by Austin,Robin
I give up and set the gifts aside. Bribery is such a tacky and futile ploy.
“How are you doing Eunice? I know you probably wonder what was happening in the woods the other day. I wanted to talk to you, but I ran into a few problems. I came back as soon as I could.”
Eunice is looking towards the center of the room, watching nothing at all. I take a deep breath and ask if I can talk to Matilda. When there’s no response, I check to see if Aljala is watching, see that he isn’t, and lean closer.
“Matilda, I found Ruby just as you asked me to do. Soon, she’ll be given a proper resting place. That’s what you wanted. I hope it makes you feel better. You can be very proud of what you did for Eunice.”
I wait and watch the other patients, all who seem restless and significantly undermedicated. The noise is giving me a headache, my shoulder is aching, and all I want is a pain pill and a gin and tonic. In my mind, I’ve already requested room service and am lying on the bed in my hotel room.
“Blue is my favorite color.”
I jump and whisper, “Matilda?” I hope to see her coy half-smile, but there’s only Eunice, still staring at nothing.
“I’m glad, I hope you like it.” I reach over to get the sweater and hold it up. “It slips on easily because of the v-neck. You can wear it over anything. It’s thin so it’ll be comfortable, but it’s still quite warm.”
I’m rambling again, hoping Eunice or Matilda will say something, anything. Aljala has looked over a couple of times. I’m sure he’s been given a time limit for my visit.
“Matilda? Do you want to tell me who Ruby’s father is? You won’t get in trouble. I just want to make sure that you’re safe here. If it’s one of the residents or someone who visits, I’ll make sure they don’t ever touch you again. It’s okay to tell me.”
Aljala is standing beside me. I didn’t hear him approach, don’t know how much he’s heard.
“Ms. Eunice needs to rest now. She’s been a little under the weather, you know. She tires easily.”
I hand him the sweater, and he gently takes Eunice’s hand. She stands at his touch.
“Goodbye, Eunice. I hope you feel better.”
I watch them leave the room and start to follow when Eunice bolts back into the room to where we were sitting. She grabs the dress we both forgot and puts it to her face.
“Bye, Jan,” she says, passing me, not even looking in my direction.
Aljala is waiting for me when I walk out of the room. “Some things are better not known, Ms. Jan. It was a long time ago. Ms. Eunice is safe now. No worries. We keep her safe.”
“I hope so.”
I settle in my room after ordering a large salad, prawns, and two gin and tonics. It’s mid-afternoon and in the hotel, eyebrows were raised. I’m sure they will raise again before this night is over.
Rick left me a short message saying he hopes it’s only my car that’s the problem, and that I wasn’t in an accident. He wants me to come home tomorrow. Says in a quiet voice that we need to talk. He’s right. He tells me to call if I don’t plan on coming back tomorrow.
I call my mother to see how the new nurse is working out. She scolds me for calling again.
“You’re obsessing about us, Jan. For Pete’s sake, we’ve lived our entire lives without you taking care of us. Remember who changed your diapers and wiped your snotty nose. Don’t go acting like you’re the parent now.” She’s rushing her words and making less sense with each. Of course, she reminds me to take care of my own relationship. Lately, she doesn’t miss an opportunity.
My food arrives and I hurry to the door. I hate that this is the most fun I’ve had since I picked up Chris. The gay hitchhiker who returned to some mystical galaxy after almost convincing me to abandon all concerns not otherwise corrected by multi-purpose gel or hand wipes. The fact that I was one foot over the edge should, but doesn’t concern me.
After a few sips of gin and tonic, I check my emails. One from someone named Greg Timmons gets my attention. Nothing could make this moment any better than to have a job offer waiting for me.
A click on his message instead reveals that I’ve been fired by Matrix Media. The attorney, Timmons, wants to know if I have an attorney who will accept service of the lawsuit that Matrix has filed against me for breach of contract and some things about defamation, commercial disparagement, and a loss of over ten million dollars in revenue. Amazing I created such a horrific loss considering Matrix wouldn’t even pay the full cost of my hotel room.
I email Timmons that I’ll contact an attorney, and that in the meantime, he can email me the paperwork. Then I pour my second gin and tonic, call room service, and wonder how much effort it would take to get my other foot over that mystical edge.
Chapter Thirty One
§
The next morning, Detective Martin’s assistant sends me the digital photos of my vehicle damage. I forward them on to my insurance agent before checking out of the hotel.
The assistant also let me know that all the town’s churches have joined together for a bake sale to raise money for that baby’s funeral. I say I’ll stop by to make a donation after she tells me it’s at the Christian Church on Reinard. With luck, which I don’t seem to have, I won’t run into Davenport, and shudder the sin of it, bother the man.
I’m thinking of other things I can do to delay my drive back to Stratton, but there’s nothing left for me here, nowhere I’m welcome, or perhaps even safe. Under the circumstances, I should be anxious to return home. I’m not. A call to my mother goes to voice mail and I don’t leave a message.
My thoughts turn to my father. Not just for solace, but for his sage wisdom, which he no longer has. Where did it go? It’s not enough to understand that threads of protein are hardening and bizarre neurofibrillary tangles are degrading precious neurons, ceasing their once unfailing firing.
It’s disorienting that it’s not his body, but his essence which is dying– cruelly the gods are taking him from the inside out. My mother and I continue to see him and be fooled by his presence when he is no longer there. Sometimes the wise sage returns unannounced to resume what we think normal. This is the cruelest trick of all, when we look into the eyes of someone we think we know, who doesn’t really know us back.
I want to go to the place where my father goes. Perhaps it is where I’ll find Eunice. I’m sure both are somewhere. Somewhere that’s nowhere near me even when the shadows appear, even when I’ve stepped over the edge.
I wonder if where they are isn’t better. How ironic that my mother and Rick and Aljala have all accused me of being complicated. I only wish simple was always possible.
It’s through my father that I see myself as a journalist. It’s not a coincidence that the vision I have of me is fading too. That I am as illusionary as the wise sage, both of us with a shelf life, one with a rapidly approaching expiration date.
I slide in via the passenger seat of my car because the man at the garage told me not to use the driver’s door. I prop my arm on a pillow bought at the drug store. My arm is still secured in the shoulder sling; I’m not looking forward to the two hour drive home. Thankfully as I merge onto the interstate, the traffic is light. With each mile, I leave the gray clouds behind.
By the time I reach the exit to Stratton, my body is stiff and annoyed. I pray the house is empty though I have no reason to think it will be otherwise. A pain pill and sleep is all that I need or want.
For years, I thought Rick was no better than a philandering husband. For a time, I knew he was. At some point, I kicked him out of our bedroom, accused him of bringing home diseases that I had no intention of contracting.
Then for a time, he changed. I thought he’d finally outgrown his teenage obsession to sleep with every woman he met. Still, he worked late most days and had things to do on the weekends that never seemed to include me. The things I always seemed too busy to do anyway. I justified our distance as strong, independent natures. For too long, I thought that true. I don’t rec
all why.
I pull into the driveway and wait for the garage door to open. As expected the garage is empty as is the house. For reasons I won’t acknowledge, I wonder around looking in drawers and closets, in Rick’s study, our bedroom. I’m not looking for secrets, I’m looking for the obvious. Finally the pain medication kicks in and I give up. The obvious escapes me once again.
It’s dark when my ringing phone wakes me. I’m disoriented, not even sure where I am. My throat is raw, my body is heavy from the pain medicine. Long before my senses return, the call goes to voice mail. I try to go back to sleep even if it means just pretending, but now I hear the garage door and see the lights downstairs. I lay and listen and pretend.
“Jan? You here?”
I can tell Rick is standing at the bottom of the stairs. He sounds tired or irritated. I can’t tell which. I’ve long lost my wifely sixth sense in reading his emotions. I hear footsteps on the stairs and in the hallway.
“Jan?”
I debate whether to stay silent. My back is towards the door, my shoulder sling covered by a pillow. He flips the switch and the hall light stings my eyes. I feel childish, like I’m playing a game of hide and seek.
“Hi,” I say, and turn halfway, enough to stare at the ceiling.
“What happened to your car? Looks serious. Were you hurt?”
I tell him about the rain storm, the truck driven by a kid who lost control. Lies roll effortlessly off my tongue, partly from apathy and partly because the truth is too much effort, my tale too long to tell.
He’s come to stand near the bed, notices my sling. “Just a sprain is all,” I say before he can ask. “It’s sore, nothing serious. Should be better in a few days.”
“Have you had dinner?” This he says after a few awkward moments. His large frame blocks the hall light.
“I’ll microwave something later. The doctor gave me medication. My stomach’s a little queasy.”
“I’ll make soup. Come down in a few minutes.”
He doesn’t wait for my answer, which surprises me. He’s missed my verbal dance of solo excuses; the perfect chance to make a clean, uncomplicated exit. We need to talk, I remember his words from his phone message. I didn’t really forget.
I have every intention of getting up, but I don’t until I hear him at the bottom of the stairs calling my name and waiting for an answer. “Coming,” I yell, then take my time straightening my hair and makeup.
“Chicken,” he says, as he places two bowls on the kitchen table.
It’s started to rain, just a drizzle but it’s heavy and has coated the kitchen windows with thousands of teardrops. “Thanks.”
We eat in silence. The only sounds are the crackers crunching and the soups slurping. The silence is worse than words, but the words are too difficult to say. Still I hear them. I want to scream, how could you at a time like this? I feel sorry for myself on so many levels.
Let’s just get this over with. “What?” I ask because I actually thought I heard those words… that he said them to me.
“Done?” He says, taking dishes to the sink, putting them in the dishwasher, wiping the counters clean, stalling.
I have a headache, my arm hurts from being bent so long, I’m sick to my stomach. I could have been killed. My father is losing his mind. I’m losing him forever. I’m not ready to hear what my husband has to say to me. Not this day. Not now. I don’t realize I’ve closed my eyes. The voices in my head have taken the liberty of turning out all the lights.
Rick is back to sitting beside me, and he takes my hand. He holds it like an old friend, one in their final moments.
“This isn’t easy.” He hangs his head and takes a few breaths. My hand has gone limp, his too. “I always have and always will love you.”
“But sometimes love isn’t enough,” I say, because I want to control what I hear. I’ve taken my hand back and I’m using it to rub my shoulder, provide myself with comfort before I get kicked in the knees. Rick is staring at the table. I can tell he’s practiced this conversation, still all his rehearsals are failing him.
“I’m sorry….” He’s up to get paper towels to wipe his eyes, to put some distance between us.
“No need to be. We both knew this was coming.” I laugh at my words. I think they’re from a made for TV movie I watched once.
He’s still at the counter, his back to me. “I’m going to move out.” He bends forward as if the words hit him in the stomach.
“I think that’s a good idea. No need to rush. Take whatever time you need.”
“I can stay and help you… because of your shoulder, I mean. And I’ll handle getting your car repaired. I’ll contact the insurance company—”
“Rick, stop. I’ve been taking care of myself for years. I know you’ll be there if I need you. I’ll always believe that even if there comes a time when you won’t.”
He’s turned back to face me, his shoulders are rolled in. He looks weak and defeated, not a look that suits this strong man, this man who was once mine. Obligations and love lost is a murky mixture. One that stings and bites and ensures destruction of our crumbled foundation, brick by painful brick.
Before I can tell him I need to lie down, I hear my phone ringing upstairs. I forgot to check for messages, and I feel a familiar panic. I’m up the stairs just as it goes to voice mail. It’s my mother, both calls were hers. I press speed dial, and she answers on the first ring.
“About time. Where have you been?” Her cocky tone makes me laugh, and I relax and settle on the bed. She doesn’t wait for my answer.
“I’m at Memorial Hospital. Your father’s lost his damn mind. He smacked his nurse. The police came to the house. The neighbors saw everything. He could have killed the woman. God, I hope she doesn’t sue us. She probably will. Then how am I going to take care of your father? Answer me that.”
“Where’s Dad?”
“I just told you, Jan. What the hell is wrong with you? We’re at the damn hospital again. It was all I could do to keep your father out of jail. The cops wanted to haul him away. They thought he was drunk. It would have been better if he had been. They have to keep him overnight for observation. Did I already tell you that? I’m losing my own damn mind. I sure as hell hope that nursing agency has insurance. If they do, do you think she can still sue us? Isn’t that double jeopardy or something?”
“I don’t know, Mother. Please sit down somewhere and relax. I’m on my way.”
I start downstairs to tell Rick what’s happened when I hear the garage door open then close. “Goodbye, Rick,” I whisper. Then I call a taxi.
Chapter Thirty Two
§
My father is in the hospital for four days before my mother and I sit down at a big oak desk in his doctor’s office. Dr. Jamison has been my father’s doctor for all the years I can remember. He’s younger than my father, but not by much. I’m angry at him for having a sharp mind, for not ensuring my father does too.
The doctors at the hospital found a bacterial infection. They think that’s why my father became combative. This is the reason my mother and I think we’re in Dr. Jamison’s office. When it’s clear that we’re not here about the infection but about the next step in my father’s care, I demand to know why Jamison didn’t see this coming.
“Why didn’t you tell us this was happening? Isn’t there other medication you can give him? Haven’t you been doing tests?” My mother pats my hand, just the way she did when I was a child and I misbehaved in public. I jerk my hand away.
Why didn’t you just keep it from happening, I want to say– but I don’t. Instead, I listen to Jamison tell us that my father needs to go to a nursing home. I hear my mother gasp. I’ve never heard her gasp in my entire life.
“It’s for the best, Ethel.” He says this like they’re old friends, and I feel like an outsider. My mother must know the answers to all the questions I’ve asked and more. Answers I will probably never hear; I’m still my parents’ child.
My mother is c
rying. Not weepy little girl tears. She could never pull that off. She wouldn’t even try. No, she’s raging, demanding that Jamison provide a prescription to calm him down.
“I’ll hire a male nurse,” she shouts, as if the idea is revolutionary. She even hops a little in her chair. Then she scolds herself for not thinking of this sooner, sure it would have prevented this situation, as she calls it.
Jamison is quiet, filled with long practiced kindness as she carries on. Gently, he reminds her that my father has been on medication for quite some time. “He needs constant care now. His labs are still a concern,” he says.
I wonder if this is about the infection or something else entirely, but I can’t ask. I’m the little kid in the room watching the grown-ups make grown up decisions. I’m watching this whole thing like a movie that’s turning my life upside down, and I can’t switch it off. I’m not allowed.
Dr. Jamison hasn’t stopped talking, but he fades in and out of my narrowing field of concentration. I have to force myself to pay attention. I catch bits and pieces of how my mother knew this was coming for quite some time. Those words again: Quite Some Time. How long is that?
He reminds her that my father has become much more aggressive in the last few months. “He’s a danger at this point.”
These last words jar me back into the room as if I’ve been hit by a steel rod, one that enters my heart. Months? Why don’t I know this? Why was I excluded from these conversations? Why did my mother lie? I demand answers, but Jamison and my mother continue talking to each other. The questions remain in my head or stuck in my throat, blocking my air.
My mother asks how long. I look at her, both confused and terrified of what will be Jamison’s answer, then realize she’s talking about the time he’ll need to spend in the nursing home.
“We’ll see how he’s doing in a week. You need your rest too. Take this time for yourself. We’ll talk again in a week.” Jamison looks at me. I assume he’s checking to see if I have any questions or answers. I should, but I have not one or the other.
