Getting Old Can Hurt You

by Rita Lakin

  Bella chuckles and shakes a finger at her. ‘You forgot. Nose to nose. Nose to nose.’

  ‘That’s nose to toes,’ Evvie reminds her.

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Shut up,’ says Sophie, in a lather of self-pity.

  Surprisingly, Ida stops us at the door. ‘Wait!’

  What’s this? We turn and stare at her.

  ‘If I had told you my pathetic story years ago, when I moved here, you would have had nothing to do with me.’ Ida bends over, breathless, as if her body no longer has bones, as if there is nothing left inside her heart.

  I am reminded of the few hints Ida gave me about her past when she first came to live here. But I realized there was so much she left out. I never pressed her for more.

  For a few moments we stand there, surprised. We don’t know what to say or do.

  ‘If I tell you now, you’ll hate me.’

  Evvie says, ‘Nonsense, nothing you can tell us will change how we love you.’ We take turns reassuring Ida that we’d always stay friends.

  I think about Tori. I was surprised at myself for my harsh feelings about her. But I felt that anyone who hurt my friends hurt me. And Tori was hurting Ida.

  Now, maybe we’ll find out why.

  Ida faces us, her expression grim. It’s about time I told you the truth. All of it. Every miserable bit of it.’

  ELEVEN

  Ida’s Story

  We are in Evvie’s apartment. Our laundry baskets filled with clean clothes wait for us at her door. It was time to leave the crowded, claustrophobic laundry room. We need space to let Ida breathe. Evvie’s apartment is a perfect choice. Everything she surrounds herself with reflects her positive attitude toward life. Bright-colored accessories, and of course, her favorite posters; with her love of movies and the theater. The ones that please me most are posters of Bette Davis in All About Eve, Katherine Hepburn in Stage Door, and the always wonderful Meryl Streep in Sophie’s Choice. Leave it to my sister to be attracted to strong women’s roles.

  Evvie serves us all chamomile tea in an attempt to relax us. Especially Ida, but she is still shaky. She needs to talk and we need to listen.

  We sip our tea, waiting for her to start. And fifteen minutes goes by.

  Bella looks to me for guidance. She doesn’t understand why no one is saying anything. I seat myself on the couch next to her and whisper in her ear, ‘Shh, Bella, Ida needs to tell us things, and they are very important.’ I reach out and give her a quick peck on the cheek. Reassured, she scoots her body further back into the pillows, making herself comfortable.

  She and Sophie share smiles as they reach for cookies to go with their tea.

  Ida, standing up, suddenly looks at all of us, as if she’d been in a trance and just woken up. She pulls her shoulders back as if preparing her body for battle. Her words pour out, as fragile as her body. I get the feeling she’s ready to spill her guts, and will be unable to stop herself. No matter how long it takes, we’ll listen. We are glued to her words.

  ‘Once upon a time,’ Ida says with irony, ‘there was a very happy family. My darling daughter, Helen, and her sweet, kind husband, Fred, and my two adorable grandchildren. They had bought one of the charming new tract houses over the hill from Los Angeles in a fast-growing area known as the San Fernando Valley. So Murray and I bought there as well; we moved in half a block away. The other grandparents, Fred’s mom and dad, Max and Gertrude Steiner, did the same. Three blocks further. It was glorious, going back and forth in each other’s houses. Holidays. Birthdays. So much laughter. So much joy. So much love. We all assumed we’d live happily ever after just a few doorways apart.’

  Bella claps her hands. ‘I love hearing stories, just like when I was a little girl and my mom took me to Saturday story-time in the library.’

  Sophie throws a pillow at her. Evvie shoots her a dirty look. I put my finger on my lips. Everyone lets her know she should be quiet.

  ‘Sorry,’ she whispers, covering her mouth, telling us she got the message.

  Ida is so into her story, she isn’t aware of the interruption. ‘Such good years. Year after year after year. We thought it would last forever.

  ‘Then everything changed. The bubble burst. Banks failed. The whole neighborhood died. The country went downhill.’

  Ida stops. Evvie refills Ida’s cup of tea. Her friend’s hands are shaking.

  ‘Hard years. People out of work. Fred lost his job. Even Max and Murray were struggling in those difficult times. I had no idea what my daughter and son-in-law were up to. When I was with them, they put on a brave face.’

  Bella leans forward. Sophie shifts her body around to get more comfortable.

  ‘I found out that, in his desperation, Fred got in with some bad people and soon they were growing and selling marijuana. And, to everyone’s shock, Helen became pregnant again. Later-in-life motherhood, with girls in their teens. That frightened me into worrying even more.’

  My girls are hanging on Ida’s every word.

  Ida paces. We watch her, breathless, for moments, unable to say anything. She turns and faces us again. Her eyes, staring at nothing.

  ‘I found out about the marijuana. I was terrified that they would get caught with the plants growing in their back yard. I begged them to stop. It was against the law. They wouldn’t listen. The money was keeping them alive.

  ‘It was then I did something so stupid. I made the decision that changed all of our lives. I called the cops and reported them! Turned in my own children!’

  Suddenly Sophie’s hand shoots up. ‘I need to go to the bathroom.’ She gets the response she expects. Now? When Ida is telling us this! She sees it on all their faces.

  Sophie gets up from her chair with the help of her cane.

  As she hurries from the room she says, ‘I’ll be right back.’

  The mood is broken. Bella gets up to stretch. Evvie joins her. I look at Ida. She stares back at me with tears in her eyes.

  Sophie is as good as her word. She hurries back ‘Sorry. Sorry.’ And takes her seat again.

  Ida turns back to us.

  Evvie has to say something. She can’t wait. ‘Why would you do that?’

  In agony, Ida responds, ‘How many times have I asked myself the same question?

  ‘I didn’t think. I panicked. My daughter and her husband, so young, so naïve. So gullible. Who knew what kinds of people were giving them dangerous ideas? I wanted to tear those plants right out of their ground. With two children and one more coming, I thought them so foolish. I pleaded day and night. Give up that dangerous game. Things will get better. I promised.

  ‘But I was the foolish one. I kept hearing horror stories of how dangerous drugs were. I called the police, afraid that if the kids were caught at it, it would be worse for them. At the time, I assumed compassionate cops would slap their wrists and give them a warning. Just to teach them a lesson. And that they would go especially easy on them, with Helen being pregnant.

  ‘I had no idea that my poor misguided children were way past marijuana; they had robbed a bank! Unbelievable – robbed a bank! How could that be? A major crime. The police hadn’t known the identities of the couple who had robbed the bank, until my showing up conveniently revealed their names.’

  Ida sobs, ‘They chased after my pregnant daughter as if she was a dangerous criminal! Found her, arrested her! She gave birth to her baby in a prison cell! Then she was given up to twenty years in prison! My poor Helen.

  ‘My fault. All my fault!’

  She’s shaking. I help her to a seat.

  I ask what we must all be thinking, ‘What about Fred?’

  She can barely get the words out. ‘He tried to escape, but they had been trapped in a rain culvert and it flooded and he drowned. They never found his body.’

  The girls can hardly bear it, listening to Ida pour her heart out.

  Ida, deep into her memories, goes on. ‘So, there I was, riddled with guilt and, irony of ironies, Helen begged me to take car
e of all the children. Me. How could I refuse? How could I tell her, her own mother was the one who’d turned them in?

  ‘Murray and I moved into Helen and Fred’s once happy home. Once we realized that Helen would be away for years, we sold our house. Max and Gertrude promised to help, but they didn’t. Fred’s death changed them; made them shrivel up and retreat into themselves.

  ‘I was not so young anymore. It was hard caring for two frightened and confused misbehaving teenage girls and a brand-new baby. A colicky baby who kept me up nights with her crying.

  ‘Then Murray got sick. No, worse than that, it was terminal. Then I was sharing those sleepless nights not only with a crying baby, but tending to a husband slowly dying.

  ‘When Murray died not long after, on a miserable stormy January day, I lost it.

  ‘Immediately after the funeral, I called Gertrude and told her I was leaving and that she and Max were to take care of the children. I hung up, not giving her any chance of refusing.

  ‘I ran away and had a nervous breakdown, fifty miles later. The doctors in my rehab hospital finally told me, after many painful months, that I was well enough and I should go back into the real world.

  ‘Coward, that I was, I could never face that world again. I felt I had burned my bridges forever. And then, not knowing where else to go. Three thousand miles later, I showed up here.’

  Ida stops, exhausted.

  Her head is bowed. Ida is through talking.

  I can’t just sit there; I get up to hug my friend. The girls instantly join me and we encircle Ida with our love.

  Every one of us is sobbing.

  Later that day, I try to tell Jack some of what transpired in that emotional morning. And I cry again. He wants to know why I’m crying. I can’t explain it. I tell him I can’t talk about it now; it hurts too much. He comforts me, lovingly, and doesn’t try to press me. And then asks the question that’s on all of our minds: ‘Have you found out why Tori is here?’

  I have only a partial answer. But not now, my darling, not now.

  TWELVE

  Jack and Gladdy at Dinner

  The next night, over a delicious favorite meal of Jack’s – chicken fricassee, wild rice and steamed broccoli – I try to tell Jack what transpired in yesterday’s tense event. ‘Tried’ is the operative word.

  He asks, ‘You spent all those hours in the laundry room? Wasn’t that tiny room claustrophobic?’

  ‘We moved out when the laundry was done and went over to Evvie’s.’

  ‘How did that work out, being that your sister is the Queen of Clutter?’

  ‘It wasn’t a problem. She’d had cleaned that morning. Ida unburdened herself—’

  Jack interrupts me again, something unusual for him. ‘Could you pass the ketchup?’

  ‘Since when do you ever pour ketchup on your chicken? What’s going on? Why are you side-tracking me?’

  Jack leans back in his chair. ‘Are you listening to yourself?’

  ‘What does that mean – listening to myself? I assumed I was speaking and you were listening to me.’

  ‘I have a question for you which will be worth twenty points on your scoreboard, if you’re right.’

  What is the matter with him; it’s so not like him? ‘What scoreboard? What points? What are you raving about?’

  ‘That’s my point. It’s what you’re talking about. Okay, here goes. What did we talk about at breakfast this morning? That’s my question.’

  I put down my knife and fork and hope my meal doesn’t get cold. This chicken dish is one of those dishes that takes a lot of prep time. And should be eaten definitely very warm.

  I think about what answer to give, regardless of how annoyed I am. ‘Well, as usual, first I worked on my Sunday crossword puzzle.’ About my puzzle. I always start it on Sunday, but it stays on the table all week long, until completed. ‘I asked you for some answers that you might know, on subjects you excel in.’ Politics, sports, crime, macho-male stuff. Smart guy, you helped me fill in some blanks.

  He pretends to be a buzzer. Buzzing me – wrong.

  ‘Not about the puzzle?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Well, we did discuss the editorial page from that same Sunday paper.’

  ‘Not even close.’

  ‘Will this game stop before my chicken gets cold?’

  ‘Up to you. Haven’t given me the right answer yet. The puzzle and news page took only about fifteen minutes. Breakfast lasted for about forty minutes. What else did we talk about?’

  I stop and eat bits of food, an act of rebellion. I want to make my point. Eat it warm and now.

  ‘Okay, I’ll give you a clue. When did Tori get here?’

  Me, being petty, ‘That’s a different question.’

  Jack takes a few bites to humor me. ‘The answer to that side question is – less than a week ago. When you came home from your deli brunch that day, it was all about the new kid who’d showed up unexpectedly, and her odd response to Ida and that rather remarkable sentence tossed out about someone maybe who wants to kill her.

  ‘Then we had the group afternoon session in Ida’s apartment, with Tori doing her naked-I’m-gonna-shock-you tough-kid extravaganza.

  ‘It was followed by that same evening, after dinner at our place, being barraged by the usual suspects and what was it about? Why, it was part two of the Tori and Ida show.

  ‘I can do a day-by day breakdown of the same rigmarole, with the big after-laundry cry session, leading up to this very morning’s breakfast. Do you get my drift?’

  I am startled. He’s right, he’s absolutely right. Tori and Ida and their war have been on all our minds since the girl showed up. We want to help Ida in some way. So, there’s been a lot of discussion. But do I make that clear to my husband? No, I say, ‘Jealous, are you?’ A stupid response. The wrong comeback.

  Silence. Then, from out of nowhere, Jack tosses at me ‘What the heck is “fricassee”? Where did our chicken dish get its name from? I’d like to know why that particular chicken got that name.’

  This is ridiculous. I answer, being huffy, ‘Fricassee comes from the French, meaning cutting up the chicken, then you sauté it, finally you braise it and serve it in its own sauce.’ So, there, okay?

  ‘Thanks, that explains everything. Except, what is “sauté”?’

  Now I’m answering fast and mean, ‘Sauté is also French. Means dancing. Like the onions dancing in a hot pan of oil!’

  ‘And, for now, the $64,000 question. So, what’s “braise”?’

  That does it. I get up ready to throw my half-eaten chicken fricassee at him. ‘Hey, Chef Boyardee, what are you going on about? What’s all this nonsense?’

  Jack gets up, too. ‘Just trying to show you that we are able to talk about subjects other than the Tori-Ida show. Didn’t we just have a nice discussion about chicken?’ He shrugs, pretending innocence.

  He’s funny. He’s clever. He understands me. He’s so protective of me. He cheers me up. He loves me. He’s mine. I’m so lucky.

  We move toward each other, meeting behind the dining-room table. And we kiss. Do we ever kiss!

  He whispers in my ear, after nibbling on my earlobe, ‘You’ll tell me all about it one of these days, not now when it hurts so much.’

  Then, with a big smile he adds, ‘Warm up the fricassee, honey. It’s getting cold.’

  THIRTEEN

  Starbucks

  Tori lines up everything she needs on a table originally meant for four, but luckily the Starbucks is fairly empty. No one is bothering her near the rear of the coffee shop, which gives her extra privacy. She has been careful coming to different coffee shops each time. Always on the lookout for that damn SUV and her now known enemy, Chaz Dix. Tori looks around again; the coast is clear and she is safe.

  She smiles, thinking of Grandma Ida and her pals trying to guess what she’s up to. None of their business. Grandma Ida gave up all rights to her when she abandoned her family years ago. Now it’s up to her to s
ave them all.

  Down to business. Out of her backpack she retrieves, and notes: Ear buds. Check. iPhone. Check. Laptop. Check. Map of Broward County. Yes. And a large, steaming latte in front of her, proof that she has the right to use the store as her private office.

  Of course she could do all her searching on her phone and computer, but the crumpled old map had originally been owned by her mother more than thirty years ago when she and her dad lived in Florida. Many things were circled on the map and they might be important.

  The photo, the one that her mom had slipped to Tori, while singing the wedding song, of her then young parents seated with another young couple, is propped up on a menu in front of her. They were smiling for the camera; her parents’ wedding day? Such a happy-looking couple. Shining with joy. This photo is her mother’s hint? She squints at the back of the photo yet again. Even though the ink is practically invisible, with the small magnifying glass she bought, she’s sure she read it right – The Woodleys. Ft. Lauderdale.

  A few sips of the delicious latte and she’s ready to roll.

  Obviously this couple – first names unknown – were close friends. She is sure Hah Hah and Lie Lie is a clue, but if so, what does it mean? This photo is all she has to go on to find her father, and she is certain the Woodleys would know where he is. She works with this supposition – it’s more than that; it’s a huge hope – that this couple is still around, still alive, still lives here.

  But is Woodley even a person’s name? What if it was a street? A name of a place? A building, a park? The Woodleys. Quickly, with her fingers moving swiftly on the computer keys, she finds none of these names on a building, or restaurant, or even parks. Maybe years ago? She Googles every name for any possible historical reference. No match.

  She feels sure they are people, not places. She will reference every Woodley family name in the county. But she worries. What if they no longer live in the county? Was she going to search through the entire state? And maybe they were no longer in Florida at all? She wouldn’t let herself believe they were dead.