by Dyan Sheldon
And yet, unlikely as it may seem, Georgiana and Mrs Kilgour have developed a routine together that suits them both enough to make the other’s presence bearable. They go for walks. Not around the easy-to-clean corridors of St Joan’s, but long, leisurely strolls down wooded roads and quiet streets of unpretentious houses and into town. The walks were Mrs Kilgour’s idea. Although at first she rejected Georgiana’s suggestion that they do any such thing (rightly guessing that Georgiana’s concept of a walk was nothing longer than to and from the car), when she thought about it later she realized that they could go much further than the borders of the centre. She’d be able to buy things she usually does without – her favourite candy, a magazine that is about more than celebrities and what they wore to some party, a bottle of wine. She’d be able to see things she never sees – children and houses and dogs sleeping in the sun. Being cooped up in her room for so long, she said, was sapping her will to live.
Being cooped up in Mrs Kilgour’s room for an hour was enough to suck every particle of joy from Georgiana’s heart. Even being able to perch on the bed and text or go online didn’t help as much as you might think. The bathroom was private and quiet, as isolated in its way as being in a space capsule – albeit one that never left the ground – which meant that Georgiana could forget where she was until her phone told her it was time to go. Not so the bedroom. With the TV blaring or Mrs Kilgour talking, it was hard to forget she was in Room 10a at the St Joan’s Nursing Centre. And she had to look up all the time to make sure the old bat hadn’t noticed what she was really doing and was ready to start making sarcastic comments; look up and see exactly where she was and want to weep.
Not that Georgiana greeted the idea of leaving the grounds with a rousing cheer and a fistful of confetti. Even though she knew it had to be better than just sitting there like a tethered goat, she still found something to complain about. Georgiana said you’d think they were actually going somewhere nice – to a party, or a new super mall – and not just the one, dull parade of brick storefronts and parking meters of Main Street the way Mrs Kilgour carried on. Georgiana calls it the Fifth Avenue of Nowheresville.
“I mean really,” said Georgiana, “it’s not somewhere you want to go more than once, like Baja or Hawaii.”
“I’m not saying it’s Paris in the springtime,” retorted Mrs Kilgour. “But there’s only one season in this damn room, and that’s bleak midwinter after the crops failed.”
“More like bleak midwinter in a Russian jail.” Georgiana does like to have the last word.
“After the crops failed.” So does Mrs Kilgour.
Nonetheless, despite her grumblings and misgivings, the weekly walk has turned out to be better than Georgiana could have expected. True, she does all the pushing and the walking, but she has become something of an expert at shoving a wheelchair along with one hand while texting or keeping busy online with the other.
As the wheels crunch over drifts of leaves, everything she sees reminds Mrs Kilgour of the past. The falling leaves; the snap of cold in the air; the curling smoke of backyard fires; the houses decorated with jack-o’-lanterns, ghosts and witches, with bouquets of coloured corn, preening turkeys and ornamental squash. And all the while that the wheels turn, the leaves crackle and Georgiana communicates with people who aren’t anywhere near her, Mrs Kilgour reminisces. How she always loved this time of year. The trees alight with colour; apple cider and bonfires; Halloween and Thanksgiving; that first sharp bite of winter in the air. The first Halloween costume she remembers was a cowgirl outfit. “Completely politically incorrect these days, I expect,” she says. “But I thought it was wonderful. Thought I was Annie Oakley. I even had a holster and a cap gun. I suppose they must’ve been my brother’s.” But there were scores of other Halloweens and other costumes – that party in a New York loft where everyone came as Richard Nixon; scores of bonfires and first frosts; scores of Thanksgivings – one in a distant jungle where she was thankful just to be alive. She drifts from memory to memory like a butterfly in a field of flowers, rearranging years and places so that things that happened in Southeast Asia in the seventies jostle against things that happened in Europe in the fifties, wind around things that happened in South America in the sixties and eventually cross paths with things that happened in North America five or ten or twenty years ago.
Georgiana has heard none of this. Or very little. A word here and there – the name of a place she didn’t know existed or of people she’ll never know – each one darting past her so quickly that she forgets it instantly. As far as she’s concerned, Mrs Kilgour might as well be whispering in Akkadian at a heavy-metal concert being played near the runway of a busy airport. This, of course, is why Georgiana likes these walks so much. Mrs Kilgour sits up in front of her, prattling on in her own little world, completely oblivious to the fact that, behind her, Georgiana is telling Claudelia what happened in her media class or ordering something online. It isn’t as comfortable and convenient as locking herself in the bathroom for an hour (since the time they ended up in a hedge she’s realized that she does have to look where they’re going now and then), but it’s good enough. At least she doesn’t have to listen.
But today Mrs Kilgour is showing some reluctance to leave the centre.
“It looks like it’s going to rain,” she says. “Doesn’t it look like it’s going to rain to you?”
Georgiana has no intention of being trapped in the room where she has to actually pay attention to Mrs Kilgour, or at least be ready to seem as if she is.
“It always looks like that out that window,” says Georgiana. “It’s like permanent gloom. I just came from outside and it looked fine to me.”
Mrs Kilgour continues to squint through the glass. “I’ve been feeling a little peaky today. I don’t want to go out if it’s going to rain.”
Georgiana has no idea that “peaky” means unwell; she thinks it’s just some lame excuse.
“It’s not going to rain.” Georgiana couldn’t sound more certain if she actually controlled the weather. “It’s a perfectly OK day.” In truth, it would take Marigold Liotta to look up at that sky crowded with dark clouds and see sunshine. “It has all that fresh air that you like so much. And you said yourself that you’ll grow roots if you spend any more time in this room. So let’s just go.” She doesn’t add that at Mrs Kilgour’s age she might not have that many more days left to go outside, but she thinks it.
“It’s not that I don’t want to go out,” snaps Mrs Kilgour. “I’m just not sure that I’m up to it.”
“What are you talking about?” Georgiana makes a give-me-a-break face. “You’re not the one doing all the work. All you have to do is sit there.”
Mrs Kilgour is much more quiet than usual. Occasionally she mumbles something, but aside from that the only sounds are the wheels of the chair and, if your hearing is exceptionally good, the gentle tap of Georgiana’s finger on the touchpad of her phone. She and Claudelia are discussing the parties they’re having over the holidays. Georgiana is giving the one for Christmas; Claudelia is doing New Year’s. Because she is so busy (What to eat? What to wear? Can Byron put together three hours of Christmas music? Should the New Year’s party be a masquerade?) she is completely oblivious to the abnormal silence. It doesn’t start raining until they get to town.
Which is when Georgiana sees that the reason Mrs Kilgour has been so quiet is because she’s fallen asleep. This sometimes occurs, of course. So long as Georgiana doesn’t steer them into shrubbery or jump the kerb and nearly pitch the old woman onto the ground (which has also happened) the soporific movement of the chair can bring on one of Mrs Kilgour’s narcoleptic episodes. Though it might occur to Georgiana that she’s sleeping very soundly; even the rain doesn’t wake her.
Georgiana’s coat has a hood on it, but Mrs Kilgour has nothing but her Yankees cap to protect her. Georgiana is usually the kind of person who locks the barn door only after the horse has been stolen, shipped to another country and sold, but bec
ause she knows how much grief she’s going to get for being wrong about the weather, she pilots them into Bargain World to get an umbrella for the walk back home. Forward planning at last.
Georgiana parks the wheelchair to one side of the entrance, out of the way, and goes in search of umbrellas, confident that Mrs Kilgour will never know she was gone.
Georgiana has never been in Bargain World before, and it takes her some time to find the umbrellas, tucked away at the back of the store. Bargain World has already started to put out its Christmas stock, and on the way back to retrieve Mrs Kilgour Georgiana is distracted by a display of really cute snowmen, elves and Santas that light up and play “Jingle Bells”. She’s still thinking about the musical lights as favours for her Christmas party when she sees the buzz of people gathered together at the front of the store. Most of them are just watching, but two of them are leaning forward. She can’t see their faces, but their backs look concerned. The person Georgiana doesn’t see is Mrs Kilgour. Where the hell is she?
The answer to that question, of course, is that Mrs Kilgour is at the centre of the swarm.
Georgiana starts to hurry.
“Is she breathing?” one person is asking, as Georgiana reaches them.
“Do you think she’s had a heart attack?” asks another.
Someone else suggests a stroke.
She can’t be dead. Not now; not here beside a window display of artificial Christmas trees in pastel shades. Georgiana won’t allow it.
“It’s OK. It’s OK,” says Georgiana, pushing her way through. “There’s nothing wrong with her. She’s just asleep.”
“She doesn’t look asleep to me,” says the man who is bent over the slouched figure taking Mrs Kilgour’s pulse.
“But she is,” insists Georgiana. She has to be. “She does this all the time. She has that thing.” She can’t remember what it’s called. What did Mr Papazoglakis – whose name, miraculously, she can remember – call it? “That narcotic thing.”
The woman who is searching in her purse for a mirror looks up. “She’s on drugs?”
“No, no, of course she isn’t. She just falls asleep. You know, kind of whenever.”
Someone else wants to know if the old woman is Georgiana’s grandmother.
“God, no.” And Georgiana, who thought she had no memory of the first Mrs Shiller, suddenly sees her clearly, holding out her hand because they’re about to cross a street. Her grandmother was tall and heavyset. She always dressed in grey or brown; her white hair was always twisted into a neat bun; there were gold and diamond rings on her fingers and brown spots on the back of her hand. She was nothing at all like Mrs Kilgour. “I’m just her visitor.” Georgiana reaches out and shakes Mrs Kilgour by the shoulder. “Mrs Kilgour! Mrs Kilgour! Mrs Kilgour, wake up!” This has never happened before. Mrs Kilgour falling asleep is no more unusual than clouds passing overhead, of course, but when she’s nodded off on the way to town, a gentle nudge and a “Mrs Kilgour, we’re here!” has always brought her around. Though not this time, apparently.
The store manager bustles up to them, looking worried. “What’s going on? Has anyone called an ambulance? Is she dead?”
“No,” says Georgiana. “No one’s called an ambulance, and she’s not dead. She’s just asleep. She could fall asleep standing up.”
“She’s definitely alive,” says the man who took her pulse. “But it looks to me like she’s had a stroke.”
“She hasn’t had a stroke.” Georgiana is shouting now the way you do when no one will listen to what you’re saying, but even that doesn’t wake Mrs Kilgour. If anybody is likely to have a stroke, it’s Georgiana. “She’s old. She falls asleep. That’s the whole story.”
“I’m calling an ambulance.” The manager looks at the pulse-taker. “Who’s with this woman? You?”
The pulse-taker steps back quickly. “I never saw her before in my life.”
“I’m with her.” Georgiana is gripping Mrs Kilgour’s shoulder hard enough now to wake her even if she were dead. She’d try shaking her out of the chair if she didn’t think the manager would have her arrested. “But you don’t have to call an ambulance. I keep trying to tell you, she’s just asleep.” Georgiana shakes some more. She leans closer and hisses into Mrs Kilgour’s ear, “Wake up or they’re going to call an ambulance. Wake up!”
“We can’t just stand here hoping she’ll come around.” The manager takes out his phone.
Georgiana would like to believe that Mrs Kilgour is doing this on purpose, just to torment her. But she doesn’t. It has finally occurred to Georgiana that “peaky” must mean not so hot. Deep down she knows that everybody who isn’t Georgiana Shiller will blame her if Mrs Kilgour does die. She should have listened when she said she didn’t want to go out. She shouldn’t have insisted.
“Please, Mrs Kilgour,” pleads Georgiana. She’s on the verge of tears. “Please wake up. Please, please, please!”
Maybe it was saying please. Mrs Kilgour opens her eyes. She blinks several times, looking around. “What the hell is going on? Who are all these people? Why are they all gawping at me?”
“You gave us quite a turn,” says the manager. “We thought you were having a heart attack.”
Her nap has done nothing to sweeten Mrs Kilgour’s personality. “And why would you think a dumb thing like that?”
“You fell asleep and you wouldn’t wake up,” explains Georgiana. “I tried to tell them you were OK, that you have that narcotic thing, but they wouldn’t listen.”
Mrs Kilgour’s gaze falls on the window beside her, and then returns to Georgiana. “Didn’t I tell you it was going to rain?”
Chapter Fourteen
Asher’s Not Going to Let Mrs Dunbar Push Him Around Any More
Asher is smart. Besides being smart, he has been raised by one of the shrewdest lawyers in the country (which is saying something) and already has many of the skills he will need when he joins that important profession himself. One of the thousands of valuable things his father has taught Asher is that you have to get up pretty early in the morning if you want to outsmart a really clever lawyer; and even then you won’t win unless your lawyer is even more clever – and just a little more ruthless.
Today, Asher gets up very early. Feeling extremely clever and worthy of his father’s praise, he drives to the community centre not after his kung-fu class but before it. This is a manoeuvre Mrs Dunbar won’t be expecting, and that makes it a manoeuvre that can’t possibly fail. He doesn’t like sneaking behind her back like this, but the direct approach doesn’t work with the minister’s wife. He has tried to reason and explain his way out of helping on Saturdays, but there’s no use talking to Mrs Dunbar; he’d be better off talking to God. At least a person can convince himself that God is listening. Which is not the case with Mrs Dunbar. Even if he manages to get out two consecutive sentences, she just nods and tells him he’s made a very good point or that of course she understands completely, and the next thing he knows she’s giving him something else to do and lumbering off in the opposite direction, dropping things as she goes. But if he arrives before his class she won’t be there. Nobody will. Most people will still be in bed, or at least huddled over a cup of coffee. He spent nearly a half-hour last night writing her a note he plans to slip under the door: Dear Mrs Dunbar, I’m very sorry for the short notice, but due to unforeseen circumstances beyond my control I won’t be able to make it today. I’ll let you know if next Saturday works for me as I have a great many commitments right now. Yours sincerely, Asher Grossman.
The main street is deserted except for a few birds and two dogs walking side by side in a hurry. Asher stops in front of the centre, so happy he feels like punching the air. Victory is his! He smiles to himself. Smugly. You have to be pretty sharp to defeat his father, and pretty sharp to defeat his father’s son. Otherwise known as the chip off the old block.
Asher takes his letter from the glove compartment, lays it on the seat beside him and starts to unfasten his seatbel
t. The clasp is stuck and he’s trying to unjam it when a head suddenly appears in the window beside him. The head is wearing a red and black lumberjack hat. He can see the barrel of a rifle rising up beside it. It takes no thought to know that if someone were going to shoot him while he was sitting in his car, minding his own business, then this is the town where it would happen. He’s so frightened his heart jumps as if someone kicked it and he somehow manages to hit the horn, causing his heart to make another leap for freedom. Not until she starts waving at him does he realize that the head and the gun belong to Mrs Dunbar. Christ Almighty, what’s wrong with the woman? Dawn is still rubbing the sleep out of its eyes, and here she is running around town with a shotgun. Mrs Dunbar gestures for him to roll down the window, and, too traumatized to refuse, Asher rolls it down.
“Asher! I am so glad to see you.” Holding a rifle is no obstacle to Mrs Dunbar clapping her hands in delight. “You won’t believe this. I know you’re a left-side-of-the-brain kind of person. And I can tell that you have a sceptical view of this kind of thing. But as I was having my breakfast I said a little prayer that you might show up early today. As a special favour.”
“Really?”
She nods, the earflaps of her hat bouncing. Making her look like a very large, and clothed, spaniel. “Yes, I really did. It was more a hope than a plea, but I did mention to the Lord that it would be a great help if you came before you’re supposed to.” The earflaps bounce again. “Now isn’t that something? And here you are!” She gives him a God-is-on-my-side smile. “I guess he realized it’s an emergency.” If Mrs Dunbar were a motor vehicle, she would be an ambulance, siren always on. “He certainly does work in mysterious ways, doesn’t he?”
