by Alice Ward
“Hell, child, love is stupid,” she told me as she started getting groggy and tired.
“Well, I’m not in love,” I confessed.
“Oh yes you are,” she rebutted, “you just don’t know it yet.”
I started to argue, but she closed her eyes and I left her to rest. I spent the rest of the night looking at our old photo albums and crying.
The next morning, a hospice nurse named Athena came to the door. She was a beautiful woman in her late thirties, robust, dark-skinned, and oozing love.
“What do I need to do?” I asked after our introductions, terrified to hear the answer.
Gran may have made her peace with dying, but I sure hadn’t.
“Since it’s just you caring for your grandmother, we’ll have a nurse here throughout most of the day. It will usually be me or my partner Bernard,” she said kindly.
I still felt like I was in the twilight zone.
“What about when I have to go to work?” I asked.
“Leave your schedule with me, and we’ll make sure that Ms. Darning has care.” Her tone was so angelic it hypnotized me into a feeling of safety and wellness.
I’d planned on cancelling with KP, but after being assured by Athena that she would take good care of Gran, I went ahead with my plans.
Leaving my grandmother in Athena’s capable hands, I waited for KP to pick me up for the first day of my painting assignment. The Bentley pulled up in front of our house, but surprisingly, KP was driving. I got into the car feeling sad and overwhelmed. KP immediately noticed my distress.
“Are you having second thoughts?” he asked with a note of true kindness and interest.
“No,” I assured him. “I just got some bad news. I’ll be okay.”
“Do you want to do this another day? There’s no time pressure. We can do this later if you want.”
I took a deep, steadying breath. “I’m okay. I’ll be okay.”
“How about a little music,” he offered.
I smiled and closed my eyes. “That would be great.”
I was trying to shake off my sadness, but it was hard to do until he put on the music. Then the music began to rock and I laughed.
“Abba?” I couldn’t believe him. I’d pictured him a snooty jazz or opera kind of guy.
He just smiled this enormous grin, tapping the steering wheel to Dancing Queen.
I shook my head. My life just got that much weirder. But within fifteen minutes of entering the vehicle, we were both moving to the music and singing like bohemians. I had a pretty good voice, which I was rockin’ because it felt so good. He didn’t have a good voice at all, but he was rockin’ it anyway. It made me laugh. Laughing felt right.
He pulled up to the Harbor House Adult Care Facility For People With Psychological Disabilities, and I was immediately intrigued. A valet instantly came to his driver’s side door to take the car. The man knew KP by name and was very friendly with him. The same with the front desk staff, who greeted KP warmly as he introduced me to them.
“Wenton’s house is just down this way,” KP said as I followed him out of the main building.
“Does he work here?” I asked, then realized the question might be inappropriate.
“I’m sure he thinks he does,” he answered with a laugh.
We walked down a paved pathway to an adorable little cottage. KP didn’t bother knocking on the door, just walked in.
“Hey, bro,” he yelled, “I brought a surprise for you.” He leaned closer to me and lowered his voice. “He doesn’t get many visitors. Even the Amazon delivery guy is a surprise for him.”
Within moments, a very tall, remarkably slight man with an infectious grin ambled over to KP, in a valiant attempt to run.
“KP,” he squealed, clearly thrilled to see his brother.
I grinned, in love with him immediately. This man was very special. Not just as one would define a person with special needs, but special as in glowing with happiness. He was all love. It radiated from every inch of his body.
“Here you are, here you are, here you are!” he announced with unwavering joy.
“I want you to meet my friend.” KP gestured to me. “This is Caitlyn. She’s going to paint your picture.”
“The pretty girl from the photo,” he shouted, “the prettiest one.” Then I was scooped into an embrace, and I hugged him back. Yes, it was love at first sight.
The cottage was quaint and small. The walls were natural wood and there was a great view from a picture window in the sitting area. On every inch of available space were artifacts and items a teenage boy would find fascinating: football jerseys, signed guitars, rock and roll posters, production stills from fantasy and sci-fi film movies signed by directors. There were also signed footballs and soccer balls encased in glass. The place was a playground for a hypothetically very rich, very spoiled teenage boy. To look at Wenton, though, who was clearly in his late twenties or early thirties, he was a sweet-spirited person who seemed to grab hold of the good things in life vivaciously.
“Yep, Wenton, this is her,” KP confirmed.
“See, see!” Wenton raced to get his cell phone. He scrolled through the pictures and mumbled to himself, noting each one as he swiped past them. “Here it is! The prettiest girl in the world.”
He was smiling from ear to ear when he showed me the selfie of KP and me at the diner.
“What is this?” I asked Wenton as nicely as I could, trying not to let on that it made me feel weird that he had my picture in his phone.
I was feeling a little off-center and slightly bamboozled by the two brothers. Wenton clearly had some cognitive delays, so I didn’t want to fault him for his overexaggeration. However, it felt very contrived.
“It’s a picture of the prettiest girl in the world,” Wenton answered.
I lifted a brow to KP, and he just motioned for us to sit at the small living space near the picture window.
“Wenton has been sending me on a wild goose chase of sorts since we were young,” he prefaced.
“Like a scavenger hunt?” I asked, still trying to see how our selfie fit in.
“Yeah, a hunt!” Wenton laughed. “I think of things for him to do, and he has to send me a picture on my phone of him doing them.”
“We’ve been playing this game since we were kids,” KP added.
“It’s fun,” Wenton said exuberantly, “wanna see some of them?”
Wenton scooted closer to me on the couch, ready to show me his phone.
“Sure.”
“These are the Catskill Mountains in upstate New York,” he started and proceeded to show me all the pictures on his phone After seeing the first few, I became rather impressed with the efforts KP had made to satisfy Wenton’s scavenging requests. There were pictures of specific kinds of birds and urban wildlife, such as raccoons, skunks, and rats. There was even one of a bear that was amazing.
There were also locations from around the globe — the Taj Mahal, the Great Wall of China, the Pyramids. I realized that KP had sent Wenton photographs from six of the seven wonders of the world. There were mundane shots as well, like an old woman eating an ice-cream cone, a banjo player playing for money in a subway, Ma’s diner.
All of the shots had a kind of simple and ironic beauty. Interspersed between the candid photos were pictures of movie stars in their costumes from science fiction films, actors sending notes with the texts wishing Wenton well, etc. In fact, Wenton’s iPhone would probably be worth millions of dollars. KP had a good eye, but what was most astounding about the pictures he took was the love for Wenton they revealed. He wasn’t just satisfying a request, he was giving Wenton a window into a world he would never get the opportunity to see.
Warmth flooded my heart, and I looked up, seeing KP differently than I had a minute before. For a man I considered selfish, self-absorbed, and rude, he had gone to great lengths to satisfy the requests of his brother.
“I have a bad heart,” Wenton said, tapping his chest. “I don’t get
to go out much so KP sees the world for me.” He chuckled, his big grin lighting up the room. “I made him go to a greasy spoon diner late at night because I saw a movie that had an old diner in it.”
Ah… so that explained it.
“That’s why he came into Ma’s.” I glanced over at KP and something stirred deep inside me. “Of all the diners you could have chosen, you chose mine.”
Wenton laughed. “I knew he would hate it; he’s such a snob. But he met you there. He told me that he hated the food and it was yucky and I laughed at him. You should try the food here, I told him. But he said it wasn’t all bad because he met the most beautiful girl in the world there.”
I was stunned. “Well, I wouldn’t say I was that.”
Wenton blinked rapidly. “I would.”
KP jumped to his feet. “How about we all get some lunch?”
He was clearly nervous that his brother had revealed such an intimate detail. In my eyes, however, it made him look less lecherous and sex crazed and… more real. I could see them having that conversation just as normal brothers do. Not a billionaire setting his sights on his next conquest, but an older brother confiding in a younger one that he had met a hot girl. This made me laugh. It was so innocent and fun.
We had a lovely afternoon together. KP ordered us a lunch of roasted mushroom and pheasant empanadas with an arugula salad, crisp white wine, and a sugared pear tart. Apparently, Wenton had his own cook, and while he joked about eating the food at the facility, he rarely was subjected to it. The meal was quite decadent and wonderful, and despite the sophisticated palette one needed to enjoy the gamy tasting bird and rugged mushrooms, Wenton gobbled it up.
After our meal, Wenton wanted to show me his collection of memorabilia and artifacts. He went around the room and discussed each of the lovingly displayed items. His favorite was a signed light saber from the original “Star Wars” movie, a “Final Fantasy” original still and one of Elton John’s pianos.
As he showed me his treasures, I realized his room was actually a museum. So much pop culture and history were collected here. Everything was authentic and most were signed with a personal note to Wenton. It was amazing to see how much love and care surrounded him. Obviously, only a man with an incredible amount of money, power, and connections could pull off a room like this. While I hadn’t seen KP’s house and didn’t know if he had anything similar, I did know that he had put a lot of time and effort into creating this for Wenton. It again showed a more tender side of KP, one who dearly loved his disabled brother.
After Wenton showed me around his cottage, we walked the grounds, and he introduced me to his friends. I met a host of people with a vast range of mental health conditions. I started to understand that the residents were people who, for either medical or mental reasons, couldn’t live outside of the facility.
Most of Wenton’s friends were genuinely kind people, yet all were affected by some unseen ailment that seemed to plague them in one way or another. These were lovely people trying their hardest to find some right in all of the wrong around them. It was both amazing and tragic, because while they presumably struggled, they also saw things no one else did, both the good and the bad. They could see between the lines and the things they discovered both excited and terrified them. It made me think about mental illness. Why did these people need to be separate from society? Why couldn’t society see their struggle and make a larger space for them? Meeting Wenton and his friends brought up a lot of questions for me.
I assumed my father must have been mentally ill. To put your wife and child in your car with the intention of killing one or both of them was insane. He thought what he was doing was right. He assumed that my mom deserved to die for what he perceived was her trespass against him. But if he had been given a chance to get help before his delusions swelled out of control, they both might still be alive today. It was only by some grace of momentary sanity that I wasn’t also killed. It all felt very overwhelming.
After we made our way around the grounds and returned to Wenton’s cottage, KP announced it was time to start the painting. I set up my easel and paints, laid a drop cloth, and put on a smock so as not to get everything covered in paint. KP laughed at me as I stood there ready to paint.
“Now you look the part,” he teased.
“You know painters actually wear this stuff. It keeps things from getting all painty and dirty,” I quipped playfully.
“I bet most painters don’t look as sexy as you do wearing it,” he smoldered.
“I bet most patrons know it’s impossible to look sexy in a large, formless garment that is basically just a bed sheet sewn into a jacket,” I played.
His nostrils flared, as did desire in his eyes. “I bet most patrons don’t have to wish the painters would let them—”
“Don’t!” I gave him a warning glare. “I’m completely positive most patrons don’t wonder anything about the painters they work with.”
He winked. “You’d be surprised.”
I didn’t think KP even knew what he was doing. Maybe he couldn’t help being sexual. He may have been so used to it that when faced with desire, he had no way to tame it completely. I felt safe since Wenton was there and I was starting to trust KP a little more. Luckily, Wenton had no idea what we were talking about and tried to stay as still as possible while I sketched him. My sketching didn’t take long. I was kind of a mad scientist when it came to drawing. I would be able to start the first layers of the painting right away.
I looked at Wenton’s facial features, which were different than most people’s. There was an oddness to their crafting, making Wenton look even more friendly and childlike. I wanted to make sure I captured the intellect behind his eyes which saw beauty in the peripheral dimensions of the world. His need for images of old women and ice cream, or firefighters sitting on a bench covered in sweat and soot defined his vision of the life he imagined around him. He saw the fine lines in humanity and the unspoken stories.
KP was able to capture those moments with his eye and iPhone, but it was Wenton who knew they existed even though he had no proof beyond his own four walls. I also wanted to illuminate the kindness and love that simply radiated from him. As I started to paint, I soon discovered that Wenton was one of the most genuinely beautiful humans I’d ever met.
We spent hours together as I painted. We gave Wenton several breaks as we all shared wine and food, talked more of the things that KP had seen on Wenton’s behalf and shared stories of their childhood together. Apparently, KP was quite a mischievous child, which came as no shock to me.
I smiled at Wenton. “That’s not hard to believe.”
“Wait, that’s not fair,” KP protested.
Wenton raised a finger. “Is too.”
KP gave his little brother the eye. “No, tell her the truth.”
“I used to get KP in trouble,” Wenton said, peeking up through his lashes. “I would do all the bad stuff and blame it on him. He never could get out of it cause our mom just assumed he did it. My parents didn’t think I was smart enough to pull off some of the crazy stuff we did.” He giggled, causing me to laugh at the sweet sound.
“Like what?” I was intrigued.
KP crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh yes, Wenton, share with Miss Ashcroft all of the insane stuff you got me in trouble for.”
“Well, let’s see.” Wenton tapped his chin. “My mom was allergic to bees so I blew dandelion seeds all over her garden. Eventually the garden was overrun by dandelion flowers and bees!”
“Wenton,” I scolded, “bee allergies are very serious.”
“Yes, and so are punishments for ruining mom’s garden,” KP added.
Wenton ignored us both. “Then I replaced all the sugar bowls with salt. Aunt Margret barfed at breakfast after drinking a big gulp of coffee.”
“Oh my god, Wenton, you were horrible!” I teased.
“No, what was horrible was being forced to hear Aunt Margret’s hour-long tirade about what a crappy person
I was,” KP said with a note of real sadness.
“Why did you do all those mean things, Wenton?” I asked, still trying to keep things light.
“Nobody paid attention to me,” Wenton said, completely honest. “I thought I could get attention. KP’s a great liar, so no one believed him when he told the truth. I walked every time.”
A good liar, huh? I filed that bit of information away in my brain for later. While I was starting to trust KP a little more, I didn’t trust him entirely, which was smart. We barely knew each other.
We stayed until dark, and it was time to go since KP had a long drive back to New York. We said our goodbyes and shared our plans to see him again the following weekend. Wenton was sad to see us go, but happy that we would be returning.
On the ride back to my house, I thought he might turn on Abba again, but he let the quiet surround us for a few minutes. H was battling with himself over some issue, I could tell. I got a little nervous, but not enough to say anything or unsheathe my sword. After a few minutes of just watching the scenery pass, KP spoke up.
“Wenton was diagnosed with Williams Syndrome when he was about two years old. It’s a chromosomal disorder that affects his brain, heart, lungs and facial features.”
“I think he’s lovely.”
“Yeah, he’s amazing. He was never supposed to live past his third birthday. We had quite a scare with him, actually. He and I shared a room. We had fifteen or so rooms in our house, but my mom had read that siblings needed to share rooms. I’m five years older than he is, so I think she thought that if she put him with me, I could help him if something went wrong.”
He paused for so long I wasn’t sure if he’d continue. His fingers were gripping the steering wheel so hard the knuckles were white.
“My parents’ room was at the other end of the house, so we slept next door to the nanny. She was the one who did most of the mothering, although “she” could have been any of them. It was hard to keep track of them all. Mom would fire them for the slightest infringement or trespass. She kept us all under strict rules and regulations. No child should grow up that way, but certainly not Wenton,” he said sadly.
