Just In Time

by Joan Lindstedt Jackson

  Copyright © 2017 Joan Lindstedt Jackson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2017

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-264-2 pbk

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-265-9 ebk

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017946976

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1563 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Dedicated to my brother who asked,

  “How come you always get here just in time?”

  1

  OHIO

  NOVEMBER 1998

  Forty-eight-year-old Steve was lying in his bed upstairs, staring at the ceiling, talking to himself, replaying the events over and over. How his dad couldn’t catch his breath. How he’d crawled on his hands and knees to his bedroom and Steve had to help him into bed. He was white as a ghost, and Steve told him he looked like he might pass. But his dad wouldn’t let him call the ambulance until it was too late.

  His older sister, Sylvia, had burst out sobbing on the phone after Steve told her. That Dad had passed away. Pulmonary embolism. She kept moaning and just couldn’t believe it.

  “Dad wasn’t even sick. How could this happen? Just like Mom.” And then she cried even harder.

  Steve told her he’d done everything he could. Then took it back. “But maybe I didn’t. I should’ve called 911 right away. But Dad wouldn’t let me.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she’d said. “You did all the right things, Steve.” Still, he couldn’t let go of thinking that somehow he was to blame. Now the whole family was here, probably to decide his future. He wished they’d all just go back to Los Angeles and leave him be. He could hear them talking in the living room below, but could not make out what they were saying. He was sure it was about him. He wondered out loud if they still would let him live in the house. “What if they sell it? Make me find an apartment? Or put me away?” Steve kept hoping it was some mistake, a bad dream, but he’d attended the memorial service that day and realized that life as he knew it was over.

  Steve heard footsteps coming up the stairs then his younger brother, Scott, calling him.

  “Yeah?”

  The converted attic ran the length of the living room and their parent’s bedroom on the first floor. It used to be Sylvia’s when she was in high school in the sixties, and nothing had changed. Still one half bath, oval braided area rugs scattered on light oak flooring, pale blue walls (now dingy), and built-in bookshelves filled with high school memorabilia: yearbooks, Steve’s trophies from his track star glory days, Scott’s swimming medals, and pictures of Sylvia as cheerleader and home-coming queen in high school. The books ran the gamut of years, from Make Way For Ducklings, The Boxcar Children, Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew mysteries, to textbooks and novels.

  Scott walked toward Steve’s twin bed and stood at the end. He affectionately squeezed Steve’s loafered foot a few times. “You been sleeping?”

  “Not really, too much going on.” Steve glanced at the shoe where Scott’s hand was resting. “I forgot to polish my shoes today.”

  Scott took his hand away and laughed. “But you remembered to shower and shave.”

  Steve smiled at him. “Only when I have to. So what do you want?”

  “Will you come to the living room for a minute? We want to ask you something.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “That’s why I came to get you,” Scott said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  Steve eased himself upright and followed his brother to the living room. He plopped in the overstuffed chair where he always sat, the upholstered arms worn thin, darkened from body oil, much like his elbows where thickened patches of dry skin were permanently stained gray. Steve didn’t like to bathe more than once a week and even then it took coaxing. But today he actually looked groomed and well dressed: camel corduroy slacks bunched from the leather belt cinched under his large belly, blue and white striped Polo dress shirt without food stains, and tasseled oxblood loafers. Blinking under his horn-rimmed glasses, he looked around at the faces peering at him. “I suppose you’re wondering why I called this meeting.” His dad’s old line, and he sounded just like him.

  Everyone chuckled.

  “We were thinking that you’d probably want to stay here to live,” Scott said.

  Head tilted, his elbow resting on the chair arm, Steve twirled the hair on the top of his head with his index finger. “Yes. I want to stay here. It’s my home. And yours. And Sylvia’s.” He gestured toward his sister. “We grew up here.”

  “We didn’t think you’d want to live in Los Angeles, near us,” Sylvia said.

  Living arrangements for Steve were the first priority. He couldn’t manage on his own, and none of them thought that he’d adjust well if he moved to Los Angeles. Even his psychologist said that although he’d probably adapt in time, the shock of moving to a totally new environment might trigger a setback at best, but at worst, a psychotic episode requiring hospitalization. Schizophrenics often become confused, disoriented, reclusive, and delusional with too much stimulation or change. It was agreed that it would serve him best to remain in his childhood home, where he’d been living with his parents the past fifteen years. Now that they were gone, Scott and Sylvia needed to find someone to live with him. Sylvia’s husband, Adam, had come to the rescue when he suggested his sister, Nancy. She seemed ideal—that she’d even think to ask what Steve thought of the idea was more consideration than the family had expected. Steve was rarely asked what he wanted, unless it was food: creamed corn or peas, mashed or baked potatoes (always mashed), beef stew or spaghetti.

  “I’d hate Los Angeles. How could I even drive there? I’d have to live with you.” Steve mumbled to himself. “You probably wouldn’t want me anyway.”

  Adam turned to Steve, “I was talking to my sister, Nancy. She needs a place to live and—”

  “Nancy,” Steve said. He vaguely remembered that Adam had a sister who lived nearby. “Isn’t she your older sister?”

  Adam nodded. “Right.”

  “We thought you’d need someone to live with you,” Sylvia said. “Someone to do the grocery shopping, fix meals, clean, and pay some bills.”

  Steve stared at the floor. Seconds passed in silence while he processed what she said. “Yeah, I can’t do those things.”

  “She’d be willing to move in with you,” Scott said.

  “Well, I’ve never met her, but I’m sure she’s a nice person.” He turned to his brother-in-law, “If she’s anything like Adam.” Steve and Adam had known each other in high school. His hands fluttered in front of his chest as he spoke. “Does that mean I could still live at home?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Wow, Scott, ‘affirmative.’ This is a meeting.” Steve mumbled something unintelligible to himself.

  “We need to call her back and let her know
,” Sylvia said. “I know this is sudden, but we need to decide soon.”

  Steve looked over at Adam who held the cordless in his hand waiting. One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three. “Oh. If that’s the only way I can stay here. Where would she sleep? In Mom and Dad’s room? That would seem weird—a stranger in their room, well, not exactly a stranger, but I don’t know her. When would she move in?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Sylvia said. “I guess as soon as she can. That way you won’t be all alone.”

  “Can I meet her first?”

  Sylvia suggested that Nancy come by for dinner the next day.

  Adam called his sister back. She said she’d be glad to come tomorrow for dinner. “Hey, Steve, do you like dogs?”

  Steve rolled his eyes. “Nancy has a dog? Is it a big dog? I hate big dogs. They scare me. The Baldwins’ boxer chased me all the way home once when I was little.”

  “Maybe that’s where you got your start,” Scott joked. Steve was a state champ in track. Scrapbooks upstairs were filled with local newspaper articles from thirty years ago about “the gazelle who was definitely Olympic material.” He was the talk of the town and college coaches from Florida to Massachusetts. Scholarship offers poured in and then went away. His test scores were too low.

  Adam explained it was a small dog, a Pekinese. “His name is Sammy.”

  “Aren’t they really ugly with buggy eyes? Don’t little dogs bark a lot? I can’t stand yapping. What if it urinates in the house? Or worse?” Steve wasn’t comfortable using slang for bodily functions. He either skirted the topic altogether, simply excusing himself if he had to use the restroom, or used more polite terms. He lit a cigarette and stared at nothing.

  “I’m sure he’s house-trained,” Scott said. “Maybe a dog will be nice to have around.” Scott had heard dogs could be a calming influence for the elderly, but the mentally ill? Even though Steve had a soft heart for animals, Scott wondered if the dog would be safe with him day in, day out.

  Steve relented. “What choice do I have?”

  Scott excused himself. “Duty calls,” he lied. He walked to the backyard and took a few deep breaths to calm down. To think how lucky Steve was that a family member would be willing to live with him (although Nancy had no idea what was in store for her), someone trustworthy and reliable to look after the house and cook his meals—it was such a long shot to find anyone at all and so soon. Yet Steve had no idea. So frustrating. He wasn’t as patient with Steve as Sylvia was, and probably never would be. Maybe because Sylvia and Steve were so much closer in age, three years to his six. But she hadn’t been around when Steve had his first psychotic break. She was married and out of the house by then, and Scott was starting high school. It was constant turmoil at home. He never knew what to expect when he walked through the door, so after school he stayed at his friends’ homes or his girlfriend’s as long as he could. As he described it, “We went from the Cleaver family to the Addams family.” Scott took a deep breath and went back inside to join the family.

  With Thanksgiving two weeks away, everyone helped (mostly Sylvia and Scott’s wife, Amanda) to fix the traditional holiday meal, since none of the immediate family would be there to spend it with Steve. The weather was balmy for November, with an invigorating crispness in the air. While the turkey was roasting, they all decided to pitch in and rake leaves, a family chore during childhood, except for Steve who didn’t like manual labor. “My meds make me sweat too much,” he claimed.

  Their dad had loved to do yard work, to be outdoors. Although sometimes he grudgingly raked the leaves—which could be three feet deep if he didn’t stay on top of them—a big job since the yard was a quarter of an acre. He’d planted the pin oak trees, now over eighty feet tall, and the hemlocks that encircled the back patio when the house was built in 1950. He grew roses and peonies and photographed them all; their mother planted crocus, daffodils, and lily of the valley, and in summer hung baskets of red geraniums.

  Nancy suddenly appeared in the backyard with a wriggling, panting Sammy in her arms. Sylvia decided that Steve was right—it had to be one of the ugliest dogs she’d ever seen. His breathing was so labored he sounded like he was snoring or had a cold, probably due to the flattened, Pekinese-squashed nose, a characteristic of the breed. Nancy was quite lean in her baggy, pale blue sweats and quilted pink parka with a fur-trimmed hood, and several inches taller than Sylvia, who was five foot five. Her short cropped haircut, resembling a cloche hat, accentuated the round, oversized glasses that magnified her jesting brown eyes.

  She released Sammy, who ran around the yard in a fury, then she gave Adam a big hug and turned to greet the rest of the family, “Can I join in the raking? Haven’t done this in forever!” Sammy ran through the piles of leaves, which everyone got a kick out of.

  “Remember when we made leaf forts in the ditch by the road and hid when a car was coming?” Scott asked.

  Scott’s six-year-old daughter looked surprised. “But you could’ve been hit by a car!”

  “Never thought about that. It was different then. We didn’t even wear bicycle helmets.”

  “But it wasn’t at night,” Sylvia said. “Those were the days when you could burn them, too, like a big bonfire.”

  “Where’s Steve?” Nancy asked. “Can’t wait to meet him.”

  “He’ll join us for dinner. Speaking of, let’s go inside. It’ll be ready in about thirty minutes,” Sylvia said.

  They set their rakes against the side of the house by the sliding glass door and settled in the family room. Conversation was lively and flowing, with much reminiscing about their dad. They shed tears, laughed about his habits—like how he carried a pill vial filled with peanut butter wherever he went and how easily he laughed at himself. They recalled his archive of family movies, at least fifty reels on 16mm film documenting their childhoods, with magically appearing titles, such as letters spilling from a child’s hand, and dream sequences of department store Christmas scenes superimposed while Steve and Sylvia pretended to be asleep.

  Adam said he’d missed his calling. “If he’d gone to Los Angeles, he’d have been a movie director.”

  Steve sauntered in. “You talking about Dad’s movies? Maybe we could watch some tonight.”

  “Great idea! I’ll set it up,” Scott said.

  Nancy stood and walked over to Steve. “You must be Steve.”

  He stuck out his hand and nodded. “That’s me. And you must be Nancy.”

  “Do you want to meet Sammy?” she asked. “Oh God, I think I left him outside! C’mon, Steve, let’s go find him.”

  Steve followed her to the backyard.

  After about ten minutes, Sylvia and Adam got up and looked for them from the picture window. Steve and Nancy were standing at the far end of the yard and seemed engaged. Steve was bending down, petting Sammy.

  “Looks good,” Sylvia announced. “Let’s hope he’s on board for this.”

  “He’d better be,” Scott said.

  Steve and Nancy returned to the family room a few minutes later with Sammy in tow. They sat next to each other on the sofa.

  Scott and Sylvia exchanged an expectant glance.

  With uncharacteristic poise and self-assurance, Steve suddenly spoke up. “I have to get this off my chest. I have something to tell you about Dad.” The room went quiet and all eyes were on him. “He made me promise not to tell you, but I guess I can, now that he’s not around anymore. Last year, after Mom died, he told me I had to drive him to the surgery center to have his turkey gobbler fixed.” Steve pulled at the excess skin at his Adam’s apple.

  They all looked at each other wide-eyed, mouths hanging open.

  “What?” Sylvia asked, dumfounded. “Dad wanted plastic surgery?”

  Scott burst out laughing. “I can’t believe it. Why would he want to do that?”

  “It’s true.” Steve’s voice went up an octave. “I can prove it. The medical bills are hidden in his underwear drawer. I’ll show you.” He d
isappeared to the bedroom and returned with papers, handing them to Sylvia.

  “Dad spent fifteen hundred dollars for his own vanity?”

  “It’s totally out of character,” Scott said.

  “He even tried to talk me into getting rid of all the fat around my neck. But I said no way am I letting them use a knife on me!” Steve couldn’t wear ties, which only came up on the rare occasion when he’d accompanied his dad to church, because none of his shirt collars could button over his enormous neck.

  Adam winked. “Maybe he had a female friend.”

  “Widow Briggs. That’s what he called her.” Steve looked at Scott. “You know, Frank Briggs’s mom.”

  “He had a girlfriend?” Scott asked.

  “No, not a girlfriend.” Steve rolled his eyes. “He’s too old. He went over to her house a few times to practice his trumpet is all. She played the piano, so they did duets for the church sometimes.”

  “Maybe he just wanted to feel better, or meet someone else,” Sylvia said. “He was pretty depressed after Mom died. Sometimes he’d call me and get all choked up, saying how sorry he was that Mom never met his mother. They’d even planned a trip to Nebraska to meet her, but she died before they left.”

  “I don’t remember that,” Scott said.

  Steve looked annoyed. “You guys interrupted me. I was trying to tell a story.”

  “Sorry.”

  Steve explained how worried he was on the drive home from the operation. “Dad was so pale and weak, and he could hardly talk.” Steve winced as he related the jagged cut across his Dad’s throat. “I thought it was all over. I was sure he was going to pass.”

  It was still hard to imagine their tight-fisted, eighty-two-year-old father, who didn’t seem to care about appearances and what other people thought, was vain enough to spend money on facial surgery. Unless he really was trying to be more attractive for someone else.

  “He must’ve really been depressed. And then to get caught up in that lottery scam this year,” Scott said.

  “I tried to tell him these guys who called every day were probably a bunch of scam artists,” Steve said. “But Dad always knew better than me. He was so much smarter.”