Promises to Keep

by Nan Rossiter

  “Well, her pie is delicious.”

  “I’ll be sure to try it,” Gage replied, and, as if on cue, three more cars pulled into the yard and Gage watched his brothers’ families clamber out—a scene that reminded him of clowns spilling out of a Volkswagen Bug. Between Matt, Eli, and Grayson, there were a total of ten Tennyson grandkids—eight boys (of course) and two girls (who could definitely hold their own); they ranged in age from ten years to ten months, and there were two more on the way (genders unknown, but they all knew the odds!). So, even though his mom would miss his dad dearly and would undoubtedly be lonely, she would never be alone . . . and that, Gage knew, was a very good thing.

  The kids all clambered up the steps and shyly gave their elusive uncle Gage a fist bump as they traipsed by wearing their Sunday best. Gage smiled at each of them; even though they were unsure of him now, they would eventually learn that he was a cool uncle—a master of all board games and unbeatable at horseshoes or cornhole, whichever form of defeat they preferred!

  His brothers and their wives greeted him, too, and a moment later, he followed them inside to make a sandwich and to try Mrs. Fergusson’s chocolate chess pie.

  TWO HOURS LATER, GAGE WAS HOLDING THE DOOR OF THE NURSING HOME open, but when he followed his mom in, he was overwhelmed by the stagnant air in the lobby. He raised his eyebrows, wondering how long he’d be able to endure it. He recalled the refreshing breeze that always carried the scent of lilacs through the airy windows of Willow Pond Senior Care or the delicious aroma of Sal’s cooking wafting from the kitchen, and he wished his grandfather could be in a place like that.

  “His room is on the courtyard,” his mom said, seeming to read his mind, “so we can sit outside . . . although it’s probably cooler in his room.”

  Gage nodded. “I’ll take the heat over this stale air any day.”

  They walked down the hall, and Libby smiled and waved to all the staff members and greeted each of the patients by name.

  “Do you know everyone here, Mom?” Gage teased.

  “Well, I come every day,” she said, “so I’ve gotten to know people.”

  Gage shook his head. “I didn’t know you came every day.”

  “Dutch is my dad, Gage. I’m not just going to forget about him . . . even if he doesn’t always recognize me.”

  Gage nodded, wondering if her words were a guised rebuke because he hadn’t been to visit his grandfather, but he quickly decided there was no way his mom would ever say something hurtful—intentionally or unintentionally. “Have you thought about trying to take care of him at home?”

  “We did try for a while. Uncle Mike and I were taking turns, but when it reached a point where he needed help with almost everything”—she looked up at him—“and I was taking care of your dad, too, we had to find a different solution. Mike and Jess both have jobs and a busy family, and I have plenty to do around the farm. Plus, there was no way I could take care of him and your dad, so when it got to be too much, we decided, very reluctantly, that this was the best option. He could linger like this for years, and caregiving is a full-time job.”

  “Have you ever considered having someone come in . . . a live-in caregiver? There’s plenty of room in that house.”

  “To be honest, Gage, I haven’t had a chance to consider that—life has been so hectic, and after your dad got sick, it became even more hectic. I’ve been so busy taking care of him, I haven’t had a minute to myself.”

  Gage nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe you’ll have time now—I’m sure Dutch would be much happier at home.”

  “He probably would be,” she said, smiling sadly. “We’ll see . . .” She paused. “Well, here he is,” she said, gesturing to the last door in the long corridor. “Hi, Dad,” she said cheerfully, bustling into the room. “I brought someone to see you.”

  Gage walked in behind her and saw a frail man sitting next to the window in a wheelchair. “Hey, Dutch,” he said, and the man looked up. Gage searched his face, hoping his grandfather would recognize him, but his eyes were far away and listless. Gage swallowed and bit his lip. He’d been trying to prepare himself for the very real possibility that his beloved grandfather wouldn’t recognize him, but the empty stare that greeted him was not at all what he had expected.

  “Would you like to sit outside, Dad?” Libby asked, releasing the brakes on his wheelchair, but when the old man didn’t respond, Gage took his cue from his mom and walked around to open the door. Libby wheeled him out into the courtyard and pushed him to a shady area under a small dogwood tree and sat down next to him. “How’ve you been today?” she asked softly, but Dutch still didn’t answer.

  Gage watched and listened as his mom gently talked to her dad, telling him about her day and news she’d heard at church that morning, and he was amazed by her utter devotion to him. “Does he ever respond?” he asked.

  “Sometimes, but the times are becoming fewer and farther between.”

  Gage nodded. The faraway look in his grandfather’s eyes reminded him of the little lady Maeve took care of at Willow Pond—Ivy Lee Byrd—and then he remembered how Ivy’s face had lit up when he and Bud had played the fiddle, and she’d even started clapping and tapping her feet. Maeve had talked about the profound effect music had on people with dementia or Alzheimer’s. “Have you ever tried playing music for him?” he asked.

  “There’s a radio in his room, but I can’t say I’ve ever turned it on.”

  Gage nodded, thinking about the music he knew Dutch loved—hymns, for sure, and country music, but what song might he remember? He pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through his playlist, and then it hit him—he knew exactly what song to play. He looked at his mom. “Is it okay if I play a song for him?”

  “Absolutely,” Libby said, and even though she doubted it would make a difference, she was glad her son was trying. “I’m sure he’d love it,” she added encouragingly.

  Gage nodded and scrolled to a song he’d been listening to lately, turned up the volume, and tapped the start arrow. He waited, knowing the song had a quiet intro, and then held the phone near his grandfather’s ear. A moment later, the unmistakable voice of Garth Brooks drifted through the air, and the moving lyrics of “The River” began to stir his grandfather’s memory.

  Gage watched Dutch lift his head, his eyes brightening, and then—almost imperceptibly—he began to nod his head to the steady rhythm. Gage looked over at his mom and she smiled, her eyes filling with tears. They both watched the old man listen intently, his eyes glistening, and then as the lyrics swelled, his lips began to move—he was singing!

  Gage stared in amazement—Maeve was right! Hearing an old favorite song had awakened his grandfather’s sweet spirit, and as Gage searched his grandfather’s blue eyes in wonder, he was given the priceless gift of a smile. Then Dutch reached out and squeezed his grandson’s hand. “Thank you, Gage,” he whispered.

  “Want to hear it again?” Gage asked, smiling, and Dutch nodded.

  45

  WHEN MAEVE TURNED IN TO THE WILLOW POND PARKING LOT ON MONDAY morning, she was half-asleep, but when she was almost sideswiped by an ambulance coming around the corner, her eyes grew wide. She jerked to the side just as the lights started to flash and the siren began to scream. She waited for it to pass, and when she finally pulled in to the parking area, she saw a fire truck and two police cars parked on the lawn. “What the heck?” she whispered, looking up to see if the house was on fire, but all she saw was a crowd of residents standing on the porch—many still in their bathrobes. She climbed out of her car and hurried over to where Sal and LeeAnn were standing. “What happened?!”

  LeeAnn shook her head and explained. “When Jim came outside this morning to put out the garbage, he found Ivy lying in the grass near the pond—we don’t know how long she’d been there . . . or why.”

  “Is she okay?”

  Sal shook his head. “Her clothes were wet and she was freezing, but they were able to find a faint pulse. She was hypothe
rmic, and they think she may have had a heart attack or a stroke—it could be just about anything. She’s so tiny and frail to begin with.”

  “That’s awful,” Maeve said. “Did you call her son?”

  LeeAnn nodded. “Yes, he’s headed to the hospital.” She glanced over to where Jim was talking to the policemen. “But you can bet there’s going to be an investigation.”

  Maeve raised her eyebrows, suddenly grasping the potential legal ramifications of having a resident suffer a catastrophic injury, or worse . . . die! “Oh, no,” she murmured.

  LeeAnn nodded. “And with a parent company like ours, the payout would be significant. Either way, we’re going to have the state looking over our shoulder all the time now. They could even shut us down.”

  “That won’t happen,” Maeve said, frowning. “It wasn’t our fault. You documented all the times she’s wandered off, and you told the higher-ups—and her son—that she needed more care than we offer.”

  “I know,” LeeAnn said, “but anything can happen.”

  Maeve bit her lip. “Well, I hope she’s okay, and at least now, they’ll move her to a more suitable facility.”

  “True,” LeeAnn agreed. She nodded toward the residents still lingering on the porch. “Well, the excitement is over. Do you guys want to see if we can get everyone back inside?”

  Maeve nodded, and while LeeAnn went over to talk to the policemen with Jim, she and Sal climbed the porch steps. “I guess we’ve had a little excitement this morning,” she said to the residents.

  “I guess we have!” Gladys exclaimed. “What in the world was that woman doing outside?”

  “We don’t know,” Maeve said.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Gladys continued, “she shouldn’t even be living here. She never talks . . . and she’s always wandering off or feeding those damn ducks. She’s loony, I tell ya, and I’m surprised something hasn’t happened to her before now.”

  Maeve nodded. Everything Gladys said was true, but she thought she could be saying it with a little more humility. “Why don’t we all go back to our rooms and get dressed?” Maeve suggested. She looked at Sal and smiled. “Meanwhile, Sal will make some coffee and I’ll set it out in the sunroom, and anyone who’d like to come sit in there—because it’s been such a crazy morning—is welcome to.”

  “Crazy doesn’t even come close!” Gladys blustered, shaking her head.

  “I hope she’s okay,” Addie said softly. “She loved those swans.”

  “And she loved my fiddle,” Bud added.

  “She did,” Maeve said, smiling. “Maybe we can all say a prayer for her. She can’t help that she is confused or quiet. It happens to the best of us.”

  “She belongs in the loony bin!” Gladys said, which prompted an unexpectedly stern look from Maeve.

  “Gladys, we should always try to be kind,” she scolded, suddenly having enough of her lack of compassion, and the old woman looked stunned.

  “I’m kind!” she retorted. “And I will absolutely pray for her.”

  “Good,” Maeve replied, as she held open the door. “Enough said.”

  Everyone maneuvered their walkers and canes through the door with the men bringing up the rear, all of them smiling. “Good for you!” Bud said with a wink. “It’s about time someone spoke up.”

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON, THE STAFF AT WILLOW POND RECEIVED NEWS that Ivy’s condition, although critical, had been stabilized and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Her son also asked if someone might be able to locate his mom’s hearing aids. He knew she never wore them because she never remembered to, but he wanted to be able to talk to her. So, shortly before the afternoon snack, Maeve went down to Ivy’s room to look for them. It was dark in her apartment—the only light coming from the window that looked out over the courtyard—and even though she’d been asked to look around, she still felt like an intruder. She propped open the door, switched on a light. The apartment was as neat as a pin—which was odd for someone with dementia. She knew housekeeping came in twice a week, but Ivy’s apartment almost looked like no one lived there. She went into the bathroom and looked in the cabinets, and then went into the bedroom to search some drawers, but she didn’t see them anywhere. She stopped in front of her bureau, and the old black-and-white photo she’d noticed when Ivy first moved in caught her eye again. She picked it up to look at it, and in doing so, disturbed a little box that had been slipped between the frame and its cardboard easel. Maeve picked it up, opened the lid, and inside—neatly put away—were the hearing aids! She tucked the box in her pocket and walked back into Ivy’s living room with the photo in her hand—just as Tallulah peeked in the door. “Well, hello there, Miss Tally,” she said, and the friendly cat meowed and sauntered in to swish between her legs. Maeve knelt down to pet her, and then heard a knock on the open door and looked up.

  “Is this a private meeting?” Bud asked with a smile.

  “Not at all,” Maeve said, standing and smiling. “Ivy’s son wanted us to try to find her hearing aids . . . and Tallulah came in to check on me.”

  “Does that mean she’s okay?” Bud asked hopefully.

  “She’s critical, but stable.”

  “That’s good,” Bud said, “but it might be the beginning of the end. Sometimes something like that can be . . .”

  Maeve nodded—he didn’t need to finish—and then she remembered the picture she was holding and looked at it. “I love this old photo of her . . . and thank goodness I picked it up to look at it again, because her hearing aids were behind it.”

  “I didn’t know she wore hearing aids.”

  “That’s because she never puts them in.”

  “Maybe that’s why she seems lost all the time—she can’t hear anything.”

  “It’s possible,” Maeve agreed, “but she was able to hear your fiddle.”

  Bud nodded. “Well, we were standing right next to her.” He paused thoughtfully. “She really did respond to it, though—it was wonderful to see her smiling and tapping her feet.”

  Maeve smiled. “It was great! She must have some fiddling friends because the young men in this photo are both holding fiddles.”

  She held the photo out and Bud took it from her, held it in the light, and frowned. “That’s Ivy?” he said, sounding incredulous.

  “Yep,” Maeve said. “Why?”

  Bud shook his head. “The fellow on the right is . . . me.”

  “No way!” Maeve exclaimed in astonishment.

  Bud nodded, still frowning. “I didn’t know her name was Ivy . . . everyone called her ‘Birdie.’”

  Maeve shook her head. “That’s odd . . . so Byrd must be her maiden name.”

  “It’s possible—that would explain why people called her that.”

  Now it was Maeve’s turn to frown. “But she has a son . . . do you know if she ever married?”

  “I don’t. I only met her that one time—it was at a Pickin’ ’n Fiddlin’ contest up in Nashville.”

  “Do you know who the other boy is?”

  “I’m pretty sure his first name was Will—he was one heck of a fiddler!”

  Maeve raised her eyebrows. “Ivy’s son’s name is Will.”

  “Sounds like you could write a book with this story.”

  Maeve laughed. “You could except, sadly, the main character doesn’t seem to remember it.”

  “At least we don’t think she does,” Bud said with a laugh.

  “It’s such a great old photo,” Maeve mused, “but what’s odd is that you, who only met her that one time, are in a photo she has kept all her life—no offense intended.”

  “No offense taken,” Bud said with a smile, “but I can’t explain it, either.”

  “Were you interested in her?”

  “She was very pretty, but in 1941, I was already taken.”

  Maeve nodded, and then she suddenly remembered that she needed to get back to the kitchen. “Oh, my goodness! Sal is going to think I got lost! And you’re going to miss out on his fam
ous snickerdoodles!”

  Bud laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t want that to happen.”

  Maeve returned the photo to Ivy’s bureau, and then picked up Tallulah—who’d made herself comfortable on the bed. “C’mon, missy, you don’t want to get left in here.” She turned off the lights, closed the door, and set the cat down out in the hall. “I still can’t believe that’s you in that photo,” she said, as she walked beside Bud toward the kitchen. “You were pretty cute!”

  “I still am,” Bud said, laughing.

  “You are indeed,” Maeve assured him, putting her hand on his arm.

  46

  GAGE HAD SLEPT ON THE COUCH THE FIRST TWO NIGHTS HE WAS AT THE farm. Prior to falling asleep there, he’d spent the evenings with his mom, brothers, and Liam sitting out on the porch, while Chase—who’d agreed to give a eulogy—jotted down some of the memories they talked about. Afterward, he’d promptly fallen asleep in the living room, and he hadn’t moved until morning, but on Monday night, his mom suggested he sleep in his old room. So, after they got home from the wake, he gathered Gus—who was worn-out from all the sniffing he had to do on the farm every day—climbed the stairs, washed up, switched on the light in his bedroom, and felt as if he’d stepped back in time—the room he had shared with his brother growing up was virtually untouched. There was a twin bed against each wall, each covered with the same—now faded—matching quilt, and with the same small table between them; on the table was the same John Deere tractor lamp from his childhood and the Big Ben alarm clock that had roused them every morning to help with chores—it even had the correct time on it! There were two oak desks—one under each window—and two oak bureaus against the walls. There was also a cork bulletin board hanging on the wall, and on it, the countless blue ribbons they’d won, along with photos of them dressed in white and standing next to their big bovine counterparts. There was even a photo of him curled up next to Chestnut in the dairy barn at the fair. Gage shook his head in amazement . . . and with a little bit of alarm. The room was like a time capsule from his childhood, and it seemed a little crazy that his parents had kept it that way for almost twenty years!