by Peter Parkin
Dennis shook his head and smiled. "No, mom, it doesn't hurt. I've actually never felt better."
Lucy leaned her head back and took a good look at him. "Are you getting those nosebleeds again, Denny? Do I need to take you to see the doctor? Knowing you, you'd never go on your own."
Dennis wiped at his nose with his hand. "I just banged myself, mom. No, I haven't had those nosebleeds since I was a little boy. Nothing to worry about."
She smiled. It was her old smile; a smile that Dennis thought had disappeared from his life forever, one he would never see again except in old family videos. It was one of those smiles that always made the world seem brighter, kinder, a happier place. It was a smile that also had a way of conveying safety—she had always been firmly in charge.
"A mother always worries, Denny. I'll always worry about you and Melissa. Don't you ever forget that. If you had ever taken the time in your busy life to have children, you would know what I mean." She flashed a mischievous teasing grin at him.
Dennis was astonished. He was actually having a conversation with his mother. He felt his stomach doing flip-flops with each little bit of familiarity she threw his way. Teasing him about having a busy professional life with no time for anything else, was something she had always done. Always—she had never ever let up on that point. While she had been blessed with two grandchildren from Melissa, that had never seemed to be enough for her. She wanted his grandchildren. She had never been happy with the reality that her son had ignored that part of life.
Not that he hadn't tried. Dennis had done the marriage thing, and the next step would have been kids if he and Cathy had stayed married. But the union had died after ten years. Both of them had had busy careers, especially in the early years, and sadly they had just grown further and further apart. His mom had never really liked Cathy—it was always easy to tell when Lucy didn't like someone. She never suffered fools gladly. He reckoned that she had only tolerated Cathy for one thing: the fact that she was a woman, with good strong loins, able to bear children.
Dennis had been divorced now for twenty years. Despite the nagging from his mom back then, he had never tried too hard to fall for anyone else. Lucy had just wanted him married again and pursuing a family. She didn't really care who he was with—but always interrogated him in her lawyerly way as to whether or not there was a future with this one...or that one...or could he just juggle several at once and then pick the best? His mother had been insufferable that way.
He smiled warmly at her. Caressed her cheek. Brushed a lock of hair away from her gray eyebrows. "I'm too old to worry about having kids now, mom. But remember, you do have two wonderful grandchildren. Melissa has two boys, remember? They're grown men now; soon they'll have their own kids. You should be ecstatic over that. Don't focus on what I haven't done— be glad for what Mel has done."
Lucy pouted. When Dennis was young he hated this childish little thing she did when she wanted to make a point, get attention, or win a battle. Now he adored her infamous pout, hoped he could see it every day now for the rest of his life.
Nurse Jennifer was watching the exchange between Dennis and Lucy with interest. Dennis looked up at her and noticed the tender smile on her face, eyes lit up with wonder. She had respectfully backed up several feet away from the two of them, allowing the mysterious exchange to take place without any disturbance. Dennis nodded appreciatively at her, then stood up to his full six foot, three inch frame. "Jennifer, help me here. What's going on?"
She grimaced and moved closer. In a whisper that only Dennis could hear, she said, "We see this once in a while. It's wondrous when it happens, but be warned that it usually doesn't last long. Sometimes we think something triggers the event. And 'event' is truly the right word to use right now for what has happened with your mom. We usually don't see such a level of lucidity as she's showing. This is quite remarkable."
Dennis looked down at Lucy and saw that she was now fidgeting again, pulling at her fingers, playing with her wedding ring. He returned his attention to Jennifer and whispered back. "What can I do? What should I do?"
Jennifer's eyes bore a sudden sadness. "Nothing, sorry to say. Just enjoy it while it's here. But don't get attached to it. There is no such thing as a reversal of Alzheimer's—can't happen, doesn't happen. It's almost sad when these moments happen because while they're exciting for the moment, they always disappear—sometimes never to return."
Dennis nodded and dropped his attention back to his mother. "Mom, are you ready to go home? To my home?"
She jerked her head up and glared at him, fire once again in her eyes. "You still don't listen to anything I say to you, Denny—after all these years, too. Very discouraging. I told you that we have to get the package. Do you remember me saying that?"
Dennis had to admit she had a point. In his elation at having her mind back, he completely forgot the outburst that had started it all. "What package are you talking about, mom?"
"Do you expect me to remember everything? I'm an old woman, or haven't you noticed that?"
Dennis scratched his chin and knelt back down to his mother's level again. He held her hand and spoke softly to her. "You don't remember at all what this package is?"
"No."
"Then why is it important?"
"I just know it is. I tremble when I think of it."
"Is it a surprise, a gift from someone?"
"No, it's not something nice—I know that from my trembling. Do you feel it in my hands? Do you feel it, Denny?"
He had noticed that as soon as he held his mother's hand. He wrote it off as just being the usual eighty-five year old shakes. But his mom seemed to be convinced it was something else. "If it's nothing nice, mom, then why do you want me to get it? Shouldn't we just forget about it?" He was trying hard to be gentle.
Lucy held eye contact with him for about four or five seconds, then the tears started to flow. Her lips started twitching and he could tell she wanted to say something else, but no words came. Then her eyes shifted upwards toward the sky. As Dennis wiped the tears from her cheeks and from around her eyes, she mumbled, "It looks like rain. We should get inside."
"Okay, mom. Let me help you into the car."
She suddenly raised her little fist once again and shook it at him. "I'm not going anywhere with you doctors! I know what you're going to do to me. Take me back inside the hotel. Now!"
Dennis was shocked to his core for the second time within just a few minutes. He had witnessed a virtual resurrection, and now he was watching the slinking of a human spirit back into the inaccessible shadows of the subconscious. It was eerie. And it was heartbreaking.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Jennifer's kind and knowing eyes pleading with him to let it go. He smiled at her, and he knew that his was probably just one of countless sad smiles the nurse had seen from family members of patients. Smiles of resignation.
"I'll help you get her into the car, Mr. Chambers. I'll calm her down, don't you worry."
True to her word, she did. And true to the horrible mind-sucking disease that was Alzheimer's, Lucy had forgotten her outburst within mere seconds.
Dennis stood on the sidewalk with Jennifer, his mother now safely strapped into the front seat of the Mercedes. He looked up at the nursing home that would soon be demolished. His curious mind pondered. "Jennifer, would you mind sitting in the car with my mom for a few minutes? I need to go back inside."
"Sure, you go right ahead, Mr. Chambers. I'll sit with her as long as you need me to."
Dennis nodded his thanks, then walked quickly up the ramp and back through the front doors of the depressing building that his mother referred to as the 'hotel.' He headed down the hall, and took the elevator up to the second floor. Then he retraced the familiar walk down to room 207, except that the walk was no longer slow and depressing. His mother wasn't living in that room anymore, so now it was just a room.
The hall was bustling with activity. There were dozens of old folks in wheelch
airs accompanied by sad relatives holding suitcases and potted plants. Nurses were almost non-existent now except for the occasional one helping people gather their belongings. There were different workers here now—maintenance workers moving furniture out of the rooms, removing doors that presumably could be reclaimed elsewhere. Dennis knew that the building was scheduled to be demolished, but he was surprised to see that it was probably going to be sooner rather than later. This seemed to be the day that almost all residents would be leaving.
He dodged a couple of workers carrying a bed-frame, and continued on toward his mother's room. As he approached he noticed that the door was closed. Strange. He hesitated for just a second, then turned the handle and swung the door open.
What greeted him inside was a sight that his eyes didn't expect. There were no maintenance workers shifting furniture around. Instead there were three men in suits. One was on a ladder, his hands fiddling with something inside the ventilation duct. Another man had his mother's phone turned upside down with the bottom removed, twisting away inside with a tiny screwdriver. The third man was on the floor, his arm buried inside the material of his mother's freshly slit mattress.
It took only an instant for Dennis to take in the entire bizarre scene with his keen and finely honed powers of observation. The three suits looked back at him sheepishly, like little kids caught with their fingers in the cookie jar.
The man with the phone in his hand recovered quickly. "Please step back and leave this room, sir."
Dennis stepped forward instead of back. "I will not. This was my mother's room. Who are you and what on earth are you doing here?"
"We don't have to answer that, but I'll do you the courtesy of identifying myself." The man pulled out a laminated card and handed it to Dennis. He studied it—it was an identification card showing the man to be 'Joseph Banda, Investigator, Department of Defense.'
Dennis reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a gold shield—then arrogantly clipped it to the belt of his pants. Then he shoved a business card at Banda. "This will identify me as 'Dennis Chambers, Chief of Detectives, City of Washington.' Now, are we going to stand here and compare penis sizes, or are you going to answer me as to what you're doing here? This building is within city jurisdiction, my jurisdiction."
Banda scrutinized the card with interest, then glanced up, nonplussed. "Mr. Chambers, my jurisdiction is the entire country, so please don't pretend you can pull rank on me. I outrank you in every possible way."
"We'll see about that. What is the DOD doing tearing apart my mother's room?"
Banda didn't blink. "Standard procedure for former security clearance DOD employees, to examine their abandoned residences."
"She didn't abandon it, she was kicked out."
Still no blink. "It's a matter of national security to always inspect former places of habitation."
Dennis moved one step closer to Banda, until their eyes were about six inches apart. "It looks to me as if you're removing things, not necessarily looking for things—with the possible exception of your mattress-fetish friend on the floor."
Silence.
"My mother left the DOD thirty-five years ago and has been living in an almost fairyland state for the last five years. I'm curious to know why she could still be on your radar."
Silence with a steely glare.
Dennis put his hands on his hips, pulling back his jacket to display once again the ominously impressive gold shield on his belt...and his gun.
"Did you assholes bug my mother's room?"
CHAPTER THREE
It was a familiar sound—one that triggered an instant sensation of being young, comforted, soothed. She had held him in that chair up until he was four or five years of age. Just the two of them together...rocking... whenever he was restless. Or, perhaps more likely at times when she was restless.
Five years ago, when his mother had moved into the nursing home, Dennis had had to dispose of most of her furniture—some went to Melissa, some he kept, but most went to charity. Even though his house was large, there was only so much room. It hurt to get rid of anything. Every piece had memories for him. But none so much as that old rocking chair. He didn't have the heart to let it go—even though he knew he'd never use it himself. It was rickety, but still remarkably stable. It still worked, it still rocked, it was still adorned with the same frilly pads his mother had sewn together sixty years ago.
And she seemed to remember it. Dennis had positioned it strategically in front of the round front window of the drawing room. She was looking out at the street, and God only knew what was going through her mind. But Dennis felt comforted by the fact that she seemed to find the old chair familiar, and still rocked in it with the same smooth motion as back when he had been a young lad.
Nostalgia—a wonderful thing, but a lonely and sad pursuit when there was no one to share it with.
He had tried to trigger a memory a few hours ago: "Do you remember, mom, when you used to rock me and Melissa in that chair?" For his efforts, Dennis' only reward was a steely glare, accompanied by a grunt of, "You're crazy. Explain to me again how I'm supposed to know you?"
He stood in the doorway now, just watching his mother rock—eyes staring out to the street. Not following cars, people or dogs. Just staring.
And rocking.
He knew that if his mother were in her right mind...or any kind of mind for that matter...she would love his house. Built in the early 1800s, it was a classic Georgian style. Quite a few homes in Georgetown bore that honor but there were few in as fine shape as Dennis' home. Homes built in the 18th and early 19th centuries were mainly of Georgian and Palladian style. The White House was a perfect example of the Palladian style, and his was a perfect example of the Georgian style. In the late 19th, and 20th centuries, the Greek Revival and Art Deco styles took over. In the 21st, Post-Modernism came in.
Dennis' home was located on N Street, adorning a terraced hill overlooking the harbor on the Potomac River. Georgetown was one of the most charming, elegant neighborhoods in all of America. Even though it was part of the metropolis of Washington, D.C., it had an identity all its own. It was established in 1751, and being located right on the Potomac brought it notoriety as a major shipping center—for tobacco products in particular. The city of Washington finally annexed Georgetown in 1871, swallowing it up as part of the larger center. But it didn't succeed in destroying its spirit or identity. It was still the place to be. The terraced area where Dennis lived had been the enclave of wealthy ship owners and merchants back in the heydays of the early 1800s. They had enough greenbacks in their pockets to build their homes to last...and last they did.
Dennis had owned his Georgian home for about five years—he purchased it right after his mother's wealth had been handed over to him and Melissa. They each had joint power of attorney over Lucy's affairs, and she had requested in a 'living will' years before that if she ever became of unsound mind she wanted her children to have her money. She didn't want them to have to wait until she died. The only proviso was that both children would be equally obligated to take care of her financially until the day she died. But as far as Dennis and Melissa were concerned, there was no need for that proviso—their hearts would guide the way. They both loved their mother. Even though she wasn't really herself any longer, there was no question in their minds that she would be taken care of.
The old house was unique, to say the least. It was smack on the corner of N Street and 7th Street, a perfect vantage point for viewing all the expensive cars winding their way down to the Capital center. Beautiful huge trees and narrow painted sidewalks all accented the attractive old homes that dominated the city scape.
Washington was an easy city to navigate by car—streets that traveled east/west were labeled by letters, and those that flowed north/south were numbered. The occasional street was named, such as famous Pennsylvania Avenue, but by coincidence—or perhaps not—most of those named streets didn't really aim in a particular directio
n. They were...aimless. Dennis wondered—did that say something about the types of decisions made at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue?
Dennis' home was huge, much larger than he needed for just himself, but he had fallen in love with it and saw it as an important investment in Georgetown's history—he wanted to be a part of that history. Plus, he hadn't been suffering for money. The house bagged him $2.5 million in 2007— then the recession hit and the house value dipped. It had since rebounded and was probably worth now at least what he had originally paid for it. He didn't care anyway, he wasn't selling. And he had enough money in the bank that he didn't even need to work anymore...thanks to his mother.
The prominent feature of the house was the turreted front—forming a rounded effect for all three rooms that were lucky enough to be so situated in the home's three stories. Adjacent to the turret were a cozy front porch on the south side, and a main entrance way on the north side. A stone wall surrounded the property, with lush hedges providing six-foot high privacy. The house was enormous and most of the rooms were, although furnished, hardly ever used. Four bedrooms, large kitchen, drawing room, rear living room, formal dining room—and the one room that was used the most, the office on the third floor. That was Dennis' sanctuary, one of the round rooms in the turret, furnished in manly fashion with leather furniture and an ornate desk facing towards the round window. There was also an old wood-burning fireplace, one of four in the house, which only got lit about a dozen times a year due to Washington's temperate climate. It didn't matter—just the look of the old fireplace warmed Dennis' heart.
Filing cabinets wrapped around two corners of the room, containing souvenir copies of criminal cases Dennis had solved during his career. The two blank walls were adorned with several framed documents—his Master's degree in Criminology from the University of Maryland, his undergraduate degree from Princeton, and five citations from the Washington Metropolitan Police for 'performance above and beyond the call of duty,' including two testaments for bravery. While Dennis wasn't a braggart, he was proud of what he had accomplished and wanted reminders of those things to be in his private sanctuary. They were for him to see, no one else.
