On her way, Nora had made a side trip to the fire station and spoke to the paramedic unit assigned to the area. Each firefighter said no way in hell would they let a loved one be taken care of at that place. Well, then, she asked, where? At home, they said adamantly. The only place to be was at home.
“What if they don’t have that option?” Nora had asked. “What if they’re too young to have children old enough to take care of them?”
Confused glances all around. “You mean, like their kids are too far away?”
“Sure. Whatever,” she said.
The firefighter with the biggest mustache chuckled as if the idea was humorous to him. “I’d eat a bullet before I got shuffled in there. Oh. Don’t quote me on that. Off the record, right?”
On one hand, the care facility was a “nice” place. You could tell upon entering, it was the kind of care that would cost a small fortune. Bright metal wind chimes tinkled cheerily on the front porch. Inside, it smelled good, like pinecones and vanilla. Nora wondered exactly how much they spent on air deodorizers every year. Was it a line-item expense? Did it fit under “Facility Maintenance”? Because someone was on that beautification shit. On it, literally. The norovirus had run through this place a few times already this year. No matter what, no matter how many masks you issued and how many gloves you made your staff wear, feces and vomit traveled faster than BART did under the bay.
Her mask carefully in place, Nora asked the head nurse about the patients. “What about the ones with Alzheimer’s?”
“Which ones?” The nurse was Filipina and reminded Nora of a fire hydrant in her short squatness. Over her head hung red streamers. Faded Fourth of July banners decorated with gold foil clung to the white walls. They should have been removed weeks ago. One banner had lost its stick on one side and hung drunkenly toward the floor, a half-flapping, almost-dead symbol of freedom.
“The ones with Alzheimer’s.” Nora spoke more clearly.
“I heard you the first time, honey. I meant which one? All of them have dementia.”
“Excuse me?”
“They all got it. All of ’em.” She waved her hand to include the five or six elderly patients grouped around the nurses’ station in their wheelchairs. If Nora didn’t know better, she would have wondered if they were zombies. Their eyes were vacant, their mouths moving slowly as if trying to form words they’d once owned, once used with authority, confident their wishes would be carried out. Now they were lucky if they got themselves cleaned quickly after crapping themselves.
“How old are these people?”
The nurse didn’t look up from the computer. She clicked boxes as quickly as Ellie texted. “Old, honey.”
“No, I mean the range. What’s your inpatient range, from youngest to oldest?”
The nurse’s tired gaze finally met Nora’s. “They all old, honey. All them.”
Nora kept pushing. “Who’s your youngest resident?”
“Simone.”
“Can I meet her? For the article?”
The nurse’s expression was tolerant. She’d seen reporters come and go. They all did the same kind of article, the shock-the-boomers piece, the article that was meant to get the reader to buy that much more life insurance. “Sure, honey. If you wanna.”
Simone was asleep in her bed when the nurse led Nora into her room without knocking. “She our youngest.”
Nora felt as if she wanted to sit on the floor, collapse to it, even though she’d promised herself she would touch no exposed surface in the residence care home. “God.”
“She forty-five.”
The woman could have passed for late fifties, easily. Her skin was good, yes, and her hands looked better than Nora’s. But the muscles in her face had degraded to the point at which it seemed her cheekbones were trying to escape. Simone was sound asleep, her mouth hung open, and a raucous snore ripped from her, the sides of her nose flapping with the exertion of it. Something green clung to her cheek, something Nora tried very hard not to stare at.
“Simone!” The nurse didn’t bother with niceties—she went in with a shout and didn’t back down. “Simone. Wake up, honey. You have a visitor.”
Simone’s eyes opened slowly. Blink. One, two, three. Her mouth didn’t close, and Nora could see that no silver gleamed as it had in the skeletal grins of the two elderly men who’d smiled at her in the hallway, her dental work new enough to include only porcelain fillings.
“What.” Simone’s word didn’t sound like a question as much as an autonomic response.
“You have a visitor. She wants to say hello to you, honey.” Now that Simone’s eyes were open, the nurse’s voice was kind, lower in volume.
“Hi, Simone,” said Nora. She didn’t hold her hand out to shake—it didn’t look as if Simone could move. Instead, Nora thrust her hands into her pockets and gripped the piece of beach glass she’d chosen that morning. Green, she remembered. Foggily glazed, with a smoothed chip on one side. It had once wheeled and spiraled in the waves, too.
“What.”
“I’m just here to check to see if you need anything.” Nora hadn’t planned to say that; if she had, she would have had questions prepared for this astonishingly young resident. How did you get here? Who dropped you off? Do they still visit? Are you still in there, Simone? The one you were before?
“What.” Simone’s voice was a croak, and the sound ripped into Nora’s chest.
“Okay, then. I’m not going to bother you anymore.”
“Did you know.”
Nora ceased her backward crab step. “What, Simone?”
“Did you know.”
“Did I know what?” What if this was the moment they made a connection? Simone needed someone to talk to, someone who would understand. Nora stepped forward and picked up Simone’s cold, waxy hand.
“Phhffbt.”
Spittle touched her forearm and Nora jerked back her hand. “Simone . . . ,” she started, but she had no follow-up. She’d interviewed hundreds of people over the years, one of them a sitting president of a small island nation. Nora was known for bringing her warmth into her questioning, making even politicians feel relaxed enough to share their favorite pumpkin pie ingredient even while the red light glowed on her voice recorder.
But she had nothing to ask Simone.
Fear scrabbled at Nora’s windpipe, choking her. The terror didn’t so much run through her as it coagulated in her veins, slowing down all her bodily processes. She wanted to smile professionally at the very helpful nurse and then run down the hall, bashing through the heavy glass doors until she was out, out, out, back in her car, back in a world where the sick were taken care of, invisible. Forgotten.
“She just like this, honey. You know.” The nurse grabbed a washcloth from the tiny, badly lit bathroom and rubbed briskly at Simone’s cheek. “You got some peas here, honey.”
In the parking lot, when Nora finally—politely, professionally—made it out, her hands shook too much to put the keys in the ignition. She’s just so young, Nora had said to the nurse as they’d walked back toward the front door. Nothing good about early-onset, the nurse had said simply, as if Nora had been asking for reassurance that there was.
She probably had been.
“Mom?”
The hose jerked in Nora’s hand. She’d forgotten where she was. She’d been right there for a moment, back in that care home. She could almost smell its acidly sweet tang. “I’m fine,” she said to whatever Ellie was asking.
“Do you think you’ve watered the porch enough?” Ellie’s voice was softer than her words. She was humoring her, something Ellie shouldn’t ever have to do.
“I’m fine, honey.” Nora smiled. “Really.”
“Yeah?”
Her daughter was so beautiful. So alive and so gorgeous. She didn’t even know it.
Ellie said, “You should
call Aunt Mariana.”
Nora knew she should. They hadn’t spoken since that night, the night she’d hit Ellie, the night Mariana hadn’t told her where she was, the night Mariana had failed to do what any reasonable adult would have. When she’d failed to bring her daughter home immediately. Whenever Nora thought about it, she felt heat bloom in the center of her chest. Mariana had said she hadn’t known her text had failed, but Nora couldn’t believe that. Mariana’s whole life was her phone. She checked constantly to see how many were using the app. The first time BreathingRoom had a thousand people meditating at once, Mariana had bought the office pink champagne from Trader Joe’s. Nora and Ellie had gone over to celebrate with them. It had been lovely to see her sister that happy. Nora had a picture on her desk that had been taken that night. They—all three of them—looked beautiful in it, even Nora. They’d been delirious in that moment, yelling Breathe instead of Cheese.
Mariana had texted her a million times since bringing Ellie home (all of those had come through). She’d called her every day. Every night, Nora erased the messages without listening to them.
She’d never gone a day without talking to Mariana, except for the times Mariana had been overseas.
“You should call her,” Ellie said again. “Instead of . . . whatever you’re doing out here.”
“You know I love playing with the hose. And don’t worry. Your aunt and I are fine.” They weren’t. But Ellie didn’t need any additional worry. “Go in before I soak you.” She moved the hose threateningly.
Ellie gave that soft laugh. “Okay. I give. I’m going inside.”
Nora waited until the screen door slapped shut; then she turned and shot spray at the back fence. She wasn’t worried about losing the fence to fire, but it felt good to watch the water darken the wood, to directly affect something. To make something change, even if it was only from dry to wet.
Chapter Thirty-nine
“Are you sure you want to do this?” asked Dylan. “You’re ready?”
Ellie sat on Dylan’s bed. Both his roommates were out with their girlfriends, and the apartment was theirs for at least another couple of hours. The timing was right.
“Yeah,” she said. “I want to.”
“I’m here,” he said, and his eyes stayed on hers. Clear. Dylan was so clear in everything. Sometimes Ellie felt like everything her mother did or said had layers of meaning Ellie couldn’t hope to identify, stratifications that were probably important but impossible to read. Dylan was sweet. Uncomplicated. He liked Ellie, his guitar, the city of Oakland, and his job at the pizza place three blocks away from the apartment. He didn’t like reality TV, women who pretended to be stupid just to get attention, and tarantulas. It felt like a rest to be with him. A mini-vacation complicated only by sexual tension.
But now she had to call her dad. Dylan nodded reassuringly as she held her phone to her ear.
Ellie’s dad answered on the first ring. Bad sign. He never answered her calls, always calling her back when he was in the car. He said it was so that he could fully concentrate on their conversation, but Ellie knew he did it because in the car he was away from Bettina and the kids, none of whom liked sharing their time with him.
“Kiddo! How’s it going over there?”
His tone was way too cheerful. “So you know,” she said.
“About what?”
He was so fake. Ellie looked at Dylan. He nodded. “About Mom.”
“Oh, yeah! She called me.”
Oh, yeah. That old thing. That old life-threatening nightmarishly horrible thing. “When?”
A pause. “Not that long ago.”
“What does that mean?” Had he known for a day? A month? He should have called her; wasn’t that what fathers were supposed to do? He should have driven to her side the moment he heard—he should have wrapped her up in his arms, lending her fatherly strength and wisdom and hope.
“I don’t know. Not that long.” His voice changed, like he was looking over his shoulder. Probably changing lanes. “How you doin’ with it?”
“Me? Not good.” Ellie spoke briskly. “Mom’s losing her mind. She waters the house, but the houseplants inside are all dying. She’s not driving much because she can’t be sure she’ll remember where to go. She writes the date on her wrist. She gets stuck in one place and doesn’t move forever, not unless someone touches her or speaks to her. I do see her writing but—” Some of the rigidity left her voice. “I’m not sure . . .”
“Well, I know if anyone can handle a rough situation, it’s you. You’ve always been a strong kid.”
Rough situation. This was a catastrophe of nuclear holocaust proportions. Ellie’s mother, whom she loved, was losing her fucking mind. All her brain cells just running out of her like radiator fluid had run from their old Civic. And her father thought it was rough?
Dylan put his hand on her knee and left it there. Ellie’s whole body was frozen except for that one warm spot. She leaned into him, hoping to steal more of his body heat. “Shit, Dad. I don’t know what I’m going to do.” When she’s gone. No, if, if she’s gone.
“I know, Ellie-belly, I know. When your stepmom lost her mother last year, it wasn’t easy for anyone. Look. I’m happy to help out.”
A bright yellow hope rose in Ellie’s chest and she tilted her head so she could flash a quick smile at Dylan. “Yeah?”
“Sure. You need some money?”
The hope popped with a soft hiss. “No.”
“Does your mother need money?”
She had no idea. “No.”
“I mean, she’s got good insurance, right?”
Ellie hadn’t even thought about the insurance. She added it to her list of things to worry about—how could she have gone five months without thinking of it? Would her mother have to stop working? As far as Ellie knew, her mother’s columns were still being turned in on time, but how long could that last? What would happen if her mother lost her job? Was there something her father would have left her . . . ? No, they’d been divorced too long. Mom didn’t even get alimony anymore, just the auto-deposit child support. Holy shit.
“I don’t know anything about her insurance.” And that wasn’t why she’d called him. Jesus Christ.
“What else can I do to help? I’m going to be out that way in October.”
It was late August. “You live ninety minutes away.” The flatness in Ellie’s voice matched the stark expanse of nothingness she saw in her mind—the drive to Modesto was unimpressive in every way unless you really had a thing for cows and dust. It wasn’t a difficult trip, though. Her father drove a BMW. It would eat up the miles just fine. He could be with her before Dylan’s roommates even came home.
“I know. I’m sorry it’s so far, babe.”
It wasn’t far. It was hardly any distance at all. He could . . . He should say . . .
Then he said it. “You can stay with us—you know that, right?”
She didn’t trust him this time. “Yeah?”
“I mean, I have to run it past Bettina, of course, but yeah, if that’s what needs to happen, then that’s what we’ll do. I’ll have her call you. Or e-mail you.”
Ellie’s father sold roofing. He didn’t put it on the house or even handle the material himself. He bought and sold parts that turned into roofs, built by other men. She’d heard this tone of voice from him before, when she was his occasional passenger while they were on their way for a quick ice cream sundae. Yeah, Jones has got it. I’ll have him call you. Wait—e-mail’s better for you, right? Great, we’ll do that. Take care, buddy. His car phone would beep off and he’d quarter turn toward her. “That guy thinks we’re gonna go with him. I guess someone should have thought about that before he took the Hill subcontract, huh, Ellie-belly?”
Ellie had always thought it was funny, the way her dad said what people wanted to hear and then did his own thing. In a stran
ge way, she almost admired him for it. He’d made a family, wasn’t happy with it, so he’d made another one that he liked better. She’d always thought, though, that dads would come to the rescue.
She’d never needed rescuing before. Mom hit me, she could say. Right across the face. I said I understood, but I don’t. I don’t.
But her dad wasn’t the rescuing type, apparently. “So anyway. Talk soon?”
“Yeah, I gotta go, too, Dad. Love you.”
“Love you, babe—”
There could have been more words after those from her father, maybe better ones, but Ellie hung up before she could find out. Her fingers were so cold the phone slipped out of her hand, landing on the bed. She didn’t want to hold it anymore anyway. She wanted to lose herself: in a kiss with Dylan that made her eyelashes melt, in writing a story line about Queen Ulra that would somehow save her, in getting drunk, in smoking weed, in doing anything that took her mind off the solid lump of fear in her heart that felt like physical pain. Was it possible for a sixteen-year-old to have a heart attack? Her breathing came faster and the pain in her chest heated. Her dad wasn’t going to help. He couldn’t help. She, Ellie, would have to save them all. She didn’t even have her driver’s license yet. She didn’t know what she wanted to do with her life. But she would have to save them all.
Chapter Forty
Nora was going to meet Lily at the parking lot of the Golden Gate and they were going to go yarn shopping at ImagiKnit after their walk. But after Nora had waited in her car for twenty minutes, she got a text. Sorry, car won’t start. Again. I have to go shoot my mechanic aka my husband. I might need bail money later.
She decided to walk the span anyway. It had been too long since she’d walked the mile and a half across the water. The bridge was—always had been—one of her favorite things about the Bay Area. The way it was suspended between heaven and earth, the way it looked like it shouldn’t work but it did. Like a bumblebee, it defied laws of gravity and floated. The new Bay Bridge to the east with its stark white sailboat girders and fancy new palm trees couldn’t ever hope to compete with the sheer elegance and grace of the classically perfect Golden Gate.
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