Wallpaper with Roses

by Jenny Andersen

  Hilda nodded. “Good. I have been thinking lately that it would be nice to have a cat. Fred’s a good lap sitter. Not to mention that it would be nice to have a watch dog.”

  “Casey’s certainly that. And Fred will never let you get up, if he has his way. He loves laps.”

  “All right, dear. The truth is that I do enjoy having you in the house. I think I’d be a bit lonely without you.” Hilda paused, looked down, and raised her gaze to Sarah’s. “And I am just a little bit afraid to live alone. That dreadful moment when I realized I was falling...”

  Sarah repressed a shudder. “I hope it never happens again.”

  ****

  “I wish you’d keep your hair the way it is, Mama.” Sarah smiled at her mother’s reflection in the mirror. “You look totally ‘with it.’ Or whatever the term is these days. I like it.”

  Hilda grimaced. “Oh, nonsense, Sarah. You must be joking. I can’t face people with...a...a crew cut.”

  “It’s not a crew cut. It’s short and spiky, and it makes you look like a ‘toadally hip chick.’ Especially now that the cast is off your arm.”

  Hilda’s expression grew even more disapproving. “I don’t know where you pick up those expressions, dear, but I wish you wouldn’t. And I don’t look like what you said. I look like someone who has had her head shaved. Like a prisoner or worse.”

  “I watch old movies. And you have had your head shaved. In case you haven’t noticed, you’ve just made an amazing recovery from a serious problem.” A recovery that the doctors hadn’t expected, Sarah had finally realized at the doctor’s office this morning.

  “That doesn’t mean I am going to run around looking like some kind of cancer survivor. I’ve made an appointment with Lois at the Cut ’n Curl for a permanent, and I’m going if I have to walk.”

  “Lois.”

  “Yes, Lois. She’s been doing my hair since before you were born.”

  It was Sarah’s turn to grimace. “I know.”

  “What does that tone of voice mean?” Hilda’s nostrils were pinched. “As if I didn’t know.”

  “It’s just that she’s been doing the same thing to your hair since, apparently, before I was born. Don’t you think a new hair style would be a nice change?”

  “I like my hair the old way. Your father always liked it, too.”

  That settled that, of course. Sarah tamped down a most unfilial surge of impatience. “I just don’t see why you can’t be a little more relaxed. It might help you enjoy life more.”

  “I enjoy my life just the way it is, dear.” Hilda’s voice was prim.

  Sarah gave up. “All right, Mama. We’ll go to Lois’s.”

  All the way out to the car, she berated herself. Why ruffle her mother’s feathers? It only made life more difficult. Get a grip, Sarah. Admit it, you’re a rotten person, you miss the freedom of your own place. She fastened Hilda’s seat belt, walked around the car, and climbed into the driver’s seat before she had to admit that part of her wanted more freedom to be with Rob.

  As if she’d read Sarah’s mind, Hilda said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you. You were spending quite a bit of time with Violet’s son before you moved in with me.”

  Sarah bit her lip. “Not really. Casey and Fred stayed at his place for a while and I visited them, but when I moved back to the apartment they were with me.” And she missed the moments there had been with Rob something fierce, even though she didn’t want to admit it even to herself. Rob had somehow managed to be around when she walked Casey, or needed a glass of wine, or just someone to talk to. It had been...memorable.

  “Ah. I wondered. I suppose you thought I wouldn’t notice, but of course I did,” Hilda said. “I’d hate to feel that I was getting in the way of your life.”

  “Of course you aren’t,” Sarah said, sidestepping the issue of her life. And of Rob Henderson, mysterious ex-military handyman. “You’re stubborn as a goat, of course, but definitely not in the way.”

  ****

  Hilda dressed as quickly as she could and looked around her room to check for anything she didn’t want Sarah to see. Sticky notes really helped. The little reminders she’d started writing to herself so Sarah wouldn’t notice her occasional lapses of memory were working out better than she had hoped. Even though the lapses happened more often these days, they were one secret she was going to keep as long as possible.

  She took the wonderful, blessed elevator downstairs, made tea, and settled herself at the little breakfast table by the bay window to let delicate jasmine-scented steam warm her.

  She’d gone through a whole super-pack of yellow notes in the three months since Sarah had moved in, sticking little reminders all over her room. Today is Friday. Fix dinner at 7. Doctor appointment Monday. Today’s note read, Get more sticky notes. Maybe this time she’d try blue. Or that lovely soft pink that reminded her of Cabbage Roses, the ones that had started her passion for gardening and had resulted in the rose-patterned wallpapers in all the bedrooms.

  Which reminded her—she reached dutifully for the pen and pad in her pocket—she’d better make a note that here in Crowley Falls, with its late-arriving spring, roses should be pruned in late April, not February. She’d been all the way out to the tool shed yesterday before she’d realized that rose pruning and snow weren’t a good match.

  “Morning, Mama. You’re up early. And busy already. What’s up?” Sarah shuffled into the kitchen, one hand stifling a yawn.

  “Good morning, dear.” Hilda shoved the little pad and pen into her pocket. “The ability to get by on less sleep is the only benefit of age that I’ve noticed so far.”

  “Mmm.” Sarah filled the coffee pot and put beans in the grinder.

  The whir stopped conversation for a moment and reminded Hilda that she usually started coffee for her daughter on the mornings that she got up first. It was the least she could do when she knew how much Sarah didn’t like her job. So she’d better get some of those neon-colored stickies too. Make coffee!

  “I’ll be down to fix breakfast as soon as I’m dressed,” Sarah said. She dumped the coffee into the filter, switched the pot on, and trudged back upstairs.

  A few moments later, Hilda heard water rushing in the pipes and knew Sarah was in the shower. She propped her chin on one hand and gazed out at the winter-sparkled yard. Pristine, glittering snow, deep green pine boughs peeking out from under their frosting, and, like a greeting card, one perfect, holiday-scarlet cardinal winging his way to the bird feeder that hung by the bay window.

  If only the world in here could be as perfect as the one out there.

  Snow billowed in an icy cloud, and black fur blurred past the window. The cardinal made a desperate leap into the air, and the neighbor’s cat plopped back to earth. He watched his intended breakfast gain altitude with an almost human expression. He was undoubtedly swearing a blue streak, but Hilda didn’t speak feline. He turned and headed for home, leaving the snow scarred with fluffy mounds of dry flakes and broken pieces of glittery crust.

  A single bright feather floated down to land on the undisturbed snow ten feet from the feeder. Hilda stared at it. It looked like a smear of blood. So much for the perfect world beyond her window. She’d better just deal with the world she had.

  She drained her cup and stood, the to-do list clutched tightly in one hand. Get dressed, Breakfast, Dishes, Buy more notes, she chanted mentally as she took the elevator upstairs. Get dressed, Breakfast, Di—

  “What in the world are you mumbling about, Mama?” Sarah came out into the hall, looking professional and severe in her gray suit.

  “Oh, you look nice, dear,” Hilda said. “I always like to see you in a suit instead of those awful striped bell-bottomed pants you used to wear.”

  Sarah frowned. “Whatever are you talking about? I haven’t worn anything like that for thirty years.”

  Hilda felt her face freeze. Oh, dear. What had she been thinking? For a moment, the memory of teen-aged Sarah, dressed in those hippie clothes, looking
like a woman of the streets, had been so real. “I know that, Sarah,” she said. “I was just paying you a compliment, that’s all.” She edged into her room and shut the door before Sarah could say anything more.

  She started to unbutton her robe and realized that she’d crushed a piece of paper in one hand. What in the world? Oh, yes. Her don’t-forget note. Get dressed, she read. Well, of course. It would be a sorry day when she forgot to bathe and dress.

  Sarah was just finishing her breakfast when Hilda came back into the kitchen. She jumped up and took a plate from the oven. “I made a cheese omelet. I’ve been keeping half of it warm for you.”

  When breakfast was finished and Sarah had gone off to work, Hilda rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. Standing at the sink washing the omelet pan seemed like old times, like her life fifty years ago. If she tried hard enough, she could pretend that the last fifteen years hadn’t happened, that Eldon was still alive, that she’d be putting his dinner on the table at six, that he’d be beside her forever.

  Oh, stop.

  She dried her hands and hung the towel, carefully aligning the edges. Now what? The kitchen was tidy, except for a yellow note in the middle of the table. She picked it up. Oh, yes. Go buy more notes.

  She’d better bundle up.

  Boots. Check.

  Coat. Check

  Wooly hat. Check.

  Purse, money, keys. Check. And gloves.

  Hilda hummed as she let herself out the kitchen door into the garage and started her ancient blue Cadillac. Every time she went anywhere, she was grateful for the automatic door opener Sarah had installed a few years ago. Without it, Hilda would never be able to go anywhere. She’d be marooned. Trapped.

  Once clear of the garage, she stopped. All right. Going shopping. For sticky notes. She had money and her list. Good. She glanced at the sign on the dashboard. Drive carefully, it said in big letters. Think, it said in bigger letters.

  Obediently, Hilda sat back and thought. She was going downtown to the stationery store for sticky notes. She was leaving home. She had to remember something. Oh, yes. She reached up for the door controller clipped to the visor and punched the Close button. The door slid shut, and a quick glance around assured her that everything was as it should be to keep Sarah from noticing anything wrong. She’d move mountains to keep Sarah from knowing about these little lapses.

  She carefully shifted into reverse and backed out of the driveway, dreading the day when she could no longer drive.

  ****

  “Stupid old bitch!” the driver of the sleek, black Lexus Hilda had nearly broadsided screamed, the words blending with the shriek of brakes. He brandished an upraised finger, slewed around a pedestrian, and sped away, tires slipping on the ice.

  Hilda shuddered her car to a stop as soon as she had cleared the intersection. Bitch, no. Stupid, maybe. Old, yes, most definitely.

  She was getting old.

  Correction. She was old.

  When the shaking stopped, she started the car, checked for oncoming traffic, and drove home. Slowly. Carefully. Very, very carefully.

  At least she hadn’t gotten a ticket for running the red light. Even better, she hadn’t hit that rude man. An accident could easily end her up back in that Belladonna place, and that would be too much to stand. She’d never felt, or been, so helpless in her whole life, and that was only a taste of what the future held.

  The nagging fear that never left her, not the fear of being old, but of being too old, helpless, dependent, kept her adrenaline surging all the way home.

  “Mama,” her daughter called from the kitchen. “I was beginning to worry. Everything all right?”

  Oh, dear. She had hoped to get home first and have a few minutes to collect herself before she faced Sarah. “Just fine, dear,” she called. “How about putting the kettle on? I’ll be right there.”

  “It’s already on.”

  Hilda scuttled into the powder room in the front hall, turned on the water, and leaned against the sink. Not yet. Not yet. I’m not ready. A splash of cool water and a quick brush through her hair and a cup of tea would make everything all right.

  She blotted drops of water from her face before they could leave marks on the pale lavender silk of her blouse and leaned forward to look at herself in the mirror. An old woman looked back. Faded blue eyes and wrinkles weren’t really such a problem. After all, the softness of old skin was quite attractive. Really it was. In its own way. It was the sagging, jowly jaw-line that made her look older than she was. And she wasn’t that old. Not even eighty-four yet.

  Eighty-three, you old fool. Eighty-three and a half. Plus a few months. Who did she think she was kidding? Hilda clamped down on that line of thought, pinned on a smile, and went to join her daughter in the kitchen.

  “How was the meeting?”

  Her heart sank. “Meeting? I went shopping.”

  “I thought you said the garden club met today.”

  Oh, dear. She couldn’t admit she’d gotten the day wrong. Again. Maybe she could distract Sarah. “No, dear, not today. But tell me about your day. Has Homer been unreasonable again?”

  Sarah frowned for an instant, then smiled. “Oh, you’re not going to believe what he did today,” she replied. She put down the spoon she’d been using to stir a bubbling pot of stew and launched into a spirited rendition of the day’s incidents.

  How dreadful that Sarah had to face such insults every day. Her daughter had dreams and plans, she knew, just as she knew she was the reason the poor child had to keep struggling with that awful job.

  She’d never wanted to die, except for that awful time right after Eldon had been killed, but neither did she want to linger on for years as a burden to Sarah. And what would Sarah do when she was alone? More than anything, Hilda wanted to see her daughter safe. Safe and happy.

  If growing old was frightening and unsafe, growing old alone would be a thousand times worse.

  ****

  Sarah gave the dining room table one last buff with the polishing cloth and turned to leave the room. Done. She’d worked double time to get the house cleaned while her mother was out with Violet. If Hilda saw Sarah working so hard on a weekend, she’d start fussing again about letting the cleaning service go, and Sarah didn’t want to admit they could no longer afford outside help. Really, it was just amazing the number of things Medicare didn’t cover.

  Today was garden club? Or was it one of the church committees? She never could keep track. All she knew was that in spite of using the walker when she was tired, her Mama stayed busier than any other three people.

  In fact, she tried to do too much, and really needed to cut back. There had actually been a couple of times when she’d forgotten meetings and messages. That was overload. Stress. If only she would slow down and concentrate, everything would be all right.

  But the less said about her driving, the better. Sarah was in a perpetual state of anxiety every time Hilda took the car out.

  The phone shrilled, and Sarah jogged down the hall to pick up the kitchen extension. “Hello?”

  “Sarah, this is George. I’m sorry...”

  Sarah collapsed into the nearest chair. “Mama?” she croaked.

  “Sarah, calm down. Your mother is all right.”

  “Oh.” The word came out in a whoosh of breath that she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Then what’s wrong?”

  “It’s complicated, honey. Just come on down here and I’ll explain.”

  “Where’s Mama? What happened?”

  “I promise you, your mother isn’t hurt, but she had a little problem this morning. We need to talk about it.”

  “Violet? She was with Violet.”

  “Nope. She’d dropped Violet off home. She was alone. You come on down here and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “On my way, Uncle George.” Sarah dropped the phone, grabbed her purse and keys, and ran out the door. She’d known it was only a matter of time before something like this happened, whatev
er it was. Every image that spun through her mind was worse than the one before. She stepped on the gas.

  The shrill of a siren had her checking the rearview mirror. Oh, damn. She should have known. Resignedly, she signaled and pulled over.

  “Where’s the fire, Sarah?”

  And of course it had to be Brent Henderson. His Aunt Violet would get all the details and Sarah would never live this down. “No fire, Brent. I just got a call from Uncle George.”

  “I know. I only stopped you because you were driving like a bat out of—driving too fast. Figured you’d appreciate it if I didn’t let you kill someone.” He winked at her.

  “Thanks.”

  “Everything’s okay, Sarah. Just take it easy now. And don’t forget you owe me one.” Brent turned and strode back to his patrol car.

  Sarah started the car and pulled back on to the road.

  Apparently everyone knew what was going on. Everyone except her.

  She could feel Brent watching her all the way down Poplar Street until she turned onto Main. Nothing like knowing you had the undivided attention of the traffic cops to make you a nervous driver. She pulled into a parking place in front of the police station without further incident, though, and closed her eyes.

  Be strong. Be calm. Everything would be all right. George had said so. She squared her shoulders, climbed out of the car, and walked through the door of the police station.

  “Morning, Sarah,” said the dispatcher. “Your mama’s waiting for you in the chief’s office. Just go on in.”

  “Thanks.” Sarah gave her a tremulous smile and bolted down the hall to the door that said George Arliss along with an ornately-scribed Chief of Police on it. She paused for a minute to gather her strength and pushed the door open.

  Her mother and George sat at his small conference table, sharing coffee and, apparently, pleasant gossip.

  The chief looked up when she came in. “Sarah. Good Lord, girl, you must have broken the sound barrier getting down here. Didn’t I tell you not to fret?”

  “Tell water not to run downhill next time, Uncle George.” The “uncle” was strictly a courtesy title for a man who’d been a close family friend as long as Sarah could remember. “What’s wrong?”