The lobby was small, with a few cheap vinyl chairs gathered together in one corner. To the left was a smaller room with glass walls. Inside, a few people in wheelchairs were watching something on TV. It looked like a rerun of an old sitcom. There was another room next to it with glass walls facing the reception area. On the other side was another glass wall that looked out onto what appeared to be a small courtyard. A few people were in this room, most sleeping in wheelchairs or on regular chairs. A couple of staff members in colorful uniforms were scattered in the rooms, talking and helping the patients.
We approached the L-shaped reception desk and were greeted by a young woman with pale skin and blond hair worn in a ponytail. She was wearing a cheerful uniform top like the other staff members. Her name tag announced her as Debbie.
“Hi, Debbie,” I began as soon as we made eye contact. “We’re looking for someone and were told he might be here.”
“A resident,” she asked, “or an employee?”
Now there was a good question. “I’m not sure,” I replied. “This address was the only one connected with him. His name is Jordon West. Do you know him?”
There was no mistaking the look of surprise Debbie cast my way, then turned on Zee. It was as if we’d asked if the Easter Bunny lived there under an assumed name.
“Um,” she said, “yes, I do. Are you relatives?”
I shook my head. “No, we’re actually trying to locate his daughter, Holly West. We’re hoping he can help us.”
“His daughter?” she parroted. “Are you sure you have the right Jordon West? Because I don’t think he has a daughter or any family.”
Zee stepped forward. “We understand that this might be a delicate matter,” she told the young woman in a soft, even voice. “Is there someone else we can speak to, Debbie? Like maybe the manager of this place?”
Still in shock, she nodded. “Sure, Celeste is here—I mean, Mrs. Jackson. She’s in charge of the facility.”
“Will you see if she has time to see us?” Zee asked. “It shouldn’t take long.”
Debbie picked up the phone on her desk and poked in three numbers. She spoke in a low tone into the receiver, just loud enough that we could hear her telling the other person someone was there to see Jordon West. There was a slight pause on Debbie’s side, then she said, “That’s what I said. They’re here to see Jordon West.” I looked over at Zee and she cocked an eyebrow in my direction.
Debbie put her phone back into the cradle. “Mrs. Jackson will be out in a minute,” she told us.
Before we could barely reply with a thank you, a door behind the reception area opened and out came a very tall black woman dressed in tailored navy pants and a peridot blouse—Zee’s favorite color. Her copper-colored hair was intricately braided and wound around her head, making her appear even taller. She had a wide open face, small dark eyes, and high cheekbones to envy.
“I’m Celeste Jackson,” she told us, “the manager of Bayview Assisted Living. May I help you?” She stayed behind the counter and did not offer us her hand.
“I’m Odelia Grey and this is my friend Zee Washington,” I told her. “We’re looking for Jordon West. Does Mr. West live or work here?”
Instead of answering, Celeste Jackson opened a short gate built into the counter and ushered us behind the desk and into her office.
“Are you family or some sort of legal representative?” she asked once we were seated in the two plain visitor chairs across from her desk and she was seated behind it.
“Neither,” I answered honestly. “We’re trying to locate a woman named Holly West. Her father is Jordon West.”
Celeste leaned forward. “I seriously doubt our Mr. West is the man you’re looking for,” she told us in a businesslike voice. “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a daughter. He’s been living with us since he was seventeen years old.”
“Living here?” I asked without hiding my surprise. Most of the people we’d seen in the public rooms were quite elderly and sick. “What’s wrong with him?”
Celeste weighed her words carefully. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but since you’re about the only people who have shown an interest in that poor man in nearly thirty years, I will tell you that he came to us after being in an alcohol-related vehicle accident when he was seventeen.”
I felt my eyes pop open at the information. “So the Jordon West who lives here is a vegetable?” I blurted out.
“Odelia,” I heard Zee softly chide me.
Celeste smiled at both of us with great patience. “Mr. West is not in a vegetative state, but he is greatly incapacitated. He can’t talk beyond grunts and a few mangled words, but he can hear quite well and respond with his eyes. He’s also a quadriplegic. I understand it was a very bad accident. He was lucky to have survived at all.”
“My husband is a paraplegic,” I told her. “How extensive are Mr. West’s injuries?”
“Outside of wiggling a couple of fingers on his right hand, he can’t move at all from the neck down,” she told us.
“And he’s been that way for thirty years?” Zee asked.
“Yes,” Celeste said. “So you see, I doubt he is the father of the woman you seek.”
“But what about his family? Where are they?” I asked, grasping at straws. “Maybe he fathered a child in his teens, before the accident.”
“Mr. West has no one but his mother. Shortly after Mr. West came to us, she moved out of state.”
“And who pays for his care?”
“A trust managed by a law firm, but his mother hasn’t been to see him since she left the area,” Celeste said. Her voice changed from businesslike to sad touched with anger. “But that’s about all I can tell you, so if you don’t mind, it’s almost dinnertime, which means we’re quite busy.” She stood up, signaling we should too.
“Can we see Mr. West?” Zee asked as the three of us neared the door.
“Why?” Celeste asked. “Don’t you believe me?” She squared her shoulders, which straightened her to her full intimidating height.
“Oh, no, it’s not that,” Zee quickly said. “It’s just that if he hasn’t had a visitor in all this time, I think it’s time he did have one.” Zee glanced at me. “Or two. We’ll only stay a minute or two, I promise.”
Celeste thought about the request a few beats, then smiled. “I can see no harm.” She turned and opened a different door than the one we’d used before. “Although he does have lots of friends among our staff. He’s quite intelligent and loves to listen to audio books and watch movies. We’re all quite fond of him.”
She led us down a sparkling clean corridor smelling of disinfectant. “Our facility is quite old and privately owned,” she said, “but we keep it in tip-top shape.” At a wide door, she stopped. The door was open, showing a very large room with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto a courtyard filled with small plants and rose bushes and a couple of benches. Judging from the direction of the room, I was betting it was the same courtyard I’d spotted earlier off the other room by reception. There was a large hospital bed against the center of one wall, and a nice flat-screen TV was mounted on the wall across from it. Below the wall was a bulletin board with a lot of photos pinned to it. The TV was off, but soft classical music was coming from somewhere. In front of the window a large industrial wheelchair faced the courtyard.
“Jordon,” Celeste called brightly, “I have some company for you.” She walked up to the wheelchair and came around to face the person in it. “Would you like some company?” She smiled down. “I thought you might.” She waved us over.
“This is Odelia and Zee; they wanted to meet you,” she told the person in the wheelchair.
I looked down to see a middle-aged man, shrunken and crippled by his injuries. His head was shaved bald and his skin was waxy. He drooled slightly as he smiled up at us. His mouth of misshapen teeth worked but nothi
ng much came out.
“See, Jordon is wiggling his fingers,” Celeste told us with a smile. “He’s pleased and wants to shake your hands.”
Zee went first. She took the hand with the moving fingers in her hand and gently squeezed it. “I’m so happy to meet you, Jordon.” I was next and did and said the same.
We stayed just the few promised minutes, during which Jordon, through his active fingers, had Celeste show us what book he was currently listening to—the blockbuster bestseller The Help. “He loved the movie and wanted to listen to the book,” Celeste explained. “The local library got us a copy for him. We do a couple chapters a day, don’t we, Jordon.” His eyes danced in agreement.
He started gesturing with his mobile fingers and a couple of strangled sounds came out of his mouth. Celeste smiled and pulled a cell phone from her pocket. “He wants a photo with the two of you,” she told us. “It will be printed out and pinned to his wall of friends over there.” She gestured toward the bulletin board. Zee and I were happy to comply.
Before we said goodbye, both Zee and I squeezed Jordon’s fingers again.
Celeste walked us to the front door and this time offered her hand. “I’m happy you wanted to visit Jordon. He loves people, and I’m sorry he’s not the person you thought he might be.”
“That’s okay,” I told her. “It certainly wasn’t wasted time at all. It was a pleasure meeting him. My husband is quite active in both paraplegic and quadriplegic sports. Would it be possible if I brought Greg by sometime to visit with Jordon? I think he’d like to meet him. In fact, would you be so kind as to send me that photo?” I held out one of my cards with my personal cell number on the back. “Just text it to this number.”
Celeste took the card and nodded. “A visit would be very nice, Odelia,” she said with a genuine smile. “But please call ahead because some days Jordon isn’t feeling as well as he was today. Today was a good day.”
As we started out the door, I said to Zee, “I doubt he dated Jane Newell.”
“Excuse me?” I heard a voice behind me say.
Zee and I turned to see Celeste Jackson eyeing us with curiosity. “I apologize for eavesdropping, but did you mention Jane Newell?”
I felt the hair on my neck stand up at the thought that maybe the trip to Westminster would yield something in our search. “Yes,” I confirmed, turning back around.
Celeste opened the door to Bayview and beckoned us inside. From the lobby she escorted us back into her office in silence, where she made sure both doors were shut securely. “What does Jane Newell have to do with your questions?” she asked once we were all settled back in our previous seats.
“Did you know Jane?” Zee asked.
“Years ago,” Celeste answered. Unconsciously, she rolled a pen back and forth across her desk without taking her eyes from us. “She worked here years ago.”
“She worked here?” I echoed.
Celeste nodded. “I wasn’t the manager back then, but a nurse. Jane was a college girl who worked here part-time.” She looked uneasy, like she wasn’t sure how much to tell us.
“Jane is dead,” I announced, hoping that would erase any privacy concerns Celeste might have. “She passed away about two months ago. She was the mother of Holly West, the young woman we’re trying to locate. As I said before, a Jordon West is listed as Holly’s father. My husband knew Jane in college. She left her junior year because she was pregnant.”
The pen stopped rolling, trapped under Celeste’s sturdy fingers like a squished bug. Celeste leaned back and looked out her single window. Her window didn’t face the cute courtyard but the street, and it had security bars on the window. “It can’t be,” she said more to herself than to us. “It just can’t be. It’s impossible.”
“What can’t be?” asked Zee, who was sitting at attention, her total focus, like mine, on Celeste, waiting for more information to dribble out.
Celeste turned around to face us again. “As I said, Jane Newell worked here. She was a nurse’s aide. I don’t believe she was here very long, a few months maybe, but during that time she became quite close to Jordon. They were both young, and when her work was caught up, she often read to him or took him out to the courtyard for some sun. He was devastated when she left. She did visit him a few times over the years, but then the visits stopped. That’s why I remember her so well.” Her mouth took a turn south.
“During her visits she never brought along a child, a little girl?” Zee asked.
“Not that I remember,” Celeste replied. “Of course, I wasn’t here for all of her visits, and back then I was a nurse and not the manager, so sometimes my schedule changed and I worked nights.” Celeste shook her head. “But it’s impossible that he fathered her child.”
“As I said,” I told her, “my husband is quite active with athletes with serious challenges. Many of them have children—natural children. Many are quite capable of erections.”
She shook her head again, “But Jordon isn’t. That’s one function that did not survive his accident.”
“Did Jane leave her job here on good terms?” Zee asked.
“As I recall, very good terms, even though it was a short time. She was kind of distant emotionally. Except for Jordon, she didn’t make any close friends here, even though she was well-liked. She did her job, spent time with Jordon, then one day gave notice. It didn’t surprise anyone. Aides came and went regularly since for most it’s just a part-time job and not that well paid.” She paused and studied the pen trapped under her fingers. “One thing we all thought was odd was that she chose to work here. It was obvious that she was very bright and had never done any work like this before—you know, caring for people, cleaning up their messes, physical labor. Not that she didn’t do it well, she did, but I think at first it was tough for her.” Celeste smiled at the memory. “But she fooled us all and quickly became quite good working with our residents and doing the manual labor.”
“If she didn’t have experience, why was she hired?” Zee asked.
“Like I said,” Celeste explained. “There’s a big turnover on part-time aides. We often have jobs open but few applicants. I’m sure the manager at the time saw Jane as a pair of willing hands with a good attitude.”
I stood up. “We’ve taken up a lot of your time, Celeste. Thank you for being such a help. For some reason, Jane Newell put Jordon West down as the father of her child, and with her being dead, we may never know why. Since Holly has never visited him, she might already know he’s not her father.” I reached out my hand. Celeste stood up and shook it with warmth.
“I hope you understand,” Celeste said, still holding my hand, “that a lot of what I disclosed today about Jordon is confidential.” I nodded my understanding.
“I like Celeste,” I said once we were back in the car. I drank some of my water. It was warm but wet.
“Me too,” Zee said, taking her own drink. “She didn’t have to tell us all that she did. I got the feeling she was so happy someone, anyone, was taking an interest in poor Jordon.”
“Can you believe his own mother doesn’t even visit him?” I asked with disgust. “Just sends money for his care through a trust. What a heartless bitch.”
“Sadly, stuff like that happens all the time,” Zee said, putting on her sunglasses. “For some parents it’s too much seeing their child in such a condition. Others are just selfish.” She sighed. “At least they have the money to give him care.”
I shrugged. “Or that trust was set up with insurance money after the accident. Jordon enjoys a pretty big private room. It can’t be cheap, even in a moderate place like that. But either way, at least he’s in a decent place. It’s not fancy, but it’s clean and they clearly care for their patients.”
From Bayview Assisted Living we easily found the freeway and headed home. We were in the thick of rush hour now, and the freeway moved like sludge.
&nb
sp; “I was thinking,” Zee said. “What if Holly is Jordon’s daughter?”
I glanced over at her. “You heard what Celeste said. He’s impotent.”
“I read a novel years ago about a woman, a nurse, who did it with a patient who was pretty much in a vegetated state because she wanted a baby.”
I looked at Zee as if she’d sprouted three heads. “Are you kidding me?”
“No,” Zee said, looking at me. “She raped this guy who was near death and got pregnant by him.”
I looked straight ahead, trying to wrap my head around this information. “That’s icky,” I finally declared. “And it was fiction.” I gave a few shakes of my right index finger in her direction to make my point. “And, don’t forget that Celeste said that Jordon is impotent. I’m guessing in this novel, veggie man was not.”
fifteen
“The World According to Garp,” Greg told me as we ate our pizza. “It’s by John Irving.”
“What?” I said, my mouth half full of pizza. Greg had brought home our usual pizza order, and I’d thrown together a nice salad. We were washing it down with a couple of cold beers while I filled him in on my day’s activities, ending with the visit to Bayside Assisted Living and Zee’s remarks about fictional conception.
“That’s the novel that’s from,” Greg said. “Haven’t you read it?” He took a drink from his beer bottle.
I love to read, but my husband is a super reader, polishing off a novel almost every week, even with his busy schedule. Still, it surprised me that he knew that reference. “Apparently not,” I said. “I think I’d remember a little thing like that.”
Greg laughed. “It’s how Garp is conceived in the book. His mother, a nurse, straddles a dying patient to become inseminated.”
“She raped him, you mean.”
He nodded. “Yes, it was rape, considering he was in no shape to give his consent.”
I popped a grape tomato into my mouth and popped it with my back teeth, letting the cool, tangy juice saturate my tongue. “Do you think that’s possible in Jordon’s case? We were told he’s impotent, but could he have, you know, risen to the occasion if properly motivated?”
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