Beautiful Star of Bethlehem

by Lori Copeland

  Moving to Atlanta.

  A hard rain pelts the windshield of the dark blue Lincoln as the sedan turns into an expansive mortar-and-brick complex.

  A beautifully manicured landscape meets my eyes, and I focus on the large bell tower, gleaming glass, and flowering gardens. The site is incredibly peaceful after unrelenting weeks of pain and antiseptic white.

  “Well, Mom, you’re home.” Jack Jr. half turns in the driver’s seat and smiles. “What do you think?”

  Nodding, I smile. I don’t know what to think—or say or feel. I haven’t for a long time. “What does your father think?”

  The man dressed in a business suit meets the pretty woman’s eyes sitting next to him. She is wearing more diamonds than a South African mine. “Mom,” she says, “remember when we told you earlier that we would be taking you home today?”

  I nod again. I remember. She said I was going home as soon as Jack Jr. arrived. “This isn’t home.”

  Don’t ask me how I know, but I do. Before I left the place where I’ve been, I sensed something was up by the way these two had been whispering back and forth as though they shared a big secret.

  Shiny gold bracelets tinkle when the woman gets out of the car and opens the back door. I sit quiet as a cornered mouse. I’m not getting out of the vehicle. This strange, rain-washed building isn’t my home. I have never been clearer on that fact. I cross my arms and hunker down, prepared for a scuffle. “Tell Jack that I want to speak to him immediately.”

  This is so unlike my husband. Other than business trips, we have rarely been apart, and I don’t appreciate the way he is avoiding me. And the man driving the sedan? He claims to be my son Jack Jr., and the woman with the bracelets is his wife, Melissa.

  Truthfully, I don’t know either one of them, and I resent the way they boss me around. “Arlene, go to dinner. Arlene, why don’t you join the other ladies in the sunroom? Arlene, where is your jacket? You must eat.” They make me feel like a helpless ninny.

  The people dressed in blue said that I was in an accident. I don’t recall. Lately I am forced to rely on others’ words. And I have no clue why the other man and woman that visit me have appointed themselves to be my younger son and his wife.

  Steven and Julee who? “We live fifteen minutes from the facility, Mom. I can be there in no time flat if you need something.”

  Live where? What would I need?

  If Jack ever cuts his business trip short, I intend to find answers. Answers to why my life no longer makes sense. The whole world is nuts.

  When I call for Jack, someone will say, “Dad’s fine, Mom.” Or “He can’t be with you right now. Your job is to rest.” I rest until my bones jut through my spine. Rest is the last thing I need. I want answers. Straightforward, logical facts.

  If these people who appoint themselves “family” think I miss the somber expressions or lower tones, they are wrong. Their grave looks and hushed conversations frustrate me.

  Melissa holds the car door open, and I stiffly flatten my body against the plush leather seat. “I am not going in there.”

  “Now Mom, we discussed this. This is the best facility in Atlanta. Don’t be stubborn.” Fingers with scarlet-red tips work to pry me loose from my stronghold, but I stay put. I am tired of this darkness and this constant worry about Jack, and I’m sure not going into that fancy building with all those lights.

  I strengthen the hold on my crossed arms and address the man. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Santana, I would like to go home.”

  Killing the engine, the man steps out of the driver’s seat and walks around to the back door, his highly polished loafers sucking up rainwater. I sigh. They’re going to force me in there.

  Setting my jaw, I prepare to be purposely hauled out and placed on a folding wheelchair, their nondiscreet way of addressing my opposition.

  Whoever these people are, I don’t like them, and instinct tells me that I will find nothing of interest in that lighted mausoleum they insist I enter. My eye catches the sign over the doorway that reads SUNSET GARDENS OF BUCKHEAD. Oh joy.

  If life isn’t frustrating enough, I have a feeling the confusion is about to get a whole lot worse.

  Tiny pricks of cold rain pepper my face; thunder rolls in the distance. Car lights flash on an outer road. I can’t feel my legs. Jack? Help me. Someone please help me! The plane… Flames…

  Random images race through my mind. Masked faces speak above my head to the man who claims he’s my son Jack Jr.

  Severe head injuries… Amnesia, with little recall. Three broken ribs, left arm fracture… some paralysis which may or may not be permanent…

  So young. Fifty-seven…

  Ella? Where is my granddaughter, Ella Parker? Where am I?

  Please, someone help….

  “My, aren’t you an early riser?” I turn from the window to see another unfamiliar person wearing green this time.

  “Did you sleep well last night?” The young blond with her hair cut in one of those uneven styles bounces over to strip the bed linens. “Bed comfy enough?”

  I glance at the one thin blanket and snowy-white sheet that provides the warmth of a napkin. “May I have another blanket?”

  “Sure thing.” She tosses the linens on the mattress and walks out of the room, her white soles squeaking against tile. She’s back carrying two neatly folded white blankets. “I brought extra. When the weather gets this warm, the air-conditioning really pumps out the cold air.”

  Air-conditioning. In December? In Vermont? I go along with her; I find that easier. “Yes, it does.”

  “Breakfast is served from six to nine, but I bet if you want a cup of coffee, the chefs won’t refuse you.”

  “How long have I been here?” It’s been months since Jack Jr. and his wife walked me to this room in this big building with the manicured lawns. I don’t want to make a fuss, but I don’t want to stay. Once my suitcase was unpacked and my clothing hung in the closet, the couple hadn’t wanted to stay either.

  The nurse opens the blinds. “Looks like the rain’s over.”

  My gaze wanders over the unfamiliar surroundings, and I repeat, “How long have I been here?”

  “I’ll check in a minute, but I think you came in late yesterday.” The girl fills the water pitcher sitting on the bedside stand and then pauses to admire the room. “My. This is one of the prettiest suites in the building.”

  I focus on the English high-back chair and matching plaid settee, highly polished table—better suited for afternoon tea than the vase of fresh-cut flowers. White stone fireplace, electric log. My bathroom adjoins the bedroom, decorated with the same muted colors. The accommodations are comfortable. “Has my husband been in today?”

  “Hmm… I just came on shift, but I’ll check with the desk as soon as I put the linens in the chute. It’s still real early, Mrs. Santana.”

  She disappears, and I return to the window to watch the sun barely peek over the rooftops. The picture-perfect lawn glistens with morning dew. The sound of mowers in the distance faintly blends with the constant whirl of automatic sprinklers. Everything appears perfectly normal with one exception: me. Something is terribly wrong with me.

  I gather enough nerve to step into the hallway a half hour later. Near-empty corridors meet my inquisitive stare. One lone woman rolls toward me in a wheelchair. My eyes focus on the perky summer hat with a red rose pinned to the front. White gloves, a white shawl around her shoulders. A massive purse sits in her lap. I glance at the pair of slacks that I’m wearing. Baggy.

  I am underdressed.

  When the woman draws closer, the most compelling smile breaks across her wrinkled face. “You’re new here!”

  Nodding, I silently concede the fact. Stuck is the appropriate term. “My husband is coming to take me home.”

  “That right?” The woman’s gaze assesses me. “Who said?”

  “I say.”

  “They all say that. Well, honey”—she hooks a free arm through mine—“the name’s
Gwendolyn.”

  “I am Arlene.”

  “Arlene. Good enough for me. Come along, the eggs are worse when they’re cold.”

  My feet fly along the hallway, and I manage to keep up with the rolling chair. This is more exercise than I’ve had in… well, I don’t know how long, but this is work.

  “How long are you in for?”

  “Pardon?”

  “How long? Rehab, recovery, or hauled out on a morgue stretcher?”

  I pick one. “Recovery.” Room numbers fly by me. “Can you slow down?”

  “You need to pick up speed, girl.”

  I would gladly eat cold food in exchange for a second to catch my breath.

  “The facility is a nice place to visit, but nobody wants to live here,” Gwendolyn informs me. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to the gang.”

  We turn the corner, and I half run into a spacious dining area with crystal chandeliers, fancy plates, and cups and saucers. Two women sit to the right at a round, white-covered table wearing blank expressions.

  “Howdy, gals.” Gwendolyn rolls to the table and motions for me to have a seat. “We have a newbie. This is Arlene. She’s going to sit at our table.”

  “Does she have permission?” the lady in a fuchsia blouse asks.

  Rolling her eyes, Gwendolyn snaps, “At these prices, she can run the joint if she wants.”

  Eyes slowly lift to acknowledge me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sadder assortment of expressions. Life has been sucked from sockets.

  Summoning a pleasant smile, I return, “Good morning, ladies.”

  I choose the seat closest to Gwendolyn, hoping the tablemates aren’t the chatty sort. Someone eases a menu in front of me, and I study my choices. The selections read like the Waldorf Astoria’s Peacock Room Sunday brunch menu. My eyes bug when I note the chocolate fountain. I close the folder. “One scrambled egg, buttered toast, and coffee with cream.”

  The four of us sit in a strained silence, awaiting our meal. Finally the lady wearing a gold blouse and oversized hooped earrings introduces herself as Eleanor. The woman beside her, wearing a dark wig that casts shadows on the map of wrinkles across her face, says, “Frances.”

  Gwendolyn chatters like a magpie. “What you in for, honey? You’re awfully young.”

  I sit up straighter when I realize that I am being spoken to. “Oh. Amnesia—I’m told. I don’t recall.”

  The women chuckle, bringing a brush of warmth to my cheeks. I suppose I can manage a better response, but my mind goes blank in the middle of a sentence.

  Gwendolyn must notice my discomfort because she stops laughing. “Aw, honey, we’re not laughing at you, we’re laughing with you. Nobody around here can remember squat.”

  The good-natured response puts me more at ease. Unfolding my white linen napkin, I place it in my lap. “I am told that I was involved in an accident, and the injuries affect a certain part of my brain—the part that… knows things.”

  Eleanor nods. “Wake up to new world every day? Welcome to the club. I’m told I’m getting dementia.”

  Every last one at the table understands my confusion. Frances says, “Shoot, I can’t remember if I’m coming, or if I’ve already been there. I have more aches and pains than Carter has liver pills.”

  “I don’t think they make those pills anymore.” Eleanor laces her coffee with heavy cream. “Or maybe they do.”

  Gwendolyn agrees with an affirmative nod. “Carter’s Little Liver Pills. Who can forget them?”

  I could. I never heard of the pills, but judging more by sense than knowledge, I think I must be much younger than these women. As though Eleanor is a mind reader, she asks, “How old are you, Arlene?”

  Resting my spoon on the edge of my cup, I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

  “You look to be in your middle to late fifties.”

  I am in my midfifties. Good to know. I accept the age. “All right.”

  During the meal, I keep my eye on the man at the end of the corridor. From my vantage point, I can see down two long passages. He is in corridor one, crouching in front of the outside door, holding a pair of pliers as he inches back and forth in front of the door frame.

  “Have you noticed the man in that corridor?” I ask.

  Eleanor glances up. “You talking about Frank?”

  “I don’t know his name, but I fear he’s trying to open the door and needs help.”

  “He can’t open the door. They keep an alarm on it. Frank’s a former electrician. He’s trying to figure out the code, so he can break out.”

  Somehow I get the drift. “Oh my.” I would never be that daring. Or would I?

  “Don’t worry. The staff changes the code every few days.” Gwendolyn picks up her napkin and pats her lips. Rummaging in her large purse, she snags a tube of bright red lipstick and reapplies color. When she notices me watching, she silently offers me the tube. I shake my head. I am fairly confident that I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing that particular shade.

  Shrugging, she applies another coat, rolling her lips together several times to smooth the effect. “Better watch them electricians, sweetie. There’s a lot of ’em around.”

  Later, I wander back to my room, taking time to explore cubbyholes and a few closed doors. My surroundings are quite opulent, but the people who dwell here wear the same hopeless expressions. A wave of loneliness swamps me. Where is Jack? Where are my sons? My family has left me here, alone and defenseless.

  In one hall, I spot a doctor wearing a white coat, giving a patient what looks to be an optical examination. I hear him say, “Now Mr. Denton, I want you to put your right hand over your right eye.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. Then you’ll put your left hand over your left eye.” The doctor fidgets with an instrument.

  The man obeys, and I pause to watch.

  “Now read me what comes after the large E.”

  The man shakes his head. “Can’t.”

  “Try, sir. I need the letter directly below the big E.”

  “Can’t do it. Can’t see a blame thing.”

  The doctor straightens. The man has both eyes covered.

  Nodding to the doctor, I walk on, feeling even more confident that I’m not going to like it here and nothing I’ve encountered so far changes my mind.

  Chapter Three

  Year One

  Eleanor’s prophetic guess proves to be spot-on. I do wake to a new world every day. I eat the same breakfast with the same faces, see the same nurses and janitors, and every new day life feels as if I am back to square one. Bill Murray’s movie Groundhog Day flashes through my mind, and I wonder if I am stuck in a time warp. Odd that the memory of that movie stood out in my mind.

  Reluctant to get up this morning, I stare at the two new pictures on my wall and wonder why the staff feels the need to change wall decor so often. Every morning a new hanging or painting is tacked on my living room wall. The service seems a bit over the top but the items are interesting to contemplate. I don’t recognize any of the bright, shining smiles, but they must mean something to me.

  The only thing I know for certain is Gwendolyn is friendly and that I can trust her. I don’t care for bead making, Bingo, or ring toss, and I have been here long enough for loneliness to set in, a hollow melancholy ache that grips my insides and makes me think that I’ve been nibbling on too many green apples.

  I am pretty decent at napkin folding.

  When Gwendolyn discovers that, like her, I am an early riser, she stops by the room each morning and insists that I fold napkins with her. I don’t mind. What else is there to do at 4:30 a.m.?

  Jack Jr. and Steven tell me they come twice a week for visits, but they don’t. They haven’t been here in ages. Just two couples that I don’t recognize stop in once in a while, and if they can spare the time, they take me outside for fresh air. They must work here, though I’ve never thought to ask.

  They don’t fold napkins.

  Gwendolyn tells me the
couple is my son and daughter-in-law and they often spend an hour rolling my chair among the dying flower beds and colorful falling leaves. They tell me that one of my sons lives in Vermont and the other in Georgia. My tablemate says Steven is closer and visits more often, but I can’t say. I’m still confident it’s only a matter to time before my Jack comes to take me home.

  Chapter Four

  Year Two

  The corridors fill with plump, round pumpkins wearing carved faces. The pretty sight lines the hallways. I give “Dr. Important” a rude notice when he sweeps by in his perpetual, all-fired-hurry stride. I can’t imagine why the man lives life in such a frantic rush. It’s all I can do to pass twenty-four hours.

  In truth, I am envious. I wish I had somewhere to go that urgently.

  Gwendolyn and the girls are seated and waiting for me as I approach the dining room table. An occasional nurse smiles and says good morning when we pass, but the residents are engrossed in their food. I slide into my chair and pause a moment to admire Gwendolyn’s hat. “Is that a peacock feather?”

  Gwendolyn preens. “Why yes, it is. Thank you for noticing. The hat belonged to my mother.”

  “Most lovely.”

  “The shawl was Mother’s, too.”

  I make the appropriate clucking over the lovely crocheted white yarn that has been discussed before, I think. The eyestrain-causing work must have taken long hours to complete.

  “My grandpapa purchased the hat for Mother on her sixteenth birthday.”

  “A very thoughtful gift,” Frances says.

  I notice the women eat rather quickly this morning except for Frances, who I’ve discovered can stretch her nibbling of a simple piece of toast like a fussy toddler.

  “Does anyone know why the staff changes the wall art so often?” I sample my omelet—add a sprinkle of salt and pepper. Frances slowly lifts her gaze from her plate.

  I go on to explain. “In the mornings when I open my eyes, there’s a new family picture or painting on the wall. I lie for long moments, trying to identify the images of smiling faces—but I can’t say who anyone is.”