He let go, but stood blocking my path. “Come on, Cleo. It’s only 11:30 and it’s Sunday. Surely you can take a few minutes for coffee. It’s such a nice day. Here we are right in front of Spruce Confections. We can sit out on the patio, drink some excellent coffee and catch up on the past ten years. You can tell me more about your therapy practice.”
Coffee on the patio did sound tempting and after my fight with Pablo, being with Brian had its charms. It was a gorgeous day, and I wasn’t looking forward to my next task of checking out more nursing homes. Tim had suggested that I go on the weekend to see what conditions were like when staffing was lighter, and I did intend to go that day. I wanted desperately to find a good place for Gramma, but I find visiting those places depressing. Fortifying myself with coffee first would give me energy.
I was also very curious to find out how and why Brian had changed so much. But I definitely didn’t want any lectures about how to handle my problems. So I laid out my terms. “Okay. A quick coffee. But only on the condition that you don’t try to convert me to Scientology. If you start that again, I’m leaving.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “Let’s go grab a table.” We headed for the spacious flagstone patio to the east of the small bakery where we laid claim to an empty gray metal table littered with sections of the Sunday paper. While Brian went inside to the counter to get coffee, I sat and read an article about a prairie-dog linguist who had spoken at a recent meeting of the Boulder Prairie Dog Action Group. According to this guy, prairie dogs have the most sophisticated communication system that anyone has shown in animals. For example, he said they have different words for tall human in a yellow shirt, short human in a green shirt, coyote, deer, red-tailed hawk and many other creatures. Wow—who knew prairie dogs were so smart? No wonder Mirabel and other local activists had gotten laws passed in Boulder years ago to make it illegal to harm them or to destroy their burrows. I could only imagine the foul language those rodents must have used to describe Hugh Symes after he plowed their burrows under.
My ruminations were interrupted when Brian showed up with the food. “I remembered that you like blueberry muffins,” he said, setting one in front of me next to a fragrant cup of coffee. I realized that I was ready for another breakfast, since my first one had been spoiled by my argument with Pablo. The coffee smelled delicious and the muffin looked equally yummy.
I quickly forgot about the prairie dogs as I focused on enjoying the rich sweetness of the muffin set off by the spicy full-bodied coffee blend. Then I remembered my manners. “Thanks, Brian,” I said. “This is great.”
“At least some things haven’t changed,” he said. “You always were a coffee freak. But it sounds like you have made a lot of changes. Fill me in.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I’ve made a lot of changes? You’ve made a complete U-turn. Tell me about your life.”
He gazed off to the left for a minute, as if looking for inner wisdom. Then he sighed and said, “You—more than most people—remember how I was, Cleo. I had a great time but nothing really mattered to me. The way I let you go is a good demonstration of that. After I’d been in California a while, I realized I was aimlessly wandering through life, going nowhere. I found myself struggling to find some meaning and purpose. A friend introduced me to Scientology and I knew right away I’d found what I was looking for. Now I can’t imagine my life without it.”
I recoiled at his singing the praises of Scientology again. What was I thinking when I asked him to tell me about his life? I sort of wanted to pursue the philosophical aspects of his conversion. But I didn’t want to encourage him to spread the gospel. So I asked about another aspect of Scientology that I had a hard time imagining him having accepted. “I’ve heard they charge their members a fortune for everything.”
He smiled. “It does cost a lot,” he said. “But I’m exchanging my money for getting clear of my problems and moving to a higher state of spiritual awareness. It’s important to balance inflow with outflow. Actually I get more than I give. Believe me, if it wasn’t worth the money I wouldn’t be paying for it. But it’s not only worth the money I pay, it’s worth way more. If it cost ten times the amount I pay, I’d find the money to do it. If it was a hundred times more, I’d pay that.”
He took a drink of his coffee, then said, “Now it’s your turn. How did you go from artist to therapist?”
I tried to condense ten years into fifteen minutes, telling him about my realization that art was never going to support me, about getting my doctorate in clinical psychology and becoming a grief therapist, and about how Gramma got Alzheimer’s and Grampa died a few years after that. I left out any mention of the Contact Project or contacting spirits.
He drank his coffee, munched on his muffin, and listened intently without interrupting. When I finished, he said, “So is that why you’re involved with Mirabel’s family? Because you’re a grief therapist?”
I thought back to what I’d said to him about the Townes family. Last night I’d told him I knew Lacey and that Lacey had told me her mom had left money to Scientology. But that was it. Other than that, I hadn’t said anything about the Townes family. “What do you mean ‘involved’?” I asked.
“I mean the way you’ve had meetings with them this week—not just Lacey, but Shane and Derrick and even Mirabel’s dad, Vernon. Are they all having grief therapy?”
What? Did Scientologists have a big spy network all over Boulder? I took another long drink of my coffee to keep my anger from boiling over and thought about what I wanted to say. My first instinct was to demand he tell me where he was getting his information. How did he know I’d had those meetings? Had he been following me since I ran into him a week ago at Faye’s gallery? Or had he been following members of the Townes family? I didn’t want to show my anger or fear about being spied on. And I didn’t want to give him any more information than he already had. So I kept my cool and sidestepped into therapist mode.
“Brian, you must know that I can’t talk to you about confidential issues like who is or isn’t my client,” I said. “When you said you wanted to hear about my therapy practice, I didn’t know you meant you wanted private details about clients.”
I noticed a quick flicker of anger pass over Brian’s face, but he pushed it under right away. It was almost like a shade coming down over a window. In the old days he would have exploded like fireworks on the fourth of July. I figured he’d learned this control from his years of scientology training. He leaned forward and gave me what probably passed for a sincere look among his current friends—but I recognized the old Brian phony I’d-never-lie-to-you look. “I’m sorry, Cleo,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that the Townes family has been through so much and I wondered how they’re doing. I hope those kids are okay.”
I believed that he was wondering about them in some way, but doubted that he was concerned about their welfare. I said nothing—a well-known therapist tactic to keep the other person talking.
After about thirty seconds went by, he said, “Okay, I get that you can’t talk to me about the Townes family. But I can still talk to you about them. You don’t have to answer. Here’s the thing. I knew Mirabel pretty well and I know she didn’t trust Derrick. And for good reason. He’s not a nice person. Maybe you know that now that Mirabel is gone, we own the building the Scientology offices are in. Mirabel left us the building in her will, but Derrick has been saying she made a new will that left us out altogether. I don’t think she did that. She never told me she was making a new will and as far as I know, no one has seen a new will. Our lawyers are investigating.”
Mirabel’s will again? Brian was the third person who’d mentioned it to me. First Shane—who said that Mirabel had left bunches to Scientology. Then Derrick—who said she had changed the will to leave out the Scientologists. But Derrick also said he couldn’t find the new will. So why are the Scientology lawyers involved?
“Mirabel talked to you about her will?” I asked. “She was onl
y in her forties. Why was she talking about a will? Was she expecting to die young?”
“Scientologists are encouraged to make wills,” he said. “I’m sure you know Mirabel was a wealthy woman. She was also a socially responsible woman who wanted to be sure her money would go where it would do the most good.”
“So are you afraid Derrick’s right and she did change her will?”
Brian leaned close and put his hand lightly on my arm. “I don’t think she did,” he said, dropping his voice to a familiar intimate tone. “But Derrick’s been spreading that story all over town. Cleo, I know you’re a person who cares about truth and justice. I’m asking for your help here to expose some destructive lies. Do you know whether or not Derrick actually has found a new will? Do Mirabel’s kids know?”
Amazing! He really thinks I’m so naïve that he can pump me for information and I’ll just dump it in his lap? His manipulative charm may have worked on me when I was in my twenties, but I am more mature and way beyond that now. I displayed my hard-won maturity by keeping my temper as I responded to him calmly but firmly as I pulled my arm away from his grasp. “I really need to go. Thanks for the food.”
Brian looked shocked. I guess his tactics for winning people over usually worked better for him. “Hang on, Cleo,” he said, reaching for my arm again.
But I yanked my arm away as if from a hot radiator. “Enough, Brian,” I said quietly as I stood up and pushed in my chair. “Let it go. You’ll have to find another source to answer your questions.” I turned and walked off toward my house. Brian didn’t follow me.
Chapter 22
By the time I got home, I had put Brian and his questions out of my mind, replaced by my concerns about finding a place for Gramma to move. I had my list of nursing homes to check out that afternoon and I set out on my tour as soon as I got home. Visiting nursing homes isn’t on anyone’s list of favorite ways to spend a Sunday afternoon. Stepping into that setting is a quick and uncomfortable way to face your own mortality.
I went to see three places on my list that afternoon, each more depressing than the last. There’s no mistaking that these places are the last stop in this life. You can almost smell death in the air. You see it in the frail twisted bodies of residents slumped in wheelchairs, staring vacantly into the distance or perhaps looking inward at their past lives where they were young and happy. They seem to have nothing to live for, yet they continue to cling to life, some reaching out to touch any visitor who comes close enough, others calling out, “Can you help me?” to anyone who walks by.
To be fair, I reminded myself that Shady Terrace had its share of residents like this as well. The difference was that I knew them, knew details about their lives and families, knew who they were before they ended up in their current state. I saw them as individuals who I could empathize with, and that made all the difference.
So I tried to tour the nursing homes as an objective observer of the conditions, care and comfort level of each place. I tried to envision Gramma in each place, but I couldn’t do it. When she entered Shady Terrace, I was in graduate school, totally swamped with work. It was Grampa who visited places and made the choice. He loved her so much, yet he knew he couldn’t take care of her at home anymore. Looking back, I realized in a new way how hard it must have been for him. But he made it easy for me after she moved to Shady Terrace, going with me to visit her, pointing out the positives for her being there, until I got familiar with the place and her living there. This time I was on my own and way out of my depth.
By the end of the afternoon, I needed to reconnect with Gramma, hoping I could somehow absorb from her some feeling as to what would be the right choice for her. So I headed for Shady Terrace. It was nearly five when I got there, so the residents were already lining up outside the dining room. I found Gramma sitting on a couch in the hall next to a man named Clyde who had taken a fancy to her lately. Clyde listed drastically to one side when he walked and generally seemed to be in danger of taking a major fall. But sitting, he looked almost normal. He could sound fairly normal too until you realized he said the same things over and over.
They were holding hands when I walked over to their couch. “Hi, Gramma. Hey, Clyde.” I said, reaching down to give Gramma a hug. “You two look comfy.”
“I’m ninety-seven-years-old, you know,” Clyde said, starting in on one of his recurring themes. “Wait till you’re my age. Then you’ll know about aches and pains.”
“If I look as good as you do when I’m ninety-seven, I’ll be happy,” I said, playing along with his game the way I always do.
“That’s too old. You’re not ninety-seven,” Gramma said. Hard to know if she was addressing Clyde or me. My mind wandered a bit as I began wondering where Clyde was going to move to and whether she’d miss him if they ended up in different places. Good thing I’d come over to see her. Now I realized I’d completely overlooked finding a way to keep her with the friends she’s made at Shady Terrace. Yet another factor to consider in my search.
Aides were ushering the residents into the dining room, so I helped Gramma and Clyde to their feet and walked with them slowly. I kissed Gramma goodbye at her table and headed off down the hall toward the door.
As I passed through the main entryway, I saw Tim Grosso at a table over in a corner talking to a couple. I decided to sit down and wait a few minutes to see if I could get a chance to talk to him about the nursing homes I’d visited.
Sure enough, the couple stood up and gathered their things to leave. I walked over and stood nearby so I could get Tim’s attention as soon as they left.
“Do you have a few more minutes?” I asked. “I’ve visited several places and I’m kind of discouraged about what’s out there.”
“Of course, Cleo.” Tim said, pulling out a chair at the table. “Have a seat and fill me in on what you’ve seen and what you’re thinking.”
Naturally, the conversation I’d overheard that morning between him and Faye jumped into my mind. But I couldn’t bring that up, so I put it to the back of my mind and told him about my reactions to the nursing homes I’d visited ending with my qualms about moving Gramma to any of them. “I just can’t bring myself to put her in any of those places. I’m starting to think about bringing her home and hiring someone to take care of her when I’m not there. She has money, especially if we can find a way to sell more of her paintings. Faye says it might be harder than I thought to sell the paintings, so I need to have a better idea of what home-care might cost. Do you know?”
Tim had been sitting quietly listening with an air of concern, which I noticed was looking more and more like a look of deep worry. “It is expensive—usually $18 to $25 an hour—so you have to figure on at least $7500 a month, and that’s just for twelve hours a day, which means you have to do the night care. And from what you’ve said about her wandering at night, you probably would need someone at night as well.”
“That would be pricey, but it’s possible that she might be able to afford it,” I said. “If I did decide to go that way, would you recommend using an agency or hiring someone privately?”
“It depends,” he said. “It’s not easy to find good reliable people and you can have problems either way.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “I remember you telling me the other night at the gallery that your father was ripped off by his housekeeper. Do you mind telling me what happened?”
Tim looked embarrassed, almost furtive. “My father never trusted me with his finances,” he said. “Never let me know how much he had or how much he spent. Then unfortunately he met a sexy, charismatic young woman who completely beguiled him. She was a massage therapist who moved here from Texas, apparently unaware of the oversupply of massage therapists in Boulder. When she had trouble making a living giving massages, she went to work for an older couple my dad knew. Later they moved into assisted living, and my dad inherited the housekeeper. As soon as I met her, I was wary. She didn’t fit my idea of a housekeeper. I tried to warn Dad about her but h
e said he was entitled to the pleasure of a gorgeous housekeeper if he could afford it. Then he accused me of putting my future inheritance ahead of his comfort.”
I didn’t know what to believe. Had Tim been looking out for his father’s best interests or was his father right about Tim’s priorities? I waited for him to go on.
“Here’s where it gets sticky,” he said. “I assumed Dad was paying her well, but I had no idea how much. After he died I found out he had transferred the title of his condo and his car over to her. It was all done legally, so there was nothing I could do. I tried to find out how much more of his money she might have gotten away with. But it was hard because he had added her name onto his bank account. Again perfectly legal. And talk about being blind to reality, Dad’s lawyer was an old friend of his, nearly as old as Dad. He arranged all that and apparently didn’t think anything of it. But here’s the punch line. After Dad died, his lawyer grabbed Glenna—the housekeeper—for himself and now she’s living with him. Probably ripping him off just like she did Dad.”
Omigod! Wait a minute—Glenna? Could this be the same Glenna who is living with Vernon Evers? Images of him signing over assets after several bourbon-on-the-rocks came to mind. “Was your father’s attorney Vernon Evers by any chance,” I asked.
“Yes, Mirabel Townes’ father,” Tim said. “You know him?”
“He’s been my grandparents’ attorney forever,” I said. “And I had the dubious pleasure of meeting Glenna last Friday when I went over to talk to Vernon about Gramma’s trust to find out more about her financial situation and how it affects this move. Glenna seems to be kind of volatile. Did you warn Mirabel about Glenna?”
“I tried, but she was mad at me about something else—it’s a long story—and she refused to listen.”
Oh, right. That long story about Shane and the credit card. But I couldn’t say I knew about that. So I turned the conversation back to Gramma’s situation. “Of course Gramma’s situation would be different because she’d be living with me, so I’d know more about what any caregiver is up to. And, anyway, Gramma doesn’t have control of any of her money. It’s all in trust. So she can’t give anything away.”
Too Far Under Page 15
