New Worlds, Old Ways

by Peekash Press

  “I . . . ah, right,” he said after considerable hesitation. “Well, there’s no problem now. We know where he is, so we can call off the search. Go ahead and bring him back whenever you’re ready.”

  “Okay, I’ll do that. Thank you, Mr. Butler. I’m really sorry about this.”

  “I’d like to say it’s no trouble, but . . .” he stammered.

  “Yes, I appreciate how difficult this must be.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” I smiled into the mouthpiece. “Thank you, Mr. Butler.”

  “You’re welcome, Ms. Smith. Goodbye.”

  Before I’d put the handset in its cradle, I heard his voice, yelling faintly.

  “Yes? Mr. Butler?”

  “Ms. Smith, a request. When you bring him back in, would you have time for a short conversation about this?”

  “I think so.” I found myself nervously tapping my foot on the floor tiles.

  “That would be excellent,” he said. “Until then, Ms. Smith.”

  “Yes. Thanks again, Mr. Butler.”

  I turned to see my father smiling at me over what remained of the pancakes.

  “These are good!” he exclaimed.

  * * *

  Dad graciously suffered the long drive to Cider Oaks, but he became less and less talkative the nearer we got to it. In the end, he just silently watched the passing scenery with the interest of someone who was seeing it all for the first time.

  The nurses who greeted us at the cobblestone entrance fawned over my father as if he was some kind of celebrity. He hammed it up, even pinching one of them on the behind. I was mortified, but the nurse looked back and winked at me. It was clear that this was how they managed him.

  Only after my father and his entourage had wandered off did I notice a man standing near there.

  “Ms. Smith?” He approached me, offering a hand.

  “Yes. Mr. Butler is it? It’s nice to meet you.”

  I glanced at my watch.

  “I apologise, but I have to be at work in half an hour,” I explained.

  “That’s not a problem.” He nodded in sympathy. “This shouldn’t take more than five minutes.”

  He guided me into his office. Folders, binders and loose papers littered the desk’s scarred, laminate surface.

  “So, this is about my father’s ability to leave the nursing home undetected,” I began.

  “Yes. It’s definitely an issue of concern for us,” he replied. “And, I must be frank with you, we have no idea how he managed to visit your home last night.”

  He paused. “There’s more to this . . .”

  “More?”

  “Yes, this isn’t the first time your father has . . . relocated.”

  The way he uttered the word made it clear that it wasn’t his first choice.

  “What do you mean?” My fingernails were digging shallow ‘U’ marks into my handbag.

  He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk. His eyes were wide.

  “Ms. Smith. There’ve been five of these incidents.”

  “Five!” I shrieked. “Why am I just learning about this now?”

  “I’m sorry about that. We weren’t trying to deceive you, but so far, we’ve only considered administrative failures. People have already been terminated over this.”

  “What explanation could there be?” I began to tremble.

  “The first time this happened, your father was asleep in his room when the shift nurse checked. We keep the doors locked for the Alzheimer’s patients, because they can wander off and get disoriented.”

  I nodded. That had been a deciding factor for moving him to the nursing home.

  “But the next shift nurse, four hours later, found him hunting around in the recreation room, looking for someone named ‘Phillip’.”

  “The family dog.” I smiled.

  “Ah, that makes sense.” For a moment he seemed to flirt with the idea of asking why someone would name their dog ‘Phillip’, but decided against it.

  He continued. “A week after that, we found him wandering around the cafeteria. He claimed that he was looking for ice cream.”

  “He does like snacks,” I confirmed.

  “And then, less than a month ago, he was picked up by one of the security guards while walking along the fence in driving rain. When the guard spoke to him, your father just said something about it being ‘time to go home’. Do you have any idea what he might have meant by that?”

  I shrugged. “Not really, no.”

  He leaned back in his chair, which squeaked in protest.

  “Unfortunately,” he went on, “while we suspect that he’s simply managing to take advantage of unlatched doors and gates, our security video isn’t of sufficient quality to draw any conclusions. We’ve had a slew of problems with those cameras, despite replacing a bunch.”

  “And now this,” I mumbled, my throat suddenly dry.

  I stole a look at my watch and rose from the chair.

  “Mr. Butler, I think that we’ve run out of time.” I hadn’t heard anything that I wanted to hear.

  “Yes, of course, Ms. Smith.” He rose, offering his hand. “I trust we can resume this conversation in the near future?”

  “Yes, absolutely,” I confirmed, accepting the handshake.

  As I turned to leave, a question tugging at my conscience made me stop.

  “Mr. Butler, are you convinced that my father is still safe here?”

  “Certainly. We’re devoted to providing the necessary coverage, even if we need to allocate more staff.”

  His reassurance did nothing to allay my fears.

  As I drove away from the complex, I replayed the exchange in my mind, over and over.

  * * *

  I dreamed a telephone was ringing, only to find it to be real. In my sleep, I had clutched the satin pillowcase so desperately that the blood had drained from my fingertips. Perspiration had soaked through my pajamas.

  “Hello!” I tried to sound civil.

  “Miss Smith?” The voice on the other end sounded distressed.

  “Ms. What time is it?”

  “Ms. Smith, this is Rebecca at Cider Oaks. Your father is not in his room, or anywhere on the grounds. Is he there with you? I’m so sorry to have to call you like this,” she gasped, scarcely taking a breath between sentences.

  “No, no. He’s not here.”

  “Ms. Smith, we have no clue as to where he might be. Please let us know if he turns up there.”

  “Okay, I . . . Wait. Wasn’t someone watching him?”

  “Oh, oh,” she interrupted. “The police are here now, Ms. Smith. I have to talk to them. Can I call you back?”

  “Yes, of course,” I stammered.

  I’d scarcely had the time to start imagining all the terrible outcomes when the phone rang again.

  “Rebecca, did you find . . . ?” I began.

  “Tanya! Tanya, is that you?” The caller was shouting.

  “Yes. YES!” I yelled. “Who is this?”

  “Tanya! This is Deborah Tang. Do you remember me?”

  Recognition was gradual, but the woman’s voice was tied to many of my childhood memories.

  “Mrs. Tang!” I said at last. “Yes, of course I remember you. How are you?”

  I recalled the woman’s living room and her daughters, Mindy and Anh–and the smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on Sunday afternoons.

  “Tanya, your father is at the house! Did you know? He’s trying to get inside, but it’s all boarded up. He’s trying to get in but I don’t want him to get hurt!”

  I tried not to dwell on how my father had managed to travel more than a hundred kilometres from the nursing home to the place where we’d once been a family. I had been heartbroken when I signed the contract for the house to become someone else’s. In the end, though, the family who bought it also failed to hang onto it.

  “I’m telling the police now, Mrs. Tang,” I said. “They’re going to come an
d help him, okay?”

  “Tell them not to hurt him,” she insisted. “He’s so nice. Tell them to be careful.”

  “I will, Mrs. Tang. Thank you so much!”

  * * *

  “Bobbi! I’m okay! There’s nothing wrong with me,” my father insisted. His eyes wandered around the room.

  I stood outside the holding cell. They’d put him in it “for his safety”, they said, but I could still barely contain my rage as I watched them unlock the barred door.

  I waited patiently as police officers released him.

  “It’s alright now, Dad. We’re just going to get you back to the nursing home, okay?”

  “I just want to go home, Bobbi,” he said, hurt and fear in his face.

  “I know, Daddy,” I said. “It’s okay.”

  I felt heartbroken again, as I helped his once strong body climb into the passenger seat of my car.

  * * *

  We drove in silence while he slowly calmed down. I was relieved when at last he fell asleep, snoring rhythmically, though the long journey to Cider Oaks was lonely without a conversation to fill the air, even recycled stories from the past.

  I drove on, but when I turned to look at his sleeping form, he vanished without a whisper. I didn’t register his disappearance at first. I could see the passenger seat where his tall frame should have been and the night view beyond the window pane was starkly unobscured. Red and white vehicle lights danced in the glass.

  I screamed so much that I couldn’t continue driving. The tires screeched in protest, and only grace allowed me to stop the car without crashing into something. My fingertips uselessly clutched the steering wheel, without sensation. The engine’s idling rumble filled a nighttime stillness, only broken occasionally by the wail of far-off truck tires.

  I stared at the vacant passenger seat, willing it to magically yield back my father.

  After some time, I gathered my senses enough to resume driving back to the house that Alec had deserted. I pondered who to call, who would believe me.

  I’d barely crossed the threshold when I saw the answering machine’s blinking red light.

  Hesitantly, I pressed the winking button.

  “Mrs. Smith . . .” began the first message, “this is Sergeant Yates at Brookline police station. Your father appears to have returned to your old family home . . .”

  I skipped the message, unable to bear listening to it.

  “Tanya! This is Deborah Tang . . .”

  Again I pressed the skip button.

  “Ms. Smith, Greg Butler here. Your father appeared here briefly . . .”

  Sobbing, I pressed the skip button once more.

  “Toots . . .”

  I froze, my finger suspended motionless.

  “Daddy? Daddy? Is that you?”

  “I stopped by the house,” his voice continued, “but Bobbi and your mom aren’t there . . .”

  “I know, Dad,” I bleated. “Bobbi and Mom are dead. Phillip’s dead . . .”

  “So I’m going to go and find them. It won’t take long, though, so don’t worry.”

  It had been years since I heard my father speak with authority like that. He sounded like the father who’d carried me on his shoulders, whose knee I’d bounced on. The first man to tell me I was beautiful.

  “No, Dad. Come here to me,” I pleaded. “They’ve all gone, it’s just us now. Stay with me, Daddy, I need you!”

  “. . . I love you, baby. I’ll be back soon. Be good, okay?”

  “Daddy, don’t go,” I bawled, but the message had ended.

  * * *

  Months later, there still was no sign of him. There were no more calls or messages. No sightings.

  Cider Oaks ended their involvement after the police investigation eliminated any culpability on their part. I could only imagine how ecstatic they’d become once their liability ended.

  Evidently, the answering machine’s recording was the only thing that stood between me and a murder charge. I guffawed when a detective admitted that to me, the sudden outburst provoking a look normally reserved for the certifiably insane.

  I didn’t get fired, though. Miraculously. Though I spent my working days mindlessly processing reams of unremarkable paperwork, I was, to my amazement, still able to get the job done correctly.

  Months passed, but the hole in my heart didn’t seem to diminish much, though I hadn’t expected it would.

  Then one mild Saturday afternoon, as I was vacantly watching reruns of some once popular comedy, lying on the couch, wrapped to the neck in a ratty blanket, a voice in my head suddenly wondered if there was any mail in the roadside mailbox.

  Just as suddenly, I found myself standing at the curb, next to that very mailbox, with the blanket still draped around me. The TV remote control dangled loosely from my fingertips. Condensed breath puffed from my nostrils into the cool air. A runner took note of my still blanketed attire, but that was the only attention I seemed to have attracted.

  I opened the creaky mailbox lid and extracted the two or three envelopes that had collected there. Slowly, as the shock abated, a calm understanding remained in its place.

  For the first time in years I began to beam, grinning broadly enough to make the muscles in my cheeks cramp.

  Above the quiet rustling of autumn leaves, I whispered, “It’s okay, Daddy, I’ll just come to you.”

  Brian Franklin

  Quaka-Hadja

  Barbados

  Lia stared into the mirror, plucking at her Kanekalon eyebrows beneath a pale light. Her body jerked with each movement of her arms. Although well-made, the tweezers wouldn’t work: never fully depressing when she squeezed (try as best as she could), and slipping from her fingers to poke one eye or the other. She screwed up her face and tried again. This time she managed to grab a hair before the tweezers shot from her hand and skittered beneath the sink.

  Sighing, she felt about for the tweezers on creaking knees, finding them just as she was about to give up.

  She took up the magazine again to compare her work with the glossy image of the pouting woman with the thin, high eyebrows. She fought back another sigh. What more she could do? Perhaps she’d be better off plucking out all the hairs and painting two lines in their place.

  The little clock on the wall chirped. Oh nine hundred already? She pressed off the alarm, wondering where the night had gone. With one last look at the mirror she tucked the tweezers behind her left ear and turned to leave.

  The light flashed, then the room went dark. She wrapped her hands about herself, shivering until it came back on. Yuh t’ink something wrong with the turbine? Maybe the wires get fray?

  She headed for the study.

  Dust lingered in the bars of light leaking through the shuttered windows. Before the furthest bookcase a man sat in a wide leather chair, his feet propped on a pouffe. She brushed the chair’s peeling skin from his shoulders. “So, wha’ yuh t’ink?” she asked. She nudged him, smiled at him, but he didn’t reply. Father said little these days.

  He seemed to return her smile, though, and she grinned. “I did reading the magz like yuh say. Mum’s in there, yuh did know dah?” She took one from the stack on the coffee table nearby, flipped through the pages until she came upon the coquettish gaze of a dark woman who looked almost like her. She held it up to him. “Look, she right here so! I gine be real pretty like she jes’ now, and then we can go watch them moobies yuh always talking ’bout with all yuh friends.”

  She rested the magazine back on the stack, stepped closer to the old man. For a little while she plucked grey hairs from his beard–the tweezers always worked better on him–and brushed dust from his haggard face. She put down the tweezers and held his left hand in both of hers.

  “Yuh hungry? I gine mek we breakfast. I know it ain’t never nuh good, but I getting better, see? I coming back jes’ now.”

  The tap-tap of her footsteps on the kitchen tiles seemed louder than ever. Lia flicked the light switch but the room remained in shadow. Oh n
o! It mash up! She rubbed the knots in her arms, over and over. The motion calmed her. She glanced up at the fluorescent lights sunk in the paint-bubbled ceiling. They had been flickering of late but she had changed them and they seemed fine. Wha’ wrong with them now? I gotta try and fix them lata.

  She hurried to the windows to open the curtains.

  Through the frosted glass she could make out little besides the impressions of shapes, hear nothing but the wind soughing past the cracks in the pane. Once, she had believed a whole city stood out there. Glimmering buildings like those of Paris or New York.

  “No, Lia,” Father’s voice came back to her. “Jes’ sand and ash. And memory.”

  Behind her, the shadows had softened, curling away from the light. She went to the cupboard and threw open the doors. Nibbled her thumbs as she considered its contents.

  Tins of meat, bottles of oil, boxes of tea, biscuits, rice. She would have to restock soon, but this should be enough for a little while, wouldn’t it? Father had never told her where he shopped.

  Lia reached for a can of corned beef with her left hand but found that her fingers were stiff, clumsy, her elbow grinding and popping. Using her right instead, she took out the can, a bottle of honey and a pack of crackers and rested them on the counter.

  She pried off the tin’s top with a tin-opener she found in the drawer, sniffed the meat. It smelled like nothing. She ripped open the pack of biscuits with a knife and spread the meat between two wafers. The meat’s texture was as tough as she was used to, so it was still good, right? She drizzled honey about it. A bit of sweetness he wouldn’t expect! She smiled and for a moment her eyes drifted towards the stove.

  She had never used it.

  “Keep from oil and fire, you hear me!” Father had said on more than one occasion, sometimes as he stood by the kitchen window staring into his past reflected in its frost, or hunched over her creaking legs in the workshop.

  “Why?” she would ask.

  “You’s jes’ a quaka-hadja,” he would say. Half in a whisper, almost to himself. “Jes’ a lil puppet. Wood and old bone and plastic and steel. Ain’t really complete neither. A.I. need wuk. Cahn smell, taste . . . not yet.” He would sigh. “Still half a woman.”

  She would stare at him, blinking plastic eyelids under the white light. A question would form on her lips, but seeing it and running his fingers along the knots in her arms he would reply, “Jes’ do as I say, hear?”