by E. E. Holmes
“Jess, are you okay?”
“Um, yeah. I think so,” I replied, unable to repress the quiver in my voice.
“I’m so sorry, honey. He hasn’t done anything like that in years. I would have warned you if I’d thought he was capable of any sort of outburst.”
“No, I … it’s okay.” I tried to rise. The room spun.
“Don’t try to stand up, sweetie. I think you gave your head a pretty good whack on the windowsill. Just sit for a minute, I’ll be right back.”
I must have looked frightened because she added, “Don’t worry about Dad, he’s calmed down now. Just don’t touch him.”
I sat on the floor and closed my eyes, trying to relocate my center of balance. My grandfather gave no further acknowledgment of my presence. The only visible evidence of his outburst was his newly anxious expression and the tears that still glimmered damply on his cheeks, reflecting the sunlight.
Karen returned a moment later, followed by the nurse from the reception desk. The nurse’s formerly jovial expression was twisted with motherly concern as she bent over my grandfather, a syringe flashing in her white-gloved hand. He vanished behind her for a moment and when he reappeared again, his face had lightened into the attitude it had worn when I’d first seen it: expectant, eager.
Karen brought me a cold compress, and I sat with it pressed to the back of my head until I began to feel steadier. Then she helped me to my feet and walked me downstairs without another backward glance toward the old man in the chair. She walked me out onto the porch, where she sat me firmly in a rocking chair.
“Just wait out here while I sign a few things and then we’ll head home,” Karen said, and headed back to the reception desk.
I stared out across the lawn of the Winchester House for the Aged, wondering what it was that my grandfather saw out of that upstairs window that I was missing. I was trying to shake from my thoughts how desperately he had begged me to send him back, though “back where,” of course, I had no idea.
A voice drifted out of the open window behind me.
“… wasn’t due for another dose for at least two hours.”
“Well, then I’d question whether what you’re giving him is strong enough to do the job.”
“But Mrs. Hunt, he hasn’t had a single spell, not once in five years. Why the last time was when your sister came to—”
“—Yes, I know when his last spell was, thank you,” Karen said, sounding for the first time like the lawyer she actually was. “And I’m quite sure I’d asked you not to mention my sister’s visit.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Just do what is necessary to ensure that this doesn’t happen again. I won’t have my father upsetting himself or anyone else. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Certainly, Mrs. Hunt. We will continue to do everything we can,” the nurse replied.
“Thank you.” Karen’s boots tapped out a sharp staccato as she marched out. She softened her stride as she stepped onto the porch and looked down at me.
“Ready to go home?”
“Sure.” I shrugged in what I hoped was an off-handed way. I didn’t want her to think I’d overheard her conversation. I stood up carefully and followed her to the car. She’d just gotten belted with the key in the ignition when she stopped and looked at me.
“So are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, really,” I insisted, not sure if I was telling the truth or not.
“Oh my God, look at your hands!”
I did, and realized that both of them were beginning to bruise, bleeding in a few spots where my grandfather’s unclipped fingernails had dug into my skin. I hadn’t felt the pain, probably from the shock of the whole experience and then the bump to the head, but now that I had perceived their appearance I also noticed that both of them were aching dully.
“Ow,” I said in surprise.
Karen heaved a long sigh and turned the key. “What a family reunion, huh? I’m sorry. I guess you can see now why I was so reluctant to bring you to see him. He is very rarely like that, so I’m sorry you had to see him on such a bad day.”
“Is that what he always says? When he … freaks out?”
“No. I have heard him say something similar before, but it’s different every time. He’s just so far gone now, that it rarely makes any sense.”
“He thought I was my mom. He called me Elizabeth.”
Karen’s eyes flashed anxiously first to my face, and then to my hands again. She opened her mouth to say something and instead bit her lip. We drove home in loaded silence.
I’d never been around anyone who was mentally unsound, and it wasn’t an experience I wanted to repeat now that I’d had it. I’d heard friends talk about grandparents or great-aunts with Alzheimer’s disease and dementia, but this was different than what they’d described. There had been a real urgency, a real sense of purpose to my grandfather and his strange words, though they made as little sense as the ramblings of any senile person. Somehow I couldn’t convince myself that he was simply losing his mind as a natural part of aging. I would never forget the way he had stared into my eyes, and I felt uncomfortably haunted by the fact that I couldn’t help him when he’d begged it of me.
3
IN THE CARDS
THE MORNING OF MY MOVE-IN TO ST. MATT’S dawned muggy and hot. Noah looked like he’d run a marathon after loading the car and had to re-shower and change before we could go.
“Are you sure you don’t want to change too, Jessica?” Noah asked, a little too casually.
I smiled as sweetly as I possibly could. “No thanks, Noah. I’m pretty comfortable just like this.” I’d dressed as “goth” as my wardrobe would allow that morning. I liked to think of it as a combination farewell gesture and middle finger.
At least the SUV had air-conditioning, something neither our ancient car nor our apartment had back home in New York. The ride was only an hour long and passed quickly, but the closer we got, the more nervous I became. By the time we pulled off the highway and into view of the campus, I’d gnawed half of my fingernails off.
St. Matt’s was a college recruitment brochure come to life. Large, ornate wrought-iron gates enclosed the entire campus. The buildings were imposing and erudite, with ivy that tangled rampantly across their stone and brick façades. Wiltshire Hall, the largest and most impressive of the buildings, overlooked the quad, an enormous clock tower crowning it like royalty. The lawns and plants were beautifully manicured, and monstrous oak trees stood sentinel around the grounds, shading lounging students beneath their leafy canopies. The students already looked at home, reading on blankets, playing Frisbee, and talking on cell phones as they strolled down the cobblestoned sidewalks.
We pulled up in front of the row of freshman dorms. Dozens of students in identical bright orange t-shirts were assisting the new students in hauling their belongings into the dorms. They were filling up giant wheeling laundry bins and dollies, going in and out with everything from pillows and lamps to couches and computer desks, swarming around like a hive of co-ed bees.
We got out of the car and were immediately descended upon by three students all bearing the uniform of the move-in crew.
“Hey, welcome to St. Matt’s! What’s your name?” the girl in front bubbled, consulting a clipboard.
“Uh, hi. I’m Jess Ballard.”
“I’m Katie,” she said, pointing unnecessarily to her name tag, on which her name was clearly printed in bubble letters. “Let’s see here,” she muttered, running a finger down her list. “Ah, here we are, Jessica Ballard. Okay, it says here you’re in room 312, Donnelly Hall. Is that what your packet says?”
I checked it. “Yup.”
“Excellent. And these must be your parents?”
“My aunt and uncle, actually.”
“Great! Well nice to meet you all. Jess, here’s your name tag.” She handed me a tag with my name on it, printed in the same bubble letters. Unfortunately, it said “Jessica.” Not wa
nting to seem rude, I peeled it off the paper backing and stuck it grudgingly to my black tank top.
We began loading my stuff into an available laundry bin. Luckily, a lot of my things had been shipped from New York, so we didn’t have nearly as much as some of the perspiring students around us. A freckly redheaded kid with his sleeves rolled up heaved the bin into the elevator for us. We followed him down the hallway on the third floor, where a small whiteboard confirmed we were in the right place. “Jessica Ballard and Tia Vezga Class of 2017” was printed in girly purple lettering. I smudged my thumb quickly through the “-ica”, leaving my preferred moniker. The door to my room was already open.
The initial effect was a little dreary; after all, there were definite visual similarities between my new bedroom and your standard-issue prison cell. But I firmly told myself to snap out of it. This room was the symbolic opposite of a prison cell. It was a fresh start, a new beginning. I settled on a metaphor that suited my artist’s temperament: it was a blank canvas.
Well, an almost blank canvas. There was a large pile of boxes and bags on one of the beds already; it looked like my roommate had gotten there first.
It took until lunchtime to unpack everything. Karen insisted on staying to help; Noah and the freckly kid dragged my stuff up from storage that had been previously shipped, and then Noah excused himself to have a look around the campus. Karen and I had just finished a sandwich break when my roommate came in.
“Oh good, you’re here!” she squealed, tossing a plastic shopping bag on her bed and bounding forward to greet me.
Tia Vezga was a very pretty girl, with a heart-shaped face and long shiny black hair that hung in a thick curtain down her back. Her eyes were heavily lashed and deep brown, and they crinkled as she smiled.
“It’s so nice to meet you! I hope you don’t mind, you weren’t here yet, so I picked the bed on the right.”
“No, I don’t mind at all. It’s nice to meet you too.” I noticed almost immediately her total lack of reaction to my wardrobe choices; she didn’t appear wary or disappointed—a positive sign. “This is my aunt, Karen Hunt,” I added, hoping to avoid another “is this your mom” moment.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Hunt.”
“You too, Tia,” Karen replied, looking very pleased that my roommate was so obviously friendly.
Tia turned back to me. “I would introduce you to my parents but they’re still in the bookstore. I think they’re trying to buy one of everything.” She rolled her eyes. “So Jess, where are you from?”
“Um, all around really, but most recently New York City.”
“Oh, cool! I’ve never even been to New York! My family’s from St. Louis.”
“Well, I’ve never been to St. Louis,” I said. Not that I’d ever wanted to go there, but there was no need to mention that.
“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly the excitement capital of the world, is it?” Tia said, almost reading my mind. “Hey, you’re just about unpacked!”
“Yeah, I’ve been here for a few hours.”
Tia looked at her pile of boxes and suitcases, a little crestfallen. “I haven’t even started.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” I offered. “Just let me walk Karen out.”
Karen looked up from the empty boxes. She’d been looking for little things to keep her occupied for the last fifteen minutes or so, but everything was put away. She seemed hesitant to go as she and I walked toward the door.
“I can stay and help Tia, too.”
“No, Karen, you and Noah should head home. It’s so hot. You’ve done enough manual labor for the day.”
“What about your books? Do you want me to go with you to buy—”
“—No, really, I’m fine. You guys head back to the air conditioning.”
Karen nodded resignedly. “Okay then. You’re sure you have everything? You’ll call if …” her voice trailed off, as though she couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Sure.”
“Okay, then. I’m going, I’m going. Have a good semester.”
I waved her down the stairs, trying my best to look independent or grown up or something, anything to wipe that worried look off her face.
As I walked back into my room, I was accosted by a girl in a skimpy sundress.
“Oh my God, do you live here?” she asked, pointing to my room. She was very tall and willowy, with flat-ironed, bleach-blonde hair and a complexion that could only be attained by sleeping nightly in a tanning bed. Her sequined dress was so low-cut it was like her boobs were actually staring at me. Who the hell lugs boxes around in an outfit like that?
“Uh, yeah, I do.”
“Oh fabulous! We’re neighbors! I’m Gabby Taylor. I’m just across the hall in 311. It’s nice to meet you!” she gushed. Her eyes raked over my hair, my face, and my clothes. For a fleeting moment, a look of triumph seemed to twist her features, but as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone.
“Hi, I’m Jess Ballard,” I said as Tia leaned out of our room, tossing an empty cardboard box against the wall. “This is my roommate Tia Vezga.”
“Hi, Tia.” Gabby performed the same quick little inventory. This time she looked put-out and shook Tia’s hand with a little less enthusiasm.
Tia seemed to notice none of this. “Nice to meet you, Gabby. Where are you from?”
“Oh, I’m from Connecticut. I went to an all-girl high school, so I’m thrilled to be going co-ed finally. My boyfriend isn’t though. We’ve broken up like five times since I got accepted here. He’s so jealous.” She rolled her eyes.
“Oh, um … that’s too bad,” Tia said.
“Oh, not really. We just keep making up. And anyway, if we do break up for good, it’s not like I can’t find someone else around here,” Gabby whispered, eyeing an upperclassman who was hauling a futon down the hall with his t-shirt sleeves rolled up. “Can you believe some of the guys here?” She winked coquettishly.
Tia just gaped. She seemed lost for words.
“Well, I’ll come visit when I’m all unpacked. See you girls later!” Gabby disappeared into her room.
Tia looked at me blankly, and I grinned at her.
“Wanna ditch this whole unpacking thing and go scope out some guys?” I asked her, batting my eyelashes. She laughed and we headed back into our room.
“Well she was … nice,” Tia said. I had a feeling that Tia always gave people the benefit of the doubt, even when that person had removed the doubt so forcibly.
“Sure,” I agreed. “Be careful, though.”
“Careful?”
“She was sizing us up, didn’t you notice?”
“Sizing … what?”
“I don’t think Gabby likes competition.” I unfolded a blue pinstripe comforter and tossed it onto her bed. “She thought you were pretty. She wasn’t happy about it.” “She thought … oh!” Tia finally caught up. Her olive complexion immediately flushed pink. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Tia. I think she’ll get her fair share of attention, don’t you?”
Truer words were never spoken. There was a line of guys forming, trying to bring boxes to Gabby’s room. Her boyfriend, who looked like a linebacker or something, watched the testosterone parade with a darkening expression. He departed a half an hour later, after a highly audible lovers’ spat. If Gabby had been momentarily worried about competition from me or Tia, her fears should have evaporated by now. She had already created quite a disturbance among the male population.
Unpacking Tia’s stuff was very different than unpacking mine. To begin with, all of her boxes were carefully labeled with little index cards. When I examined one of the index cards closely, I saw that it listed every item in the box in tiny, precise handwriting. And when I opened the box, everything was either wrapped in tissue paper or fitted in so neatly that I probably could have hurled the box out the window and not disturbed the contents. Everything was coordinated, from her bedspread to her picture frames to her little cup for holding pens and pencils. When we had finally finish
ed, her half of the room looked like it had been staged for a catalogue shoot. She gazed over it with a nod of satisfaction.
“Now I think what I really need is some stuff for these walls,” Tia said. Her eyes wandered across to my side of the room, where I’d managed to get a bunch of stuff up on my walls around my bed and desk.
“Oh, wow, Jess, did you draw these?” Tia asked as she walked over to examine my hodgepodge of wall hangings more closely. I’d stuck some of my own drawings up there among the magazine pages and photos and stuff.
“Yeah, some of them.”
“Wow! You’re really good! Are you an art major?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Well, I can’t even draw stick figures,” she declared. “I’m definitely not going to be providing my own artwork. And these walls are so depressing unless you get something to cover them!”
“Sounds like you ladies are in need of the poster sale,” a voice answered from the doorway. We both turned to see two guys standing there. One had sandy hair that seemed to prefer to stand out in cowlicks above his lightly freckled face. A Polaroid camera hung around his neck. He was wearing one of the bright orange moving day t-shirts. The other was dark-haired and tan, dressed in jeans and a sleeveless tee. I recognized him as one of the guys who’d been carting Gabby’s stuff around.
“There’s always a poster sale in the student center the first week of term,” the sandy-haired boy continued, bending down and scooping up a neon pink flyer that had been lying half-hidden under one of our empty boxes. He reached out to hand it to me.
“Thanks,” I replied, taking the flyer.
“I’m Sam Lang. I’m the guys’ RA on this floor.”
Tia and I both introduced ourselves. Sam shook both of our hands with a very firm grip.
“And I’m Anthony, Sam’s much more attractive and likable friend,” the dark-haired boy added. He held his own hand out, seeming to flex his muscles as he did so.
“Hey,” I said, shaking his hand quickly.
“Have any heavy lifting left to do?” Anthony asked. “I’m offering my services.”
