“Growing old is for the birds,” she said as she opened her large double-wide refrigerator and peered in. “Orange juice, one-percent milk, Fuji apples, cottage cheese . . .” She rattled off the contents as if she were reading a menu, then picked up the cottage cheese carton and shook her head. That obtuse Felicity! Wouldn’t she know by now to get the low-fat kind? Was she trying to give her mother-in-law a heart attack? Esther put the carton back into the refrigerator and slammed the door. “Maybe I’m not hungry after all.”
Just then the phone rang, causing her to jump. “Who could that be?” she grumbled as she hobbled over to answer the wall phone next to the granite-covered breakfast bar.
“Hello?” she said, more of a growl than a greeting.
“Mom?”
“Hello, Jimmy. Did you know that harebrained wife of yours got me the wrong kind of cottage cheese again? I think she’s just doing this to spite me. I have half a mind to – ”
“Oh, that’s probably my fault,” Jimmy said. “I don’t like the low-fat kind myself, and she probably got confused.”
“Well.” Not for the first time she wondered why he was protecting that woman. Furthermore, she wondered what exactly it was about that woman that had attracted him in the first place. Esther had always considered her stepson to be a fairly sensible young man. Well, until he’d gone and married that flibbertigibbet. Oh, she wasn’t blind; she could admit that Felicity was beautiful and could occasionally even be charming. But most of the time Esther thought the young woman’s head was just stuffed with fluff.
“I wanted to check and see how you were doing, Mom,” Jimmy said. “Can we get you anything? Felicity and I got a sitter and are going to a Christmas party tonight, but we could stop by and bring you something first.”
“I don’t need anything,” she said sharply. “Well, other than some low-fat cottage cheese, that is.”
“We’ll drop some by.”
“Oh, don’t bother.” She sighed. “Don’t go to the trouble.”
“It’s no trouble, Mom. The party is near your house anyway.”
“Whose party is it?” Suddenly she felt interested. She remembered the days when she’d been invited to the best university parties. Back when James was alive.
“It’s at the Stanleys’,” Jimmy said.
“Oh,” Esther said in a flat voice. “Well, they aren’t so terribly smart. Don’t even know how they can afford a home over here in the first place.”
“They’re nice people, Mom.”
“So say you.”
She heard him sigh over the phone and knew that was the signal that his patience was wearing thin. Well, what did it matter to her? Her patience was worn thin too. And, besides that, he was the one who had called her.
“Anything else you need?”
“No,” she snapped. “As a matter of fact, I don’t need anything. Don’t bother yourselves to stop by – ”
“It’s no bother, Mom.”
“No, no . . . ,” she said, regretting that she was using such a sharp tone on Jimmy. Sometimes she wondered what made her so cranky and mean. “Don’t bother yourselves with me, Jimmy. I’ll have my girl go out and get me whatever I need tomorrow.”
“Your girl?”
“Yes. I’ve hired a housekeeper.”
“A housekeeper? Are you sure about this?”
“Of course I’m sure. Good grief, Jimmy, do you think I’m going senile on you? Or getting Alzheimer’s? Or just plain decrepit and helpless? I’ve hired a girl, and I will be perfectly fine. Please tell Felicity there’s no need for her to stop by anymore.”
“Are you sure?”
“Jimmy!”
“Okay. Fine, Mom. Just let us know if you need anything, will you?”
“If I need anything, I’ll have my girl go get it for me.”
“All right. Then have a good evening, Mom.”
She laughed in her customary way. It was her way of showing that someone had said something completely ludicrous. “Oh, sure, Jimmy. I’ll have a wonderful evening. Thank you so very much!” Then she hung up the phone with a loud bang.
Oh, she knew she was a mean old crow, and sometimes she even regretted it. But she’d spent most of her life acting gracious and courteous and nice – the way the wife of an important man should act. But things had changed. She was old and alone now. Why continue the act? Besides, she told herself as she hobbled back to the refrigerator, if a person couldn’t get ornery when she was old, what was the use of getting on in years?
She stood before the open refrigerator, peering in to see the exact same contents as before. Finally she took an apple, stuck it into the pocket of her oversize sweater, and tottered off toward her bedroom, turning off the lights as she went. No sense wasting electricity. She was careful not to catch her crutch on edges of the Oriental rug that ran down the length of the hardwood floor. Another fall could be her undoing.
She turned on the bedroom light to reveal tall walls of pale blue and ivory. The striped wallpaper had an elegant moiré pattern that had been popular during the eighties. Along the walls stood a few pieces of gleaming cherry furniture, all very expensive and all in the Queen Anne style, including her king-size four-poster bed. It was centered between two tall windows, and beneath it was a large Persian rug in shades of blue and ivory. Some might think the room overly formal and cool, but it suited Esther. Or so she liked to tell herself. She occasionally considered changing the ivory satin bedspread to something a little softer and cozier, but somehow she never got around to it.
She removed the apple from her pocket and set it on the bedside table, then struggled to balance herself on one foot as she attempted to remove her clothing without toppling over. Finally she gave up and climbed into bed still half dressed. She turned off the light and waited in the darkness for sleep to come and rescue her. Sleep and dreams seemed her only respite from this ongoing endurance race called life. Sometimes, especially lately, she wondered why she even bothered to participate at all. What was there to live for, anyway? Her doctor had prescribed some powerful pain pills when she’d sprained her ankle, but she’d taken only a couple, and those on the first day. She thought the rest might come in handy some other day. She just wasn’t sure which day that would be. She considered taking one now, but at the moment she was simply too exhausted to climb out of bed and get them. Like so many other things in her life, it would have to wait.
4
Christine pushed the doorbell again. It was ten minutes after eight, and, as she recalled, Mrs. Daniels (she couldn’t bring herself to call her Grandmother, not even in her mind) had said not to arrive before eight. She hadn’t specified exactly when to come, or maybe Christine had been too flustered to listen correctly. But 8:10 seemed a safe time to show up for her “job.” During her twenty-minute walk across campus, on her way to Mrs. Daniels’s home, she had attempted to convince herself that was all this was. A job. Suddenly she wasn’t so sure.
The door opened a crack. “Who is it?” demanded a voice that sounded like Mrs. Daniels’s, only huskier than before.
Christine peered through the two-inch crack. “It’s me, Christine Bradley,” she said. “Your . . . your housekeeper.”
The door opened wide enough to show that Mrs. Daniels had a pale blue bathrobe draped over her.
“I’m sorry,” Christine said. “Did I get you up?”
“No.” Mrs. Daniels stepped back and waved her inside. “Get in here before my house gets cold.”
Christine stepped inside and quickly closed the door behind her. She stared at the frazzled old woman, unsure if this was actually the same Mrs. Daniels she’d met yesterday. Her short silver hair was sticking out in every direction, and she had on some wrinkled tan slacks with a pink pajama top beneath the robe that appeared to be half on and half off.
“Well, don’t just stand there gaping at me,” Mrs. Daniels snapped. “I know I look a fright. I didn’t sleep well last night, and I need some help getting dressed right now. You are a
ble to do that, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Then follow me.”
Christine followed the old woman down the long hallway. In the dim light she could see that several works of art hung on the walls. Even her inexperienced eye could tell they were originals and probably valuable. She would’ve liked to have taken time to examine them more closely, but Mrs. Daniels had already made it to the room at the end of the hall.
“Come on, come on,” the old woman called. “Don’t dawdle.”
Christine hurried along and followed her into a very elegant bedroom suite. The room was about twice the size of the living room Christine had grown up with and was decorated like something out of a magazine. Other than the unmade bed, only one side actually, and a few articles of clothing on the floor, everything was absolute perfection.
“This is a beautiful room,” Christine said as she watched Mrs. Daniels easing herself into a pale blue velvet chair by the window.
“Yes, yes.” Mrs. Daniels frowned. “I hope never to catch you snooping around in my things, Miss . . . Miss . . . What is your name again?”
“Christine.” She tried to smile. “Christine Bradley.”
“Yes, that’s right.” She nodded. “Miss Bradley. Anyway, I won’t put up with any snooping . . . or stealing either, for that matter.” She peered up at Christine. “You say you’re a churchgoing girl, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I expect that means you should be honest. At least that’s what it used to mean. Not too sure what it means anymore. But I will not put up with any shenanigans, you understand?”
Christine swallowed and nodded, still incredulous that this woman was a flesh and blood relative. She studied the old woman’s long, straight nose and wondered if it didn’t look a bit like her own. Or perhaps she was imagining things.
“Fine. Now help me get these ridiculous trousers off. I don’t know what got into my crazy daughter-in-law’s head yesterday, helping me put these confounded things on. I told her I should stick to loose, stretchy garments until my ankle heals up. But, oh no, she thought I should dress up nicely. She’s a ridiculous young woman!”
Christine felt a bit embarrassed as she helped the old woman slip out of the lined wool trousers, carefully slipping the narrow pant leg past the oversize, bandaged foot. She couldn’t help but notice the pale, scrawny legs. How awful to grow old, she thought as she turned away and laid the trousers on the bed.
“Don’t leave those pants on the bed,” the woman chided as she pulled the bathrobe around her. “There.” She pointed to the wall with two doors. “The closet is on the right. Find a pants hanger and hang them up. Then find me a jogging suit.” She cackled. “Not that I plan to do any jogging. Get the blue velour one, please. Those pants have extra-wide legs as I recall.”
Christine walked into the large closet. It was about the size of her dorm room, only completely outfitted with shelves and drawers and rods full of beautiful clothes. Expensive clothes. And shoes! She’d never seen so many shoes – that weren’t in a store, anyway. She quickly located what appeared to be the more casual section of the closet and found not one but two blue velour jogging suits.
“Do you mean the dark blue or the light blue?” she called from the closet.
“The darker one, I think.”
Christine emerged with a jogging suit. “This one?”
“Yes, that’s it. I don’t care much for that color on me, but at least it will be comfortable.” Mrs. Daniels was attempting to stand now, struggling to get the crutches in place. “However, I’ve decided I want to take a shower after all. I’ll need you to help me with the bandage.”
So Christine followed her into a large bathroom where everything was white. White marble tiles, white fixtures, and white towels. Mrs. Daniels lowered herself onto a metal bench topped with a white velvet cushion. She stuck out her bad foot and groaned slightly. “Be careful when you unwrap it,” she warned. “It’s still very tender.”
Christine knelt down and gently untwined the layers of elastic bandage until she exposed a very swollen and odd-colored foot. It was shades of yellow, purple, and black. “Oh, my,” she said as she laid the bandage on the counter. “That looks like it hurts.”
“Of course it hurts,” Mrs. Daniels snapped, her brows drawn tightly together.
“I’m sorry.”
“Well, it’s not your fault.” Mrs. Daniels seemed to soften just a bit. “And I suppose the pain is making me a little grouchier than usual.”
Christine took some comfort in the old woman’s confession. “That’s understandable.”
“Besides that, I’m old,” Mrs. Daniels said. “I’ve earned the right to be a curmudgeon if I feel like.”
Christine smiled. “That’s not a word you hear every day.”
“Well, I used to teach English. Back in the days when students were expected to have an actual vocabulary.”
Christine stood, feeling a bit overwhelmed at the idea of helping this old woman bathe. How on earth had she gotten herself into this crazy mess, anyway? “Do you want me to start the water in the shower for you?”
“Yes.”
So Christine turned on the water and adjusted it to what felt like the right temperature, then stepped back. “That’s nice that you’ve got a place to sit down in there,” she said. “That should make it easier for you.”
“That’s the whole point,” Mrs. Daniels said. “Now turn your back while I get into the shower, but don’t leave. I may need your help getting out. I haven’t actually attempted this yet.”
“All right.” Christine waited until she heard the shower door close. Then she picked up the bathrobe and pajama top and wondered what to do next. She decided to move the bench close to the shower for when Mrs. Daniels got out. She also set a couple of thick white towels on the edge of it. Next, she located a thick white bath mat, which she placed right next to the shower entrance.
“Okay, I’m done now,” Mrs. Daniels called from inside the shower stall. “Hand me a towel.”
Much to her relief, Christine managed to open the shower door and hand the old woman a towel without seeing too much old, wrinkly flesh.
“Now give me a hand,” Mrs. Daniels said. She was wrapped in the towel and struggling to balance on one foot. “And hurry it up, my ankle is starting to throb.”
Christine prayed as she helped the old woman out of the shower and eased her onto the bench, amazingly without a mishap.
Mrs. Daniels groaned. “Maybe I should’ve skipped the shower after all.”
Christine got a smaller towel, and without asking she began to blot the dripping silver hair. Fortunately, Mrs. Daniels didn’t protest.
“Let’s get you dried and bandaged up again,” Christine said with a bit more authority. She wrapped another towel around Mrs. Daniels’s shoulders before she stooped down to help dry her legs and feet. Then, kneeling on the hard marble floor, she carefully rewrapped the ankle as closely as she could to the way it had been before she’d unwound it.
“Have you done this before?”
She shook her head. “No, but I had considered going to nursing school for a while.”
“Whatever for?”
“To become a nurse.” Christine stood.
“Well, of course. But why on earth would anyone want to become a nurse, of all things? Changing bedpans and caring for sick people. Good grief.”
“As it turned out, I wasn’t really suited for it.” Christine handed her a white terry bathrobe that was hanging on a hook by the shower.
“You could’ve fooled me.” Mrs. Daniels pushed the bathrobe back at her. “No, just go and get me my clothes. I believe I’ll just get dressed in here. You’ll find my underthings in one of the top drawers in the closet. And while you’re at it, bring me a sturdy tennis shoe for my good foot.”
After about twenty minutes and a bit of cursing on Mrs. Daniels’s part, they managed to get her adequately dressed and seated on the pale yellow
leather couch in the living room.
“I think you should put your foot up,” Christine advised.
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”
“And I think you should have some breakfast.” Christine adjusted the tapestry pillow beneath the injured foot. “What do you usually have?”
“I’ll start with some orange juice.” Mrs. Daniels leaned back and closed her eyes and sighed. “Do you know how to make coffee?”
“Yes. How do you like it?”
“Strong and with cream.”
“What else would you like?”
“I would like a poached egg and a piece of lightly buttered toast.” Mrs. Daniels opened her eyes. “Do you know how to do that?”
Christine nodded. “My dad likes poached eggs too.”
Mrs. Daniels closed her eyes again. “Good.”
Christine wandered through a spacious dining room with a long, dark table large enough to seat at least twelve. Along one wall of this room was a bank of French doors that looked out onto a perfectly landscaped backyard and what appeared to be an inground pool. Christine wondered if Mrs. Daniels actually used the pool, or was it just for looks? Then she went through a set of double swinging doors and found what she’d hoped for – a kitchen. And to Christine’s surprise, it was a sunny-looking kitchen with walls the color of butter and light wood cabinets with glass doors. She ran her hand across the sleek granite countertops. A bit cool perhaps, but at least they were a pleasant color, a nice sandy tone that resembled the beach on a summer’s day. She decided that so far this was her favorite room in the house.
She quickly located a juice glass, filled it, and took it to Mrs. Daniels. “Here,” she said, worried that the old woman had fallen asleep. “You should probably drink this now. It’s good for your blood sugar level.”
The Treasure of Christmas Page 16
