“What medication?” Sam asked.
“It’s an off-label use.” The doctor handed him a folded brochure. “Ignore the black box warning about side effects in elderly patients with dementia. They have to say that, for liability.”
“What kind of side effects?”
“Everything from dry mouth and drowsiness to cardiac arrhythmias and sudden death. This drug is routinely prescribed for patients like your mother and it’s pretty effective.”
“If we don’t agree to the medication?”
Dr. Robertson stood up. “Then perhaps you should look for another placement. I don’t think your mother will do well here without appropriate pharmacologic modification.”
“Isn’t it reasonable for people like my mother to be angry, given how much they’re losing?” Sam remained sitting. He wasn’t finished. “She’s always been healthy. A little arthritis, but that’s all. And now this. Aren’t there kinder ways to treat the symptoms? Like pet therapy? Ma loves her cat. Can she bring him here?”
“We have a couple of resident cats in the Memory Unit and on the nursing unit,” he said. “But residents may not bring their own pets from home. Liability issues.”
That won’t go over well, Sam thought. Still, he and Zoe could adopt Charlie and sneak him in to visit.
“What about, you know, encouraging them to talk about it, in a group or something, instead of just sedating them? Alternatives like using art or poetry or humor?”
Not that humor was all that effective with Flo. He stifled a smile, thinking of the time two, three years earlier, when he wrapped a bag of marbles for his mother for their Chanukah gift exchange. Flo’s memory loss was evident but not yet frightening. It had seemed like a good gift. Funny even. Sam and Zoe had picked out a rainbow of purples and deep reds, Flo’s favorite colors, and put them in a thin muslin pouch. To replace the ones you’ve lost, he wrote on the card.
Flo had not been amused.
The doctor didn’t respond right away, but the tight lines around his mouth and the flare of his nostrils conveyed his reaction. “I suppose that theoretically that might be an interesting approach if we had unlimited resources,” he admitted. “But we don’t; no facility does. It’s imperative that we provide a safe environment for all our residents and for our staff.”
Sam stood up; he got it. Drugs were easier. Not to mention paid for by Medicare. He didn’t much like it, but what choice did he have? These people knew what they were doing; they had the highest rating in the area. The doc seemed arrogant but maybe he could be flexible. Sam offered his hand and his most conciliatory tone.
“I think I understand. Would you be willing to wait a while and see how she adapts to this place before starting any medicine?”
The doctor shook Sam’s hand. “Sure, we can wait a few weeks, monitor her behavior, and see how it goes.”
Even if he succeeded in convincing his mother to move to Hillside Village, she would be under surveillance. Great. Flo’s behavior was iffy at the best of times.
Chapter Ten
The F train was just pulling into the station when Jeremy reached the platform on Saturday, so he was fifteen minutes early for the Earth Day meeting. When he picked up a spicy bean chimichanga and walked into the back room of the burrito bar, Carl and Sari were already at the table, talking with their heads close together. They looked up and their conversation stopped short, leaving two words hanging frozen in the air: Molotov. Cocktail.
Sari and Carl looked at each other, then spoke at the same time.
“Hey, Jerry,” Carl said.
“You’re early.” Sari pointed to her watch.
Molotov cocktail. Jeremy’s face must have reflected the two words because Carl fumbled. “We were, you know, just shooting the bull.”
“Shooting the bull,” Sari repeated. “Nothing important.”
The first time Jeremy heard the words Molotov cocktail was in the visiting room at the prison. It must’ve been very early in their father’s sentence because he and Tim were still terrified by the place—the beefy guards, the ugly smells, the other prisoners with their shuttered faces. Their dad had already put on that waxy face too—Francie explained that it was a mask to protect him in the rough prison—but the day he mentioned Molotov cocktails his mask slipped for a moment.
That day it took Francie and the twins longer than usual to get through the multiple checkpoints, the bag inspection, waiting for the slow computer processing and finally, the approval. Then they were at a round table. The red line painted on the floor bisected the visiting room and the prisoners weren’t allowed to step over. The vending machines lined up along the wall, forbidden territory to prisoners, but Francie wouldn’t let them buy any cheese doodles or soda anyway. They ate hummus and veggie sandwiches from the old white Styrofoam cooler that shrieked when Francie pulled off the lid.
That is, the twins ate. Her face flushed and shiny, Francie tried to interest Tian in morsels of neighborhood gossip. It drove her nuts that she couldn’t touch him. Hugs were allowed only at the beginning and end of a visit; Francie called them bookend hugs and claimed it was cruel and unusual punishment and that was against the law. In between hugs, Francie talked nonstop and Tian rarely responded, his face hard and fragile at the same time. Jeremy imagined his dad’s skin was eggshell thin, and a little crack would let his thick feelings ooze out. They didn’t though, not all the years in prison, except that one day.
“What can I do to cheer you up?” Francie asked Tian that day. “Bring you something special next week? A cake or something?” She rested her forearms on the table and leaned forward toward Tian, smiling broadly. Jeremy flushed at the way her breasts pushed up when she leaned like that. He looked down at his Batman sticker book.
“How about a Molotov cocktail?” Tian said, his whisper fierce enough to make Jeremy and Tim stop playing and stare at him.
“Quiet!” Francie gestured at the guard with her chin. “They hear you talking like that, they’ll stick you in solitary and never let us back to visit.” Tian looked away and Francie hid her face in her arms. Jeremy crumpled the Batmobile sticker in his hand and stared at the guard on his stool, willing him not to hear his father’s words.
On the long ride home, Jeremy asked his mom what a Molotov cocktail was, the bad thing his dad wanted.
“An explosive device,” she had said. “Nothing you need to know about.”
People crowded around the big table strewn with bean-stained napkins and splotched with salsa verde. Jeremy nibbled at his food while loud conversation spiraled and the room grew warm and the meeting went on and on. He kept losing track of the argument. Teach-in versus sit-in. The discussion spun in circles, with tactics and goals and strategies and objectives twirling wildly in the air like smoke. At the center of the murky language tornado, two words stood motionless. Molotov cocktail. Unspoken but loud.
“We should focus on getting the university to divest in fossil fuel,” Sari said. “Economic pressure will force the industry to pay for their carbon emissions and that’ll level the playing field for renewable energy sources.”
“Divestiture is fine,” said a man Jeremy recognized from the meeting after Mary’s lecture. “But it’s not enough. It ignores global overpopulation and resource depletion. We’ve got to create a new structure for society, like massive permaculture projects. We’ve started a small farm on campus, but it could be so much more. Maybe we could take over the botanical gardens or Prospect Park and grow food to serve the people. Occupy the land!”
A woman Jeremy hadn’t seen before shook her head. “Come down to earth, Tommy. We need stronger local regs about recycling and emissions. People need to take individual responsibility for their carbon footprint, you know?”
Greenhope looked around the room and spoke slowly. “Turning this monster around is going to take more than outlawing plastic bottles or driving a hybrid car. The big carbon polluters are criminals. If we don’t stop them, our children will inherit a dead planet.”
“This is not only about students,” Carl said. “A teach-in could offer avenues for activism both on campus and in the community. Education is critical.”
“Maybe a radio program, like the one you did at UMass, Jeremy,” Sari said. “I listened to a few of the podcasts and they’re amazing.”
Jeremy leaned back and closed his eyes. Sari listened, so why wasn’t she—or anyone—talking about the dying plants? Why wasn’t he saying something?
As the meeting broke up, the guy called Tommy came over. “Hey,” he said. “Did Sari say you were from UMass? I hear they’ve got this awesome permaculture project going. Have you been involved with that?”
Jeremy shook his head. He’d seen a course listed in the bio department.
“Forget gardens.” Sari touched his arm. “Did you read the Green Book?”
“Most of it.”
“What’d you think?”
“I’m not sure. They seem to believe the only way to save the planet is to bring down civilization. Sacrificing 90 percent of the earth’s population.” He shrugged. “That’s a little hard to stomach.”
Sari nodded. “Still, they make a pretty compelling argument, don’t they?”
Greenhope interrupted her. “Compelling but totally unacceptable.” She turned to Jeremy. “Will you be at Saturday’s planning meeting?”
Jeremy shook his head. “I have to go home this weekend for my brother’s birthday, but I’ll be back for Earth Day.”
“Good,” Sari said. “Because I want to talk with you about the Green Book. And about some other actions we’ve been thinking about.”
Like Molotov cocktails? No thanks. He turned to leave. “I haven’t finished the book yet,” he said over his shoulder.
Jeremy walked toward the subway. Images of the Green Book and Molotov cocktails ricocheted inside his brain. Did any of these people even care about plant genocide? His feet played a dirge beat on the sidewalk. His lips found the syllables of species lost from the planet and chanted their names in mourning. Pluchea glutinosa. In the air around him, deep musical notes grew from the mantra of Latin nomenclature, the melody faint and familiar but not quite recognizable. Shorea cuspidata.
Odd that he never before noticed the gated park on his right, so luxuriant and lush for mid-April that the tall metal fencing couldn’t contain the exuberant growth. Leafy branches heavy with buds twined around the metal balusters and climbed to the ornate spindles sharp against the afternoon sky. Broad leaves escaped between the fencing and reached for him as the music swelled and then he knew it. Of course he did—it was the Kyrie from Missa Luba. He hadn’t played that CD since the awful night of his interrupted radio program and visit to the Health Service. None of that mattered now. The music expanded to fill the air and he added the harmony of his offerings: Radula visiniaca. Psiadia schweinfurthii.
The music grew louder, more orchestral, more salutation than requiem now. Thick branches squeezed through the fence stakes and pushed at him. The metal itself began growing and changing, morphing into organic shapes, shiny metal limbs and delicately veined leaves, and they reached for him too. A long twig—was it vegetable or mineral? How bizarre that he couldn’t distinguish between them—wrapped itself around his right arm and squeezed, sending minuscule green shoots pricking through his skin into his flesh, into his cells, into his circulating blood. The branch tugged at him and the fencing spread itself open. As the forged steel railings curved apart to welcome him, Jeremy stepped off the sidewalk and into the garden.
Chapter Eleven
Even though Flo’s ancient bike zigzagged across the bike lane, threatening to spill Flo into the gravel ditch, Zoe still had to push hard to stay close. Two wheels were faster than four, Zoe reminded herself, but she was about a fifth her grandmother’s age so she should be able to keep up, right?
“Wait,” Zoe called. “Let’s watch the ball game for a few minutes.”
Flo dragged her foot on the pavement to slow down, ignoring the brake. She leaned her bike against a bench with flaking green paint facing the ball field and looked back at Zoe. “Can’t keep up with an old lady, huh?”
“Busted.” Zoe swiveled her wheelchair alongside the bench. Her grandmother might be losing her marbles, but she still had moments of awesome smarts. And she had never been easy to fool. Her dad had asked Zoe to try to find out what Flo thought about the Assisted Living center they visited, since Flo refused to discuss it with him. But if Zoe brought it up, her grandmother would see right through her.
Zoe watched the skinny kid at the plate, spitting in the dirt and knocking his bat against the ground in a parody of professional players. He wiped his hands on his green shirt, positioned the bat, and waited. Why did baseball involve so much standing around? Life was too short to waste time. Flo sat on the bench with her hands on her knees, fingers positioned in that yoga secret hand signal. Did that mean she was meditating or something, and didn’t want to be disturbed? Zoe studied Flo’s face wondering what it felt like to have your brain disintegrating, swirling right down the toilet and sucking your life along with it. No wonder she didn’t want to talk about Assisted Living.
The skinny kid hit the ball hard. It arced over the infield and bounced twice before a red-shirt player caught it. The batter made it to third base and his grin made Zoe smile too. He looked about Gabe’s age, eleven or twelve. He was probably a Forest Park kid; maybe he’d be at Gabe’s party next Saturday.
That was going to be so weird, chaperoning a dance party. Gabe wanted retro decorations—crepe paper streamers and a rented strobe light. Her friends never had parties with themes and dancing and decorations. Or maybe they just didn’t invite her.
“Zoe?” Flo said.
Zoe looked at her grandmother. “Yeah?”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Can’t a girl take a ride around the park on a beautiful day with her grandma without having an ulterior motive?”
“Sure. But I know you, and you’re preoccupied with something.”
“A couple of things,” Zoe admitted. “Like, I’m worried about you living alone and everything. Have you thought about that place on the hill?”
“Don’t be a stool pigeon for your dad. What’s the other thing?”
Zoe blushed. She told her father it wouldn’t work.
“The other thing is that Gabe is having a birthday party next weekend, and I’m supposed to help chaperone. I’m nervous about that.”
“Gabe?”
“You know. He and his mom—that’s Pippa—live downstairs with my mother and Emily?”
Flo still looked puzzled. Like a cloud covered her face, all shadows and gray air.
“Remember? Gabe’s dad was in prison because of those two little kids dying a few years ago in the park? They all lived in that commune. His parents weren’t married or anything.”
“Charlie and I weren’t married,” Flo said slowly.
“Who’s Charlie?”
Flo stood up. “You can tell your dad that I’m not going to that place. He can live there if he likes it so much.” She grabbed the handlebars of her bike and awkwardly settled herself on the seat. “I’m perfectly fine and I’m going home. Alone.”
Zoe watched Flo peddle back along the bike path. What just happened? What did she say wrong? Should she follow her? Better not—Flo would be majorly pissed off.
And who was Charlie?
Flo had to get away. She didn’t want Zoe seeing her blubber like a baby. Not that she didn’t have plenty of reasons to cry and more reasons cropping up every day. Just that morning she found herself sitting fully clothed in the bathtub with no water and she couldn’t remember getting in, or why. She had sniffed her armpit and figured out she needed a bath, but by the time she climbed out of the tub to take off her clothes, she decided to brush her teeth instead.
Maybe she’d better add that to her list: take off clothes and put wate
r in bathtub before getting in.
And that wasn’t the only item to add. There was Charlie. Decades ago she promised herself never to mention him, and she just did it again, to Zoe. If she were a superstitious person instead of a communist she might think that Charlie was trying to contact her, hurling surprisingly potent ghost memories of their time together across lost decades. But that was the substance of paperback romance novels, not real life.
She wobbled under the arch at the park entrance and pressed the crosswalk button at Sumner Avenue. When the signal changed, she pushed her bike across the street and then stopped. Which way was home? The buildings all looked the same, even though she could see they were different colors, shapes. Unfamiliar houses, wooden houses in yards rich with trees and shrubs, some squat brick apartment buildings. She had a feeling she belonged here somewhere, but she recognized nothing. She had no idea which way to turn.
How could her brain betray her like this?
If only Mimi were here with her, to say, “Earth to Flo” and remind her where she was going. If only she were back home in Maryland; she would remember how to get to the apartment on River Road. If only that arch across the street could be the entrance to Glen Echo Amusement Park. If only Charlie were here with her. If only.
She leaned her bike against a wrought iron fence and sat down on the curb. She let her head settle into the cradle of her arms. Just for a minute, to rest. Then she’d get up and figure out how to go home.
Sam put the finishing touches on a new website for the Hampden County Home Care agency. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him. His ex-wife’s cousin Emily used to work for the place and her job got them all into trouble. His part of the trouble was rescuing Jeremy and Timothy from the forest, when their parents broke the law. He was fond of the twins, although he hadn’t seen them in ages. Zoe said they’d be in town for Gabe’s birthday party and that she was chaperoning the party. Of course, he wasn’t invited, but Zoe said it was happening downstairs so he might manage to bump into them. He was thinking about ways to make this happen when the doorbell rang. He rolled his desk chair to the front window and looked down.
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