Along Came the Rain

by Alison R Solomon

  “It’s not just her memory I’m concerned about. I’ve read that people with dementia can also come across as paranoid, and can start doing things that are completely out of character. Should I be worried about that?”

  “Certainly. Many people think Alzheimer’s is just a case of memory loss. But in many ways, the brain is being taken over—at this point, we think by beta-amyloids—and so it starts to give commands that it wouldn’t normally give. People who’ve been sweet and charming all their lives suddenly become suspicious of those around them. If they lose something, they think you stole it. If they don’t understand what you’re saying, they think you’re out to get them. And because their mind is playing tricks on them, they can start to take actions that are completely out of character too. But hopefully that would be a long way down the road, and it might not even happen at all. The first thing you should do is get Wynn to agree to a full workup with a specialist who can monitor her. That’s not something I can do in my private practice. But what I could do is write her a prescription for Aricept or Namenda.”

  “Is it a cure?”

  “No, but it might help slow down whatever’s going on with her.”

  “I’m not sure she’d be willing to take it. What would I tell her?”

  “Some of my patients’ families tell them it’s a multivitamin, or some other benign kind of pill, but I don’t think that’s what you want to do with Wynn. She did mention that she’s got a hopeless memory, so why not just tell her it will help her remember things?”

  “She’s not big on taking drugs of any kind.”

  “What does she have to lose? There aren’t any terrible side effects from it. Some people have mentioned headaches and nightmares, but it won’t do any harm to her. Why not suggest she give it a three month trial and see how she feels after that?” Elizabeth pulls out her prescription pad and looks at me, the question clear.

  “Sure,” I say. “Why not? Like you say, it can’t do any harm.”

  After she writes it up, she puts her arm around me and her eyes are filled with sympathy.

  “This might be a long road you’re going to travel, Barker. Any time you want to talk, my office door is always open to you.”

  I feel my heart expand. Everyone needs to have someone who will be totally on their side, who will be there when needed. Lately, Wynn hasn’t felt completely like that person any more. Knowing there’s someone else who can be a support feels great.

  Now I just have to get Wynn to take the medication.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wynn, May 1

  There are five women in my class and I ask them to introduce themselves and tell us why they chose this course.

  The first to speak is an almost bald-headed, middle aged African American woman dressed in baggy sweats.

  “Hi. I’m Connie. I love doing crafts. I’ve crocheted blankets and knitted sweaters, but I’ve never made jewelry before. I want to do something new to take my mind off the chemo.” She rubs her head and everyone smiles in sympathy.

  Next is a young woman with jet-black hair and a pierced nostril. She reminds me of the recent spate of movies about tough-looking straight girls with tattoos.

  “Hi, I’m Zerella?” she says as if it’s a question, and I’m caught off-guard by the dissonance of her image with her voice, which is like an eleven-year-old Valley girl. “I’ve never made anything before, but my therapist suggested I take this class to help me get over my social anxiety.”

  I’m surprised by what I’ve heard from these two women. It didn’t occur to me that people would have ulterior motives for coming to my class. I’d imagined that everyone was there because they’d always wanted to learn how to make wire-wrapped jewelry. And I can’t help smiling at the candidness of their disclosures. My mum was from England and she could never get over how Americans love to share intimate details with strangers. She came from an era when illnesses all had euphemisms, you didn’t even say the “C” word aloud, and you would never tell anyone you saw a therapist, let alone the reason why.

  The third woman to talk is dressed in a white shirt and white shorts and looks more likely to be on a tennis court than in a jewelry-making class.

  “Hi I’m Ava. I heard about this class, and it sounded like fun.”

  Good. I’m glad there’s someone who isn’t using me as an art therapist, because I never signed up to be one.

  The other two women, Rosalie and Cheryl, are friends who came to the class together and who have been making jewelry for years. They sound like they may know more than I do, and I’m not quite sure why they signed up, other than that the class was a convenient day and time for them.

  “Okay, let’s get started. I want you to cut six nine-inch pieces of 20-gauge wire. That’s this wire that’s right in front of you.” The women lunge forward to grab the wire, as if it may run out. I have three sets of nose pliers and it looks like Rosalie and Cheryl also have a pair so we’re good to go. The women pick up their tools and after they’ve cut their wire into pieces, I show them how to wrap each piece into a spiral.

  “Now, make another spiral from the other end to the center, making sure the spirals face in opposite directions so you have an ‘S’ shape.” Rosalie and Cheryl do so and then take the other pieces of wire and do the same. They have clearly done this before. I start to wonder whether they were sent to check on me, to see if I know what I’m doing. Connie and Ava watch them and follow their lead.

  Zerella fusses with the pliers and I see that her hands are shaking.

  “Are you okay?” I ask her.

  “I don’t think I can do this,” she whispers, putting down the pliers.

  “How about if you just sit and watch us for today and then maybe next week you’ll feel more comfortable?”

  “Could I do that?”

  “Sure, why not? You’ve paid for the class and the materials.”

  We settle into a rhythm, folding the S shapes and pulling out the centers so we create little cages for the beads. I show them how to insert beads into the cages and then how to connect the spirals.

  As we work, Ava turns to Connie.

  “I don’t mean to intrude, but can I ask what type of cancer?”

  “Carcinoma Meningitis. It’s basically a type of brain cancer. I had breast cancer a few years ago and it put me at heightened risk for this type. I’m doing pretty well though, I think.”

  “I’ve never heard of it. But I certainly know all about meningitis. My twin daughters both contracted it when they were in college.”

  “Are they okay now?”

  “No.” Ava pauses. “No, actually they both died within forty-eight hours.”

  The whole table stops working. Connie looks startled and Zerella starts shaking again. “Oh my god, that’s terrible,” Rosalie and Cheryl say together.

  “I’m sorry.” Ava looks contrite. “I didn’t mean to upset anyone. I don’t really talk about it that often. I don’t know why I brought it up.”

  “You don’t have to apologize,” says Connie. “I think we were all a little shocked. But it’s your story and if you’re comfortable talking about it, the least we can do is bear witness.”

  There’s a lull for a moment and the women start dipping into the box of beads to decide which ones they want to use in their jewelry. I figure it’s my turn to step in and steer us onto safer subjects.

  “Let me show you how to make hook clasps and figure eight links so you can attach the beads to each other,” I say, picking up my pliers and demonstrating how to create the connectors. Everyone looks grateful and focuses in on completing their bracelets. Before I know it, our time is up.

  “Will I see you all next week?” I ask, wondering whether either the crafting or the conversation has put anyone off. Connie says she has a conflict for the following week, and I wonder whether it’s chemo. Zerella says she’ll talk to her mom and decide whether she’s going to return. I tell the other three I’m looking forward to our next class and shoo them out the door so
that I can clean up.

  All in all, I think that although today’s class wasn’t quite what I was expecting, it went pretty well.

  ****

  As I head to the parking lot, I see that Ava is waiting by the exit.

  “Can we talk for a few minutes, maybe grab a cup of coffee?”

  I’m about to decline, thinking that I have to get home to make dinner for Barker, but then I remember she told me she’d be working late this evening.

  “Sure,” I say, and we walk across the street to a pleasant-looking coffee shop.

  “Do you think I was too much for them?” she asks after we’re seated with cups of iced lattes.

  “I don’t know. People aren’t used to hearing about such devastating events in what they think is going to be a casual conversation.”

  “I know. I don’t know why I blurted it out. I think it’s because I never tell anyone about it, and somehow this seemed like a safe place.” She stirs her latte and I can see she’s trying really hard not to cry.

  “That’s what being with a group of women will do for you. Gives us an automatic sense of comfort.” I take a sip of latte and realize I forgot to put sweetener in. I pick up a packet of Equal and shake some into my drink. “What do you do when you’re not taking fun classes?” I ask to lighten up the mood and also because I’m not sure I want to hear too much more about dead children.

  “I’m a foster parent. That takes up quite a bit of my time.”

  “Isn’t that hard? Especially after losing your daughters. Do you have other kids?”

  “No. After the girls died, I was too old to start a new family. But I’d been a parent for so long, I didn’t know what else to do. And this keeps me distracted.”

  “What are they like? The kids you have now.” I try to imagine the difference between parenting your own daughters and taking in someone else’s kids, children who probably wish they could just be home with their original families.

  “They’re typical teenagers, into hair, makeup, fashion.”

  “Are they pretty?”

  Ava looks a little taken aback. “Why do you ask?”

  “I just thought having two teenage girls who are attractive could be a bit of a worry. You never know what kind of trouble they might get into.”

  “Well that’s true for any children. Do you have kids?”

  “No. Never wanted them to be honest.”

  “I think it’s one of those things. Either you do, or you don’t. I don’t judge anyone who doesn’t have them, or doesn’t want them.”

  “What about the parents of the kids you foster. Do you judge them?” I think about some of the grisly stories I’ve heard from Barker.

  “Most of them never had a chance in life. They had lousy parenting, or got caught up with the wrong guy. They’re poor, uneducated—and we don’t make it easy for them.”

  “We?”

  “Society. As soon as they’re caught up in the system, they get judged for things regular parents can get away with because they don’t have social workers hovering over them all the time.”

  “Some of my best friends are social workers!” I say defensively. I could mention Barker but for all I know she might know this woman. “Anyway, what’s the alternative?”

  “Well, I’ve sometimes thought that it would make more sense if the county gave the money they pay me to look after those kids, directly to birth mothers. If they had that money, they probably wouldn’t get into the trouble they do.”

  “I don’t know about that.” I think about the people who just use whatever money they have to buy drugs and alcohol. “It’s not a lack of money for some of those folks. I think they choose their drugs or their boyfriends over their kids. That’s what my birth mom did.” I surprise myself telling her this. I never tell anyone about this part of my background. Even Barker doesn’t know.

  “Yes, but it’s not really a choice is it? If they don’t have income, they have to stay with the abusive father.”

  “Nobody makes them do drugs. Sometimes I think the fact that they know there’s some nice middle-class woman like you waiting in the wings to provide a home for their kids lets them off the hook. They don’t seem to realize that even if they’re in a good home, like yours probably is, just by being abandoned, their kids will probably end up just like them. Sometimes I wish I could just shake them and say, ‘look at what you’re doing to your kids. You’re ruining their lives as well as your own.’”

  “I think a lot of them know that. They feel hopeless and helpless.”

  “You sound just like—” I’m about to say Barker again. It’s hard to have a conversation about foster care without mentioning her. “You sound just like all my social worker friends,” I improvise quickly.

  “I guess that’s why I make a good foster mother,” Ava says, and drains the last of her latte from her glass. She looks at her watch. “Speaking of which, I need to pick up my girls from school. Thanks for the class, and for the chat. Maybe we can do this again.”

  “I’d like that,” I say. It’s been a long time since I made a new friend. Barker always tells me she would be crossing a professional boundary to make friends with her students, but I don’t think it’s the same for a community center teacher.

  After she leaves, I pick up the newspaper that’s been abandoned on the chair next to mine. And that’s when I see that today isn’t the day Barker’s working late. Today is Wednesday, our date night, and she told me she was going to make an extra effort to come home early because we have tickets for the local theater and I was meant to be making us dinner to eat before we go.

  Damn. Why can I never keep things straight anymore? I’ve been taking Aricept for two weeks now, but it’s obviously not working.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kallie, June 18

  Why am I such a sucker? That first day when she showed us around and I looked out of the window at the bay shimmering way below us, I couldn’t believe my luck. I should have known that good things don’t happen to people like me and Mikki. An apartment overlooking the beach, a fridge stocked with food and beer, I thought, who’d ever want to leave here?

  Now I know. I would. But I can’t.

  The beautiful floor-to-ceiling windows don’t open, so there’s no way we can hang out the window and signal to someone to rescue us. Even if anyone were to look up, we’re so high above them, they probably couldn’t even see us. And if they did spot two young girls standing at a window waving, they’d probably just laugh and wave back. It wouldn’t occur to them that in many ways we’re as trapped as those poor girls kept for years in that run-down Cleveland dump.

  We don’t have our cell phones and there’s no landline in the apartment. We don’t have families who would know we’re missing, and the couple of friends we have who might have contacted us probably just think we’re being flaky when we don’t answer their texts. We were going to play a tennis tournament, but when we didn’t show up, I’m sure the organizers didn’t think, “Wow, those girls must have been kidnapped, I better call the cops.” More likely they thought, “See you can never trust fosters to follow through. I knew Mrs. Clark was wasting her time with those two.”

  Mrs. Clark. Is she who’s behind this? I keep trying to figure out who’s the mastermind. Mrs. Clark seemed like such a nice lady. But now everything she did seems suspicious. Why did she encourage us to get rid of our old clothes? If she never took us to the beach or the pool, why did she buy us swimsuits? She said once the school vacation started, she’d take us. But instead, Parminder came and told us we were moving and then that woman told us we were coming to this condo. Were Mrs. Clark and Parminder in it together? Or maybe it was just Parminder by herself? Mrs. Clark acted like she was completely shocked that we were leaving, like she had no idea we were being moved, but what if she was just faking us out? She looked shocked, but not surprised. Like she knew it was going to happen. Or what if she really was shocked and Parminder’s the one behind it? Parminder told Mrs. Clark that Barker or
dered the transfer. But why wouldn’t Barker have told us herself, before she left for wherever the fuck she was going? And who was the woman who actually drove us to the condo? She never introduced herself to us at all. Is she the mastermind?

  Perhaps it’s none of them. Maybe Mrs. Clark is just a loving foster mother, Parminder is the social work intern doing what she’s told, and the woman who drove us here was just doing someone a favor.

  Or maybe it was that woman. “Your ride fell through and we didn’t want you to miss out on such a great opportunity,” she said when she picked us up at the bus station. Who did she mean by “we?” Did she know what she was bringing us to? She seemed like a really nice lady, all excited for us. Was she just softening us up? She said she was a friend of John’s. But where is John? Is he the owner of this place? Is he the mastermind? But if he arranged it all, how did he get everyone to go along with his plan? You can’t just move two kids out of foster care without a ton of bureaucracy. So he must have the blessing of Child Welfare Services. How is he connected to them? And why hasn’t he come back? Why bring us here and then abandon us?

  At first, I was scared of what would happen when he came back. I thought maybe he was going to drug us up and turn us into prostitutes. Maybe that was his plan but then something happened to him. Part of me wants him to come back, and another part of me doesn’t. But what happens if the food runs out? At the beginning, we couldn’t believe how well stocked the fridge and larder were. We gorged on pizza and pasta, we ate cookies by the bagful. But now we’ve started to ration ourselves. Except that we have no idea how long the rations need to last. What if nobody ever comes back and we just starve to death?