I flipped open my cell and saw the Shady Terrace number instead of Pablo’s. My heart sank. “Cleo Sims,” I answered, dreading what could only be bad news from the nursing home calling so early. It was Tanya, one of the nurses on my eighty-seven-year-old grandmother’s unit.
“Get ready for a shock, Cleo. Shady Terrace is closing and all the residents have to move out! They just told us, and the residents don’t even know yet. There’s a big family meeting this morning at 9:00. Can you make it?”
Too stunned to ask for details, I said I’d be there. I wanted to scream and throw my phone against the wall, but instead I grabbed a robe and stepped out onto my front porch, hoping my mountain view would have its usual calming effect.
It was a mild sun-drenched October morning, but I shivered as if winter had arrived overnight with a blast of arctic air. Tanya’s words bounced around in my head as I paced around the porch, struggling to absorb the unwelcome news. Fury prodded me to fight back, but at the same time I wanted to curl up in a corner and cry. How could this be happening just when Shady Terrace had finally gotten its act together and was providing such good care? Where could Gramma go? Her Alzheimer’s disease has progressed to the point that she doesn’t always recognize me, but she’s been at Shady Terrace for eight years and the staff knows her ups and downs and how to make her comfortable.
I was a wreck, and the mountain view wasn’t soothing me at all. As a grief therapist I know there are times when you need to stop and absorb bad news and there are times when you need to take action. This moment called for action. So I went back inside to grab a quick shower and get dressed. As I showered, anger and sorrow continued to fight for control of my emotions, while my saner professional side tried to start making a plan.
It was going to be a busy morning. It was Friday and I had a class to teach at the university at 10:30. I couldn’t be late for that. The department head had made it clear that my paranormal psychology class was an experiment and that some faculty did not approve of hiring an unorthodox therapist like me to teach even as a lowly instructor. I was on trial and I wanted to measure up.
For the moment, though, Gramma’s well-being was my top priority, so I had to make this meeting. I jumped into my Toyota and headed to the nursing home. Of course the main parking lot was full and I wasted time looking for a space before I went over to the auxiliary lot. The meeting was just getting started in the central lobby when I dashed in, so I didn’t have time to go to Gramma’s room and check on her. Instead, I found an empty chair at the back of the room and sat down. This lobby was designed to look like an old-fashioned town square with fake storefronts, an ice cream parlor and a popcorn wagon. The theory is that the residents will feel comforted by a setting that takes them back to a happier time of their lives.
Maybe it is calming for them. But I felt like I was sitting in Disneyland listening to Cruella De Vil. I’d never seen the woman who was speaking, so I figured she was from corporate headquarters. She was a tall, large-boned woman, dressed in a snazzy black business suit that was overkill for a fake main street in a Boulder nursing home but would have fit right in to Donald Trump’s boardroom. Unfortunately, her message matched the boardroom image.
“We know that Shady Terrace is a vibrant community of seniors,” she began in an incongruously upbeat voice. “But, our building is in need of significant and costly repairs that we can’t afford to make with our current operating budget. So, after careful deliberation, we have entered into a sales agreement with Hugh Symes Development Company, which will require the closure of the Shady Terrace skilled nursing center. You will be receiving a letter this week that will be your official sixty-day notice of closure as required by Colorado law. We know this decision will be difficult for our residents and their families, but we assure you that we will do everything possible to assist you in making a smooth transition to another living situation.”
I squirmed in my chair. What did she mean they would do everything possible to assist us? Do these corporate executives go to a special class where they learn to sugarcoat horrible news and lie easily to suit their purposes? I wanted to scream at her, “Doesn’t this corporation have a slogan that says, ‘Caring for you is what we do’?”
Listening to her, it sounded to me like what they do is go for the big bucks. Tears welled up in my eyes. How could they care more about their bottom line than they did about people like my Gramma who couldn’t speak out for themselves and were dependent on all of us for their care?
Boulderites tend to be assertive, especially when it comes to issues of human rights vs. big business. Hands shot up all around me and a man in front plowed right in without waiting to be called on. “It took my mother a year to adjust to this place and now you’re saying she has to move? It sounds like our family members are just dollars to you and if they don’t bring in enough, they have to go.” His anger and disgust were front and center.
“I assure you that this is not personal. It’s just business.” Cruella spoke evenly, not matching his furious tone. “We understand that this is an unsettling and difficult time for you and your loved ones and we will do all we can to make it go as smoothly as—”
“I assure you that it is very personal to me and to my mother,” the man interrupted. “And it’s not going to go smoothly for you because I’m going to do all I can to stop you, starting right now with a call to the newspaper.”
A woman on the other side of the room, tired of waiting for her raised hand to be noticed, jumped up and joined in. “Isn’t there something we can do to save Shady Terrace? It took me forever to find this place and now that Mom is doing well, I don’t want to move her.”
“We understand that this is difficult, but after exploring all the possibilities, we determined that closing is the best option,” Cruella continued in her condescending I’m-being-patient-with-you tone. “Now I need to catch a plane, but the Shady Terrace staff and your local long-term-care ombudsman are here to help you get started on making new arrangements.” With that, she picked up her briefcase and ducked out the front door.
I needed to get out of there myself if I was going to get to my class on time, but Mary Ellen, the Director of Nursing, and Betsy from Social Services were walking up to the front and I wanted to hear what they had to say. The both looked like they’d been crying. “We’re checking on openings in other nursing homes and we’re going to help you all look for places,” Mary Ellen said. “And Tim, a volunteer ombudsman from the county, has offered to help you with information about other facilities.” She beckoned to a tall thin bald man in the second row, who stood up to join them in front.
My eyes nearly popped out of my head! Tim Grosso, Ph.D., the Chair of the university Psychology Department—the very Tim Grosso who had reluctantly hired me to teach a class—was a volunteer ombudsman? I hated to miss his comments, but I knew the students wouldn’t wait for me if I was late for class, so I slipped out.
As I drove up to the university, I agonized over Gramma’s plight. This was one more in a long line of indignities she’d faced over the last twelve years. Before Alzheimer’s eroded her mind, she was a top-ranked Boulder artist, whose colorful oil paintings commanded high prices and won national awards. And she was the sweetest, most patient teacher, whose students—including me—learned to paint better than we ever thought we could.
She and my Grampa, who taught philosophy at the university, had a storybook marriage for more than fifty years before she began showing signs of Alzheimer’s at age seventy-five. At first, it was forgetfulness and confusion. But she kept getting worse, being argumentative and accusing us of hiding her things. She began wandering out at night in her nightgown—probably to go to her studio in the backyard. She had always been a night person. If Grampa locked the door, she would wake him up to let her out. If he refused, she sobbed and screamed. If he left her alone in the studio, she often fell and hurt herself.
It was horrible for all of us. Gramma because she couldn’t make sense out of the w
orld any more, and Grampa and me because we were losing her at the same time that she was still here needing us to take care of her. Grampa tried hiring people to be with her, but she hated having them around and didn’t want them in her studio. He wasn’t getting any sleep at night and he couldn’t deal with her constant arguments or keep her safe at home anymore, so after four years of that he finally decided to move her into Shady Terrace. He picked it because he thought it was the best place. The whole thing was terribly hard on him. He visited her every day, even though it was painful when she kept begging him to take her home.
I visited a lot too and I still do. It was easier for me when Grampa was still alive because we could share the sadness. But he died of a heart attack a year after Gramma moved to Shady Terrace and I’ve been in charge ever since. My grandparents practically raised me and I want to do as much for them as they did for me. They were never close to my mother—their only child—so Grampa set things up for me to be Gramma’s guardian after he died. I miss him more than I can even begin to describe and I do everything I can to live up to his trust. But today I felt scared and overwhelmed. Even though it wasn’t my fault that Gramma would have to move, I had a sinking feeling that I was letting Grampa down.
Too Far Under is available at Smashwords and other ebook stores.
For information, visit Lynn Osterkamp’s website at:
http://www.lynnosterkamp.com
Acknowledgements
Cleo’s Contact Project was partially inspired by Raymond Moody, M.D.’s Reunions (Villard Books, 1993), in which he reports on experiences of people who have contacted apparitions of the dead.
Many friends and family read drafts of this book and provided support and valuable feedback. I appreciate the time and enthusiasm they brought to this project.
I am especially grateful for the extensive editing done by Laurel Umile, Laurie Castleberry, and Sally Barlow-Perez; and by Vicki, Carol, Thora and Joann from my Sisters in Crime critique group. Their comments, suggestions and edits made this a much better book.
There is no way I can ever sufficiently acknowledge the contributions of my husband, Allan Press, and my daughter, Laurel Osterkamp. They believed in my writing long before I did, and kept after me until I wrote this book. They read and edited draft after draft and helped me resolve sticky plot points. Their love and support kept me going for the years that it took me to finish this novel.
Finally, my father, who died too many years ago, got me started reading mysteries and piqued my interest in the possibility of making contact with dead loved ones. I regret that I’ve been unable to tell him about this book.
Other books by Lynn Osterkamp:
Too Far Under (second novel in the Cleo & Tyler mystery series)
Stress? Find Your Balance (nonfiction)
How to Deal with Your Parents When They Still Treat You Like a Child (nonfiction)
For information, visit Lynn Osterkamp’s website at:
http://www.lynnosterkamp.com
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Prologue
Chapter 1
Too Near the Edge Page 25