Just In Time

by Joan Lindstedt Jackson

  When the representative arrived, they all sat in the family room, quietly listening while he explained that Ohio was a primary target for scam artists preying on the elderly in international lotteries. He said the house phone number, the one they’d had since the house was built in 1950, would have to be changed. He added that it was unlikely they’d get the money back. “Best to consider it gone. Expensive lesson,” he said. The worst of it was their dad still had the idea that he could recoup his losses. That evening, he’d even flashed his fancy looking watch (a cheap copy) at Scott, saying he’d won it in the lottery. Scott had retorted, “Oh, you mean the thirty-thousand-dollar watch?”

  Their dad had actually laughed out loud at his own stupidity. Though he made no promises to stop spending money, he did agree to see a geriatric therapist because “my daughter wants me to.” He told Sylvia he could stop drinking anytime. “I used to be a teetotaler, you know. I’ll quit if you think it’s too much.” Because of her son’s spiral into drug addiction, Sylvia had learned from the treatment centers and family meetings that an alcoholic had to accept that he had a problem, that quitting to please someone else never worked. She hoped the therapist could help him. At least he’d been willing. True to his word, he never sent money again and he continued to see the therapist until he died several months later.

  Sylvia stood in the driveway, staring at the front yard of her childhood home, thinking about how much her dad used to love caring for the roses, the lawn, all the yard work, when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

  “Are you all right?” Nancy asked gently.

  “I was just missing my dad.” Two of Sylvia’s fondest memories with her dad happened the prior summer, during the thirty-thousand-dollar loss era: their round of golf on a lush, public course laid out over rolling hills, surrounded by forest; and their day trip to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (music he never enjoyed) in Cleveland. They laughed, talked about happier times, and simply enjoyed being together. Perhaps they remained her fondest because they also were her last. Five months later, Steve had called with the heartbreaking news.

  As successor trustee, Sylvia was the main contact for estate business and Steve’s care, but she ran everything through Scott. And like the last mess with their dad’s lottery scam, Scott would drop everything to come to her aid. He was her back up, her unwavering support, and much like her dad, she could count on his guidance in all decisions. He also added levity when she needed it most. The next day, she picked Scott up at the airport and jumped into the issue at hand.

  “I think we should tell Steve about Dr. Rita right away.”

  Scott said he thought they should give him some good news along with the bad, “How about if we tell him that he doesn’t have to work at that job he hates so much?”

  They talked it over and decided there was no good reason for him to continue. Nancy was right—just because their parents insisted Steve work, he didn’t need to continue if it was more of a detriment than a help to him.

  “Maybe we could ask him to do something for us if we let him quit,” Sylvia said.

  “So we give him bad news, good news, and then bad news?” Scott laughed. “What could he do for us? Mow the yard?”

  “Ha, ha. But he’d sweat,” she laughed. “Like meet the new psychologist.”

  “Brilliant,” Scott said. “That might work.”

  “I want you to lay on that part though. Every time I’ve tried to suggest he see someone other than Dr. Rita, he’s adamantly refused. Maybe he’ll be more receptive to his brother. You know, a man,” she said.

  “Once he knows Dr. Rita is gone, he might open the door a crack,” he said.

  “True,” she said. “Also, if we say he doesn’t have to answer right away, he might agree. When he thinks he has time to decide, he’s more acquiescent.”

  “But we don’t have time, so I’d rather push for an answer on the spot.”

  “Like minds sure make decision making easier,” Sylvia said.

  Scott suggested they choose the right moment, like before he headed to “the office” for his iced tea run, when he was kind of upbeat and Nancy was at work. Later that afternoon, Steve asked if he could go to Friendly’s. Sylvia said they had to talk to him first.

  All he had to do was look at his sister’s face. “What’s the matter? Did I do something wrong?” Steve felt outnumbered.

  “Not at all,” Sylvia said.

  “You’re doing just fine,” Scott chimed in.

  Sylvia took the advice of the new psychologist, Dr. Nora, who said to keep it simple and say it straight out. “I’m afraid we have some bad news about Dr. Rita.”

  “I was just wondering about her today,” Steve said. “Won’t she see me anymore?”

  “She’s had heart problems for many years, and I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but she died.”

  “No way. I don’t believe it,” Steve plopped heavily into his favorite chair with the grime-covered arms. “She was fat and sometimes she was breathing heavy. I asked her about it once, not the part about being fat, the breathing part, and she told me she already had two heart attacks. Maybe it’s true. When did she die? There must be some mistake. Who told you?”

  Scott explained how they found out. He and Sylvia were careful to acknowledge Steve’s feelings, telling him how sorry they were, recognizing how much he liked her and would miss seeing her. Nine years is a long-term relationship.

  “First, Dad. No, first Mom, then Dad, and now Dr. Rita?” Steve leaned forward, his head in his hands. “Why does everything happen to me? Why does everything go wrong? You’re not going to make me see somebody else, are you?”

  “No, but we want to ask you to do a favor for us, while we’re both here,” Scott said.

  Steve groaned without looking up. “What now?”

  “Meet the psychologist Dr. Rita recommended.” Scott’s tone was light-hearted, “Just once, and you can decide if you want to see her again.”

  Steve asked about her, and Scott told him her name and that she’d gone to school with Dr. Rita. She’d come to the house the first time, and if he wanted to see her again, she lived only ten minutes away. Like Dr. Rita, her appointments were in her home.

  “I don’t want somebody else.” Steve removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes with both hands at the same time, in loose fists, pinkies extended, in the same way since he was a toddler. “I hate change. Dr. Nora. She sounds old.”

  “We know this is a shock for you,” Sylvia said. “We also have another idea.”

  “Oh great,” he said. “Make my day. Didn’t Clint Eastwood say that in a movie or something? Before he was going to shoot somebody?”

  Scott laughed out loud. “You don’t miss much, Steve. We think this idea you’ll like. Actually, it was Nancy’s idea.”

  “What does she know about me?”

  “We’ll let you quit working at Clean Sweep if you agree to meet Dr. Nora,” Sylvia said.

  “Quit work?” Steve beamed. “I didn’t know I could. You mean I’d never have to go again? No more vacuuming? Driving at night? Being with those lowlifes?”

  “What do you say?” Scott asked.

  “It’s a deal. I’ll meet her, but I can’t promise you anything. When is she coming over? Right now?”

  Sylvia told him she could come the next day, at five o’clock. They’d all meet her and then leave him alone to visit with her for about an hour. He wanted to know her name again. He got a notepad and wrote it down, so he could remember better. He said it was Dr. Rita’s idea to write everything down. “She also told me not to walk around with my head down because it made people nervous. I guess my journal won’t get published now. Can you call Ted Snyder, my social worker, to tell him I’m quitting the job? I don’t want to tell him.”

  Scott said he’d take care of it.

  “No more Clean Sweep. You two did make my day. Can I go to Friendly’s now?”

  8

  The next morning, Scott and Sylvia met with Steve’s psychiatrist
, Dr. Pandi, whose role as a medical doctor was to determine Steve’s appropriate medications and dosage. A monthly session to monitor his stability was the norm. Psychologists, like Dr. Rita and now Dr. Nora, were certified for talk therapy, not for prescribing medication. Dr. Pandi was a stout, middle-aged, dark-skinned Pakistani woman who, despite having lived in America for over thirty years, spoke broken English with a thick accent, garbling and rolling her consonants in a cadence that made her sound like she was underwater. “Steve is doing better after your mother pass away but will never live independently. Your father was good for him, because he is more calm and quiet. Your mother could be moody and nervous and upset with Steve.”

  Scott thought of their mother’s tendency to say the first thing that came into her head. Living with Steve took more patience than most people would have, but on the days Mom’s ran out, calling him “a big load who just sits around all day,” probably did more damage than if she’d kept her mouth shut and left the room. Scott was certain their father never spoke to him like that.

  “Why was his antipsychotic dose reduced from ten milligrams to five?” Sylvia asked.

  “Steve wasn’t taking it regularly, so he had pills left over at the end of the month,” Dr. Pandi explained. “In case he overdose, I could have problem with liability. You want me to increase back to normal dose?”

  They both nodded in agreement to increase it. Was it odd that she’d change his dosage without seeing Steve first? One had to assume that after eight or nine years as her patient, she’d know that his original dose of Prolixin was fine. Nevertheless, Scott was relieved that changing the dosage was so easy.

  She also told them she’d tried to get Steve to join her group therapy sessions, but he wasn’t interested because he didn’t think he was as sick as her other patients. “But schizophrenics always think they are not sick.” And then she chuckled. “This is normal for them.”

  When they left her office, Sylvia wondered aloud, “Why do you think Mom and Dad chose Dr. Pandi for Steve? How can Steve even understand what she’s saying?”

  “Her office is only five minutes from the house, so Dad probably thought it would be easier on Steve when he went alone,” Scott said.

  “Her attitude is terrible. How could she say, ‘Steve will never get better?’ If she thinks that’s true, Steve would definitely pick up on it. And he’s been seeing her a long time.” Here, Scott was more like his dad—he wasn’t so sure Steve ever would get better—but Sylvia, like their mom, always held out hope.

  When they got home, Steve was on the patio, smoking. Head down, he looked at them sidewise. “So how was Dr. Pandi? Am I going back to the psych ward?”

  “No, but she increased your dose of Prolixin back to where it used to be.”

  “You mean ten milligrams?” Steve asked. “So I won’t hear voices anymore?”

  “Do you still hear voices?” Scott asked.

  “If I do, do I have to go to the psych ward?”

  Sylvia told him he wasn’t going to the hospital and that they knew he still heard voices, but he’d hear them less with the dosage increase.

  He said he was okay with that.

  “Do you have trouble understanding Dr. Pandi?” Sylvia asked.

  “I hardly know what she’s saying, but Pandi just prescribes my meds. I talk to Dr. Rita more anyway.” Steve looked up at the sky. “Oh yeah, Dr. Rita died. Am I supposed to see . . . um . . . Dr. Nora today?”

  Scott reminded him that she was coming at five o’clock.

  “I better write that down,” he said. “Maybe I’ll like her. I do kinda miss talking to someone, and if she’s nice and likes me, maybe I’ll start seeing her. And if Dr. Rita recommended her, she might be okay.” Steve stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray then pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and let out a long sigh. “I’m dying tired.”

  They all turned when they heard scratching and yipping at the screen door.

  “Sammy, I almost forgot you.” Steve’s voice changed to a high pitch, and he jumped up to let the dog out. “I hope he didn’t do number two in the house. Maybe Nancy already took him out before work.” He patted his knee, calling to the dog as he led Sammy to the front yard.

  “I think the dog is good for him,” Sylvia said.

  “For the moment, anyway. It could all change tomorrow.” Scott got up to get something to eat. “Let’s go down to the lake.”

  “I’m up for that. Maybe Steve’ll want to go too,” she said.

  “Doubtful.”

  Steve didn’t want to go. He said he was too tired, they’d have a better time without him anyway; it was too hot, and he never went swimming because of his stomach. “You’re both in such good shape. Look at me.” He grabbed his middle. “I’m so gross.” Steve could come up with a million plausible reasons for avoiding anything he didn’t want to do.

  “We want you to come,” Sylvia said. “Nobody cares about your stomach—you could wear a T-shirt if it bothers you.”

  “I’d look stupid,” he scoffed.

  “We could all go in a rowboat to the other side of the lake where nobody would see you and you could jump in and cool off,” Scott suggested.

  Steve refused, saying it was too hot to ride in a boat. “Besides, I’m not supposed to be in the sun because of my meds. I could have a heart attack. Mom died of a heart attack—arrhythmia, wasn’t it? And Uncle Johnny too, and he was only sixty! Her whole family had heart attacks. Nope, too risky.”

  Even if most people wouldn’t consider his life worth living, Sylvia knew that living mattered to Steve. Or maybe the idea of dying, entering the void, the unknown, frightened him like everyone else—probably more because of his experience. He must’ve thought he was dying during electric shock treatments or a particularly scary hallucination or when God spoke to him. He was always the first one to fasten his seatbelt in the car, but he worried for others too. Now that their parents had passed away, and Dr. Rita, he might be even more afraid, sure that anyone could die at any minute. He frequently mentioned it on the phone: “Are you okay? You sound like you’re dying.” He sometimes scared Nancy out of her wits, leaning over her face in the middle of the night to check her breathing, telling her, “You looked bad, like you were dying.” For many people, the realization that life is short spurs them on to live more fully, to grab what they can today, do the things they’ve always dreamed about before it’s too late. Steve had no dreams, only fears.

  Since it was close to dinnertime, Sylvia and Scott decided to go to the grocery store instead of the lake.

  Scott went to Steve’s room to tell him where they were going. “And it’s almost five so Dr. Nora will be here soon. Maybe you should get up to let her in.”

  Just then, Sylvia called out. “She’s here!”

  The doorbell rang and Steve rushed to the front door. He greeted her like a gentleman, introduced himself and shook her hand. He ushered her into the living room and turned to introduce Sylvia and Scott. Then he offered her something to drink. Dr. Nora was his guest. So far, so good.

  Dr. Nora looked to be Steve’s age, which surprised Sylvia. She’d assumed she’d be close in age to Dr. Rita, since they’d gone to graduate school together. Was it a good thing? Maybe. She was trim, dressed casually in dark blue slacks, a flowered blouse, and loafers. Her light brown hair was chin-length and softly curled. She wore no make-up.

  Dr. Nora smiled at Steve. “My husband says he went to high school with you, Steve. Rick Ingram.”

  Steve glanced at the floor then looked up in surprise. “I remember him!”

  “Small world,” Scott said.

  Sylvia and Scott exited gracefully to leave them alone.

  Upon their return an hour later, Dr. Nora had already gone. Steve told them he was going to take it slowly. He’d see her in two weeks for a half an hour, which would only cost thirty-eight dollars. He liked her. He liked that she was his age. He said he asked her, then realized it probably wasn’t polite, but she told him anyway. He l
iked that she laughed easily and that she ran a half-way house once, so she understood why he hated group living. He was glad he had someone to talk to again.

  Sylvia followed up with Dr. Nora to verify Steve’s interpretation of their session (sometimes he confused what was said with what he was thinking) and to ask if there was anything else she should do while she was in town. Dr. Nora was very encouraging about Steve’s positive, open attitude and his willingness to see her on a regular basis. She also mentioned that she gave Steve a sort of assignment to think about—a list of places where he could do volunteer work. She said he needed to do something productive outside the house, something to replace the work he was doing before. Sylvia joined Scott in the family room and told Scott about their conversation.

  “Funny he happened to forget telling us that part,” Scott said.

  “He could’ve forgotten,” she said.

  “You really think he’ll make a list? Or that he wants to volunteer?”

  “I think a list will give him trouble, but I think he’d try,” she said. “And no, I don’t think he wants to do anything. Mostly because he can’t imagine where he’d fit in. But Dr. Nora will help him with this and encourage him.”

  “But where would he fit in? Hospitals freak him out. Schools wouldn’t take him. Nursing homes, maybe?”

  “Maybe. At least with the elderly, he’d be the young stud and feel better about himself,” she said.

  Scott laughed. “And he loves talking about the past, the good ol’ days. Did you ask her about a recommendation for another psychiatrist?”

  “No. I told her we didn’t think much of his doctor. She’s heard some negative things about her, too, but wasn’t specific. She thought Steve might be ready to talk about a change in six months or so.”

  “I’m just glad he likes Dr. Nora,” Scott said.

  “No kidding.”

  The two of them discussed what home improvements were necessary now that they had the estate monies freed up. Buoyed by the recent surge in tech stocks and their portfolio’s increase in value, they agreed that they could spend about fifteen thousand on the house. They made a list: interior/exterior painting and replace carpeting, dishwasher, sink, kitchen counter, flooring, and wallpaper Steve’s downstairs bedroom. Part of the house needed new roofing, but that could probably wait until next year. A few new light fixtures were needed and a new kitchen table and chairs. Steve also needed a new mattress—the coils were popping out on one side and he was ripping his pants and scratching his calves on them. Because he spent a large part of his day in bed, lying mainly toward the side by his nightstand, the mattress had become almost four inches lower on that side. They decided they could flip it and solve the problem for now, since the other side was against the wall.