the activity room.
“Brooklyn,” Gail says, sounding relieved to see me. “I’m glad you’re here. Will you take over the Family Feud game? I have to make a phone call.”
“Sure.” I shrug and take her place at the front of the room. She shuffles out the door as I pull the next card from the deck and read the question aloud to a room full of semi-eager faces. “Name something you do when it snows.”
A lady in the front shouts out, “Pick it!”
A man toward the back yells, “Blow it!”
A third answer comes from somewhere in the middle. “Smell things!”
Confused, I study the card in my hand. “No,” I announce with sudden realization. “Something you do WHEN IT SNOWS. Not with your nose.”
“Sledding!” the lady in the front answers without missing a beat.
I nod, referencing the card. “Yep, that’s number two.”
“Skiing,” someone else shouts.
“Number three,” I reply.
“Poh-uh,” the mumbling man with the eye patch ventures from somewhere in the middle.
I force a smile and look down at the card. “Yep. That’s the number one answer!” Even though I have no idea what the heck he just said.
The rest of the hour passes by much like this, and when Family Feud is over I put away the game and return the box to the shelf. Gail hurries back in, looking a bit flustered. “Oh, thanks so much, Brooklyn. How did it go?”
I shrug. “Fine, I guess.”
“And how’s Mrs. Moody doing?”
“Fine,” I say again.
“You know,” she says after a moment of reflection, “I definitely had my doubts about you when you first got here, but I think you’re really starting to show signs of improvement.”
I glance at her skeptically, waiting for the “but.” When it doesn’t come, I ask, “Really?”
She nods. “Really. You’ve come a long way in just a few short weeks. I think you show promise. Mrs. Moody has definitely taken a liking to you. And as you can imagine, she doesn’t like most people.”
“About that,” I begin cautiously, “do you have any idea why she’s like that?”
Gail flips on the TV and navigates through the channels until she arrives at one of those courtroom shows—a late-morning favorite around here. “Oh, who knows,” she says forlornly. “Most of our residents are dealing with some form of regret at this stage in their life. You know, they’re thinking about death, taking inventory of their life, wishing they’d done things differently. Some people react by getting depressed. Some people by getting angry. Mrs. Moody is clearly one of the latter.”
The mention of regret definitely piques my interest. “What would she be regretting, do you think?”
Gail sighs. “It’s hard to know. She’s certainly never told me.”
“Does she have any family?”
She purses her lips in contemplation. “Mrs. Moody? No. As far as I know, she doesn’t have anyone.”
“But then who brought her in? And who pays for her to be here?”
“She checked herself in and she pays the bills. Or, rather, the lawyer in charge of her estate does.”
“So she has no visitors? Ever?”
“Besides her lawyer—and you, of course—not that I’ve seen.”
“Oh.” My face falls into a frown as I feel like I’m nearing a dead end. “Well, does the name Nicholas Townley mean anything to you?”
Gail shakes her head as she starts stacking up chairs—preparing the room for the next activity. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Why?”
For a moment, I consider telling her. Divulging the story of the name written in all the books, Mrs. Moody’s reaction to it, and the photograph I found between the pages with the matching handwriting on the back. But something is nagging at me to keep quiet. That if Mrs. Moody truly has taken a liking to me (regardless of how she may act when I walk into the room), then keeping her secret would be the right thing to do. So I just mutter, “Never mind,” and get to work stacking chairs.
Comment 1:
Sorry, BB, I stick by my original assessment.
Comment 2:
I’m new to the blog, so I didn’t vote in the last poll about this, but from reading your archives, staying home sounds like the better bet.
Comment 3:
You’re not a loser! You’re just being smart. A fifteen-year-old at a downtown club? Sounds like a recipe for trouble.
Comment 4:
There’s nothing wrong with watching the news. Believe it or not, it’s cool to know what’s going on in the world. And I wouldn’t advise choosing a guy just because he has a sexy accent.
Comment 5:
What’s going on with Heimlich? Is he still in the picture?
Downer Town
I give up.
I seriously do. I tried really hard to talk some sense into these people but they appear to be a lost cause. All of them. Well, except those seven people who had the right mind to actually vote for me to go to the club tonight. Who are these people? Where do they live? I’d like to meet them. Hang out with them. Follow them on Twitter. The world c
ould use a whole heck of a lot more people like that.
As for the rest of them—the sixty-eight readers who think I’m better off staying home tonight—I just don’t know what to say. I feel sorry for them. I honestly do. They obviously live very sad, pathetic, frustrated lives in which nothing fun ever happens and the eleven o’clock news is the highlight of their day. And there’s nothing I can do about that.
But a promise is a promise. And I am still grateful that seventy-five people took time out of their day to actually read what I had to say and vote on it.
So I’m going to follow what they say. Just like I swore I would. I’m not going to go to the club. I’m not going to dance all night with Hunter in the cute, (slightly) too-short mini skirt that I picked out especially for the occasion. I’m not going to get lost in the thrumming music and feel the pressure of Hunter’s arms wrapped tightly around my body as we get close and hot and sweaty from the MTV-style gyrating on the dance floor. I’m not going to feel his lips brush against my skin as we share some steamy stolen moment in a dark back corner of the club. I’m not going to do any of that.
I’m just going to stay here, dressed in my boring jeans and a pastel green I LOVE CUPCAKES graphic tee, and maybe even go out to dinner with my parents later.
Yes, I’ll keep my promise to the blog-reading population of the world.
But I’m not going to like it.
And allow me to just state for the record—in case there’s any doubt left in anyone’s mind—that I am completely, one hundred and fifty percent opposed to the notion. And that this is not my idea of a good time. Which is why, in a silent act of protest, I don’t even bother to change my clothes before sulking into my dad’s car to go to dinner at some “hip” new bistro that just opened in town. And the reason that word is in quotation marks is because I think my parents and I have very different ideas of what constitutes “hip.”
My Life Undecided Page 10
