Forever 51

by Pamela Skjolsvik

  “Don’t we all? But what’s the worst thing that could happen?” She laced her fingers through his and tugged him towards her.

  “I’ll die.”

  “Believe me, that’s not the worst thing that could happen to you. It might bother Nataliya and Igor for a little while, but they’ll get over it.”

  The thought of annoying his mail-order bride seemed to shake Knud out of his fearful daze. He slapped Veronica playfully on the butt. “Okay, let’s go, woman.”

  From the cellar door, Veronica spied Nataliya standing over the stove frying something in a skillet. Beams of sun illuminated her slender frame from the kitchen’s southern-facing window. The room smelled of bacon, toast and old leather. As Igor darted towards her in a spastic greeting, she turned towards Knud. “Ready?”

  “Damn that smells good.”

  “Are you talking about my ass or the bacon?”

  Veronica let go of his hand and leapt into the room to demonstrate her superior bravery in the face of the sun. Knud shuffled behind with his hand now clinging to the back of her shirt. “Stop touching me. Go kiss your girl or something. Do you have a mirror in this man cave?”

  Nataliya turned her attention from the frying pan. “What are you doing? Oh, my goodness. Knud! It’s the daytime. What are you thinking?”

  Knud rushed to the kitchen and kissed her on the cheek, as if making the final leap of faith on the strength of love and bacon grease. “Don’t burn that. What is it?” He looked down at the pan and inhaled deeply.

  “Knud, did you ever turn anyone? Like a person? Or did you just stick to animals?” Veronica leaned against the granite counter. It occurred to her that she hadn’t thought everything through. Not everyone lived as she did.

  “No, just animals. Why?”

  “Figures. Oh, those soulless creatures have just changed your life irrevocably,” she muttered under her breath. “Well, I’ve got some good news and some bad news for you.”

  “Okay.” He crossed his arms and hopped up on the counter. “Let’s start with the good news.”

  “The good news is that you can now eat bacon. Nataliya, what are you making? BLTs, perhaps? Do me a solid and make one up for your old man.”

  “What is she talking about? The bacon will make you sick. Won’t it?”

  “No, it will actually make him fat and happy. Now for the bad news, or maybe good news. It all depends on how you look at it.” Veronica pushed off from the counter and began pacing the kitchen with Igor following behind. “Make some more toast, Nataliya.” She snapped her fingers to stop the woman from gawking.

  “I’m waiting. Am I going to die? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  “Yes. You are going to die, just like a normal person. As a forty-two-year old man, you are now at the midpoint of your life. Hair loss, flatulence and erectile dysfunction await you.”

  Knud stared blankly. “I’m forty-one.”

  “Really? I was ten years older than you? Rawwr!” She clawed at the air and slapped her hands on his knees. “Knud, the extra special sauce news is that what happened down stairs was a gift. I gave you your soul back.”

  His face remained expressionless as he stared at her nervously ticking cheek.

  “But here’s the rub; you had more self-control than me in the blood-letting department, so you became mortal in like a millisecond. Unlike me who still depends on the kindness of dying people to sup, you can now eat all the bacon and ice cream you could possibly ever want, sleep till noon on a Monday, and die like Elvis on the toilet if you so wish. I, on the other hand, have to traipse around this god-forsaken country in search of people that I never want to see again and apologize to them just to get where you are at this exact moment. Am I making any sense?” She exhaled and moved back to the other counter in case he lost it.

  “Here’s the sandwich.” Nataliya handed it to him on a dainty, ancient plate. “I put the mayo on it the way I like it and I cut the tomato very thin, so it doesn’t make the toast wet and squishy. You try. Stand over the sink for the crumbs. I just cleaned.”

  Knud glanced over at Nataliya, as if just then noticing her. “You’re a fantastic cook. Thank you.” He walked over to the sink and sniffed the sandwich. “Last time I tried to eat, I dry heaved for an hour. Are you sure about this?”

  Veronica nodded. “You’ll be fine. More than fine. Go ahead. I dare you.”

  He opened his mouth and took a bite. Chewing longer than was necessary, he struggled to swallow it.

  “How do you feel? Are you going to throw up the bacon?” Nataliya rubbed his back as if he were sick.

  Knud’s unfocused gaze lingered on the kitchen cabinets as the first tentative toast crumbs dusted his beard like whole-wheat snow. “No, I don’t think so. It just takes a little getting used to.” He looked back down at the mayonnaised miracle on his plate. “I think I want another one. I’m so hungry.”

  Unlike Ingrid, Knud ate slowly and cautiously. It took him over an hour to finish three sandwiches, but Veronica was in no hurry. He seemed to be enjoying himself, like an infant discovering solid foods for the first time.

  While petting Igor, who seemed to have taken a shine to her, her mind wandered back to Jenny. How were the next few days going to play out? Meth withdrawal wasn’t as bad as heroin but, depending on her level of use and the dopamine receptors she had destroyed, she would be unable to feel anything close to joy. That is, unless she used again, which was what made the march to relapse so inevitable.

  “Ready for your next adventure?” Veronica placed a squirming Igor onto the couch, as Knud wiped the crumbs from his beard.

  “Sure.”

  “Let’s go outside. I’d love some sunflowers to cheer up my motel room.” She skipped towards the door.

  “When did you become Mary Poppins?” Knud grabbed a sweater from the coat rack.

  “When I stopped spending my days in a basement. There’s an amazing world out there, Knud, and the Internet doesn’t do it justice.” Veronica felt awfully proud of herself and the ease in which Knud accepted his new reality. She reasoned that sudden and unexpected change was easiest when the shine of possibility overshadowed the dust bunnies and dirt that hid in the corners. Tomorrow would be trickier.

  22

  On the way back to the motel, Veronica stopped at a gas station and picked up a turkey and Swiss for Jenny. Tiptoeing back into the room, she found the girl just where she’d left her hours before, buried under a sea of sheets. Labored breathing assured her that Jenny wasn’t dead, just dead tired, and a possible candidate for deviated septum surgery.

  It had been a good day. She’d set Knud free to enjoy a lifetime of TLC and BLTs with Nataliya. Taken care of Jenny, in as much as a three-day-old gas station hoagie counted as care.

  But that left nobody to make Veronica a sandwich, and she couldn’t have eaten it even if they had. Where was her TLC?

  Veronica glanced back over at her comatose companion. If she stuck around watching Jenny sleep in this tiny room, there was the distinct possibility that she would end up doing something she’d regret.

  Veronica needed a healthier kind of fix—one that had nothing to do with blood or appetite. She pulled Jenny’s iPhone out of her purse, but it was too risky to switch it on even for the length of a Google search.

  With no one and nothing else left to go on, Veronica let her fragile moral compass guide her out of the room, through the parking lot, into the car, and south—towards Fargo and a phone book.

  After a quick stop at the local Walmart to purchase a disposable phone and peruse a local directory, Veronica had just enough time to make the seven-thirty Big Book Study in a church basement.

  On her way there, she tried to remember Frank’s cell number. After six wrong numbers, she wanted to flip out for throwing her phone into the crematory. She could remember the faces and fashion sense of people who had been dead for a hundred years, but apparently a simple, seven-digit number was beyond her. Like other menopausal women, she s
uffered from brain fog—but in her case, it was terminal. Her hormones, no matter what she did, were never going to level out.

  Our Father, who art in heaven, she prayed at each successive red light, give me this day my husband’s cell number, and deliver me from temptation, evil, and senior moments, for yours is the power and the glory…

  But of course, such a specific “Dear Santa” request was wasted air. God didn’t grant wishes like a genie in a bottle.

  But that didn’t mean there was no divine order to her predicament. It could be that she wasn’t supposed to speak with Frank at this exact moment, that this separation without communication was somehow a good thing—absence making the heart grow fonder and all that.

  Feeling a tad more optimistic, Veronica prayed for patience and the strength of character to keep from killing Jenny.

  Fortunately for her sobriety effort, Veronica had long since discovered that that whole “no setting foot on sacred ground” thing was complete bunk. After heading into the empty vestibule of the Hope Lutheran Church, she followed her nose towards the basement. AA meetings rarely had identifying signage, but if Veronica could smell coffee, she knew she would find at least three recovering alcoholics, a Big Book and an overflowing ashtray.

  This meeting met the mark. Barely. Four men and one woman sat in timelessly uncomfortable folding chairs under the yellow fluorescent light—and staggered up to greet her the minute she stepped through the door. The undivided attention unnerved her, as if they were in cahoots to hog-tie her to a chair as soon as she crossed the threshold. Veronica reflexively clutched her purse in front of her as a shield.

  The elderly woman, who still looked like she could win a wrestling match with a home invader, was encased in a pale blue polyester ensemble that matched her short crop of tightly set hair. “Hello, sweetheart. Are you here for the Serenity Seekers Al-Anon meeting or the Twelve Steppers AA group?” The woman’s voice dripped sincerity like a dipped cone from the neighboring Dairy Queen.

  “The AA meeting?” Veronica could have attended either, since she was a double winner, both an alcoholic and a friend or family member of one, but it wasn’t any of the woman’s business to know that.

  “Well, take a seat, missy, cuz you’re in the right place. My name’s Barb. I’m the hospitality director, as well as the treasurer of the Twelve Steppers. Is this your first meeting?”

  “Hi Barb, I’m Veronica.” She offered her hand to Barb and was met with a clammy, limp jiggle of her fingers. “I’m just visiting a friend for a few days and thought I’d catch a local meeting. My home group is in Texas.”

  “You got family around here, Veronica? You look awful familiar.” Barb studied Veronica’s face. “Real familiar.”

  “Nope, just a friend.” Veronica’s thoughts turned to her great-granddaughter.

  “We’ll get started here in a jiff, but we’re waiting on Marge Anderson. She’s bringing the lemon bars. She don’t walk real good since she had her leg amputated from the diabetes. It’s a real bitch, that disease, especially when you’re still active in the cunning clutches of alcoholism like she is.” Barb plopped down in one of the metal chairs and made the sign of the cross over her chest. “One day at a time, though, right?”

  So much for anonymity. Veronica took a seat a few chairs away. The three men remained silent. One flipped through his book, the other closed his eyes, but the third, a man in his eighties, stared at Veronica as if he’d seen a ghost.

  I know you. His deep, raspy voice resonated over and over in her head like a skipping record. I know you.

  But that was impossible. She hadn’t been in Fargo since the 30s.

  Checking the clock compulsively, Veronica was tempted to feign a headache or a digestive issue to excuse herself from the worst meeting she’d ever attended. The Twelve Steppers had no experience, strength or hope to speak of, just country-song-inspired drunkalogues, stale baked goods and funny-smelling coffee. The old man with his filmy eyes kept looking over at her every time he mentioned one of his old haunts, the Empire Cafe.

  “Are you talking about the Empire Tavern on Broadway?” One of the others interrupted, adjusting his hearing aid.

  Veronica rolled her eyes at the cross talk. She vaguely remembered the place. After prohibition ended, bars were her favorite place to hunt, and Fargo had quite a few: The Bismarck Tavern, the Silver Trey, and the Flame. The Empire Café later became the Empire Tavern when the owners wanted to emphasize the fact that they sold bourbon instead of biscuits.

  As they stood to recite the Lord’s Prayer, the old man grasped Veronica’s hand and squeezed it as if he were trying to extract juice from her fingertips. Knowing she’d be leaving immediately after “Forever and Ever, Amen,” she allowed him this indiscretion.

  “Keep coming back—it works if you work it,” they said in unison, and unclasped their sweaty palms.

  The old man turned to Veronica and cleared his throat. “1940, Empire Tavern. You, or someone who looks a lot like you, walked out the door with my pop. Haven’t heard from him since.”

  “Vernon’s crazy, don’t listen to him,” Barb interrupted. “Last week he swore he saw Buddy Holly over in Moorehead ordering a caramel macchiato at the Starbucks.”

  Marge limped over and put her arm around Vernon’s shoulder. “When’s the VA doing your cataract surgery, old man? This young lady wasn’t even born in 1940. You need your eyes fixed.”

  Vernon scowled at Veronica, undeterred. “I know what I saw.”

  “You were probably three sheets to the wind,” Barb laughed.

  “I was eight.” He pulled away from Marge. “And those lemon bars you made tasted like furniture polish. Who taught you how to cook?”

  Marge’s waxy fuchsia lips pursed into a hard line. “Your dad. Right after he ran off to Niagara Falls with her.”

  Everyone remained silent.

  “Well, I best be on my way.” Veronica grabbed her purse from the back of the chair and slung it over her shoulder. “Vern, I was born in 1964, but I’m flattered that all my doppelgangers seem to be alive and thriving in Fargo.”

  Barb wiped her hands on her sweater, as if eager to smooth out the conversation likewise. “Well, if you want to go see one for yourself, there’s a young woman who looks a lot like you on 25th Avenue North. She’s probably walking one of her yappy dogs and yelling dirty words like some kind of lunatic.”

  Veronica blinked, hardly able to trust her ears.

  Millie.

  “Thank you—I may just do that.” Veronica felt the weight of her keys as keenly as the passing of time. She needed to find out if her great-granddaughter had returned. Jenny would have to wait a few more hours without her beloved phone.

  23

  Massachusetts – 1939

  Millicent Ganelle Albrecht was twenty-seven, the expiration date of many a modern-day rock star, when Veronica first laid eyes on her. Millie wasn’t musically inclined or inclined towards anything in particular, other than flailing her arms and shouting obscenities at the most inopportune moments. Her well-to-do parents were dumbfounded as to how they were going to manage their daughter’s animated physical tics and foul language. At first, they quietly consulted a priest to exorcise her of the demons that spewed forth from her wicked tongue, but when God failed to manage her maniacal mouth, they relinquished her at the age of sixteen to the Danvers State Insane Asylum in rural Massachusetts. Like her upbringing up until that point, she was discreetly placed far away from the easily offended and kept subdued with a heaping helping of psychotropic medications. Compared to the various schizophrenics that inhabited every corner of the overcrowded facility, the nurses found Millie’s naughty verbal antics amusing. They concluded that she was definitely sane; she just tended to swear like an Elizabethan sailor.

  In 1939, when Veronica fled Fargo to find her one remaining family member in the east wing of the loony bin, she had to wade through a sea of psych patients to find someone who looked somewhat official, or at least not crazy, to
point her in the right direction. There was barely a nurse in sight. When she finally spotted one who had just dragged a very reluctant patient into her bed, the exhausted woman rubbed her eyes and asked if she was there to relieve her for the night.

  Without thinking, Veronica nodded in affirmation.

  The woman handed her a clipboard. “Thank the Lord. Is this your first night?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it is.”

  “Where’s your uniform?” The nurse scanned Veronica’s ensemble with narrowed eyes.

  “My luggage was misplaced in transit, but I should have a replacement by tomorrow. Should I leave?”

  “Oh, no. We’re so short on hands tonight, you could be wearing a potato sack for all I care.”

  Veronica tried to act as prim and professional as possible, despite the fact that she was wearing a full-length burgundy dress ripe with train travel and her hair was pulled into an unruly bun. The inability to look in a mirror proved extremely problematic when she had to dress herself and venture out in public.

  “Thank your lucky stars that you got assigned to this wing. I started out in the snake pit and after a week, I felt like I was ready for a lobotomy myself.”

  Veronica didn’t know what a lobotomy was, but she gathered from the woman’s pained expression that it wasn’t something she wanted to line up for.

  “This floor has had their evening meds, but all doors need to be locked to keep the other wing from wandering in. I think Miss Jenkins is doing that now if you want to follow her and see how it’s done.”

  Veronica looked around at all the blank faces passing her in the hall and felt as if she had just been invited to a smorgasbord. She’d never considered it before, but working in an overcrowded hospital was perfect for her needs. Patients wouldn’t be missed, nor would they be believed if she happened to relieve them of a pint or two in the middle of the night.