Worse, Claire hadn’t seen Oliver Moon on the floor since the day she’d taken the syringe.
Nana misinterpreted Claire’s wrinkled brow.
“Are you still mooning over Michael Meredith?” she asked her granddaughter gently.
Claire shook her head. “No, that’s not it. I was just—”
“Kitty, I want to say something to you,” Nana interrupted, ignoring her protests. “You are not responsible for what happened to Joseph—to Michael. From what you’ve told me, it sounds like Michael Meredith understands that fact better than you do. What happened was unfortunate. It was tragic. But it is in the past and it had nothing—nothing whatsoever—to do with you.”
Assuaged as she was by her grandmother’s words, Claire knew that Nana wasn’t making her judgment with all the facts. Nana didn’t know the role Claire had played in having Joseph sent away. And that made all the difference.
Now, with her heart pounding in her chest, she said what had to be said. Choking on her own words, she managed, “Nana, they . . . they did send him away because of me.” There. It was out.
“Kitty, why would you think such a thing?” Nana was incredulous.
“Because . . . because he… he cut me with that stick. Don’t you remember? You were there—at his birthday party just a few weeks before they took him away. We were playing in the wading pool, and he cut my arm with a stick. It wasn’t that bad really. It didn’t even need stitches.” Instinctively, she looked down to where her short-sleeved blouse revealed the pale scar. “But Daddy was so angry, and after that I heard Mother and Daddy arguing about sending him away.”
“Oh, honey. Of course it wasn’t your fault.”
Claire began to cry, feeling the shame of the little girl again. “It was, Nana. Oh, Nana. I lied.”
“What? Whatever are you talking about, Kitty?” her grandmother muttered, obviously not understanding Claire’s distress.
“I lied . . . that day it happened. I told Daddy that I didn’t do anything, but it was a lie. I started the whole thing. I sprayed Joseph with the garden hose. He was just trying to make me stop. He didn’t mean to hurt me. I honestly don’t think he did it on purpose. But I didn’t say anything. I just let them go on believing that he'd done something terrible.…” She couldn’t go on for the tears that welled in her throat and burned hot behind her eyelids.
Nana put her hand on Claire’s knee and let her cry. “Kitty, it wasn’t your fault.” Enunciating her words carefully and speaking in the stern voice Claire remembered from Nana’s scoldings when she was little, Katherine Anderson told her only granddaughter, “Your mother had made up her mind long before that day that she wanted Joseph sent away. Perhaps she used that incident as an excuse to sway Raymond’s thinking and get her own way, but no, darling. It was not your fault. You put that thought to rest this minute.”
“You’re sure? Do you know that for certain, Nana? For absolutely certain?”
“Claire Marie Katherine, you surely know me well enough by now to know I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t so.”
“Oh, Nana. All this time I’ve thought. . .” Claire leaned her head on her grandmother’s shoulder and let cleansing tears flow.
So the incident that day hadn’t been the catalyst for Joseph’s exile after all. She wasn’t trying to excuse her lie. It was wrong, and she'd faced that fact and confessed it long ago. But a burden was lifted to know for certain after all these years that her actions hadn’t been the thing that sent Joseph—that sent Michael—away.
Claire sat beside her grandmother, the afternoon sunshine warming their backs, love filling her heart. No gift her grandmother could have given could have been more treasured. It was a peace of mind that no one else on earth could have granted her. In this simple conversation, Nana had given her a sense of God’s offerings of healing and forgiveness—and a deeper understanding that the problems of her family had been greater than she could possibly have understood, or been responsible for, as a child. There was liberation in learning that Joseph would have been sent away regardless of her childish lie and the incident that provoked it.
But had anything really changed? It didn’t change the fact that Michael’s memories of her and her family were ones of torment and rejection. She could understand that Michael might be able to forgive her for the hurts of his childhood. But he would never truly be able to forget. She knew only too well what that required. As much as she'd tried to forgive her parents for the sadness in her own childhood, the memories still cut deeply, and she knew that a part of her would always—on this earth anyway—carry the scars of those wounds.
And after all her turmoil, had she come to this place of peace only to find that it was too late for her and Michael? Painfully, she remembered the blonde she'd seen him with that day at the park. He seemed to have put their romance behind him. He was getting on with his life.
Why couldn’t she do the same?
Chapter 30
Michael left the administration offices and headed for his car. The events of the past two weeks had taken their toll on him. Now he was confronted with one of the most difficult challenges he'd ever faced.
The tests from the lab had come back today, and they confirmed Michael’s worst fears. The syringe Claire had found in Ollie’s possession contained traces of morphine. This very afternoon, Oliver Wendell Moon would be charged in the wrongful deaths of Helga Schultz and Margaret Wallace. Margaret Wallace’s body would be exhumed immediately, and Michael felt depressingly certain that the coroner’s findings would be the proof needed for a conviction.
He took little comfort in knowing that it was unlikely Ollie would be sent to a state penitentiary. To the smiling, simple little man who had lived the whole of his life in Hanover Falls, the strange confines of a mental institution would be prison enough.
Though it seemed impossible that Oliver Moon had done the horrible things of which he was being accused, Michael had to admit that the evidence pointed overwhelmingly at Ollie. If it were somehow true, Michael felt sure that Ollie did not understand the gravity, the finality of his actions. The burning question for Michael was: Where had Ollie obtained the drugs? It was inconceivable that any pharmacy would have filled a prescription for the toothless, mumbling, obviously disabled man. And surely he wasn’t capable—mentally or physically—of stealing them or buying them off the street. Riverview’s drug supply had been carefully monitored and investigated, and everything seemed to be completely in order.
The only explanation that seemed remotely possible to Michael was that Ollie had merely been mimicking the actions of the nurses he'd watched every day for thirty years. It was possible that his childlike mind connected the syringes and medications with the compassionate relief of pain.” But even that didn’t explain where he got the drugs or how he'd learned to administer them. Vera felt certain that any nurse at the center would have detected the bruising or swelling from an ineptly administered injection. And no one seemed to recall such an occurrence.
Michael slowed the car and craned his neck to make out the numbers on the row of dilapidated houses on Murdoch Street. There it was. Four-thirteen. The house where Ollie lived was scarcely more than a shack, but the yard was neat and the tiny front porch was lined with blooming, overgrown pots of flowers.
Michael had already visited Ollie in the county jail where he was being held for questioning. Since his confinement the previous day, Ollie had been distraught and depressed, but Michael promised to bring a change of clothing after managing to make out Ollie’s one simple request: “keen corr-alls”—clean coveralls.
Michael now opened the door—unlocked, like most doors in this small town—and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The air smelled stale and musty, but the room was tidy and clean. In contrast, the tiny bedroom at the back of the house was piled high with boxes and bags. There was a rickety chest of drawers in one corner of the room, but to get to it, Michael had to move several brown paper grocery bags. The first bag he lifted was surprisingly li
ght. Michael looked inside and was puzzled to see hundreds of plastic drinking straws. The bag beside it was equally light and equally full of plastic cafeteria spoons. Increasingly baffled, he began to examine the contents of the dozens of bags stacked around the room.
Each one held a spotlessly clean collection of seemingly worthless junk—pull tabs from soda cans, tiny plastic rectangles that had once contained a single-serving of jelly or jam, convenience store coffee stirrers by the thousands—all carefully sorted and separated. In a far corner were several plastic grocery sacks tied in loose knots. Michael opened one to find rubber-banded stacks of meal selection menus carrying Riverview’s logo. Another bag contained a seemingly mismatched assortment of medical pamphlets and brochures.
Excitement rising in him, Michael opened another sack: a cache of tiny, neatly stacked plastic cups. Michael recognized them as the type of containers that were used to dispense medications at Riverview.
The nurses had said they often caught Ollie rummaging through the trash. Of course! He was looking to add to his vast collections. His sacks! That was what he'd tried to tell Michael. The euthanasia flyer was for his sacks! And might not a syringe have looked like an equally promising bauble to add to his collection?
Michael could have wept with relief as he realized the ransoming truth. Oliver Moon was a collector! A simple-minded, snaggle-toothed, harmless collector of junk.
Vera Johanssen wiped the perspiration from her brow and looked at the calendar on the desk in her office. Idly, she flipped through the pages. It was the middle of September, and the month didn’t seem to be offering an ounce of relief from the August she'd just endured.
She couldn’t remember a more difficult time in her professional career. She was too old to be dealing with this kind of stress. Maybe Harv was right. Maybe it was time to think about retiring. She loved her job, and her husband had always supported her in her desire to work, but she knew that Harv’s patience was at its limit with the current situation. She'd been unable to leave her worries at the office. She knew she'd been cranky and irritable, taking her frustrations out on her husband.
Poor Harvey. He was a saint to have put up with her for so long. But lately, his hints had been more adamant. He was older than Vera by several years. He’d been retired for over a year now. His company had a good pension plan and they’d managed to save a nice little nest egg. They had always planned to travel together once the kids were grown. Well, the last of those kids had been gone from the nest for over ten years now. Their oldest was beginning to see her own teenagers fly the coup. Maybe it was time. Maybe—
Before Vera could complete the thought, Geneva Grayson, the charge nurse on duty, appeared in the doorway, out of breath and looking flustered. She rapped on the jamb of the open door.
“Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Johanssen, but Ethel Manning is having another one of her spells. We’re a little short-handed on the floor today. Would you mind helping me for just a minute?”
She was already up and moving toward the door. “Sure. Do you want me to cover the floor or talk to Ethel?”
“Would you handle Ethel? She seems to respond better to you. I’m afraid I might kill the woman if I have to walk into that room again.” Instantly, she clapped her hand over her mouth, looking sheepish. “That was a poor choice of words. I’m sorry.”
Of course everyone in the nursing facility was aware of Cynthia Harper’s suspension. Despite the increasing likelihood that Oliver Moon, not Harper, was responsible for the deaths at Riverview, it had been decided that the LPN’s statements were incriminating enough to warrant continuation of the in-house investigation that had been underway at the time Oliie was taken in for questioning. Many of the nurses who had worked with Cynthia had been interviewed, and privately, Vera had been very candid with her charge nurses about the concerns the administration had over the situation.
Now Vera laughed half-heartedly and sighed at Geneva’s thoughtless comment. “Don’t apologize, Geneva. I know you don’t mean it literally.” She sighed, thinking that she well understood the charge nurse’s feelings about Ethel Manning. The cantankerous old woman was famous at Riyerview for her hysterical outbursts. She had a voice that could wake the dead, and she wasn’t afraid to use it when she felt she wasn’t getting the attention she deserved.
Vera followed Geneva down the corridor and could hear Ethel’s ravings even before they turned the corner onto the east wing, where the woman’s room was.
“Do I pay good money so you wretched people can treat me this way? I want my pills, and I want them now!” the high-pitched voice bellowed.
Vera waved Geneva on and, taking a deep breath, stepped into the room.
“Good morning, Ethel. You’re looking nice this morning. You must have had your hair done yesterday.” She'd learned that a little flattery and a soft voice went a long way to appease Ethel’s moods.
“Hah! That crazy beautician can’t do my hair right to save her soul!” Ethel launched into another tirade.
Vera could tell, however, that she was soaking up the attention. It wouldn’t be too difficult to get her calmed down today. She sat deliberately in the chair beside Ethel’s wheelchair, knowing it would communicate to the woman that she intended to spend some time here. They visited for a few minutes, Ethel pouring a laundry list of complaints in Vera’s lap, Vera listening attentively, but commenting little. Ethel berated each nurse in turn.
“The only decent people in this place are that new little girl on the day shift. . . what’s her name? Hillary? And then Cynthia Harper, and she got fired.”
“Who told you that, Ethel?” Vera asked, trying to keep the anger from her voice. The nursing staff had been given strict instructions not to discuss Cynthia’s dismissal with the residents.
“Why, she told me herself.”
“Cynthia told you? When was that, Ethel?”
“Let’s see. It was on a Saturday night. Two weeks ago. Yes, I’m sure that’s right, because it was the first of the month and that good-for-nothing son-in-law of mine had been in to have me sign a check. He thinks I don’t know what he’s up to but I’m not blind—”
“So Cynthia was here?” Vera interrupted, trying to steer Ethel back to the subject at hand. When Cynthia Harper had been suspended in August, a preeminent condition of her suspension was that she stay off the premises of Riverview Manor.
“Yes. It was late at night,” Ethel told her now. “Long after the late news. I couldn’t sleep for wanting to give my son-in-law a piece of my mind. When I saw Cynthia out in the hall, I called to her. I hadn’t seen her for a while, and I wanted to talk to her. She was in uniform, so I thought she was working a different shift. That’s when she told me about getting fired. She said she was just visiting.”
Abruptly, Ethel shook an accusing finger at Vera. “Now she was a nice nurse. I don’t know why you people always get rid of the nice ones. Anyway, we talked for a while before she said she had to go.”
“You’re sure it was only two weeks ago, Ethel? That would have been . . .” She did some quick figuring. “. . . September first.”
“Of course, I’m sure. I told you it was the first of the month. That’s when he always hits me up for cash.”
Though Ethel Manning’s body was frail and she was in need of full-time nursing care, her mind was sharp as a tack. Vera knew she would not be mistaken about the date.
Not caring that sudden desertion might set Ethel off again, Vera said a hasty good-bye and all but ran down the hall to the nurses’ station.
She picked up the phone and punched in a number.
“Michael, it’s Vera. We have to talk. Now. Cynthia Harper was on the east wing the night Maggie Wallace died.”
Chapter 31
Michael heard Vera’s words, but it took a moment for their meaning to soak in. When it finally did, he could only whisper in horror, “Oh, dear God. Please . . . help us.”
He dialed the emergency number. When the dispatcher connected him with a polic
e officer, he explained the situation in detail and was assured that officers were enroute to pick up Cynthia Harper for questioning. He didn’t hang up the receiver until he'd also been assured that Oliver Moon would be released immediately and delivered to his own front door on Murdoch Street.
Michael hung up the phone and put his head in his hands.
Claire was with her third-graders in their afternoon reading circle when she was paged by Marjean Hammond.
“You have a phone call, Claire.” Concern colored her voice, even over the out-of-date intercom system. “It’s Riverview. On line two.”
Claire turned the book over to Megan Leads, the best reader in the class, and hurried to the phone in the hallway.
The manor had never called her at school. Trembling, she picked up the receiver and pressed in the extension. “Yes? This is Claire Anderson.”
“Claire, this is Geneva Grayson at Riverview. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but your grandmother has taken ill. We’ve been in contact with Dr. Bricker, and he agrees with us that she’s probably had another stroke. It… it doesn’t look good, Claire. Could you—”
Tears sprang to her eyes. “I’ll be right there.”
She went back to the classroom for her purse, stopped by the office to ask Marjean to cover for her, and hurried to her car.
Geneva Grayson was in the room with Nana when Claire arrived. The charge nurse explained what had happened as Claire stood over her grandmother’s bed, stroking the frail, unresponsive hand.
Her grandmother lay amidst a tangle of IV tubes attached to her body and to the bed with various straps and white surgical tape. Her eyes were closed, but Claire sensed she was not sleeping.
“Nana?” Emotion rendered her voice a whisper.
Her grandmother’s head stirred on the pillow, and the paper-thin eyelids fluttered open, though seemingly unseeing. Her dentures had been removed, and her cheeks appeared sunken and hollow. She moved her mouth as though to speak, but the sounds that came forth were garbled and broken. Claire thought she saw panic in the vacuous eyes.
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