Waking her might not be the smartest solution, but Una’s said a hundred times that she wants to meet my family, and better to tell her now about the mistake than in the morning when the party is over. I draw a deep breath.
I’m going for it.
The guests pull on coats and warm gloves, and Steven grabs hold of my wheelchair. “I’ll walk Mom down the hallway.” Fatigue overcomes me, but I have just enough strength for one very special Christmas visit.
“If you don’t mind,” a guest says. He has earlier introduced himself as Dale Miller, Jack’s Air Force buddy. I have to take his word for the family connection. “Arlene, I’d like to meet your friend.”
“Of course! Come along. Everyone come along!” I can picture me barging into Una’s room in the dead of night, catching her in her flannel nightgown and mussed hair.
Before I know it, a line of guests trail us down the corridor, our festive mood catching. Nurses and aids pause to grin and with a finger to their lips gently hush the racket. Late nighters fill doorways wearing half-open robes and pajamas. Tired eyes focus on the merriment. Television sets blare from certain rooms. Surely Una will hear us coming.
Steven rolls me faster, apparently caught up in the celebratory mood. Others file in behind us, and I preen like a peacock with all the attention. “See my guests! We’re on our way to meet Una,” I call to fellow residents.
“Tell Una hi from me,” a lady in pink sponge curlers calls.
The tip of Orville Myers’s cane pokes through his half-open door. “Tell the ol’ broad to come out of her room sometime.”
I sniff and turn my head. The ol’ diaper thrower is just plain cantankerous.
I feel a small hand grasp mine. Ella skips beside the wheelchair, pigtails bouncing. It seems that lately she stays longer. She often brushes my hair or rubs my stiff shoulder. We talk about me mostly. Her presence is like ointment on a nagging ache.
A woman’s voice coaxes, “Ella, tell Grandma how much you love her.”
The little girl giggles and shakes her head negatively.
“Ella Parker,” her mother chides.
My head whips around with the sound of the name. Ella Parker. I recognize that name. My grandbaby is Ella Parker…. The thought skips away.
The little cherub sticks her face through the handles of my wheelchair. “I love you, Gramma.” The statement is a little clipped but obedient.
Moisture fills my eyes, and I affectionately pat the little angel’s shining hair. “Jack Jr. and Steven are here, too?” Can life be any better?
“We’re all here, Mom.” Whoever acknowledges my question sounds very kind.
I suddenly hold up one hand as we near my room. “Steven, stop by my room first. Una might be asleep on my sofa. She often visits before she retires for the night.”
“Whatever, Mom.” Steven diverts the chair.
At my doorway, I call, “Una, are you in here? I’m bringing company!”
Sometimes Una doesn’t look her best. She tries, and there isn’t a vain bone in her body, but she likes advance notice before she meets strangers.
“Una, are you in here? I want you to meet…” I pause, turning to look at my handsome escort. “Jack Jr.”
A blond head bends low. “Steven.”
“Una?” I call. “She must be in the bathroom.”
“We’ll wait until she comes out.” Steven pauses, but I shake my head. “She piddles a lot. I’m sure she’s not… doing business. Roll me to the doorway.”
When the wheelchair stops, I see that the bathroom door is wide open. “See. There she is.”
Relief surges though my veins. It isn’t often my family can spare time for my friends, and I can’t miss this opportunity to introduce them.
Jack Jr. sends Melissa a questioning glance that makes me laugh. “It’s okay, Jack. Look.” I nod for Steven to push me closer. When I enter the bathroom, I flip on the light and smile.
Peering inside the empty room, Jack Jr. frowns. “Where, Mom?” Others crowd in.
Pushing myself out of the chair, I grasp the security rail and jerk the string to my overhead light, and Una appears.
“There you are.”
Steven and Jack Jr. crowd around me with Julee and Melissa on their heels. Everyone stares at the reflection in the bathroom mirror.
“Una dear,” I say. “This is my family.”
Chapter Fourteen
Just when I’m getting used to a season, a new one comes along. Patches of melting snow clutter the flower beds. The annual Christmas tree is gone. A few potted poinsettias with dropping leaves sit on fireplace mantles.
At night, the wind howls around the eaves of my corner room. Cozy fires blaze throughout the facility. During breakfast this morning, I saw a janitor tack up Easter bunnies in the hallway. Winter’s grim shadows have given way to bright sunshine when I go to dinner tonight.
Una isn’t the least bit upset about my family’s late-night visit. She only laughs and says she welcomes family anytime they want to come, and she would have been plenty upset if I hadn’t introduced her. No wonder. We had a marvelous visit, Una, me, my family, and friends.
Gwendolyn, Frances, and Eleanor say it’s the best party they ever attended, and I am so blessed to have Steven and Jack Jr. for sons. I start to realize what they say is true. I’ve felt sorry for myself so long that I neglected to count the good things in life, things that matter. A warm bed. Friends. Food. I’m going to try harder to be happy.
My tablemates, who I often consider headaches, have become my “table” family. An occasional fuss erupts when Frances insists on poking or motioning instead of speaking when she wants something like salt, pepper, or butter. The woman does love her butter.
One night a server teases her and says her veins must look like L.A. five o’clock traffic. Frances gives him a stern look, suggestive of, “Take a close look, fella. Do I look like I worry about cholesterol at my age?” The young man stares back and then backtracks. He slides two fat chunks on the plate. “Here. Knock yourself out, kiddo.”
Sniffing, Frances says, “Young whippersnapper. I don’t buy green bananas these days.”
“Seen your family lately?” Gwendolyn taunts me and unfolds her napkin. She’s in a feisty, almost carefree mood tonight. Even Frances, who barely cracks a smile, appears civil. Eleanor giggles twice. It seems like they’re going somewhere—or plan to go. Maybe they’ve already gone. I can’t keep up with their chatter.
I answer Gwen’s question. “Jack Jr. was at my party.”
“I know. I was there, too. Have you seen him lately?”
I sigh. “He calls, but I can’t say when or how often.”
Frances picks up a packet of jelly and studies it. “I hate that stuff they call ‘jelly’ they bring on our trays when we’re sick. Tastes awful. Bland.”
“What stuff is that, dear?” Eleanor pauses, her plate untouched.
“The jelly they bring on our breakfast trays when we have to eat in our room.”
I can’t recall any jelly that I’ve eaten that tastes bad, but then I rarely take meals in my room.
“Are you talking about the foil packet on your bedside table?” I venture.
“My bedside table? I thought it was on my tray. I like jelly, but that stuff would gag a maggot.”
Gwendolyn glances at me and circles her temple with her forefinger before she addresses Frances. “You’re eating KY Jelly.”
“That’s what I said. What’s with the jelly?”
“Don’t eat that particular jelly. It’s not for consumption.”
“Then why do they bring it?”
I interrupt. “Eleanor, that’s a lovely blouse you’re wearing. I love blue.” Eleanor doesn’t have close family, only a nephew who lives out of state who occasionally brings her gifts.
“Thank you, lovey. It’s a Christmas gift from Pete.”
Frances is still mumbling, “Why would they bring you jelly if they didn’t expect a body to eat it?”
&n
bsp; I try to distract her. “You never married, Frances?”
“Never found Mr. Right. Contented myself with good books—literature mostly—music, working for the library, and donating any spare time to the Humane Society.”
A scuffle breaks out near the nurse’s cart. Loud voices fill the dining area: an irate man’s overriding a woman’s. “You tell that doctor that he is going to have to do something about these pills! They’re too big to swallow. I have to cut them in half, and besides that, they gag me when I try to take them.”
The elderly man slams the pills on the floor in front of the nurse and then stomps them, grinding the medication to mush with the heel of his boot.
The nurse’s hand flies to her right hip. “Mr. Stern. This rebellion is completely unnecessary. How many times must I remind you these are suppositories? You do not swallow them.”
“I don’t care what you call ’em. I’m through taking them!” He stalks off.
I turn back to my tablemates, used to the spectacles that take place on a daily basis. There’s not a sane person in the building. “I’ve been thinking. Our families, or our savings, Steven informs me, allow us to be in the nicest of assisted-living facilities but it feels like living in a zoo. Do you agree?”
The three women nod in unison.
“Fruitcakes,” Gwendolyn says. “Every last one except the staff, and there’s a few of them that I’m starting to wonder about.”
“Wackos,” Frances allows.
Like eating KY Jelly is more sensible than consuming suppositories?
But I rarely permit myself to think of my real home. I don’t know what’s happened to the house; I only know I miss its welcome feel. Losing my mind is one thing, but losing my universe is another. I have been in here for years—maybe longer, and I accept that I will never again have the luxury of riding in my own car, or have the man at the local grocery cut a prime rib for Jack’s and my dinner.
The acknowledgment saddens me as I wheel back to my room, where I know Una is waiting. We’ll chat, and then I will feel much better. She doesn’t like it here, either. I’m still functional enough to believe that God is still in charge of my life, and there surely must be a reason why I live on. I have sons and family that don’t forget me, unlike some here. Some live completely alone with only an occasional pastoral drop-in. I have phone calls and cards and pretty clothes that don’t fit. I can’t say that I’m neglected.
Admittedly if my family came every day, it wouldn’t be enough. I have to make my own life, a woman advised me while we fashioned paper roses. I recall staring at the tissue paper wondering, Why? Why do I have to make the best of nothing? Why couldn’t I have gone with Jack, and if not, why couldn’t I be in my home, water my lovely tiger lilies, and feed the redbirds that flock outside my bedroom window, scrambling for seed in hanging feeders?
If I could go home, I would never make another tissue flower, or play another game of dominoes, and I’d most certainly stop squirrel counting.
I’d fill the days with warm sunshine, picnics, Caribbean cruises, and gelato. I’m not sure what gelato is, but I hear the nurses talking about the stuff. Salted pretzels. My mouth waters. Salt and pretzel. I’m pretty sure that I like both.
Instead, I am here in this big glass building with strangers—a sad, sad thought.
I am now a card-carrying member of the forgotten or discarded society.
When I enter my room, I’m surprised to see a nurse packing a large bag laid out on my bed. I stare at the strange sight and wonder if I’ve been kicked out. My heart races. Where will I go? When the nurse sees me, she hurriedly shuts the case. “Arlene! You’re back from dinner early.”
“Why are you packing that bag?”
“Why, for your trip tomorrow. Did you enjoy your meal? Smothered steak tonight, isn’t it?”
“Meat loaf,” I note absently. “What trip? I’m not going anywhere.” I try to recall if I’ve climbed over any counters to get Frances’s mail—maybe I asked Candace one time too many for the name of her makeup foundation? Have I done anything or gone anywhere that I shouldn’t? I come up blank.
Closing the double closet doors, the nurse smiles. “Arlene, we’ve talked about this often. You’re going home tomorrow.”
“But my family says this is my home.”
And then it hits me. I am moving to another glass building. Exactly like this one but different.
I fumble with my blouse button, and the nurse helps me into my gown and then into bed. By the time I crawl between the sheets, I’ve forgotten the subject. I’m about to doze off when the door opens a crack and the same nurse appears, carrying a medicine cup. “Thought you might need a little something to make you sleep.”
I had practically been asleep. “I don’t think so. I’m pretty tired.”
“Let’s take it just the same.” She pauses by the bedside with a small cup of water in her hand. I reach for the pill and obediently swallow it. Arguing does no good, and she might as well stop including herself in the process.
She never takes a pill in my presence.
Early morning, I open my eyes to see the packed bag that’s now sitting beside my door. What does that mean? Am I going somewhere?
“But what will Una think?” I complain when the nurse insists that I eat a light breakfast of toast and fruit. She then helps dress me warmly in slacks and a sweater. “I can’t go anywhere without telling Una,” I say, quite certain the staff is confused and has me mixed up with another patient.
“Honey, I was told to wake you at six, feed you a light breakfast, and have you dressed and waiting for your son and daughter-in-law.”
“Are Steven and Julee coming?”
“I’m not sure; it might be your other son.”
“I don’t have another son. Steven is an only child.”
“Okay, sweetie.” Her eyes make a final sweep of the room. “I believe you’re ready to go.”
“I’m not going anywhere without Una.”
Una appears to be forgotten in the big rush. I have no more sat down in my wingback chair to await something than Steven and Julee show up, all smiles.
“Morning, Mom.” Steven gives me an absent peck, his eyes sweeping the room. “Everything packed and ready to go?”
“She’s a bit confused this morning,” the nurse says. “She doesn’t recall you telling her about the move.”
“Okay.” He flashes me a smile. “Everything’s cool, Mom. You’re in good hands.” He nods to the nurse. “Thank you. You and the entire staff have been very kind to her. You have our deepest gratitude.”
The woman smiles and reaches for my hand. “She’s easy to be kind to. We will miss you, Arlene.”
Crossing my arms, I remain seated. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Bring the wheelchair,” Steven says.
Before I can say diddly spit, I am in my wheelchair rolling down the hallway. When we approach the entrance, Dr. Important glances up. “Good morning, Arlene. We’re going to miss you.”
My jaw drops. The man has never said a word to me. I find my manners. “Thank you, Dr. Important.”
He smiles. “The name’s Cliff.”
“Cliff.” I turn in my wheelchair to stare at him as Stephen pushes me out the door of the big building with all the shiny glass and helps me into the backseat of his pickup truck. Still cross armed, I try everything to prevent my son from buckling me in, but my actions prove futile. I hear a snap, a door shut, and then Steven appears in the driver’s seat, adjusting the rearview mirror. Julee’s already seated.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I call—in case they miss the hint.
Manicured lawns with patches of dirty snow clutter the gardens as the vehicle rolls along the winding driveway. Despite my protests, it does appear that I am leaving. “Una,” I whisper, pressing my hand to the cold glass. Tears swell to my eyes. How can I leave Una? Life is barely tolerable now; how can this man and woman take me away from the only thing that I know?
How wil
l Jack find me?
“Listen, I really can’t go, but thank you anyway.” A more horrified thought comes to mind. “The little girl that you bring to see me—she won’t know where to find me. I am very fond of her, Steven. I don’t want to leave—I’ll never see her again!”
“Ella will find you, Mom. Julee and I will bring her often.”
“It’s okay.” Julee turns to hold my hand. “Everything is fine. Don’t worry. We promise to take good care of you. There’s nothing to be concerned about or afraid of.”
I grasp her hand and then drop it. “I want to go home.”
“You are going home. Very soon now you’ll be where you’re happy.” She glances at Steven, and I guess they think I’m deaf, too. “She doesn’t recall anything that the doctors or we have told her about the move.”
“She’ll be fine once she gets there.”
“I don’t want to go to another building,” I clarify. “Take me to my home.”
The long drive worries me; automobiles and semitrailer trucks clog the highway. By now I cease to talk or argue. It seems I have no choice in this matter.
Eventually the vehicle turns off, and I close my eyes, sensing I must be very close to wherever I am going. Through slatted eyelids, I watch as we approach a small brick building. I drop my hands, and my eyes fasten on the plane that sits in front of the terminal. My stomach lurches. Something about the plane upsets me. I make out the name, written in bold red lettering: SANTANA TOYS. Then in smaller letters are the words FAMILY OWNED AND OPERATED.
“I don’t like planes,” I say.
Steven says, “You love to fly, Mom.”
Now they’re telling me my likes and dislikes. Isn’t there anything that is mine alone?
Julee reaches back to pat my hand. “Relax. Everything is going to be fine.”
Fine? I’ve forgotten the definition of the word, but I reason that fine doesn’t fit my circumstance.
“Jack,” I call. He can’t hear me, but his name makes me feel more secure.
Setting the brake, Steven steps out of the truck, and I see Jack Jr. walking out of the terminal. I draw in a quick breath, intensely conscious of how father and son favor each other. The brothers shake hands and exchange words.
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