by Vicki Lane
“I’m worried about Miss Barrett—the lady in 167.”
The woman at the nurses’ station looked up from the computer screen, her fingers momentarily paused in the air above the keyboard. “Yes? What’s the problem?”
Ignoring the unspoken message sent by those hovering fingers, Elizabeth plunged ahead. “Well, Nola’s just recently been put on oxygen but she’s still struggling to breathe. Her eyes are red and her nose is runny—does she have a cold? Or could it be an allergy? She seems miserable and I know she can’t communicate very well…”
“And you are…?” The raised eyebrow accused her.
“Just a friend. But Nola’s only relative doesn’t live around here and I thought…” I thought I ought to check on her. I even made a special point of coming early rather than the usual visiting times. I’ve heard of the neglect and sometimes even abuse that can go on in these places. And with Nola unable to speak for herself… “I thought I’d drop in.”
Elizabeth had punched the button to let herself in the front door of the Layton Facility and had hurried through the hallways, crowded with rattling carts of wan-smelling breakfast trays. Nola’s door had been shut, but she had pushed it open and peeped in to see her friend gasping for breath and struggling to sit up in her hospital bed.
“Nola! Let me help you!” Elizabeth had rushed to the bedside and assisted the wheezing, panting woman to raise herself. She had placed two pillows behind her friend, checked the oxygen line to see that there were no kinks in it, and had readjusted the little two-pronged nosepiece to lie more easily on Nola’s face.
The older woman had said nothing as she was being ministered to, but, turning piteous, red-rimmed eyes on Elizabeth, had clutched at her hand, gripping it tight as she struggled for air. After a few moments, her breathing seemed to improve and the grip relaxed.
As before, Nola Barrett had summoned up words from her capacious store of memorized verse.
“O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap
May who ne’er hung there.
Her dry rasp of despair pierced Elizabeth’s heart.
“Nola, please! Just lie back and catch your breath. I’ll go talk to the nurse and see what they can do to make you more comfortable.”
The woman at the computer heaved a little sigh and looked past Elizabeth. “Miz Barrett’s guardian is aware of the situation. Layton Facility appreciates your concern and will make every effort to provide your loved one with professional, compassionate care in a—”
“Mrs. Goldwater?”
There was a tap on her shoulder and Elizabeth swung around. The thin, henna-haired young woman was regarding her with ill-concealed annoyance.
“Tracy! I didn’t know you were still in town. I was just in with Nola. She seems—”
“She’s failing, Mrs. Goldwater,” Nola’s niece said flatly. “The doctor says she’s just given up. Of course, that’s obvious, considering she tried to kill herself.” Tracy’s gaunt face was devoid of emotion as she delivered this pronouncement. “It’s kind of you to come to see her, but it’s not necessary, you know. She has round-the-clock care—an old friend of hers has seen to that. And she’s probably not even aware of you.”
Elizabeth stiffened. “Oh, but she is. She talks to me. Haven’t you heard her quoting poetry?”
“Talks to you?” Tracy sniffed. “Is that what you think it is? The doctor says it’s just babbling. There’s even a medical term for it—‘lalorrhea’—diarrhea of the mouth, he called it.”
She shifted the manila envelope she was carrying to her other arm. “How about those quilts of Aunt Nola’s, Miz Goldwater? Have you had time to look at them? I’d like to have some idea of how much they might bring.”
“It’s ‘Goodweather,’ actually. But I’d rather you just said ‘Elizabeth.’” Struggling to maintain the appearance of civility, she forced her mouth into the semblance of a smile. “I’ve started mending them and I’ve talked to a few places that deal in antique quilts. If you like, I’ll follow through and try to get you the best price I can. I’d feel I was helping Nola in some way.”
Tracy’s eyes narrowed and she was silent for a moment. Then, with a dismissive shrug, she replied, “Whatever—one less thing for me and Stone to worry about.”
She turned and headed down the hall for Nola Barrett’s room. When Elizabeth followed her, Tracy glanced back in apparent surprise but said nothing, merely raising her eyebrows.
Nola was still sitting up but her eyes were closed and she was breathing loudly, with a regularity that suggested sleep.
“Where the hell’s that aide Miz Holcombe hired? She’s supposed to be here all day till the night duty girl comes on.”
With scarcely a glance at her aunt, Tracy whirled around the small room, tidying, rearranging, watering the poinsettia and the other flowers and plants that crowded the windowsill.
Elizabeth picked up her jacket and the book of poetry she had brought to read to Nola. The young woman continued her frenetic activity, her face set in a disapproving frown.
“Tracy, I heard that the county commissioners were talking about using eminent domain to get control of the Gudger’s Stand property. Is that true?”
The frenzied movement slowed, then stopped. Tracy’s cold gray eyes turned to Elizabeth. “They’re looking into it. And it would suit me just fine. If they did that, the house and the land could be bought by RPI right away, without having to wait to figure out exactly who it belongs to. Of course, everyone knows it comes to Aunt Nola—it’s just going to take a while to prove it. But if things drag on too long, RPI is likely to take all that money somewhere else. If the county does a taking, the money will go into escrow until it can be proved that Aunt Nola’s the owner.”
“But that won’t help your financial situation now…it could be months or years before…”
“I know that. But an interested party has offered—” Tracy bent to retrieve an empty plastic cup from the floor at the foot of the bed. “You’d think that for what she’s being paid that girl could pick up stuff. Anyway, if you want my opinion, Miz Goldwater, the sooner they tear down that creepy old house, the better. It’s never brought anything but bad luck to my family—and there’s that pretty afghan on the floor.” She reached into the narrow space between the bed and the wall and pulled out a beautiful web of soft blues and purples and lavenders.
“Well, I was wonderin’ where that had went to.”
Elizabeth looked up to see a chubby young woman in bright blue scrubs and an orange-and-pink top standing in the doorway and peering at them from under thick dark bangs. A stale whiff of cigarette smoke clung to her.
“Nola was takin’ her a little nap and I just slipped out for a…I wasn’t gone but a…well, she don’t hardly ever…”
“Michelle”—Tracy’s tone was sharp as she cut short the aide’s stumbling explanation—“has my aunt had any more of those choking spells?” She cast a chill, accusing eye on the flustered young woman. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d try to keep this room a little neater,” she added, folding the afghan precisely and placing it on the vacant bed.
The aide bustled in and made a great show of rearranging Nola’s bedcovers and checking the oxygen line. “No, not to say chokin’. She breathes easier some times than others but she ain’t had nothing you’d call a spell. That nice doctor come by yesterday—no, it was the day before that—and he was here when she was took kind of bad, but he got her straightened out and said it wasn’t nothing unexpected. It was him ordered the oxygen.”
“Who else has been to see my aunt?” Tracy demanded of the hapless Michelle, who was bumbling around the little room in search of something to do.
The aide screwed up her face in an effort of memory. “Well, the juice lady and the speech therapist was—”
“I don’t mean the people who work here.” Tracy was obviously exerting great control over her temper. “Visitors, did Nola have
any visitors?”
“Oh, yes.” Michelle’s pudgy moon face brightened. “Those twins, Arval and Marval, come by with some more cookies from Miz Lavinia Holcombe. And a nice lady named Lee…Nola’s neighbor, she said she was. A couple of ladies from the church. I think that was all…No, there was one more, a funny old man who looked like one of them homeless people you see.”
Michelle wrinkled up her nose in distaste. “He smelled like he might of been drinkin’ too. But he talked like an English teacher, more big words than you ever heard.”
Chapter 18
Two Sides of a Mirror
Thursday, December 21
Phillip came awake to the whpp-whpp-whpp of Molly’s long ears flapping as she stood, stretched, and shook her head, the opening movement of a morning ritual. Now she’ll come over by the door and wait and if I don’t move she’ll whine real soft and I can get up now and let her out or I can pretend I don’t hear her and she’ll keep whining.
Turning his head, he saw that Elizabeth, as usual, was curled up on her side, the heavy comforter pulled well up over her ears. Deep, regular breathing suggested that she was oblivious to the importunities of her dogs. She says she never hears them this early—that they’re taking advantage of my good nature.
In the dim, predawn light, he could see Ursa shambling toward the door to join the increasingly impatient Molly. The two dogs stared expectantly at him.
He groaned and swung out of bed, shivering as the chilly air hit his naked body. “Okay, ladies, at your service.” Molly began to dance impatiently, but Ursa yawned and sat back down while Phillip pulled on his robe. James, curled into a tight ball at Elizabeth’s feet, snored on.
When he returned to the silent bedroom, a barely perceptible glow rimmed the mountains on the eastern horizon. He slipped into the warm bed and leaned back to watch the sunrise through the three big uncurtained windows. Always different. Makes it hard to go back to a bedroom where all you see is walls or curtains.
At his side Elizabeth stirred. “What time is it?”
He reached out to tug at her loose braid. “Almost seven-thirty, my love, and you’re about to miss the sunrise.”
She rolled over and frowned at him. “Seven-thirty? I never sleep that late.” Shrugging off the covers, she pulled herself up to look toward the windows.
“There it comes,” she said, looking to the right where a deep red shaft of light announced the winter sun, edging its way over the dark mountains. They watched in comfortable silence till the molten ball broke free of the earth. The red became gold and then an unwatchable white heat, and the sun, smaller now, began a slow crawl along its southern boundary.
Elizabeth let out a soft sigh and leaned against him. “Today’s the winter solstice—the shortest day of the year. Right now the sun’s as far to the south as it can go. It’ll just creep along the ridgeline over there and be behind Pinnacle around three-thirty. But then tomorrow it’ll rise just a tad back to the north. A few more days—by Christmas—it’ll be obvious that it’s on its way back to due east.”
She turned a wry smile on him. “This is what I was talking about the other day, when you asked about our Christmas celebrations. Watching the sun move across the sky day by day, I began to understand how primitive people might have worried that maybe the days would just keep getting shorter and shorter. And then, when it looked like the sun was coming back, they would’ve had good reason to celebrate.”
“Speaking of celebrating, Lizabeth, are we still on for that hike? I tell you what, I’m ready to be done with criminal justice classes and overheated classrooms and kids with blank expressions and wires in their ears for a while—and I’d like to see a little more of the county.” He rolled out of bed and reached for his jeans. “It looks like the weather’s going to cooperate—clear as you could want—and when I let the dogs out earlier, it didn’t seem that cold.”
She was still staring out the window, seemingly lost in thought, one hand absentmindedly rubbing James behind the ears.
“Something wrong, sweetheart? Don’t you want to—”
The shadow of sadness that had clouded her face was swiftly replaced by the full radiance of her smile. “Oh, I’d love to go for a hike. And I know exactly where we should go to make the most of the shortest day of the year.”
“Max Patch is forty-six hundred feet—pretty high for this area, and there’s a 360-degree view. So we’ll get all the daylight there is. It’s a beautiful spot—one of the highlights of the Appalachian Trail in this area.”
“How about Mount Mitchell? It’s the tallest, right?” He glanced to the passenger seat, where Elizabeth was flipping through a guidebook. She looked at him over the tops of her reading glasses.
“It’s kind of sad and creepy up there—the forest is dying from acid rain and some kind of insect—the woolly whatsit—is attacking a lot of the trees. Max Patch isn’t as high but I think it’ll be more cheerful.”
They were passing through Hot Springs, the quiet little town at the intersection of the French Broad River and the Appalachian Trail. The streets were all but deserted this morning, and some of the businesses bore CLOSED FOR THE SEASON signs.
“Quite a change from the summer. There were hardy hiking, biking, and camping types all over the place as I recall.”
“Uh-humm.” She was still immersed in the guidebook. “This is cool. It’s about the big fancy hotel that was built here at the springs. Remember, there was something about it in the bit of Nola’s manuscript that I read to you? According to this, in the 1800s, Hot Springs—well, Warm Springs as it was called then—was one of the premier tourist destinations on the East Coast. In 1837 there was a 350-room hotel and people from all over rode stagecoaches for days along the Drovers’ Road to get here. Can you imagine?…They had a dining room that could seat six hundred!”
“What happened to the hotel?”
“Burned…and then another one was built…and in 1920 that one burned down too…and that was the end of the glory days for Hot Springs. But things are starting to pick up now—no huge hotel, but lots of nice smaller places—inns and B and B’s. It’s a pleasant town.”
Flipping to another section of the guidebook, she ran her finger down the page. “Just stay on this road till we get to Meadow Fork. There’re a few more turns and we’ll end up on a gravel road that’ll take us to a parking area at the trailhead. Then it’s just a half-mile easy walk to the summit.”
They drove on in silence. From the corner of his eye, he could see that she was caught up in her own thoughts and blind to the passing scenery.
What’s eating at her? I know she’s worried about that Barrett woman but she called the nursing home before we left and they said the old lady was hanging on. And Sallie Kate told her that it wasn’t likely anything would happen with the property at the river till after the holidays. Lizabeth was fine last night, laughing and carrying on with the kids at dinner and then later…but today, I don’t know…she’s in a weird mood.
As if she had heard his thoughts, Elizabeth reached over and laid her hand on his arm. “I’m glad we’re going. I always try to be out of the house on the twenty-first.”
“How come?” He laid his hand over hers and squeezed it. “Because of the solstice?”
Her hand clasped his and one finger traced a spiral on his palm. “Because it’s the anniversary of Sam’s death. If I’m at home, it’s too easy to relive the whole horrible sequence—from watching him go out the door early that morning to the phone call late that afternoon to—”
She stopped abruptly. “Anyway, when I’m outside and away from home, it’s easier to let go of all that. Particularly up on the high places where life and death seem like…” She struggled for the right words. “…like two sides of a mirror.”
Two sides of a mirror? What in the world did I mean by that? Poor Phillip—the first day of his vacation and I’m coming over all…whatever it is. Get over it, you fool!
The road wound higher and higher, through wo
oded slopes of green pines and gray-brown leafless trees. No sign of snow here, but ahead of them rose the rounded contours of a mountain, its upper third cloaked in soft rime ice.
“Phillip, look up there—where we’re headed! It’s magical!”
They continued on, steadily gaining elevation. And now the trees on either side of the road were cloaked with the crystalline rime—shining white twigs and branches gleaming against dark trunks. And then they were at the parking area where a brown-and-yellow sign proclaimed MAX PATCH TRAILHEAD: PISGAH NATIONAL FOREST. A vast meadow lay all around them, punctuated by fairy-tale trees frosted with white, by clumps of skeletal weeds transformed to modern art by their coating of feathery crystals, and sagging barbed-wire fences glittering like gemstones in the morning sun.
They were alone in this enchanted place where the deep clear sapphire of the sky came down to meet the bare slopes and whitened trees. Elizabeth felt a surge of emotion welling up at the sight—but whether it was joy or sorrow, she could not have said. The two sides of the mirror: touching, but worlds apart.
Pulling on their jackets and shouldering the knapsacks that held a picnic lunch, they left the car to follow the broad grassy trail to the summit. Elizabeth carried the hiking staff Sam had made her years ago, not really necessary on this gentle walk, but a comfort in her hand. A summer path through a winter world, thought Elizabeth, as they climbed slowly, pausing every few minutes to take in the changing view. I could almost believe that it might lead to summer itself.
And without warning there was an opening in the trees and they were looking out across the tops of a sugar-frosted grove below them and beyond that the nearer slopes, dark but glazed with ice, and farther away the breathtaking procession of mountains, range after range rising one behind another like waves, shading from deepest ocean blue to insubstantial shadows that lost themselves against the sky.
