Chapter 2
Things had settled down by the end of the week. Personally, I mean. I was able to set aside the worries and internal churning and go about my days as normal. Go to work and spend the hours needed, balancing the concentration and tedium needed to get my job done efficiently and well. Interact with my co-workers, share a long lunch with Wally and review the upcoming budget revision, and so on.
Honestly, I didn’t pay that much attention to my work, hour to hour. No, that’s not fair, I am still meticulous – but I’ve pretty well perfected the ability to use my short term memory effectively. I focus, work, finish the work, and poof, it’s back out of my head.
Twenty years ago, I was much more likely to take work home, both literally and figuratively, than now. Despite the technological advances. Twenty years ago, I bored Keith at our dinner table with the minutia of my days, and woke in the night stressing about, what, tiny meaningless squabbles amongst people whose names I can barely recall now.
By Friday, I had also started sleeping better. Once I managed to tip into sleeping anyway. This was my day off, and I could theoretically even sleep in. (Oh, to be Sam’s age.) Instead I lolled there, half listening to the radio, while Doug got himself out the door. Clark became a little stressed every Friday morning, trotting back and forth between us. He was particular about his habits, and it bothered him seeing a human in bed after his kibble dish had been filled at the start of the day.
Sometimes I got up anyway, had coffee and cereal with Doug. But I wasn’t ready to face him just yet. We’d had a bit of an argument a couple nights back. About my whole dreaming thing, whether they really could all be random events. I had laid out a list of the instances, making my case, but in a shoddy way and lacking any evidence whatsoever that he could see. It was not even an argument, really.
I had tried to have him to hear me out, describing the situations. And he had listened precisely until I stopped talking, then dismissed it all with a shake of his head and a wave of his hand. They were coincidence, or the not surprising news that an old sick person had died, or both. It didn’t mean anything. Even my raw nerves tracking these things, trying to remember the dates or at least time of year, were unimportant, silly. It would do no one any good to dwell on it.
Now I rose from bed purposefully. He had sounded too much like my own father with his “don’t dwell on it” comment. And look where that attitude had gotten Dad: dead from a heart attack just weeks after his retirement at age 65. I had come to think that my father would have been healthier and lived longer if he had been more open minded, open hearted maybe. Willing to consider alternatives.
When I first heard the term “silent generation” applied to people my parents’ age, I had thought they meant how they tended literally to be silent. Over time, I came to see that indeed both of them displayed the passive, non-reactive ways of coping of those of their era. Dad had gone to Korea and returned with nothing to say on the subject. Mom’s early childhood had paralleled the Great Depression, and her depravation then surely led her to lowered expectations later.
But that was all irrelevant now, I thought, finishing my shower and dressing in casual clothes. I got laundry started and ran a couple errands before the main part of my day began, my weekly visit to Hillside. It was a lovely, sunny day out, and before I went to the car, I stopped and gathered a handful of wildflowers to put in a small vase. The nursing home has plenty of color in its common areas but it lacks actual plant life, and I knew Mags would like these.
I parked in the tiny visitors lot, glad for a space and wondering who else was on hand. Hillside residents themselves did not have cars. Splaying out the sprigs of flowers with my fingers as I entered the lobby, I was struck by the sameness of the place.
Just days ago a resident had died, a vibrant, lively woman who had been seen the good in everyone. And nothing about the building or the entranceway, or the brief glance and nod of the front attendant spoke of any sort of change. They had a waiting list for vacancies, I knew from various gossip. There was probably another old woman already ensconced in Yvette’s room.
Hillside’s outside was drab – cement beams and discolored walls, windows with opaque glass, a tiny outdoor walkway lined by scruffy shrubs. Utilitarian design of the 1970s or late 60s, almost self-consciously drawing attention away from itself. Probably the neighbors had not wanted an old age home set down here.
But it was a pretty place inside. They kept the lights bright, the wallpaper was ornate, and the furniture in the main sitting room had an attractive faux Victorian look. The staff were a friendly bunch too. I hadn’t appreciated that at first, but now I did – that nearly everyone I passed would offer a friendly hello. They were all a bit overworked, the nurses especially. Still, when I had a question, even as a non-family member, I knew someone would take the time to hear me out, to give an honest answer.
The charge nurse was at her station, surrounded by paperwork, and a couple of ladies were parked in their wheelchairs nearby, keeping an eye on things. I greeted all three, pausing so the ladies could admire the flowers. Teilah, the nurse, caught my eye for a moment and nodded soberly. She knew I had admired Yvette, we all had.
“People are holding up,” she said, a roundabout way of acknowledging the loss. “And Margaret has been expecting you. Della is down there too.” She tilted her head in the direction of their rooms.
I nodded and proceeded down the corridor. The residents’ halls were also brightly lit, but more utilitarian. Rubber handrails lined the walls, and the carpet was plain and flat, for the ease of wheelchairs and rolling carts. All the resident room doors were open, and as I passed I could hear snatches of TVs turned up too loud and voices calling out.
When I first started coming here, it had been hard not to stop at each room, to say hello to people who were obviously lonely, or run for a nurse for the ones who regularly demanded one. But I had gotten more immune. A lot of people here were hard of hearing, and their regular speaking voices sounded upset. They were all here alone in a place no one dreams of ending up. Any of them would be cheered by company; I could only do so much.
I also tuned out the smells, which at first had distressed me. Just as the bright lights highlighted any flaw on the wall or floor or one’s skin tone, there was a pervasive perfumey disinfectant smell that seemed to draw attention to the base odors it was intended to mask. Back here, the windows stayed closed, and the smells of institutional meals mixed with harsh cleansers and sprays and bodily odors.
Mags was at the end of the hall – just luck of the draw from when she got placed here. Her room was close to the emergency exit, where some aides regularly sneaked out to smoke. So she did get a bit of fresh air, plus, when so inclined, could take note of staffers coming and going.
I tapped at her open door. I liked to at least imply the illusion that she had privacy, that she could choose who to admit to her small living space.
“Clarissa, dear,” she exclaimed, raising her good hand toward me. Her smile was lopsided now, but genuine. She had greeted me pretty much this way since I was 10 years old. I leaned over for a quick hug, and set down the flowers, which both ladies cooed over.
Mags was seated, looking comfortable, in her wheelchair. She had always been a slender woman, somewhat glamorous, I thought, someone who knew what colors and patterns went together, what accessories completed an outfit. Since the stroke, she had kind of compacted toward her center. Her arms were a bit thin and bony, while her face and mid-section had taken on more bulk. Still, she got her hair done once a month – it was silvery and swept back – and her warm brown eyes twinkled as ever.
Her friend Della was stationed across from her, their chairs angled so that their right sides faced each other. I knew the regular staff was on duty this morning because of this thoughtful placement – both women had suffered right brain injuries, which meant their left sides were immobile. Della in particular had left neglect so she r
eally needed to interact with people in front of her or to her right. This way they could talk, see each other, even clasp hands if the conversation called for it.
“Let me scoot back,” Mags said, pattering her right foot ineffectively.
I reached around and slowly helped move her a few inches, then pulled the small cushioned folding chair that I thought of as my spot up beside her.
“Shall I leave you two?” Della asked. “Raphael is supposed to come fetch me at some point.”
“Nonsense,” Mags exclaimed, as I shook my head. “We need to bear up together.”
“Yes, indeed. Chin up and all that.” Della lifted her head for a moment, but she looked shaky. She was several years older than Mags, in her 80s I would guess, though not presume to ask. She seemed like a classic California woman, I thought. Her skin was wrinkled and leathery from the sun, and she wore her gray hair relatively long, braided and wrapped around her head. Her demeanor always seemed quiet and calm, sometimes in contrast to Mags’ tendency to get riled up or Yvette’s chirpy enthusiasm. Della’s clothes tended to be loose and earth toned. I could imagine her as a beatnik, in gypsy outfits going to poetry readings, or kicking along barefoot at the beach.
“The grandchildren stopped by, a whole passel of them, very gracious,” Mags said. “We’ve made our arrangements to attend the service – luckily their church is close by. But no more Gleesome Threesome,” she added with a sigh. A designation one of the speech therapists had given them awhile ago, that they all enjoyed.
Della patted her hand gently.
“Doug and I will be there,” I told them. “We’ll look for you.”
“Well, Curtis will be coming to escort me,” Mags said, “but we can always use another strong set of arms.”
We chatted a bit more about the service, segueing into random memories about Yvette. None of us had known her for more than the time Mags had been here, yet that was enough to store up a healthy set of memories. These sorts of recollections were good for both of them, I thought. Not only as part of the grieving process – and, as Della noted, by her age enough friends had passed on that it no longer seemed abnormal – but for the benefit of just flexing the memory muscles.
The therapists here were big on that. Any holiday or world event would do as an excuse for a themed gathering. Special treats might entice participation, and once the captive audience was arranged, some game of puzzles or story telling or memory recollections would ensue. I had found these bizarre and strangely juvenile at first. But over time, it did make sense. Without stimulation, they (or I as well) would be more likely to veg out with the TV. People with brain injuries had all the more reason to work the internal gray matter connections.
In fact, I had been persuaded to do a monthly reading for anyone interested. “Afternoons with Austen,” they called it, and I was making my way slowly through the works of Jane Austen, to a small but devoted audience. In theory these were readings followed by discussion. But the reality was, after I had carefully set up the room so that the women with the worst hearing were right up front, and I had read aloud in my most powerful voice, everyone just sat for awhile afterward. I had taken to bringing what I thought of as appropriate classical music; I would put on the music and all the ladies would listen, sighing, almost purring, it seemed. Presumably wrapped up in thinking about the characters and enjoying the music, perhaps churning up long forgotten memories of their younger days.
One of the newer aides, a tiny young woman whose name I’d forgotten, poked her head in, apologizing for interrupting us. She needed to bring Mags down for blood work, but she didn’t think it would take long.
I saw a quick series of expressions pass over Mags’ face. Annoyance, fear of needles, worry that I would leave, and then resignation. Because regardless of her feelings, the staff’s schedule would prevail as long as she was stuck here. I think that essential lack of control over her every move was what most fueled her frequent ruminations on fixing up her house to return home.
“I’ll let Della entertain me while I wait,” I told her quickly. “We’ll keep an eye out for you coming back. There’s no place I have to be this afternoon.” That was depressingly true most every Friday, even the ones when I did the readings. Although I had been known to hint at impending events to excuse myself if I thought Liza might be on her way.
The attendant wheeled Mags away, deftly angling around the corner and far stronger than she looked. Della undid her own chair brakes, and sat passively while I executed a couple awkward turns to get her facing outward.
Her room was across and a couple doors down. I wheeled her slowly in, and then around so that she was next to her bed and facing out. This room had a more austere look, as though Della had alighted temporarily but wouldn’t leave much when she departed. She had no TV, preferring silence or a book on tape. She liked to have her curtains drawn, and favored an exquisite old world lamp rather than stark overhead lights of the facility. It made the room a peaceful oasis.
She looked a little tired, and I asked if I should find someone to transfer her to the bed.
“No, thank you, I’m aiming to stay upright till after dinner. It’s better for my back. But do tell me if I’m listing,” she added with a wan smile.
Both she and Mags were working on balance, even in their chairs. I saw her draw herself up and set her shoulders back with precision. It struck me, again, how much effort was required for the simplest things. “You look a bit peaked too, dear, if you don’t mind my saying,” Della observed.
“I wasn’t sleeping well earlier,” I acknowledged. “Although I feel better than I did a couple days ago.” To anyone else, I might make a crack about getting old. Here, that would sound silly, ring false.
“It’s hard when you lose someone. Even if you weren’t that close,” she said. “I had some sleepless nights too. More sleepless.”
She had regular and wicked insomnia. We had bonded over that back when we were all first getting acquainted. I think she saw something of her younger self in me. At least she regularly offered gentle advice, couched in stories about her own behavior in the past.
“Did they know something was wrong with Yvette?” I thought to ask. “Last week?”
“I don’t believe so, no. Mag and I both heard the commotion in the hallway early in the morning, and the nurses let us know who it was, and that she had died. But the morning staff were completely surprised as far as I could see. Why do you ask?”
“I just thought I might have overheard something. It’s silly, but I had an odd dream. That morning, I mean. Before Mags called me about it.” I glanced down, embarrassed to be mentioning it.
But when I looked up, Della was staring at me with unusual intensity, leaning forward a bit. “I’d be very curious to hear about it,” she said, her words slow and precise.
I told her about the vague dream and then the voice that had come, the words. She nodded as I spoke, an impish smile appearing on her good side.
“That’s all, Clarissa?” Della asked when I stopped. I felt her eyes probing me. “You seem not quite finished.”
I sighed. At least Della would be too polite to pooh pooh me completely, as Doug had the other day. “Well, then in the morning, when I heard the phone ring, I felt pretty sure that it was someone calling to tell me. About Yvette.”
She nodded, with what I can only say appeared to be more satisfaction than my little story warranted.
“I know it sounds kind of strange,” I added.
“I wonder, has this sort of thing happened to you before?” she asked.
It was my turn to eye her, wondering why she would ask that. I nodded slowly. “Once or twice.” At her squinting half frown, I amended, “Several times, I guess. Some instances more obvious than others. There was just this quality to the particular dreams—I tried to explain it to Doug and it’s hard to articulate.”
Della raised her good arm to her
chin, and leaned forward, her expression for all the world like a wise old owl. “You recognize it,” she suggested. “It’s familiar. You know to pay attention.”
“Yes,” I exclaimed, feeling a brief rush of adrenaline just from the idea that somebody else got it. “It happened when my grandmother died, a totally different dream, but I had the same feeling. And a voice came, and then I knew, before my mom sat down to tell me. Do you understand what I mean?”
She smiled again. “Yes, dear, I do. This sounds very much like things I have experienced. Not recently,” she added, “not about Yvette – I heard that with my own ears. But when I was out in the world.”
“You dreamed about things that would happen?” I asked, almost as cynical as Doug. “My husband is pretty sure it’s all coincidence. I mean, my grandmother had been quite ill.” I didn’t want to say the obvious parallel about Yvette, that she was an old lady in a nursing home – which was true of Della too.
“Well, that just might be. But I can assure you it went beyond mere circumstance in my case.” She fell silent for a moment, but I could see the focus of her eyes, as if she was replaying whole scenes in her mind. “I called it inknowing,” she said. “I had my first experience with it at 14, and no idea what to make of it. We lost my eldest brother over in the Pacific, during the war. A terrible thing, his ship was blown to bits, all hands lost.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said softly. I could see a sadness in her expression that suggested the 70 years since this happened had suddenly compressed to nothing, like she was briefly reliving the loss.
“Oh, it was a tremendous blow. He had just turned 22. But my point was that I knew it. One night I felt this horror, a vivid and terrible dream. A week later, I was at school, and I nearly fainted, they had to take me to the nurse. Before someone could even be sent to fetch me, my own father arrived at the school for my sister and me. My mother had gotten the telegram at home. When I pieced it together, it seems I had collapsed just as she did.”
A shiver passed over me. Even if this was totally made up, it was a compelling story.
“There was nothing to be done about it,” Della continued. “That pre-cogniscent awareness, I mean. My family had suffered such a loss. My sister and I were still school children, but we had to do more around the house, help my mother, who took ill herself several times later that year.”
“You didn’t tell anyone?”
“Not that I recall. And it didn’t happen again for some time.”
Now it was my turn to nod. Especially when young, nobody wants to call attention to themselves like that.
“But I must say, I really realized I had this gift in mid-life. It’s occurred to me there was a hormonal aspect. I had a few years there where my inknowing was downright spooky.”
“Hormones,” I repeated, a bit amused. Doug would love that one.
“Oh, it was more than just that, I can assure you.” Della caught my eye for a moment. “You can call me a deranged old lady, but I know what I experienced. I know it was real. I know I knew things in a way I shouldn’t have. And from what you say, you understand precisely what I’m talking about.”
I wondered if I did. She seemed so sure, where I now wondered if Doug was right about the whole thing. “Did you,” I paused, searching for the right phrase, “did you look into it professionally? Get tested? Talk to a doctor?”
“Or a shrink, more likely,” Della added, her expression sly.
“I just mean, was there some sort of collaborating evidence, some kind of proof.” I sounded like Doug now.
“No, dear, not the way you’re thinking.” She glanced away, and I had a sudden flash of fear that she actually could read my mind, that she knew I was questioning not just the veracity of her story, but the functioning of her post-stroke mind. “I chatted with some friends about it,” she continued. “Earlier on, I mean. This was a long time ago, mind you, there was a period when married ladies had every afternoon to spend together battling their boredom. Really I was kind of testing them out. Wondering if I was unique.”
“And were you?”
“Not entirely, I don’t think. Unusual, certainly. You must have already concluded that. But not alone in my abilities.” She smiled suddenly. “There was one young lady I knew who was just fascinated with the occult. She held seances, tried the Ouija board. Her own skills were fairly weak though, it was as much for entertainment, I think.”
I couldn’t help smiling, picturing this. Della and her fellow housewives, in their Mad Men style dresses, dimming the lights and calling on spirits. “I don’t think Doug would be too comfortable with my doing that,” I said.
“Oh, no, dear, I only pursued any of this quietly. My husband would have had me locked up.” She said this with a small smile.
I couldn’t tell if she was serious. I thought about Doug again. He would not actually send me to a shrink if I started holding seances. But he would find every way possible to dissuade me. Although who knows, perhaps Heather might find me interesting after all? I returned my attention to Della, who was still sitting there, her body passive but her mind clearly engaged. “So you did have that one friend with the ability. With the, um-“
“The inknowing. Yes, she and another pair of sisters I got to know. We lost touch after a few years. They were a bit older, they must be long gone by now.” She gazed into the distance, somewhere far beyond her closed curtains. “I only pursued it quietly, discretely, for amusement. To keep the peace at home. But I do regret that now.”
I tilted my head, questioning.
“So what if they thought I was crazy,” Della continued. “Now I’ve lost my ability. I’m losing all my senses. My husband is dead, and here I am locked up anyway.” She shrugged, just on the one side, but I could see a streak of genuine anger tickling the usually calm surface of her face.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my catch all phrase when I didn’t know what else to say.
She flicked her fingers at me and smiled normally again. “Don’t let my ranting put you off,” she said. “But I do wish I had learned a little bit more, or tried a little harder. When I could.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know if I could do that,” I said, thinking about work and what Doug or Sam or any of my regular friends would say.
“I understand,” Della said amiably. “No one likes to rock the boat, do they? And you’re busy, I know. Don’t think I don’t appreciate the time you spend here with us old ladies.”
I waved her off. She was right, though, I thought, about rocking the boat. Going about my modestly busy life, my day to day routines, was certainly easier than probing the mysteries of the mind. Especially where the unusual abilities seemed to pertain to sudden death.
Della shifted in her chair again, making another effort to align herself upright. “Still, I imagine that internet would have more information than there used to be. My grandchildren seem to be constantly consulting it on their little phones.”
“I’m sure there’s all kinds of stuff, though I’d hardly know where to start.”
She continued to gaze at me, smiling slightly. “Much of it fakery, just as the old days. But there are glimmers of truth to be found, I’d wager.”
“I’ll noodle around a little,” I added, suddenly wondering why I had not thought to do this on my own. “Next time I take a long lunch, next week. Try to convince myself I’m not crazy.”
“I don’t doubt some people do call it crazy,” Della said. “People are scared of what they can’t understand. People deny things they can’t put their hands on. But they accept electricity flowing into their houses. They acknowledge love, is that something you can measure or prove exists?”
Before I could answer – and what could I say to that? – Mags returned, the aide depositing her in Della’s doorway then rushing away to help with some minor catastrophe on the other end of the hall.
> One of the newer residents had gotten upset with a nurse, accusing her of stealing, Mags had overheard. Then she had lashed out at a brand new aide, mid-transfer, and almost been dropped. More experienced staff were down there helping both the patient and the aide, Mags explained.
Both women sighed. I squeezed around to move Mags into the room. Some residents here got quite paranoid – accusations of thievery and mistreatment by the staff were not uncommon. Mostly it was just paranoia, brought on by the brain injuries.
But the other truth was, lots of people did move in and out of the rooms. It wasn’t unheard of for a piece of jewelry or other trinket to go missing. And the nursing staff were professional and caring. But occasionally overworked or a tiny bit brusque. Sometimes it took longer than it should for them to respond to a buzz, or they had to prioritize and took awhile to tend to less than urgent needs. I understood how one could feel abused here, even as my heart went out to the underpaid, overworked, and falsely accused aide in this particular instance.
Both women were getting tired. It was near that empty hour before the start of their early dinner. Therapy sessions and scheduled events were over, family visitors with jobs wouldn’t be here for awhile, they had been up in their chairs and probably stretching out in bed was tempting. Not a few residents did go back to bed and take their dinners there, propped up among the cushions.
Mags had told me that, barring serious back pain, she made a point to stay seated at least till dinner was over. Anything less was a slippery slope towards never really getting up at all. No doubt Della felt the same way.
I pulled out my Chronicle and read some headlines and news stories aloud, part our weekly routine. Neither could abide by television news, but both missed the ability to easily read. Mags, at least, could slowly piece out large print, like the cards her grandchildren sent her.
After awhile, I set Della’s cassette tape going, the volume and stop buttons accessible to her line of sight and right hand. I wheeled Mags back to her room, and we chatted a bit. Then I took off. It gave me a tinge of pain with each departure, to see the sad smile on her face as I said goodbye. I was filled with guilt not to spend more time with her, along with a rush of relief at the prospect of getting back to my faster paced able bodied life.
Clarity Page 2