Shadows of Ashland

by Austin,Robin

  “Morning,” he says, placing his strong hand on my head and stroking my hair before getting coffee. He smells so clean and fresh and not a bit like lilacs. I want to wrap my arms around him. I want a do-over.

  “I need to spend some time at the office. Why don’t we plan on going out to dinner tonight, Alberto’s? You can tell me about your assignment. How’s it going so far?”

  “Good,” I say. “Complicated, but I’m unraveling it.”

  “Working on it today?”

  I tell him about my father. I know my mother still didn’t call him, wouldn’t call him. He looks concerned, pausing at each bite of yogurt and toast. Then he starts stuffing fruit, protein drinks, and bottles of water in his old blue backpack.

  “I’m going over to their house today. Run a few errands. I probably won’t be back until five or so. I’ll make reservations for what? Eight?” I’m biting the inside of my mouth, hating myself for making his excuses.

  “Sounds good.” He goes to kiss me, just a peck on the cheek. I grab his arm, hold it tight, afraid to let go. Afraid not to.

  “Call me if you need to. On my cell,” he says, pulling away.

  His eyes look so sad that I almost stand to hug him, but it’s too late. He’s walked away then the car engine starts, the garage door opens and closes.

  On the phone, I talk my dad into letting me take him to lunch. His hesitation stings my already sensitive skin. When I say I need help on a story, his tone changes. It’s a shameless ploy, one we both can enjoy. I go by Rick’s office. The parking lot is empty. Of course, there’s parking in the back; of course he would park there.

  The drive to my parents’ home reminds me of how much I love the ocean. The salt air, the clouds that only know how to hurry, the crashing followed by the impenetrable pause, and the certainty it will happen again and again as long as the earth remains intact.

  It’s not the first time I’ve looked at the houses in this area and thought of the possibilities. Half as small and three times the price of my own home, but still the lure of the crashing and the pause and the unending promise is hypnotically tempting.

  I’m running fifteen minutes late and that shouldn’t be a big deal, but my mother is waiting so it is. Dad said she’s going shopping. I’m sure she’s stir crazy keeping a watchful eye on him. My mother’s never been one to sit still, not have something in the hopper, as she calls it.

  She’s standing outside the door as I pull into the driveway, waving at me, waving me in. She tells me he’s doing great, good, better. She’s nervous, talking faster than usual, which is always faster than most.

  “Okay, here she is finally,” she says, as my father stands to hug me. His smile is bright, happy, his eyes are slow to focus and a little vacant when they do.

  “I have to show you my new toaster,” my mother says, pulling me to the kitchen. She warns me not to wear out my father. “Don’t unload your problems on him either.”

  “I don’t have any problems, Mother. I just want to take him to lunch.” I’m defensive, angry for no good reason other than fear. A fear that surrounds us both, thick and as dark as the shadows.

  “Fine. He’s just worn down. He’s adjusting to some new medication. He shouldn’t have any dairy. Don’t let him order milk or anything cheesy. He’s always loved the damn cheese.”

  “What kind of medication?”

  “I don’t know. Dr. Jamison explained it. Who knows what the hell he was talking about. But it makes your father tired, so I want you to promise to have a nice lunch and come right back here afterwards. Don’t cause him any stress. I’ll be back in two or three hours. Stay with him if you get back before me.” She says this last part with full eye contact, worried eyes. My heart aches for all three of us.

  “Mom, is it Alzheimer’s?” I whisper the word, but still she shushes me and waves me away with one hand. I grab it and ask if it is. There are tears in her eyes and I let go.

  “I’ll see you in a few hours,” I say. “No need to rush though. I have all day. Rick’s working.” Why these last words come out of my mouth I don’t know, but she rolls her eyes and is already moving full speed back to the living room then out the door.

  Being with my parents reminds me of how much I wanted to grow up. To be grown up just like them. To be taller, wear makeup, a bra with real cups, have a boyfriend, go to college, get a job. I don’t remember wanting anything after that. It’s as if I wanted time to stop in my twenties. Forever young and carefree with parents who were still almost young and carefree too. I never planned to grow older or for my parents to grow old and no longer the people I knew. That happened in a future that wasn’t mine.

  My father’s struggling with his jacket. It would be funny if it wasn’t clear that he’s confused how sleeves work with arms. I ask if he’d rather stay home. I offer to make turkey rolls with maple mustard. Then he’s back to his old self, telling me I’m not ditching our lunch date, and that I’m buying and he’s ordering lobster, though I know he isn’t.

  At the restaurant, I leave out most of the details of my dilemma in writing my article, but I can see how happy he is giving me advice. For awhile, I forget not to stress him out, not to unload my problems. And that makes us both happy and everything is normal again, for now and now is all that matters. I need this time to last and it won’t.

  “Write the best story you can, honey. Tell the truth, otherwise it’ll just come back to bite you in the keister. If this sassy lady editor of yours wants to change it, let her. If you try to do it for her, she’ll just blame you for the whole wicked mess.”

  “What do I do about the story they don’t want?”

  “First, do the job you were hired to do. Second.” He goes back to eating his crab cake salad and I think he’s forgotten to finish his sentence. “Second, Jan?” It’s me who’s forgotten. He winks like it’s our own little secret; just me and Dad, the news reporters. “You write it between the lines,” he says, and laughs.

  It’s been so long since I’ve heard those words that I laugh too loud, but I want to cry. “I don’t know how to slip a dead baby– one that’s probably imaginary– into a story that’s meant to drum up dollars and supporters in order to commit the crazies.”

  “You’ll figure it out. I know you. You’ll do right by your own conscience. Though if I was you, I’d leave out that last line about committing the crazies.”

  For awhile, it’s all so normal and I’m convinced, and happily so, that it’s my mother who’s the one going batty. I pay the check while my father goes to the restroom. I’m in the lobby waiting, watching the hallway where I’m sure he went. I’m watching men come and go, smiling at the hostess who looks concerned about my lingering. I finally grab one of the waiters, literally by the arm, and whisper for him to check on my father. He returns to tell me the men’s room is empty. I rush to the women’s room and look under the stalls, get foul words of warning then run out the front door to the parking lot.

  I’m running to my car, looking in all directions. He’s disappeared. I’ve lost my father, and all I can think of is what my mother will say when I have to tell her, which is totally ridiculous. Then I see him standing at the cliff looking out at the water, at the crashing waves. I’m crying and running and thinking, don’t jump, Daddy, please don’t jump. He turns and sees me and I stop, try to dry my eyes. When I get to him, I fall into his arms.

  “I’m okay,” he whispers, then chuckles. “I’m not okay, but it’s all right, kiddo. It happens to the best of us. It’s the story behind the story. The one you can’t see from the outside. The one you don’t know you’ll find. Like it or not though, it’s the one that’s going to get written. That’s life. Sometimes life’s not the story you thought you were going to write.”

  Like drunken fools we make it back to the car and somehow I manage to return my father to my mother. She takes one look at me and shakes her head, then hugs me tighter than she has since I was a small child. She pulls me back at arms’ length and her gnarled fin
gers dig into my skin.

  “Fight for what you want before it’s too late, Jan. Don’t just go along living life like it’s forever. It isn’t. It’s only now that you have, and it won’t get better by ignoring it.”

  When she lets me go, I barely look at her and rush out the door. I drive a few miles then pull over before I get too far away to see the crashing waves. I take out my phone and listen to the rings until I hear Rick’s voice message.

  “Hi. Sorry, but I have to cancel dinner. Rough time with my dad today. We can talk later. No need to hurry home. Do whatever you need to, whatever you do. I’ll probably watch a movie and go to bed early.”

  Excuses made, I pull onto the highway.

  Chapter Eleven

  §

  My father’s right. Sometimes life’s not the story we think we’re going to write. Nobody could know that fact better than Eunice, if only she could.

  How did Rodham not know that Eunice is perhaps the last person he should have selected for this article? Some shrink he is if he doesn’t know what tales Matilda may choose to tell. How Eunice’s life is neither warm nor fuzzy. How Matilda neither creates a pleasant union nor completes anything.

  I’m going to do my best to avoid Matilda and spend quality time with Eunice this afternoon. I’ve decided to bribe her, having spent part of Sunday shopping for a sweater (a zipper, no edible buttons). I also splurged on overpriced oatmeal cookies (the cookies not the price was suggested by one of the nurses). I’ve brought flowers from my garden and a poetry journal I created years ago: Dickinson, Poe, Plath, Anne Sexton– When they called you crybaby, or poor or fatty or crazy, and made you into an alien, you drank their acid, and concealed it. These words seem written just for Eunice, though I don’t think I’ll read them to her.

  I leave home late enough to miss the Monday morning commute, and take my time driving back to Ruston. I’ve decided to come clean with Palmer, go with my dad’s final piece of advice. “Editor-in-chief decision,” he’d said. “That’s the approach you need to take.”

  Those were his parting words to me when I called early this morning. He seemed to remember our prior conversation, but not his prior words of wisdom. Still, he’s never talked to Palmer, probably never even met a woman like her in his entire life. Who knows how he’d handle her, but he could– would have, not too long ago.

  Despite my frustration, he’s right. It’s Palmer’s call and she needs to make it. I’ll suggest that it’s not too late to use another patient– what I should have done in the first place. The things I know so far just might scare her into demanding a different sample. I’ll remind her that you never put a story out there that can blow up in your face. I’ll try the concern-for-my-client approach and let her decide. I sincerely hope that’s what I’ll do.

  I take exit 108 and slow to a paused stop considering there’s no traffic in either direction. It’s another day in small town America where folks got up before the sun and got to work with no desire or reason to do otherwise.

  I take a left on Lower Lewis Road and pass Dorval’s Country Store where you can get lobsters to eat indoors or take out and buy camping supplies, Sam Adams by the case, bulk ammunition, and a hot shower with a free bar of soap. Why government regulators allowed such a convoluted and combustible combination, I can only hope was an oversight.

  The long time residents all know each other, and they all still welcome strangers, but in my opinion, not as much as most other small towns. Some would probably say having their own hometown asylum and that awful molestation trial put a damper on things. The local police encourage people to keep their doors locked, at least at night.

  Early this morning, I called Ashland and was told that Dr. Rodham is off-site today, whatever that means. I confirmed that Eunice will be available for me at two, giving me an hour before my conference call with Palmer. That’s more than enough time to sit with the woman, offer my gifts, and read her the magical tale of the beautiful Annabel Lee while she stares at the wall. If I can help it, I won’t be reading to Matilda.

  I’m greeted by the hotel clerk like a long lost cousin now that I’m a regular customer. There are three motels in Ruston and the one hotel. Reviews from the online travel adviser describe the motels as awful, awful and dank, and awful with rude staff. My hotel is said to be nice and clean and that it is, and not much more. But now I feel welcome here. The clerk even remembers my name, and that means more to me than I expect.

  On my drive to Ashland, the sun is shining and the blue sky fools me into thinking it’s still a warm summer day. After I sign in at the front desk, my gifts are inspected for contraband. The oatmeal cookies get a careful consideration despite the professional packaging, the flowers are oohed and aahed, and a peek under the sweater’s wrapping gets a nod of approval. I think I must wait for Aljala, but the nurse tells me to go on to Eunice’s room.

  “She’s expecting you,” the woman says, with a caring, practiced smile.

  I head upstairs to the narrow corridor. The ammonia is forever strong, but the walk doesn’t seem quite as long, and I’m not confronted by Billy the moaner or anyone else. I knock at Room 216 twice, then open the door slowly.

  Eunice is reclining on her bed, wearing a thin dress, the same worn sweater, and thick gray wool socks. I don’t see any of these right away though because the room is dark and the light from the corridor only spotlights her face, which I should be used to by now but am not. Her pillow is against the headboard and raised just enough to make her look uncomfortable and surreal.

  “Hello, Eunice. It’s Jan. Mind if I come in?”

  She doesn’t answer, doesn’t move. Her hands are clasped, positioned just as an undertaker might do for an open casket service. If not for her wide reptilian eyes, I’d have good cause to doubt her alive.

  With the door fully open, I scan the walls for the light switch. Once found, I decide to leave the door open instead. I set my gifts on the dresser while I tell her about them. The flowers, yellow roses, are from my garden, I say, turning the vase for her to admire even though she isn’t watching.

  I remove the wrapped sweater from the bag and take it to her, lay it beside her on the bed, open the designer box with the half-dozen cookies and place it on her nightstand. All the while I’m telling her about the stores where I shopped, and the sweater size I guessed at and hope guessed right. She hasn’t moved an inch, I’m getting used to it. I place a chair next to her and retrieve my notebook.

  This is just a formality, I tell myself. If she’ll allow it, I intend to stay the full hour to document that the woman is non-communicative– no human interest element here, I’ll tell Palmer. That doesn’t mean I won’t try, just not as hard as before and only to appease my sense of professional duty.

  I have a list of questions. Questions you’d ask a child to get them to open up. I start with offering her a cookie, tell her the nurse said oatmeal was her favorite, ask if that’s true. Does she like peanut butter or chocolate chip better? I take a cookie and show it to her, enjoy its chewy texture.

  She still hasn’t moved so I try to get her to open the wrapping paper on the sweater, then do it for her. I stand and hold the deep blue sweater in front of her, moving it near, and proclaiming it the perfect size. I ask her to feel the soft knit. “Would you like to try it on?” I ask. “Maybe later.”

  After a break to write notes, I move on to her favorites: colors, nurses, weather, television shows, other patients. I tell her I like Aljala’s big smile, Dr. Rodham’s random kindness, and Friends– the only television show I can think of at the moment. More silence on her part, more writing on mine. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cookie?”

  I abandon the kid questions and ask her if she likes to read, if she can read. “You were schooled here initially. Isn’t that correct? Eunice? I know you understand me. Do you mind answering some questions about your time here at Ashland?”

  It’s two thirty. I plan on calling Palmer from my car so that leaves me with about twenty minutes,
and that’s more than enough for me.

  “Do you like it here? Do you enjoy yourself? Do you feel safe? I’m writing an article about… you, for all the residents. You can help me write the story. Dr. Rodham thought you would like to tell me things. Things about you, about your life here.”

  Still she hasn’t moved, which is remarkable considering how her neck is torqued, her hands tightly bound. “Please, have a cookie,” I say, holding one on a napkin before putting it back on the nightstand.

  “Do you enjoy poetry? I brought my journal. Not my own writings. I won’t bore you with those. Just poems I’ve loved over the years and copied into a journal, so I have them handy all in one place.”

  I take a few minutes to write more notes, then thumb through my journal, reading silently until I find words that explain Eunice to me, and if I dare, to her. “This is Choices by Nikki Giovanni,” I tell her.

  “since i can’t go, where i need, to go … then i must … go, where the signs point, through always understanding, parallel movement, isn’t lateral, when i can’t express, what i really feel, i practice feeling, what i can express, and none of it is equal, i know, but that’s why mankind, alone among the animals, learns to cry”

  I close my journal and return it to my bag, finish my solo session with Eunice, add some bullet points to my notes for my phone call with Palmer then gather my things.

  “I hope you’ll enjoy some cookies later as well as your sweater and the flowers,” I say. “Thank you for letting me visit. If you’d like to talk to me, I’ll be in town a few more days. You can let one of the nurses or Dr. Rodham know, and I’ll come back to see you.”

  I’m putting on my coat, checking the floor around my chair, putting the chair back in its place, searching for my car keys.

  I know Eunice is alive. I know she’s in that body that hasn’t moved a single inch, I know her troubled mind can’t express what she feels, but I know she feels something, somewhere. Just maybe not here or now.