Just In Time

by Joan Lindstedt Jackson

  The outside lights weren’t on when Sylvia pulled in the drive, and with no streetlights on their block, the minute she turned off the car, blackness enveloped her. She got out of the car to unload her bags, but she was barely able to see where she was going, so she went back to turn the headlights on. Since Nancy was at work, she’d left the sliding glass door unlocked for Sylvia. There were no keys to the house and never had been, at least Sylvia never had one, never had seen one used by anyone in the family—another plus to living in this community. When the house was locked, the garage door opener was the only access inside. If there was a power outage or the garage door was broken, Steve and Nancy wouldn’t be able to get in. She’d better add keys to the house maintenance list.

  Lumbering her way to the front patio, crunch-crunching on the gravel with each slow step, she maneuvered around the overgrown hemlock bush that practically blocked the walkway—add gardener to the house maintenance list—then finally slid the door open and stepped inside.

  Except for a dim stove light in the kitchen, the house was dark and eerily silent. She set down her luggage in the family room and immediately began turning on lights. She’d forgotten about the remodel and suddenly noticed how much brighter and prettier the room looked. The pale, lime green, wall-to-wall carpeting that Nancy had chosen was perfect. Sylvia loved it and decided to tell Nancy how pleased she was. In a rush of enthusiasm, she took off to check the rest of the house. The cheery kitchen was transformed, brand new. She was anxious to see the new wallpaper she’d chosen for Steve’s room but once in the hallway, she heard yapping, then scratching coming from Nancy’s room—Sammy. Sylvia let him out of the bedroom and grudgingly decided she’d better take him outside, since, according to Steve, he’d already had a few accidents on the new carpet.

  When Sylvia and Sammy returned, she headed to Steve’s room and switched on the ceiling light. The disarray was so shocking she forgot about the wallpaper: the nightstand littered with empty McDonalds bags, a full ashtray, pens without lids, half-full drinking glasses with floating mold, and scattered envelopes—old mail—torn open. The bed sheets were in a ball, pillowcases grimy, and the mattress sagged at the edge of one side, as if Steve slept where he dropped. Upon closer inspection, it got worse. A thick layer of dust caked every surface, cobwebs clustered in the ceiling corners and under the bed, and the new carpet had several dark stains that looked like Coke. It even smelled dirty, like stale cigarettes, deep-fried food, unwashed body, and clothes worn every day for a week. Sure enough, Sylvia found two oxford shirts, with major rings around the collars and cuffs, lying on top of the over-stuffed hamper.

  Regular household cleaning might not be Nancy’s strong suit, but in addition to meal preparation, housekeeping was part of the deal, especially Steve’s room. No agreement had been formally drawn up— after all, Nancy was family, her husband’s older sister—and Sylvia had thought she could trust her to do what was expected. This last minute visit turned out to be the best way to see what was really going on. Steve’s mental state may have been sliding for longer than they knew. Come to think of it, maybe he wouldn’t let Nancy in his room at all. If he wasn’t cooperating, her hands were tied.

  Sylvia decided she should give Nancy the benefit of the doubt. Looking after Steve was complicated. She had to believe that Nancy would never have let it get this bad if she could help it, especially before Sylvia and Scott’s arrival. She turned out the light, closed the door, and dragged her luggage upstairs to Steve’s old room, almost afraid to see what she’d find. The half bath was clean and the twin beds were tidily made, and at that point, that’s all she needed to see. She decided to forget unpacking for the moment and just sit outside and breathe in the autumn air, contented to have some time alone.

  On her way outside, she couldn’t resist going to the basement to check the laundry situation. In the stairwell, she brushed her hand along the exotic bird mural her daughter had painted when she was thirteen, admiring the colorful jungle landscape that covered every inch of wall space, including the birds in flight along the sloping ceiling. Sylvia was still in awe of her mother’s loving, free spirit, encouraging her granddaughter to paint the walls with abandon. She reached the bottom step, entered the laundry room and found, on the floor, a three-foot-high heap of Steve’s dirty clothes and sheets. Sylvia begrudgingly threw a load in the wash, trudged outside, and lit a cigarette, wondering how she could broach these issues with Nancy without losing her temper.

  She didn’t have to wonder for long. Nancy brought it up soon after she returned from work. “I know Steve’s room is a disaster, but he didn’t leave it long enough for me to do anything.” Sylvia wanted to say that she could’ve tackled it when Steve went into the hospital two days ago, but she didn’t want to broadcast her disappointment. When Nancy heard the washing machine running, she sort of apologized. “Try as I may, Steve just doesn’t want any part of doing laundry, even with the new machine.”

  “He’s probably afraid he’ll screw it up,” Sylvia said, “but it needs to be done. Maybe while I’m here, we can work with him on this together, like set a specific day of the week for laundry, and start him off gradually until he feels more comfortable. I could also write on a calendar . . . “

  “Follow me,” Nancy laughed. “I want to show you something.”

  Sylvia followed her into the garage where Nancy pulled a torn poster board from the trash bin and held it up for Sylvia to see. It was a chart of daily and weekly tasks—get mail, take out trash, do laundry, put dishes in the dishwasher, brush teeth, shower—with a few gold stars affixed to the corresponding chore. “I hung this on his bedroom door in hopes a gold star would inspire him to do his chores.”

  “I’m impressed,” Sylvia said. “So what happened?”

  “He went along for a while but then last week he blew up at me. ‘You treat me like a child! I’m not a child!’ He ripped it off the door and threw it in the trash.”

  Sylvia felt sorry for Nancy. She was trying so hard. She felt sorry for her brother, too, who couldn’t. “I’m so sorry,” she offered. “I hope Steve didn’t scare you.”

  “He did, a little,” Nancy admitted, “but not so much that I thought he’d hurt me or anything.”

  “That’s a relief to know. I’m wondering how to approach the problem when he gets home. Maybe there were too many tasks? One thing a week instead of five might work better?”

  “I bet our favorite psychologist would know,” Nancy said.

  “Of course. Maybe you and I could see Dr. Nora. And if you’d be willing, you and Steve could go together, sort of on a regular basis.”

  Nancy said she was willing, but Sylvia sensed reluctance. Who could blame her? Steve wasn’t her brother. Nancy and Sylvia retreated to the house for well-deserved glasses of wine, commiserating about how little influence they had over Steve and how hard it was to make him do anything he didn’t want to do.

  The next day, Sylvia and Nancy visited Steve at the hospital and found him lying in bed. He refused to join them outside on the patio or to even leave his room. By the fourth day of his stay, they were amazed to find him outside engaging with others, friendly even, as he introduced them to some of the patients and nurses. He seemed to know every-one’s name and, playing host, he even offered his sister and roommate something to drink. “There’s coffee and tea, even iced tea for me,” he smiled. “Or, Nancy, maybe you want a Coke?”

  Apparently getting him stabilized in the hospital was working. After the stresses of so much change, after trying to manage his own life, this break, this time of rest and relaxation was exactly what he needed.

  By the time Scott arrived, Steve had been in the hospital five days, and Dr. Varga determined that he was ready to be released. After seeing Steve interact so well with others in the hospital, Sylvia wondered if he’d be better off in a group home, where he could socialize more. Maybe he’d sleep less and participate in daily activities? When she brought it up with Scott, he handily dismissed the idea. />
  “You know that was tried before and he never stayed. He only wants to be home. Who can blame him? Maybe it makes him feel more normal.”

  Sylvia conceded that Steve needed his comfort zone. The medication setback didn’t mean living at home wouldn’t ultimately work out. In fact, with a new psychiatrist and routine sessions with Dr. Nora and Nancy, Steve might improve. Most things got worse before they got better. The arrangement with Nancy needed more time—by Thanksgiving, it would be a year.

  The afternoon they brought Steve home from the hospital, light conversation in the car became more and more uncomfortable. Scott drove with Steve next to him in the passenger seat. Sylvia sat alone in the back.

  “Car runs good. And the heater seems to be working fine. It’s not really cold out though,” Scott chuckled. “I’m hot, aren’t you?” He looked over at Steve, who sat staring straight ahead. “I bet you’re anxious to get back home,” he offered.

  “I’m not anxious,” Steve said firmly.

  Scott immediately wished he hadn’t used that word. When speaking to Steve, he tried to choose his words carefully. Steve took most things literally and was easily offended by turns of phrase, especially words like “crazy” or “out of his mind.” Steve didn’t want to hear them, and he told you so. “Ready” would’ve been a better word than “anxious.” On the other hand, Steve expressed himself in superlatives— “the best meal I ever ate,” “the meanest coach I ever had,” “the scariest movie I ever saw”—and inflammatory words like horrible, terrible, always, and never. “Running track was a horrible experience,” he’d say. Or “I was never happy as a child.” Or “Nancy’s always in her room,” he’d complain, punctuating his declarations with exaggerated facial expressions.

  “I can’t wait to get home. That place was terrible,” Steve said.

  “You were smiling and talking to others when I saw you. You seemed to get along fine,” Sylvia said. “I thought you liked it.”

  “Liked it! I hated it there,” Steve retorted, thrusting his chin toward her. “I thought I’d never get out.”

  If only he thought of it as R&R rather than a prison sentence. Scott and Sylvia exchanged a glance in the rearview mirror. She raised her eyebrows at him like I said the wrong thing. She knew better than to try to coax Steve into agreeing with her positive spin. It was like tricking him into agreement, and he could detect it. Why should he agree just to make them feel better? Their mother often traveled innocently down that dead-end road. Instead, Sylvia could’ve asked him why it was terrible or what was terrible, which would’ve shown more of an interest in his feelings, leaving hers out of it.

  Scott suggested they stop for lunch, “How about Friendly’s?” But his light-hearted sarcasm was lost on Steve, who began to recount the details of Woody forcing him off the premises. “I was kidding,” Scott said. “Where do you like to go now?”

  “Pizza Hut is good. The waitresses are nice there,” he said flatly. “Maybe later. I’m too tired.” When they got home, Steve went straight to his room and closed the door. Nancy and Sylvia had thoroughly cleaned his room and together they’d finished the laundry, just before Scott arrived. “I almost wish you could’ve seen it,” she said.

  “I saw plenty when I lived with it,” Scott replied. “That’s partly why I stayed away as much as possible. I practically lived at my girlfriend’s house.”

  “I keep forgetting that,” Sylvia said. In recent years, Scott had shared with Sylvia the painful details he’d kept hidden under his joke about their transition from the Cleaver family to the Addams family. Unless Steve was in a hospital, Scott never had friends over for fear of what Steve might do. Like when he’d gone through his “I’m a rock star” phase and sang off key in the basement all day long. Or when he went through the “God speaks to me” phase and had mumbled incessantly, reciting phrases out loud from the Bible. Scott just wanted his normal life back, with available, untroubled parents. He longed for time to pass quickly so he could graduate from high school and leave for good. With their parents now gone, he had no desire to return home unless Sylvia was there. He’d done enough penance.

  Scott said he’d sleep in the hide-a-bed in the family room and put his duffel bag out of sight in the far corner of the L-shaped room. He could only stay four days because he had to fly to London for a modeling job.

  The two of them met with Dr. Nora to discuss how better to oversee Steve’s status from week to week. With the approval of his new psychiatrist, Dr. Varga, he’d be taking his medication once a day instead of twice, which would be much easier for him to track.

  “One of you should keep in regular contact with him, say once a week. As long as he knows he can rely consistently on one of you, he’ll feel more emotionally stable.”

  “Obviously, that would be me,” Sylvia said.

  “We both like our big sister best,” Scott said. “But I’ll keep in touch with him, too, of course.”

  They explored ideas about volunteer work for Steve. “He must find something where he feels he’s contributing,” Dr. Nora suggested. Nursing home or hospital environments were of no interest to him. She said she tried to talk to him about it a few months back.

  “Our dad thought he might enjoy working in a library,” Scott said.

  “And the local one is five minutes from the house,” Sylvia said. “That would be perfect for him, I think. Quiet. Respectable. No hard labor.”

  “Unless they want him to vacuum,” Scott said.

  “Ha. Ha.”

  Sylvia said she’d contact Steve’s case manager, who should be involved with setting it up. “I think he came to visit Steve in the hospital,” Sylvia recalled. “Steve likes him.”

  As they wrapped up the conversation with Dr. Nora, Sylvia and Scott felt like they’d accomplished something constructive. Since the weather was like a warm summer day, they decided to barbecue steaks on the grill. They stopped at the store for T-Bones, baked potatoes, green beans—the only green vegetable, other than peas, that Steve liked—and a bottle of red wine for themselves. Nancy was spending the evening with her son, Danny, whose wife still wouldn’t allow him back in the house. He’d been staying with various friends.

  When they returned from the store, they found a note on the kitchen table from Steve. “Going to Pizza Hut for iced tea! (Real exciting!!) Then, also to fill up the car with gas!!! Make yourselves at home!! But it is your home!!” With his loopy scrawl on a slant up the page, exclamation points in abundance, and his usual touch at sarcastic humor, they knew Steve had rebounded once again.

  18

  Sylvia spoke to Steve’s case manager, Ted, about the possibility of volunteer work at the local library, assuming they had a program.

  “I’ll call right away,” he said. “I’d like to arrange this for Steve before I move out of state.”

  “Then you really are leaving?” Sylvia said. “I’d hoped Steve was wrong about that.” Ted was reliable, patient, and seemed genuinely to enjoy Steve’s company. He was also the only man in Steve’s life, unless he stayed with Dr.Varga. Steve had no friends or acquaintances, no one like Ted, who occasionally watched a sporting event with him on television. Steve could really talk sports, his only true interest—or the only one in which he felt confidently knowledgeable. Whether basketball, track, football, Olympic games, or sometimes baseball, he could recall players’ names and field positions. He could quote game statistics, runners’ times and records broken from as far back as the sixties to the present. And now Ted was leaving? “You’ve worked with him a long time,” she said.

  “I think almost nine years. I’ll be sure to choose my replacement. Steve is rare, one of the easier clients because he’s cooperative and tries hard to get along with others. And he’s one of the fortunate few who has a close, supportive family. I really admired your parents.” Sylvia remembered that Ted had attended both their funerals. “I’m leaving social work,” Ted explained, “and opening an art gallery in Florida with my wife.” After twenty years, he
was burned out and needed a complete change. Sylvia could understand burn out.

  “That sounds wonderful for you,” she said. “We’ll miss you, but Steve most of all.” She could hear Steve now, rejecting the need for another case manager, just like he resisted finding another psychologist after Dr. Rita died. Another change, another new person to adjust to, another round of trying to convince him that it was necessary. The truth was, however, that Ted hadn’t been involved with Steve’s medication, doctors, insurance, Social Security disability, or Medicaid benefits. Their parents had always managed all of that, so it actually made sense that Steve would question the need to find someone else. But with their parents gone, it was critical that Steve had a competent case manager. Or was it social worker? Living specialist? The titles seemed always to be changing, which made no sense to her. As long as they worked in the same capacity, what did the title matter? Most likely, Steve would ask for a woman case manager, once he accepted that he couldn’t wriggle out of it.

  “Steve will adjust fine,” Ted assured her. “Work in a library would suit him perfectly. Being around ‘normal’ people might lessen the stigma he carries and make him feel better about himself. Let’s get on this. Would you like to be on the call?”

  “I think I would,” Sylvia said. “Since I leave in four days, I hope we can put it together before then. I need to speak to Steve about it, too, of course, but let’s find out first if the people in charge at the library will even consider the option.”