by Rebecca Rode
I think it over and replay our kiss. Things were going great until he found some cell reception. He couldn’t hear me talking over the sound of emails and text messages being sent. My heart drops a little more.
“Well, I think I’ll going to go over to Black Diamond this afternoon to see why he’s hiding from me. He could take an early lunch, and we could get a burger and talk.” I tie a knot to finish a suture. “What do you think? Too forward?” I clip the thread and step back to evaluate my work.
Mr. Lambert’s peaceful face fills my vision. I run through a mental checklist. Hair. Eyes. Cheeks. Jaw. Lips. I am good. He looks like he’s sleeping peacefully—just what the family needs.
“No. Trev would be crazy to give you the brushoff now.” Her voice echoes toward me. “He might be nervous, or worried about going from being friends to being more. You know?”
“I hope so, and he’d better have a great, fantastic reason why he’s avoiding me after kissing me like he meant it. Okay, I’m done in here. I’ll be right back.” I move Mr. Lambert into the slumber room, where he’ll be until his viewing on Thursday. I clean up, click off the lights, and meet Elena on the stairs.
The gravel in the Black Diamond parking lot crunches with each step I take toward the office. I imagine his answer to me with each of those steps. Yes. No. Yes. No. Ugh. My pulse picks up with each step. It’s scary to ask someone out. As I pull the door open I run into Trev’s co-worker, Rob.
“Oh, sorry.” He mumbles the same time I ask, “Have you seen Trev?”
“Trev? Nope. Dude didn’t show up for his shift since your disaster of a hike. I think someone said he’s back in Cali. I would have thought you’d know. Weren’t you two kinda getting close?” He throws a coil of rope over his shoulder.
“Yeah...Um, no, he didn’t say anything to me.” I choke out the words. “I haven’t talked to him since the hike either. I just thought….” Come to think of it, I didn’t see his Jeep in the parking lot.
I bite on my lip. Could he really leave? Like that?
“Sorry, nope. Anything else I can help you with?”
He stands there, semi-patiently waiting while my mind flips back to the last time Trev and I talked. Kiss, hike, cell service, silence, car ride back, silence, no call since—mostly. I guess the signs were there. He got what he wanted—a little entertainment—before returning to his normal life in California.
I feel like an idiot.
“No. Thanks, Rob.” I offer a small smile and head back toward the car.
Whether Trev comes back or not, I’m done. What a jerk. He’s a twit. A bum. Even as I think the words, they slide off, not sticking to my idea of him. More tender feelings push other words forward—considerate, thoughtful. I decide to wait. I’ll know more when he decides to tell me. I have to believe he will. My eyes fill with tears I refuse to let fall and blink them back.
Tonight, I need to relax and put it out of my mind. Spaghetti is my comfort food—so I make lots.
“Mom, will you set the table for us?” I place everything she’ll need on the table while she shuffles over to help. That will keep her busy long enough for me to run the trash to the curb.
As I come up the last step and reach for the doorknob, I hear a crashing noise, then a scream. My heartbeat pounds against my chest. When I enter the kitchen, Mom is sitting in the middle of the floor. The pot of boiling water and spaghetti is spilled all around her, and she’s bent over her hands, sobbing.
Fear grips my muscles and I leap toward her, helping her up and over to the sink, where I run her hands under the cold water. I pull out a towel and wet it, then wrap it around her arms. I scan the room, assessing. What happened? What do I need to do?
I don’t see any hot pads. Did she try to lift that pot without them? Did she knock it off accidently? No. It was on the back burner, and it’s heavy.
Tears sting my eyes. Mom doesn’t know enough not to touch something hot. She’s so childlike. Every day, I think she can do things she can’t. It seems like she’s getting worse fast.
“Let’s go, Mom.” I pull my keys from the hook by the door and sling my purse over my shoulder.
When we get to the car, I strap her in, but by the time I get in the driver’s seat, she has unbuckled and is struggling to open the door. Her hands are red, but she claws at the door and shrieks—maybe because of pain or from fear. I don’t know.
I can’t drive her when she’s like this. What if she were to do that on the road? I shiver at what might happen.
I run back to her side of the car, then pull my phone from my purse.
9-1-1.
“I need an ambulance.”
It pulls up within minutes and takes Mom to the emergency room. I follow in my car.
Inside, Mom is withdrawn. She won’t talk to the nurse. She won’t even look at him. She whimpers like a child, and my heart is breaking for her. She’s hurt and scared, and I think she’s mad that I’m not taking her away from all this. I try to tell the nurse as much as I know of what happened, but I can tell he’s annoyed, thinking I’m taking over and probably have something to hide.
When the doctor comes in, he opens Mom’s medical history on the computer and directs the nurse to enter the information he dictates while examining Mom’s hands.
Finally he asks, “What happened?”
I repeat the story. He nods. Soft beeping and the smell of antiseptic fills the space between us as the doctor gives me a report on Mom, a prescription, and an instruction page for how to care for her hands.
“I’m keeping your mom overnight.” The doctor shifts in his chair. His eyes move like he’s searching for the right words. “I’d like to release her to a memory care unit.”
My hand flies to cover my mouth as I gasp. Every fear bubbles up. Mom alone. Frightened. Abandoned—by me.
“I can’t do that to her.” My voice is a whisper. “I promised I wouldn’t.” My mother was never a demanding person. She was kind and gentle. The one thing she has ever demanded, probably in her whole life, was that I take care of her.
“Zara, I’ve known your family longer than you’ve been alive. Because of the nature of your business and mine, I’ve had contact with both you and your dad. I know you to be a reasonable person.”
He looks me in the eye, and I want to turn away. He’s going to ask something I don’t want to answer, but I have to tell someone the truth. It’s as if, I need to hear him say it.
“Do you believe she’s safe? Can you honestly say that she’s in the best place for her needs?”
My throat tightens with a lump I can’t speak around. I want to say yes, but the lie of it won’t let me utter the word.
I shake my head. My stomach tightens and I feel like I’m going to throw up, miserable about my failure and feeling guilty that I still want her with me.
“Think it over tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Driving is a blur. I’m surprised to be back at my house. Ruth is sitting on my doorstep when I return home. “I saw the ambulance.” She stands, and I run into her arms.
“She’s...staying…” My words gasp out between sobs. “...overnight...for observation.” And I’m betraying her. How can I tell Ruth about that?
She walks me into the kitchen, and I sit at the table. There’s no sign of the mess from earlier. The dishes, stove, and floor have all been cleaned.
My heart feels full. “Thank you, Ruth.” I press my fingers to my chest. “You take such good care of us both.”
Ruth grabs the cookie jar as she walks by it. My dad passed his love of iced ginger snaps to me. I fish one out and nibble around the edges. Ruth doesn’t fill the silence with words—just with caring.
Three cookies later, she says, “If Rachel were her old self, she would look at her situation and say that the best choice might be to live somewhere else. Considering her disease, she’d never want you to give up your life for hers.” She rests her hand on mine. “I know you’d want to, but maybe you have some things still to
learn about and do. With all you’ve done in the past few years, you’ve become old and wise fast. It might be time to become a little younger for a while.”
Ruth pats my hand before she grabs one more cookie, kisses my cheek, and walks to my door. “When you have to make that decision, I’ll support you.”
I slump over, laying my head on my folded arms on the table. I do know what’s right for Mom—I just don’t know if I have the heart to do it.
12
Trev Cooley
IT LOOKS LIKE ROB SENT a text every minute in the time it took me to get down the jetway and into my seat. Doesn’t he have a job?
Where are you?
Are you coming back?
Boss man put out a Help Wanted sign.
I’m back on toilet duty. You suck.
That one makes me smile. I could make that happen. I read the remaining messages.
Zara came by. She looked pissed.
You’re an idiot.
Yeah, I am. But I’m ready to make it up to her. I know where I want to be now. My teeth clench as I read the next text.
Can I ask her out?
Sorry, man. Too soon. My bad.
Yeah, I’m not answering Rob. I dial Zara again. It goes straight to voicemail. I consider leaving a message, but I’ve already left her a message and click off before I hear the beep. The pilot welcomes us aboard, and the flight attendants check the plane. In a couple of hours, I’ll be in Denver, and a couple of hours more back to Peak City.
Without the chaos in my company, I never would have reconnected with Zara. I’m not willing to give up having a chance to be with her. I spent all night trying to think of what to do. I feel alive here. I know it’s not the place, as ruggedly beautiful as the Rockies are, that draws me back here. It’s Zara—she’s breath to me. When we’re together, I feel the weight of owning this business lift. Like a river cooling my feet after a long hike, she calms my soul. I’m more me when I’m with her.
I walk into Black Diamond Adventure Tours. Rob stops in the hallway and stares at me. “You back? Well, you don’t work here anymore. They scrubbed your name off the schedule yesterday. Adios. Adieu.” He snaps me a quick salute. “You can buy me a drink after work, though. I’m off at five. I want the whole story.”
“I came to tell Bill that I want my job back.”
Bill pokes his head out of the doorway. “Nope. No call. No show. No job.” The office door slams shut.
“I deserve that.”
“Yeah. He went easy on you.”
I walk into the office and try to shut the door behind me, but Rob walks in and sits in the only other chair.
“Really, Rob?”
He throws his hands up. “What? I want to hear.”
“Fine.”
“What do you want, Trev? You’ve got two minutes.” Bill looks at his watch.
“Okay, the short story is, I’m the CEO of Black Diamond Adventures. I was here on special assignment. You’re running a great store.”
Bill has a smirk, but then his eyes narrow, and he looks at me like he’s remembering something. “Trevor Cooley?” He springs from his chair, leaving it spinning around as he pulls binders off the shelf. When he finds the company’s orientation manual, the dusty one that doesn’t look like it’s ever been opened, he glances between me and the first page several times. “I should have put that together. I’m sorry, Mr. Cooley. I—”
“Is this a joke?” Rob starts to laugh. “Wait. You own this place?”
“He owns all the stores, Rob,” Bill answers.
“No way. And Zara had to save you at the waterfall. That has to sting your ego, man.”
“Shut up, Rob.” Bill sits behind the desk. He looks wary.
Rob is taking the news a lot better than the manager. Rob starts looking around the room. “Is this Undercover Boss? I’ve always wanted to be on TV. I’m photogenic, don’t you think?” He turns in circles and looks on the shelf. “Where’s the camera? Is it there?” He points to the thermostat. “Am I about to get a trip? I did good, right? Star employee.”
“No. You’re fired,” I say, hoping he will be silent for a good five minutes.
“Is that about the dirt clod thing? ’Cause I was just messing with you.”
Bill sinks into his chair. Probably wondering if he’s next.
I clap Rob on the shoulder. “You’re okay. I was messing with you too.” I turn back to Bill. “I’ve worked it out with my partner, Nolan Freemont, to work remotely from here in the Colorado office. You’re still the manager, and I know I put you in a bad place, but believe me, it was necessary for the whole company that I maintain silence about who I am. I’d still like to work a day or two a week as a guide, if you’ll have me.”
Wrapping his arm around my shoulders, Rob gets a solemn look on his face and says to Bill, “Let’s give our boy another chance.” When Bill nods his approval, Rob picks up the wastebasket beside the desk and tells me, “Start with this. It didn’t get emptied last night.”
13
Zara Hollis
ELENA JUMPED IN HER CAR and went back to work five minutes ago, but I’m still sitting in my car, looking over the immaculate lawns and flower gardens. There’s a little man-made stream that winds through the care center’s inner garden. It’s beautiful and peaceful.
Elena said she thought Mom might end up liking here. It looks like a little apartment—no kitchen, thank goodness, but everything else. She can bring her own furniture and pictures.
I flip open the brochure. There are activities planned—lots of them. The best part might be the family-style groupings the residents are assigned to. She’ll see the same people often, and the same nurses work with their “family.”
That stings. I’m her family. Raw guilt overwhelms me. It feels like I’m giving her up. Each of those words roll around, stabbing me in the chest.
My chin quivers and my eyes burn. This is too hard. I can’t do it. There has to be something else—something I’ve overlooked.
Yes, this community is everything I could hope for in a protected residence for Mom, but I feel completely miserable. Guilt swamps me for breaking my promise to her. Then more regret is heaped on top because I have fleeting thoughts about the burdens I’ve felt buried under being lifted from me. Finally, shame rounds out my mood when I have to admit I’ve failed.
The contract is signed. I’ve paid the money. Mom can move in any time.
I fold the paper, stuff it in the bottom of my purse, and drive back to the mortuary to get ready for a viewing service this evening.
***
After all the guests leave, the daughter hangs back to have some time alone with her dad. She isn’t young, maybe forty-five or fifty, and Mr. Lambert was at least thirty years older. Still, I can see a little girl in her tonight.
She’s pulled her chair up to his casket so she can look in his face, her hand resting over his. I wait for her to pull back. So many people are repelled by the cold, stiff feeling of their loved one’s change after death. But she doesn’t flinch. That alone makes me happy for her.
“I’m going to miss you so much.” She speaks with effort while tears fall down her cheeks. “Your grandkids will too. I’m glad we lived close enough for them to know you.” The woman wipes the tears off with her free hand, but the trails reappear immediately.
I walk to the guest book and sit at the table to give her privacy. Now and again, I glance their way. She whispers something to him or she sits quietly. After a few minutes, she kisses his forehead and leaves.
As I clean up the room, my thoughts prey on me a bit. Mom will still be close—across town between the hospital and the lake. I’ll be able to visit her as much as if we still lived together. I find myself crying like the daughter who just left, realizing I’ll lose my mom twice more—tomorrow when I move her, and again later.
Alzheimer’s is already taking her from me—a memory here and there. My throat seems to close. It’s like I’m saying good-bye again to her everyday. I c
hoke back a sob, unable to talk.
Ruth was right that my mom would want me to have a future. She was always the first to tell me to live a little—which I was glad to take her up on.
Trev’s face fills my mind. He might be the one person I could see myself with as I get old. I don’t know what holds him back. I think Mom would want me to have a family—to have what she had. Will I have a daughter to sit beside me at the close of life? Maybe it’s a ridiculous thought, but it feels real to me.
I lock up and climb the stairs to my apartment in the back. The healthcare aide meets me at the door, then grabs her sweater.
“Ruth came by and asked me to tell you that she’ll be here tomorrow.” Then she leaves.
Mom is already in bed. I peek through the door. She looks small, curled up like a child. Her hair is in a French braid down her neck. Thank you for loving my mom, Ruth. Will there be someone who loves her in her new home?
I will.
***
It’s late, and I missed dinner. I sit at my kitchen counter, finishing my cereal and thinking.
Trev. He’s only left one email and one text message. I look at the text for the ump-teenth time.
Call me.
Really? I don’t have to rethink this. I’m going to bed. Why doesn’t he call me? Well, he did call me, and I ignored it. He could have called back. Actually, he called a few other times that I “missed” on purpose.
I felt hurt, rejected. But he might have called to say that he knew he was a jerk. Which he was. And if he doesn’t think of it, I could tell him.
I reach for my phone and slide my finger across the screen. The glow lights up my room. Pulling up my contact’s list and finding Trev’s name, I feel like I just need to hear his voice. Maybe ask him to listen as I think about what I should do. It’s like I have a trail in front of me, but it’s overgrown, and I’m not sure if it’s the right one. But I don’t know what I would say to Trev. Instead, I put the phone back on the bedside table. Tomorrow or the next day—maybe. The edges of my thoughts start to get foggy, and I snuggle into my blankets.
