Blue Sky Hill [01] A Month of Summer

by Lisa Wingate

  When they left, Teddy didn’t cry. He was looking forward to eating supper and playing ski-ball at Chuck E. Cheese. He joked with Rebecca, made her promise to order extra pepperoni. She laughed and said she would.

  Jealousy sent a sharp, painful stab through me that I tried to suppress.

  The day passed by, and then another, and another. Betty and Ifeoma came and went, Ouita Mae read the book, therapists performed therapy. My focus was less than ideal. I was worried about Teddy, and Edward, and things at home. I would have asked Mary to go by and see about them, but Mary was absent for two days because her son was too sick to attend school. Ifeoma, Betty, and a nurse’s aide from a temp agency covered her shifts.

  I wondered where Mary was staying, because I didn’t hear her in Claude’s bathroom in the mornings. By the time she came back on the third day, I’d begun to worry that she wouldn’t return at all. She entered my room looking exhausted and thinner than usual. “Sorry I’ve been gone,” she said. Rubbing the back of her wrist across her forehead, she sighed. “Gretchen says you haven’t been cooperating with your therapy as well as you could.”

  “Ffff! Grrr-chn,” I grumbled.

  Mary gave me a sad look. “She wants you to get better. It takes a hard person to do a hard job sometimes.”

  “Ffff!” As soon as the sound came out, I was sorry for it. I wanted to tell Mary I was glad she was back, and ask her if she knew why Teddy and Rebecca hadn’t come. There was momentary confusion between my mouth and my brain, like a light switch flipping on and off. I threw my head back against the pillow, impatient to clear the fog.

  “You have to try to …” Mary’s urging lacked the usual enthusiasm. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she leaned away, her fingers trembling.

  “Maryyy.” I reached out and touched her arm.

  “I’m sorry,” she sniffled, covering her eyes. Her lips parted as breath trembled in and out of her. “I’m just … tired. I’m sorry.”

  “Maryyy,” I whispered again. “Whyeee?”

  She shook her head.

  “Sss-it,” I said.

  She managed a wan smile, wiping her cheeks. “I can’t. I’m so far behind today. If I don’t get busy, I’ll get fi— I’m sorry, Mrs. Parker. Just ignore me.”

  I caught her hand before she could leave. My fingers closed around it, strong and determined. Independent. “Maryyy … ssshhh … All-rye -t? Whyeee?”

  Sighing, she sank to the edge of the chair. Her shoulders rounded forward into a weary arc. “Do you ever just … not know what to ask for anymore? Do you ever just feel like … like things will never be all right again?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, filled with a shared feeling of desperation, of loss and unanswered prayers. Even though I’d always had faith, always believed, I couldn’t imagine where we would all go from here.

  CHAPTER 17

  Rebecca Macklin

  After three days of calling home health care agencies, conducting interviews, dealing with my father’s hospitalization, and trying to make arrangements for a power of attorney over my father’s bank accounts, I was close to the breaking point. To make matters worse, back at the office, two important visa applications had been sent in without the proper supporting documentation, and I’d been spending hours on the phone with Bree, trying to clear things up before the potential employer, my client, decided to find another law firm. Kyle hit the end of his rope and wanted me to come home.

  “Just hire someone to take care of it and get on a plane, Rebecca,” he snapped. “It can’t be that hard.” As usual, there was the insinuation that he could handily take care of what I could not—that this situation in Dallas was dragging on because I was soft, unwilling to do what needed to be done. There was always, between us, this silent competition, one winner, one loser. He was the better lawyer, the more successful income producer, the one with the Pepperdine education, the one willing to put in the over-and-above time, the superhero who could tie things up in profitable little packages so everyone could be happy. No allowances were made for the fact that, while he was burning the midnight oil, I was raising our daughter and trying to create a home that was more than just a place where we kept our stuff.

  “You know what, Kyle, it’s not as easy as that. You can’t just look in the want ads and hire a … a responsible family member to look after things.” I didn’t want to fight with him. I wanted to lean on him, to purge myself of all the details, to have him shore me up. I wanted to admit that I wasn’t sure what to do next, or how to handle things, or whether I could. Instead of being honest, admitting weakness, I felt the need to defend my position.

  “You’re in Dallas, for heaven’s sake,” he pointed out. “There must be any number of agencies.”

  “And I’ve called them all.” I could feel the discussion taking on a life of its own, spiraling into an argument. “I’ve either interviewed or talked to at least a dozen people the past few days, Kyle. That’s all I’ve done, other than search my father’s files and wade through the runaround at the bank. I was hoping to get my father out of the hospital two days ago, but instead he’s still there and it’s been two days since we’ve even made it by to visit, and a day longer than that since I took Teddy to the nursing center. He’s about to have a breakdown, the hospital is finally discharging my father today, and I have no idea what shape he’s in, because I haven’t seen him. On top of all that, I talked to the nursing center administrator yesterday, and they’d like to brief me on the kinds of renovations needed to bring Hanna Beth home. Whatever personnel I hire here will eventually be dealing with that, on top of Hanna Beth’s care, scheduling her physical therapy, taking her for medical visits. The list goes on and on. Meanwhile, I can’t get into my father’s bank accounts, but I do know that the water, phone, electric, and trash services were behind in payment due to lack of funds for the automatic drafts. There should be plenty of money in my father’s accounts, but given his mental state when I got here, anything’s possible. He may have cashed in all his CDs and buried the money in the backyard to keep it away from those people. I’m going flipping crazy here, Kyle. Instead of a butt-chewing about things at the office, a little support from my husband would be nice.” To my complete irritation, a lump of tears blocked my throat—a reaction completely unlike me. In the throes of a negotiation, which this was, I never succumbed to emotion. Female lawyers couldn’t afford that luxury.

  “Macey needs …” Kyle stopped mid-sentence, puzzled. “Rebecca?”

  “I’m sorry,” I sniffed, trying to gain control. What was wrong with me lately? “I’m just so … wiped out. I think I’m allergic to something in this house. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

  “You’ve been under quite a bit of stress, Beck.” It felt good to have him recognize the fact, to hear a note of tenderness in the pet name he so seldom used anymore. I wanted to fall into him, have him wrap his arms around me long-distance and hold me up.

  “A little.” My voice was raw and hoarse. “Did Mace get her cast on yesterday?” One more thing that had been on and off my mind. The swelling in Macey’s ankle hadn’t subsided as quickly as the doctors expected.

  “Yes. Pink.” There was a smile in Kyle’s voice. I pictured that smile, knew just how it would look if I were there in the room with him. I would smile back at him, feel warm and connected for a moment before we moved on to other topics. “My mother helped her glue rhinestones on the toe, and she took a Sharpie to school today to have everyone sign it. She wanted you to know she’s saving a spot for you, though. She put a sticker over it so no one would encroach on your space.”

  I sniffle-laughed and felt homesick all at once. I wanted to be the first one to sign Macey’s cast. I wanted to be there to help her glue rhinestones on it. “Did you go with her to the doctor?”

  Kyle sighed. “Yes, I went with her. I sat outside the MRI machine, and I voted on the cast colors, and she overruled me. I voted for rainbow, and she picked pink because she thought you would like it.”

&
nbsp; “I’m surprised. Usually whatever Dad says is golden.” A tenderness blossomed in my chest. My daughter picked pink for me. Macey was always seeking evidence of her father’s approval—pulling out school assignments, gymnastics medals, performing new tricks on the living room floor in an effort to garner a bit of his attention.

  “She misses her mom,” Kyle said, and I felt the words cuddle me tightly.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Kyle, I …” For just an instant I was tempted to apologize for the fight, to say I love you. Then I remembered Susan Sewell, and it seemed ludicrous. The tenderness in my mouth turned bitter. “I am trying to wrap things up here and get back to the office. If Bree needs me, she can always call me on my cell.”

  “Mmm-hmmm,” Kyle muttered absently, the tone delivering a sting of disappointment. He was already getting back to business.

  Why should that surprise me? Why did I keep setting myself up for this—opening the door, fostering hope just so he could rip it out from under me? “I’d better go. I have a woman coming for an interview at ten, and I’m hoping she’ll be the one. They’re supposed to discharge my father at three o’clock, and I have to take Teddy by the nursing center to see Hanna Beth before then. He’s been upset for days because he told Hanna Beth he would come feed her lunch again, and we couldn’t. I called the nurse and told her to explain, but that isn’t enough for Teddy. He’s worried about breaking a promise.” The profoundness of those words, of my saying them to Kyle, struck me hard. My father’s mentally challenged stepson understood the importance of keeping a promise, but my husband had no problem holding another woman’s hand in broad daylight.

  Kyle hesitated on the other end. “Rebecca?” he said finally, his tone tentative, as if he were about to broach a subject I wouldn’t like.

  I swallowed hard. He’s going to tell me he’s leaving. He’s going to say it’s over.

  “Yes?” The word was barely a whisper.

  “Have you considered the idea that this caretaker who was working for your father and Hanna Beth—what did you say her name was? Kay something?” I didn’t answer right away. I was still catching my breath, reeling to a stop after having hydroplaned into dangerous territory.

  Kyle went on, completely unaware of my tempest of thought. “It’s possible that this caretaker might have gained access to your father’s bank accounts—that her sudden departure after Hanna Beth’s stroke might not be entirely coincidental. Maybe she was afraid family members would be coming in, asking questions, and she got out of there. Maybe that’s the reason there’s no money, and you can’t find any bank statements around the house, or any contact information for the caretaker. You remember we did the title work on that case up by Tahoe last year, the one where the hot little blonde bilked the old car dealer out of all his money, his businesses, everything. Remember that?”

  My mind took a moment to adjust to the conversational switch. I was stuck on hot little blonde. Rage flamed in a tinder-dry place inside me. “I’m not stupid, Kyle.” I know all about hot little blondes and the men who fall for them.

  “It was just a thought.” His words were impatiently clipped, the Well, bite my head off tone.

  Stop, I told myself. Get control of yourself. Now isn’t the time for this. “I’ve looked into it, all right. The bank won’t tell me much, but the guy did take pity on me and tell me there’s no indication that anyone other than my father and Hanna Beth had access to the accounts. My father has been doing most of his banking via automatic drafts and over the Internet. If I can find his passwords, I can log on to his accounts and see where the money’s going. It’s anybody’s guess where he’s hidden that information or what happened to his computer. He has things stashed all over the house. I find mail in the freezer, food under the bed. The file cabinet is full of washed clothes. He hides things, and then he goes on tirades saying somebody stole them. Clearly, he’s had a very limited grasp on reality lately.”

  “Hence my question about the disappearing caretaker.” The comment was falsely light, intended to sound like a joke while backhandedly making the point that he thought I was being naive. “If this were one of my clients, the first thing I’d do would be—”

  “This isn’t one of your clients, Kyle.”

  “You’re too close to this thing.” His tone was flat, pacifying, the one he used with hysterical women involved in disputes over estate property.

  “This is my family, Kyle! How could I not be close to it?” I exploded, then was immediately struck that I’d used the word “family” at all.

  “You don’t owe those people, Rebecca.” How many times had I said that to Kyle over the past few years? I’d reiterated it right before I left for the airport. I don’t know why I’m doing this. It’s not like I owe these people anything. “You’re just reacting to losing your mother—looking for a replacement. A year ago, if this had happened, you wouldn’t have dropped everything here and gotten on a plane.”

  I sat down on the bed, feeling wounded. “That’s not true.” Was it? Was Kyle right? All this time in Dallas my one underpinning, my salvation, had been the belief that I was doing the right thing, a magnanimous thing, one that proved I was all grown up, bigger than what had happened in the past, no longer the little girl locked in the back of the car steeped in righteous anger. I was mature enough now to do the right thing just because it was the right thing. “I’m not …” Something on the other end of the line made me stop. I heard a voice, a laugh, Bree’s laugh. “Is Bree in there?”

  “Yeah. We’re setting up for a deposition.”

  “You’re in the meeting room?” My cheeks instantly burned with humiliation. He was in the meeting room with Bree, letting her hear everything we’d been talking about? Letting her listen in on our private conversation?

  “We’ve got people coming in ten minutes,” he said blandly.

  I felt betrayed, wounded, embarrassed, both personally and professionally. How was I supposed to return to the office, command respect, after the staff heard my husband lecturing me over the phone? “I have to go. My interview should be here soon.”

  “All right. Talk to you later,” Kyle answered, seemingly oblivious.

  I hung up without giving a reply. Perhaps Bree would be pleased that the conversation ended with a simple Talk to you later. No I love yous to complicate things.

  I tried to put it out of my mind as I waited for my interviewee to arrive. On paper, she looked like a perfect fit—fifty-seven, single, a woman who had stayed home and raised a family, then returned to home health care work. A nurturer. Exactly what my father, Hanna Beth, and Teddy needed. She was available now because her last client had moved into a nursing center.

  I hoped she would be the one. She had to be. I was running out of time and options. Even though Dr. Amadi had reported that my father was doing well, behaving much more calmly and rationally now that his electrolytes were in balance and the mixed-up concoction of medications was working its way out of his system, I didn’t think I could handle the house on my own again. If today’s interview went well, I would hire my father’s new employee, effective immediately. I’d pay for it from our account for now, and settle with my father’s accounts as soon as I gained access. If, by some miracle, my father became capable of giving a satisfactory approval by authorizing a bank signature card, all of that would happen much faster.

  The apartment and the rest of the house weren’t ready for a new employee, but I’d tidied up as much as I could. I could only hope that, when my father met his new caretaker, he would react well to her, that he wouldn’t relapse or decide she was one of those people. I hoped Teddy would like her. Looking out the window, I watched him moving among his benches, watering his plants, talking to them and tenderly petting the leaves. He’d been out there all morning, patiently passing time while he waited for me to conduct the interview before we went to see Hanna Beth and pick up Daddy Ed.

  I straightened the living room while I waited for my interviewee to arrive. By eleven o’clock,
it was becoming clear that either she had a severe problem with promptness or she wasn’t coming. I called the home health agency, and they confirmed it. The recruiter apologetically informed me that the woman who was going to solve all my problems had taken a job yesterday. The agency had called earlier that morning and left a voice mail canceling the interview. They’d probably called while I was in the shower.

  “Don’t you have anyone else you can send?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.

  “No, ma’am.” The recruiter, Amanda, sounded sympathetic. “But we have you on the list. We have people coming into the system all the time, but it takes a few days to process the paperwork and the background checks. I’m scanning our listings every day.” Amanda sounded about twenty-three, years away from understanding the monumental task of caring for aging parents. She added, “I’m sorry, Rebecca.” After so many phone calls back and forth, we were on a first-name basis.

  “Thanks,” I said glumly. Hanging up the phone, I sank into my father’s recliner and tried to think. What now? There was no more time for searching this morning. If Teddy and I didn’t head out, we wouldn’t be able to go by the nursing center before we were due at the hospital. I had to be in my father’s room when Dr. Amadi made his rounds this afternoon, if I wanted to talk about medications and discharge instructions with the doctor rather than a nurse.

  I stepped out the back door and called to Teddy. He emerged from the garden house, waving and smiling, enthusiastic about our day.

  “Comin’,” he said, then began the painfully slow effort of removing his Home Depot apron and placing his tools on the potting bench by the garden house door. He carefully lined them up in a pattern only he understood.

  I checked my watch, took in and exhaled what my relaxation tape referred to as a patience breath, and went back inside. I’d learned not to interrupt Teddy’s routines, no matter how time-consuming they were. It was as if his programming allowed only one rigidly defined way of doing things. Any deviation caused a system failure.