“Oh my,” my mother exclaimed. “This is way too late for his nap. That baby won’t sleep tonight.”
“He played himself out. I’m going to let him sleep.”
“But, Claire…”
“Mom, it’s fine.” My voice did nothing to hide my annoyance. She stiffened and returned to placing each piece of silverware on a perfectly folded napkin.
“Sorry, Mom. It’s been a long day.”
No response followed. Now that I’d offended her, I couldn’t ask her to watch the kids. I’d have to take them with me and leave them with one of the neighbors. That meant leaving the city, driving forty-five minutes home and timing it so it would match my work routine, picking up the kids, driving back to Molly’s, and returning to the city. Did I have the energy for that? I didn’t, but that couldn’t deter me. I had to be at Three Rivers Mission for their five o’clock opening.
~*~
The next morning, my mother appeared to have forgotten my offensive retort or perhaps forgiven me. Before leaving for what she thought was work, I asked her if she would mind if I met some friends for dinner and came home late.
Her eyes lit up as she said, “Certainly, dear. Have a nice time.”
Let her assume I would meet Jonathan. It made my day a whole lot easier.
I pulled my car into Molly’s driveway at eight thirty as planned, my eyes avoiding the other side of the street. This morning I couldn’t bear to see someone else living in my home. When she didn’t come right out, I went to the door. Jan opened it, and I heard voices from the kitchen.
“Come on in. We have a slight change in plans.”
Inside, I found Molly, Jan, and Rebecca setting a table with quiche, fresh fruit salad, and muffins.
“Can’t start out without a little energy. We’re going to enjoy some breakfast, and then we’re all going to town.” The aroma of coffee filled the room. Fresh blackberries, strawberries, and kiwi topped the salad. A bowl filled with floating candles and fall blossoms were placed in the center. It presented like a table my mother would set, prim and proper with a little flair. Tears sprung to my eyes.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
Rebecca stepped up to hug me. “We’ll find him. Don’t worry. He’s never been a match against all of us. When we gang up, he knows we’ll win.”
Despite the party atmosphere, it was a somber day. We finished eating and loaded into Jan’s SUV. We planned to go out two by two, starting with Molly and me, Jan and Rebecca. Streets were divided up by geography. We would meet at noon at The Point to compare notes. We all had cell phones in case by some miracle, we spotted Andrew.
For the second day in a row, my feet ached and my spirit sank.
“No one knows him. The photo is current, the way he looks now, not with him cleaned up and dressed in business clothes. And in the same corner where Jason saw him. What do I do now?”
Molly draped her arm across my slumped shoulders. “Stand firm, Claire. Jason saw him twice. He’ll appear again.
Jan and Rebecca hurried across the intersection before the light changed back to red. Jan waved her notebook for us to see.
“We got a lead,” she called from a distance. When they got close enough, she opened the notebook.
“Two people recognized him. One guy who looked like a businessman of some sort, said he had seen him a few times, always with an older man, but couldn’t remember an exact location. But here’s the big one.”
She motioned to Rebecca to share. “We talked to a man who looked more like a street person. He told us that he saw him at breakfast many times at St. John’s Episcopal Church. We went over to the church and talked with a few people. Seems the City Outreach serves breakfast there every weekday beginning at six o’clock.”
This was Friday. Monday was a workday. Could I arrange something for Monday? I’d already called off today and couldn’t mess up this job.
Andrew had been gone a year. It would have to wait one more day.
20
Scott Harrington
I parked near the ER entrance and walked past the crowded waiting room. I didn’t see D.J. in the waiting area, so I made my way to find Pete.
Pete was no longer in ICU. They’d moved him into his own room. D.J. sat in a chair near the window, a curtain separating Pete from the empty bed in the front of the room. I walked in, peeking around the curtain to see Pete, the head of his bed with a slight incline. The oxygen mask dangled from the clear tubing beside the bed.
“Well how-de-do there, Scotty.” Pete’s thundering voice had become a raspy whisper. With a feeble effort, he lifted his hand to mine. I took it for the briefest moment.
“You’re looking good today. Lots better than the last time I saw you.”
“And feelin’ better, too. That there young doc is comin’ in to sign me out any time now.”
“We don’t know that, Pete,” D.J. spoke up. “The nurse said he’s coming in to talk, not to sign you out.”
“Well there ain’t no reason to keep a man a’layin’ in bed when he’s done got hisself better.”
“Let’s hear him out. You’re feeling better because they have all this medicine flowing through you.” D.J. pointed toward the IV line.
“That? It’s some water to keep me peeing. I don’t know why they’s always wantin’ to save that stuff.”
I shook my head and stifled a laugh. What a character. Never wanting for more than he had. We could all learn from Old Pete.
He launched into one of his coughing spells, causing the nurse to hurry into the room. He waved her off as he had done with me on occasion. She paid him no mind, and with skilled hands, covered the lower half of his face with the oxygen mask.
When his coughing stopped, she prepared an injection for his IV. Looking at his hospital wristband, she asked, “Name and date of birth?”
“Yinz done asked me that already.”
“And we’ll be asking you again and again. You wouldn’t want me to be giving you the wrong meds, would you?”
“No, ma’am. I’m Pete Simmons, born in 1947.”
“Good. When’s your birthday, Pete?”
He sighed, demonstrating his boredom with the question. “August 25th. Same as I told yinz before.”
Pete tugged at the mask.
The nurse playfully swatted his hand. “You leave that be. Doctor will be here in a minute, and he better see you with oxygen.”
With that, she emptied the syringe into his IV line.
“Deej, I done told ’em you’s my kin,” Pete mumbled through the mask. “Don’t say ya ain’t, or they might not let me outta here.” As if in a flash of inspiration, he turned toward me.
“Scotty, you can be my kin, too. I got me two sons. Ain’t that sumpin’?”
When the doctor arrived, he shook hands with D.J. and then me and asked, “Are you family?”
Pete answered for us.
“Yep, they’s my kin, all the kin I got.”
The doctor cocked his head and gave Pete a knowing gaze. “OK.” He pulled up a chair and indicated we might want to do the same. Opening his laptop, he made a few clicks. “Pete, you had a serious attack on your lungs.”
“Sure did, Doc. And look how quick yinz got me feelin’ better.” He pulled off the mask. “That daggone nurse was a’thinkin’ I needed this thing.”
The corner of the doctor’s mouth rose. “Well you can keep it off for now, but remember, that nurse is part of the reason you’re feeling better.”
“Oh, yesirree. I ain’t meanin’ no disrespect.”
“Pete, you have lung cancer. I’m sorry to have to bring you this news. Your cancer appears to be in an advanced stage. We’re waiting for the full biopsy report to identify the exact type and stage, but a team of physicians concur and are confident that it’s non-small cell lung cancer in stage four. That’s the most common type. We know both lungs are impacted, as well as the tissues surrounding the lungs. More testing would show us if other organs have been affected.”
> He paused to let us absorb that news. “I’m going to give you some options for treatment and our recommendations. A hospital social worker will be joining us to provide some options for non-medical arrangements.”
“Slow down there, Doc. Yinz ain’t a’plannin’ none of that chemo-type stuff, are you?”
“It’s a big part of the treatment plan, Pete. We would like to start with radiation to shrink the tumors and follow with a series of sequential chemotherapy treatments.”
“No, siree. I ain’t a’gettin’ that stuff. Saw what it did to my wife and didn’t help her anyways. No, sir. I’ll be a’gettin’ goin when you sign them there papers.”
“You mentioned the social worker,” D.J. said to the doctor. “Obviously, Pete can’t pay for his care. Are there some options for help? Assisted living? Rehab? Anything that addresses needs of those in the poverty range?”
The doctor turned his attention toward D.J. and nodded. “There are, and I’ll let her give you all of that information. I know Pete is without a home, and I know he has an alcohol addiction. We saw signs of withdrawal and have kept him well sedated, but those signs are going to resurface. A rehab facility is the best option to deal with that.”
The doctor’s fingers flew over the keyboard, logging anything pertinent from this conversation.
“Now just you two be a’waitin’. Don’t be makin’ plans to put me somewhere. I got me a home, and I’m heading on down there today. I got all I’ll be needin’.”
The doctor turned toward him. “Pete, does that home have heat? It’s October, almost November. An unheated building will accelerate your condition and you’ll be right back here.”
“You ain’t givin’ me none of that chemo stuff.” With his bottom lip jutted out, head tilted downward, he looked like a sulking child.
“Doctor, what’s the outlook for Pete if he does follow your suggested treatment plan? Would it make a difference?” D.J. ignored Pete’s outburst.
“It would shrink the tumors and provide his lungs with a little more breathing capacity. At this stage, the condition is terminal. It’s a matter of when. Some people choose to be treated and have as long as we can give them. Pete’s not the first to say no. It’s a harsh treatment.”
“See, I done told you that stuff ain’t no good.” Pete jumped in.
“How long?” D.J. asked, ignoring Pete.
“Only God knows that answer, but from my experience, with treatment, three to six months. Without treatment and maintaining his current lifestyle, I wouldn’t expect two weeks.”
“What if he had no treatment, but a better living arrangement, like a rehab or comfortable home?”
“We have drugs that can help the breathing but won’t deal with the cancer. It will grow and take his life. But with a better home situation and pharmacological help, I’d guess two months. We can never say for sure.”
D.J. turned to Pete. “Pete, you’re not leaving today. We need to find a better place for you.”
“You put me in one of them there nursing home places, and I’ll be a’walkin’ out. And I ain’t doing no chemo.”
“No chemo. But we need to talk about finding you someplace warmer.”
“We can keep him here for another day or two to better stabilize him, but that’s all I can do,” the doctor addressed D.J. once again. “Without a treatment plan in place, I have to release him. We can’t serve as a care facility.”
“I understand. I’ll have a solution in two days’ time. What about the withdrawal?”
“He’ll have signs, but we’ll treat as best we can. We can reduce symptoms but can’t eliminate them.”
The doctor shook hands with D.J. and me, gave Pete a pat on the shoulder, and left us to wait for the social worker. Pete pouted like an angry child, his voice gaining strength.
“I never thought I’d see the day when my own kin would be a’turnin’ on me.”
I laughed. “We’re not your kin, Pete.”
“You sure ain’t, and yinz ain’t a’getting’ nothing in my will.”
We all laughed at that, even Pete. When he drifted off to sleep, we stepped outside the room.
“What are you thinking, D.J.?”
“I need to try to find his daughter. That’s the only possibility besides a facility. I’m not sure where to start.”
“Let me do the footwork there. I’ve got some connections.” That reminded both of us that today I would be bringing D.J. some answers. But with perfect timing, the social worker showed up.
I offered to do what I do best. “Hey, I’ll get working on finding Mary Anne. You can gather some info here.”
“Mary Anne Simmons, maiden name. Last known address was Monroeville.”
“If I find her, do you want me to make contact?”
“Yeah, I’ll have my hands full keeping the old man in bed.”
I headed to the parking garage, trying to determine the best way to start. Government offices would be closed for the weekend. I would have to do an Internet search. I retrieved my car and headed toward home. With limited time, I needed to avoid any distractions.
An hour later, I suggested Tyler take Ginger for a walk, and then I sat at my computer. I turned my phone off since neither D.J. nor the hospital had my number anyway. It didn’t take long to find her. Vital records, genealogy sites, and white pages all provided some leads. Three Mary Anne Simmons had been born in and around Pittsburgh in the past fifty years. Vital records showed which one had been born to Jewel and Peter Simmons. She later married and became Mary Anne Williams, divorced, and remarried a man with the last name of Marshall.
I debated calling or just showing up. I decided on the phone call but received an out-of-service message. Probably disconnected the landline.
There was no other choice then. I hopped in the car and set out to find the daughter of old Pete Simmons.
The GPS took me to a subdivision east of Pittsburgh. Most of the houses were modest brick ranch homes with some mature foliage. Not high end, but well kept. The house that I hoped still belonged to Mary Anne had a play gym inside a fenced yard. The lone swing set held a toddler seat with a small plastic slide beside it. Other toys lay scattered in the grass. Pete may be a grandpa. What would he say about that?
I rang the bell and a pregnant lady, much too young to be Pete’s daughter, opened the door.
“Hi, I’m looking for Mary Anne Marshall. Is this the right home?”
“Yeah.” She turned her head and called, “Mom, a man here to see you.”
Mary Anne came to the door, drying her hands on a dishtowel. She wore the fatigued look of one whose life hadn’t been easy. Her eyes appeared tired but soft. Maybe the heaviness of life hadn’t calloused her spirit.
“I’m Mary Anne Marshall. How can I help you?”
“My name is Scott Harrington. Can I talk with you about your father?”
She took a step back and her eyes narrowed. “You’re at the wrong house. I don’t have a father.”
She started to close the door, but I didn’t back up.
“Pete Simmons? Is he your father?”
She turned and checked for her daughter, tossed the dishtowel on a chair, and stepped out onto the porch. She clicked the door behind her and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Peter Simmons is my father. I haven’t seen him in years. I don’t know where he is or if he’s even still alive.”
“He’s alive. He’s in Allegheny General. He’s ill.”
She sat on the porch swing and indicated I should sit in the chair facing her.
“What’s wrong with him, cirrhosis of the liver?” The sarcasm hung heavy.
“No. Lung cancer. Stage four.”
The swing rocked back and forth. She lowered her head and then lifted her gaze to me.
“Mr. Harrington, I can’t help you. I’m sorry he’s sick, but Pete Simmons is a stranger to me. No, let me restate that. He’s not a stranger. He’s the man who was out drinking every night after my mother, his wife, had
chemo. I was fifteen. I’d hold her head over the toilet while she vomited from the treatments, trying to keep her pain at bay without giving her too much of her medication. Sometime after that, he would stagger in too drunk to walk straight. On a good night, he’d pass out. On a bad night, I’d be cleaning up after him. Fifteen years old.”
For once, I had no words. “I’m so sorry.”
“He was drunk when she died, drunk at the funeral, and drunk when DSS came and removed me from the home. No, I can’t help you, and I don’t want to see him.”
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “I’m not going to tell you he’s stopped drinking. He hasn’t. But I will tell you he’s not an ugly drunk, no meanness in him. He’s happy most of the time. Doesn’t ask for anything. He seems contented with what he has.”
“And what exactly is that? Where does he live? How does he work?”
She didn’t know.
“He’s homeless. He lives on the streets in Pittsburgh, sleeps in a vacant shed. Panhandles for a little cash.”
She shook her head back and forth. “Unbelievable. What do you want from me? What are you hoping will happen here?”
“Pete’s terminal. If he had a place to live, he might have around two months left. If he goes back to the cold shed, it’s doubtful he’ll last a week. I hoped he could die with a little dignity in a home with family.”
I asked the impossible, but it had to be asked. To her credit, she took some time before answering. No flat-out rejection. She sat staring at the porch floor, the swing stilled by her feet.
“Mr. Harrington—”
“Scott,” I corrected.
Her softness returned but merged with a sadness. “Scott, I know this is going to make me sound like a terrible person, but I can’t. My daughter is about to give birth, I have a toddler to watch, my husband travels for his business. I don’t have the space or emotional energy to have my father come here.”
“I understand.” I nodded and then stood to leave. “Thank you for giving me some time, and I’m sorry I opened old wounds.”
Mary Anne stood as well. “Does he have anyplace else to go?”
“We’re talking with social services to see if there’s a facility that will take him.”
The Least of These. Page 13