Too Near the Edge

by Lynn Osterkamp

  “That’s all make believe. Just ride the wave,” Tyler said, and vanished with no warning as usual.

  I decided to clean up and go back to the house, even though it was only about 8:30. Just as I turned off the studio lights, my cell phone rang.

  “Hey, Cleo. This is Erik Vaughn. We met over at Shady Terrace this morning.”

  “Sure. I remember you. You’re the fitness trainer who grows herbs. How are you?” I cursed myself for babbling. As Tyler would say, I needed to chill.

  “I’m good. I was just wondering if you’d like to get a drink somewhere and talk more about herbs and spirits and stuff.”

  Hmmm…interesting, I thought. I figured I might get some useful information—and Erik wasn’t exactly hard to look at—and I needed a change from Pablo—so why not? “That sounds great. I was feeling a little restless. How about Rhumba at 9th and Pearl? It’s not usually too crowded on a Monday night. I could meet you there about 9:30.”

  “See you then.”

  It was my favorite kind of Colorado summer night—warm and pleasantly dry with a light breeze that whispered over my skin. We got two of the high turquoise seats at the long stone bar at the edge of Rhumba’s patio, not easy in this popular spot. The terrace is a combination of bricks and flagstones carefully arranged around three trees whose leafy branches provide shade in the daylight and twinkle with strings of lights after dark.. With its ceiling fans, Latin music and island ambiance, this place is about as close as you get to the tropics in this mountain community.

  It had been a long day, and I was ready to play. I had taken time to change into a lavender halter sundress to match Rhumba’s Caribbean décor. Erik wore khaki shorts with a silky black tee shirt that fit snuggly over his bulky shoulder muscles, Yum!

  The bar there offers a selection of fifty rums, but I usually get their most popular drink, the Mojito, made with silver rum, mint, lime, soda and powdered sugar. Erik had a Dark and Stormy—dark rum and ginger beer with a lime wedge perched on the edge of the glass.

  As usual the place was packed, and the noise level was high, which oddly makes it easier to have a private conversation. Erik’s intense gaze—as if I were the only woman in the room—was more intoxicating than the drink. But I needed to get some information before I started having too much fun. So I took a long sip of my drink, and said, “How long did you know Adam?”

  “About two years. We met at the gym, and it didn’t take us long to see a good opportunity to barter our services. I provided some personal training for him in exchange for a website he designed for me.”

  “Sharon said you were close friends.” I decided to probe a little. “If you know what was bothering Adam, it could help her.”

  Erik leaned forward, still looking intently into my eyes. “Here’s the thing, Cleo. I think Adam jumped. That’s why I wanted to meet with you.”

  Erik’s declaration jarred me out of my tropical trance. Why hadn’t Sharon mentioned Erik’s theory? “Have you told Sharon that?”

  “No. I don’t think it would be good for Sharon and Nathan to find out any more about what happened. Let them think it was an accident. Sharon will be better off if you just help her with her grieving and forget about this contact stuff.”

  “But she doesn’t believe it was an accident. And I think she’ll be better off knowing as much as she can.”

  “How are you two on drinks?” A sweaty waiter on the restaurant side of the bar eyed Erik’s nearly empty glass.

  “I’ll take another one of these,” Erik said.

  “I’m fine,” I said, preoccupied with thinking about how to get Erik to be more forthcoming about Adam’s problems.

  I waited until the waiter was out of earshot, and asked, “Why would he have jumped? Was it business troubles?”

  Erik gave me a conspiratorial smile.. “Look— there’s a lot Sharon doesn’t know about him. They were only married two years, you know. And I think they were only together about a year before that.” Erik leaned closer and spoke softly. “I wouldn’t want Sharon to know this. But Adam had gotten into internet gambling. He lost a bundle, kept thinking he’d make it back, but it got worse instead of better. He borrowed on his business to pay the debts.”

  “I didn’t know Adam,” I said, “but from what I’ve heard about him, he doesn’t sound like the type of person to jump off a cliff and leave Sharon and Nathan without a note explaining why. And if he was going to kill himself, why drive all the way to the Grand Canyon to do it?”

  He sighed, and took on a pensive look. “I don’t think he was planning to jump when he went there. In fact, I was originally going on the trip with him.”

  “You were going with him?”

  “Yes, but it turned out that I had to visit my brother for an important family thing. I tried to talk Adam out of going by himself. But he said he couldn’t wait any longer to get some clarity to come to a decision on what to do. He thought an answer would come to him at the Grand Canyon, but it didn’t, so he panicked and bailed out.”

  The waiter came back with Erik’s drink, which gave me an opportunity to look away and collect my thoughts. This was turning into a very curious evening. I know it sounds odd, but in a way Erik’s mysteriousness added to the strong attraction I felt for him. At the same time, I felt annoyed that he’d kept all this from Sharon.

  As soon as the waiter left, I continued my questions. “So you’re not going to tell Sharon any of this?”

  “No, I’m not. And I don’t want you to tell her either.” Okay, that was a little bossy, but I didn’t feel bound by what he wanted me to do or not do, so I didn’t argue with him about that. But I did want to convince him to be honest with Sharon.

  “Don’t you think she deserves to know what was really going on with Adam? All her questions and doubts are so troubling, the truth might be a relief—even though it’s not news she’ll want to hear.”

  “Look, Cleo,” Erik paused until I returned his intent gaze. “I know you want the best for Sharon. But I know her better than you do. I’ve been taking good care of her and Nathan. I have them on dietary supplements that will boost their immune system cells and improve their energy levels. And I’m making sure they get plenty of exercise. This is what they need to help them let go of the past and move on. Trust me, I’ve been through this after my wife died, and I know what works. You’ll be doing Sharon a big favor if you discourage this idea of contacting Adam, and encourage her to focus on her future.”

  I have never subscribed to the just-let-go-of-the-past-and-move-on approach to dealing with grief. It’s the old time-heals-all-wounds myth.

  I’ve found people do much better when they actively work through their grief, much of which involves looking honestly at the relationship they had with the person who died, and seeing what they need to do to feel complete with that relationship. I didn’t want to debate theories of grief recovery with Erik, but I did want to acknowledge his backhanded mention of Jenny’s death.

  “I know you have some personal experience with grief, since your wife died less than a year ago,” I said quietly. “I knew Jenny. She was my Gramma’s favorite nurse. You must miss her terribly.”

  “Look, she was careless. It’s caused me a lot of grief, but I’ve had to get over it and take care of myself. Life is short.” Erik gulped the rest of his drink and motioned for the check.

  I was too stunned to answer. His rapid jump from sensitive to callous gave me whiplash.

  He got out his credit card. “I need to get home, it’s late,” he said. “Hey! Maybe you’d like to check out my website.” Erik gave me a sweet smile that reminded me why I had worn the lavender sundress. He handed me a card that read “Vaughn’s Holistic Healing…innovative and affordable products for your journey to optimal wellness.”

  At this point I felt a little bit jerked around by Erik’s emotional volatility, so I jumped off my barstool and said, “Thanks for the drink. Talk to you later.” I ducked out to Pearl Street and began walking west toward my
house eight blocks away.

  Walking along the quiet, dimly lit sidewalk, I thought about Adam. Could Sharon be wrong about him? Had he gotten himself into deep gambling debt and jumped over the edge of the canyon? It didn’t fit with my image of the loving husband and stepfather who had adopted Sharon’s son. I did know gambling addicts often leave loved ones alone and poor. Still, I didn’t think Tyler would be telling me to “play Nancy Drew,” if Adam’s death was suicide. But I couldn’t figure why Erik was so convinced of this explanation.

  I was so deep in thought that I tripped on an uneven piece of paving when a sprinkler system started in the yard next to me. As I picked myself up, bruised, annoyed, and wet, I gave new credence to the accident possibility. Even a cautious person in familiar territory can get distracted and stumble. I decided I should definitely encourage Sharon to be open to all the potential explanations.

  Chapter 8

  On Wednesday morning, I had planned to get to Shady Terrace in time to visit Gramma before I went to her quarterly Care Conference. But I stopped at the gym to work out and got held up for 15 minutes by the road construction on Broadway, so I barely made it in time for the conference. When I rushed in to the tiny windowless conference room, most of the interdisciplinary team members were already gathered there. Betsy, the sweet twenty-something social worker for the Alzheimer’s Unit was talking on her cell phone to someone who was looking for a nursing home for a parent. She twisted a lock of her long curly blond hair with one finger as she earnestly recited the benefits of care at Shady Terrace.

  Susanne, the gray-haired slightly overweight dietary technician, made notes in a bulging day-planner notebook, highlighting some of them in yellow. Tanya, my adversary from nursing, munched on a cinnamon roll as she chatted with Alicia, the bubbly long-legged activity director. I wondered how much of Alicia’s boundless energy came from the grande-sized Starbucks paper cup in front of her.

  They all stopped what they were doing when the medical director, Dr. Ahmed—a slightly-built dark-skinned man in an impeccable white lab coat—darted in and took the seat at the head of the table. He placed a stack of residents’ medical charts on the table in front of him, nodded a brief greeting to the group, opened the top chart, and said, “Martha Donnelly, age 87.”

  This no-nonsense beginning to Gramma’s care conference was typical. The schedule is always tight, and staff members are in a rush to get back to their routine tasks. As usual, they did a quick round where each member described Gramma’s recent ups and downs in their area of expertise. I’d been coming to these conferences for years, so by now I could recite nearly all their lines on my own. Gramma spurned most group activities, especially bingo. She would attend musical performances, which she usually enjoyed. She refused to eat anything that required much chewing, didn’t drink enough fluids, and didn’t sleep well at night. It was the nighttime activity that was the issue today.

  “I told you about the behaviors, Cleo,” Tanya said, leaning across the narrow table in my direction. Her face was so close I could see bits of partially-chewed cinnamon roll as she spoke. “We had a tough time calming her down after she tried to climb into Flora’s bed, and Flora was furious. We’ve tried everything to keep Martha settled in the evening, but it’s not working. I really think she needs new medications. What do you think, Dr. Ahmed?” She finally looked away from me, as she turned her face in his direction.

  He flipped through Gramma’s chart, without looking up. Dr. Ahmed isn’t much for social skills. “We could try Ambien,” he said, writing in her chart—no doubt already ordering the sleeping pills. “We can start with a low dose and see how she responds. She might actually be more alert during the day if she gets more sleep at night.”

  I frowned and shook my head. I remembered the problems Grampa had with Gramma wandering out in the evenings and nights before she moved to Shady Terrace. Alzheimer’s patients are at their worst after the sun goes down. In fact, it’s called sundowning. So I knew what the staff were up against. But I didn’t want to dope her up and lose even more of her essence. And in my mind, Dr. Ahmed was all too willing to sedate the residents.

  “Cleo, I understand that you don’t want her medicated,” Tanya said. “But we have to try something to change her nighttime behavior. I don’t want to wait until another resident gets upset and hits her. We know she doesn’t mean any harm, but there’s no way to explain that to them.”

  I tried to make eye contact with Dr. Ahmed as he continued to page through Gramma’s chart. “What about trying some herbal products?” I asked, thinking of Erik’s roots. “That fitness trainer and nutritionist who works in your Wellness Center—Erik Vaughn—tells me that valerian helps people sleep without drugging them.”

  “We can’t use herbs like that here,” Dr. Ahmed said, finally looking up. “They’re not FDA approved, and we have no idea what side effects they might have. And it makes me a little nervous that we have some nutritionist going around here, making suggestions about medicating our residents with herbs.”

  “He didn’t suggest valerian for Gramma or any resident,” I said. “He talked about growing it, and I asked him what it was used for, and he told me. If I sign something waiving liability, couldn’t we at least try it? I think Gramma would want to if she could decide for herself. You know my grandfather was very interested in herbs. He grew lemon balm, and mint and chamomile, and made teas that they both drank. I wouldn’t recommend those teas for taste—personally I prefer coffee—but they both swore by them as a daily tonic.”

  Suzanne from Dietary rolled her eyes. “Cleo, if you want to feed your grandmother herbal tea we have no problem with that. In fact we have a selection in the kitchen,” she said..

  “We’ll start her on Ambien and see how it goes,” said Dr. Ahmed, closing the chart and the subject.

  “Do you have any other concerns, Cleo?” Betsy asked, giving me a sympathetic look..

  “No, that’s all I have, Betsy,” I said. I knew she was trying to validate my concerns, but I was fed up with Ahmed and Tanya by then.

  I knew there was no point in arguing with them further, so I got out of there as quickly as I could and headed over to the Alzheimer’s unit to visit Gramma. Some of the residents were already seated in the dining room even though lunch wouldn’t be served for at least 20 minutes. Others were parked in front of the TV in the main room or pacing in the vicinity of the dining room door. Dianne Amball, slumped in her wheel chair, called out over and over, “He-el-p me! Somebody hel-l-p me.” This was her standard refrain, which wasn’t a cry for help in the usual sense, but rather her way of making contact. Nothing anyone did ever got her to stop for more than a few minutes, so no one rushed to her aid.

  Loretta, one of the newer residents on the unit, shuffled slowly over to Dianne. “I can’t stand whiners,” she said. “I’m a school teacher and I expect adult behavior.” I thought to myself as I often do when I hear the confused residents speak out this way that dementia frees people to say what most of us merely mutter to ourselves.

  Dianne ignored her and continued calling out for help. Soon an aide appeared and wheeled her into the dining room. Meanwhile some of the residents who had been seated in the dining room drifted out into the main room, perhaps forgetting lunch hadn’t been served yet. The aides gently directed them back into the dining room, as if they had simply taken a wrong turn. I reminded myself that taking care of these confused people is a hard job, and I should be more patient and understanding of the staff. As nursing homes go, this one provides pretty decent care.

  I saw Gramma coming along the hall. She looked pretty, dressed in a loose lavender dress. with her white hair freshly brushed. Her eyes looked worried, but she smiled when she saw me. I gave her a hug, walked with her into the dining room, and sat with her until the food came out. Her meal was mostly pureed since one of her Alzheimer’s symptoms is that she doesn’t like to chew—or maybe she has forgotten how to do it. The multi-colored mounds of mush took my appetite away, but she
began spooning it in. I said goodbye, leaving her to her lunch.

  In the parking lot, I ran into Sharon. “Hey, Cleo. I was just going out for a quick lunch. Want to join me?” she said. “We could grab a salad at Wild Oats.”

  “Sounds good. I have to be at the office by 1:00,” I said. “I’ll meet you over there.”

  We sat on the covered patio outside the Wild Oats grocery and café on Broadway and Arapahoe, munching our salads of assorted baby greens, veggies, sprouts, tofu and sunflower seeds, and enjoying the mountain view. At the next table, a man in his late 50s with thinning gray hair in a pony tail shared a sandwich with a black Labrador retriever, while pretending not to stare at a 20-something girl in a low-riding sheer ruffled raspberry-colored skirt, bare midriff and a pink slip-like top, as she walked past us into the store. She didn’t look in his direction, but I figured she knew the effect she had. I never dressed like that in my twenties, but now that I’m 37 I kind of wish I’d tried it out back then.

  “I hope I didn’t get Erik in trouble today,” I said, as I tried to spear a cherry tomato with my plastic fork. “At Gramma’s care conference, I asked Dr. Ahmed to consider valerian to help her sleep at night, but he got kind of huffy about Erik and the whole herb thing.”

  “Ahmed’s a strange one,” Sharon said, breaking off a piece of her whole-grain roll. “He does a lot of his work in nursing homes. Some of the residents on other units, who aren’t confused, have complained about him—don’t want to take the medications he prescribes.” Sharon absently rolled pieces of bread into pea-sized balls as she spoke. “When I talked to him last month about their right to refuse treatment, he told me that grief was clouding my judgment. Then he offered me drugs. He gives out samples to the staff whenever they ask—which makes him pretty popular with some.”

  “I don’t like him myself,” I said. “So does that mean I can ask for him not to see Gramma anymore?”