The conversation began to both scare and depress me. Lately, I didn't seem to be in full control of my own faculties. And some nights I wondered if I never remarried or never had another child, what would happen to me when I reached this season in my life? Who would take care of me? Julie joked that having more than one child was insurance that a parent wouldn't be abandoned. But if that was true, there wouldn't be so many homeless elderly people or ones in nursing homes just waiting to die.
I drove past the new synagogue and pulled into the parking lot of the Ethan Goldstein Life Center. Instead of one large facility, there were several smaller buildings that looked like doubles and others seemed to be apartments. The sprawling building in the middle of these units resembled a country club. The property backed up to the Madisonville River, so a high wrought iron fence surrounded the area.
We were buzzed in and greeted at the door by a young woman who looked like she could have graduated from college the day before. Her loose blonde ponytail, manicured nails, and heather gray cowl neck sweater dress didn't at all fit the profile of someone who directed a retirement home. I expected someone on the verge of grandmother. Or someone like me who was generically nonthreatening. Especially today with my black slacks and cinnamon sweater. I looked and felt like a pumpkin on a stick.
"Hi, Mrs. Becker. I'm Zoe Arnold. We spoke on the phone last week. We are so happy you're doing this for our residents." She shook my hand, then glanced at Ben. "And, you're Ben. Right?"
Ben nodded. "Yes, ma'am." He slipped his hands in his pockets and edged closer to me.
Zoe peered around Ben, probably wondering if we'd forgotten the reason we were there since we were both empty-handed." Did you need some help bringing the desserts inside?"
"That would be great. Thanks," I said.
"Sure. I'll get Sam and Eli to help you."
I reached for Ben's hand, but he gave me enough of a head shake to know his hands weren't leaving his pockets.
We stepped into a wide reception area designed to look more like a foyer than a lobby. Three oak church pews flanked the wall across from the reception desk, which was really an antique door laid flat on top of stained bead board. Sitting behind the desk was Zoe's mother. I knew she had to be because she looked like her daughter plus forty years.
"Mom, where are Sam and Eli? I need them to help carry the goodies in."
"Check the sunroom. I think they were showing the Bensons how to bowl on that new thing they just set up."
"A Wii?" Ben may have tried to hide the surprise in his voice, but he couldn't mask his expression. "They play Wii here?"
Zoe's mom smiled and handed Ben and me two name tags." I know. Isn't that crazy?"
Ben looked at me with the "uh oh" face, and then I remembered our conversation in the car. "She means crazy like it's a surprise," I said.
"Got it," he said.
"Do you play, Ben? You might be a better teacher than the twins. Let's see if we can find them," said Zoe.
We walked through a pair of paneled doors into a spacious area that looked like a ballroom, except for the round tables and chairs scattered around. But nothing compared to the view that an entire back wall of glass provided. The space between the wall and the lake had been transformed into an outdoor oasis filled with paved walkways, an outdoor kitchen area, two lap pools nestled alongside a rock wall, and a meditation area with a fountain. Such an abundance of colors, it was as if someone planted dozens of crayons capable of sprouting flowers. I felt like I'd been transported to the set of an HGTV program.
"This is our multi-purpose area," Zoe said. "We use it for meals, when we have speakers or presentations, exercise classes." She pointed to four ladies sitting at a table outside playing Mahjong. "That group asked if we could have Zumba workouts."
I laughed. "Seriously? I can't keep up with Latin music."
"Oh, they're serious," she said as we walked through another set of doors off the main area. "Class starts next week."
Most everyone we passed on our way to the sunroom was socializing, playing cards or a board game, or reading. A few were on the computers grouped in two corners of the area.
Zoe walked us past a small library. "We're still trying to build our collection of large-print books. But since we just opened a few months ago, we're focusing first on bigger needs. Like more residents. That's my husband's job. He's our marketing man."
We could hear the thundering crash of bowling pins before we entered the sunroom, a smaller, more upholstered and comfy version of the main area. She opened the French doors and led us in. "We intended this to be the theatre room, which explains all the televisions. Then Sam read this article for his senior research paper about Wiis being used as therapy and exercise for senior citizens. After that—"
"Hey, Zoe," a man on the other side of the room waved her over. "Come get these useless brothers of yours and find something for them to do. Legos maybe."
The six or so people around him laughed, including the two young men sitting on the couch, clearly Sam and Eli because the only difference between the two was the color of their shirts. They both leaned forward,
"So, guys, what's the story?" Zoe asked.
Sam or Eli started to explain setting up the game, then the other one talked between his sentences, and soon the other people took turns chiming in. Ben watched, his head moved as if he was following a tennis ball at Wimbledon. Apparently he understood the conversation because he'd nod at Sensor Bar, co-axial cables, A/V cables.
It wasn't until we were within conversation range that I noticed that not all the residents were elderly. At a distance, some of them appeared to be so because of their baldness or frailty or age spots. The men in the circle talking to Zoe couldn't have been much older than fifty or sixty. And, as I looked out into the garden, I noticed other men obviously not here because of their age. But there wasn't any doubt that they weren't in good health.
"Mrs. Becker," Zoe's voice broke through my people-gazing, "if you give Ben your keys, the boys can follow him to your car and carry those desserts in."
They headed outside, while Zoe and I walked back to the dining room.
"I'm so impressed with this facility. I knew it was family-owned, but I didn't expect to really find you here," I said. "I'm sorry. That was supposed to be a compliment."
Zoe stopped and turned to face me. "It's okay. We didn't plan to be here. This," she looked from one end of the room to the other, "all this was my brother's dream. He always had such a heart for the elderly." She tucked a few stray hairs behind her ear, and crossed her arms, her hands resting lightly on her upper arms. "We used to joke that he was born an old man."
A quiet sadness surrounded her. I waited before I spoke, hoping she might tell me what happened to her brother. She didn't. I looked past her and saw the boys nearing the door.
"So, he's not working with you?"
"Ethan died of AIDS four years ago."
14
Ben left The Goldstein Center with cheeks the color of strawberries from incessant pinching by sweet little blue-haired Bubbes. I left with confusion and sadness roiling in me, imagining myself in Zoe's place.
We stayed at the center longer than I'd planned. Between the attention from Sam and Eli and the adoration from the residents for his baking skills and his Wii prowess, Ben perked up. In fact, I think he was actually enjoying himself.
I passed up the road twice on our way to The Holy Redeemer Senior Center. Trying to locate a gravel road marked only by a rural mailbox proved almost as mystifying as producing a glossy smooth cheesecake top. When we finally made the right turn, the road snaked through stands of pine trees so dense, I made a mental note to never make a night visit.
The gravel road didn't actually come to an end. It looped all the way around the center, a French Acadian style home with a wraparound porch lined with rocking chairs. Not as spacious or as new as the other center, but nestled between two massive oak trees and rings of magnolia trees, Holy Redeemer had a genteel,
easy charm.
This center didn't have a buzzer to announce visitors. Instead, it had two chocolate Labrador Retrievers—one I'd bet Ben could have saddled and rode to the door—that barked and bounced and bounded around our car.
"We could go back to the other place," Ben offered, his forehead pressed against his window.
"Those are friendly barks, I'm sure. Labs are sweet. They're just overgrown puppies." I dug for my cell phone to call Sister Pam. No way were we getting desserts past this rambunctious canine tag team.
"Hey, Mom, that lady with the weird thing on her head is calling the dogs." He unbuckled his seat belt. "Can we go in now?"
The dogs trotted away and disappeared behind the back of the house.
"That must be Sister Pam, and that 'weird thing' is part of her religious habit. Meaning it's part of what nuns wear. Like their uniform." I dropped my cell phone back in my purse." I'm glad you're so excited to be here."
He squirmed in the seat. "Yeah, me too. But I need to go to the bathroom."
"Honey, some of us have the diabetes, you know. A sugarfree apple pie might be a nice idea for Christmas," said Teeney as she sliced herself a slab of praline cheesecake with one hand and clutched her aluminum frame walker in the other. She tapped Ben on his shoulder. "Baby, you wouldn't mind putting that little slice of cheesecake on a plate and carrying it right over to the table now would you?"
Halfway to the table, she planted her four-legged walker in the shag carpet, and twisted the top half of her body around so she could see the sofa. "Percy, I might want a little, little piece of that pound cake when you get up off it and get over here by me."
Teeney's husband, Percy, just shook his head from side to side. A matchstick of a man, his face a collection of wrinkles and furrows, like the inside of a well-worn baseball glove. He didn't take his eyes off his wife until she commandeered the nearest chair at the table. "Ain't she somethin' else?"
"Yes, she sure is, Mr. Percy," I said, but likely not for the same reasons.
"We married almost seventy years next month. Some peoples don't even live that long." His voice faded toward the end and, though he stared at the space in front of him, it seemed his eyes saw something else entirely.
"No, you're right again," I said. "Some people don't live that long." Some people don't even live half that long.
He eased himself off the couch. "You want something?"
You bet. Lots of somethings. "Kind of you to ask. But, you know, it's funny. After I bake all those desserts, I can't bring myself to eat any."
Percy's eyebrows stood at attention. "They that bad?"
"Oh, no, of course not. I just meant desserts are better when you don't have them all the time. If you're around them almost every day like I am, they don't seem that special anymore."
He looked at Teeney, then back at me. "I sure am glad my marriage ain't dessert," he said and shuffled off in the direction of the pound cake.
Sister Pam stood by the kitchen stool where Ben perched, his head propped on his hands as he leaned on the island and looked out the bay window. I sat across from him arranging pound cakes slices on a pewter serving tray.
"Ben, would you like to go outside and watch the boys play catch?"
He looked at Pam as if she'd just asked him if he wanted to swim in a pool of pudding. "Um, no, that's okay. I can just watch them from here."
"You know, I used to be really afraid of big dogs, and I never wanted to play at my best friend's house because she had one. In fact, it was a lab just like Moses and Noah, only Thelma was the color of sand." She walked over to the pantry and came out with two new chew toys the size of small fireplace logs.
Ben eyed the dog treats. "What are those for?"
"Dinner," she answered, smiled, and lightly tapped him on the shoulder with a rawhide bone. "Well, for the boys, they're like a snack." She opened one and handed it to Ben. "Here, hold on to this while I open the other one."
"Sister, will you be making coffee?" The question sounded more like an accusation, especially coming from a woman who had the height and the body type to have played center on a basketball team. She carried several empty plates with both hands, the spoons tremoring on the top plate until she set the stack in the sink. I noticed, then, the arthritic curves of her fingers, mostly because of her long fingernails, painted as if she'd dipped them in a ripe cantaloupe.
"Now, Marsha, you're standing right there by the coffeemaker. I know you don't see anything in there." Pam smiled, crumpled the plastic packaging, and tossed it in the cabinet waste basket. "If you want coffee, I'll be happy to get it started."
Marsha yanked her long-sleeve cardigan around her waist. The heather brown shade matched her eyes, though the cashmere sweater itself was much softer. "Well, then, I'd like that hazelnut should you still have it," she said as if she'd just given Pam permission. "I'm going to settle Daniel in for the evening."
"Then you and the coffee should be finished at the same time," Pam announced as she scooped coffee beans into a grinder.
Marsha walked to the island where Ben and I sat, eyed my son who looked like he would start playing drums with the chew toys, and said to me. "Oh, and I thank you for providing us with these delicious desserts. You can stop by anytime with those." She reached out her hand, not to shake mine, but to pat me on the shoulder, and then headed to the den.
Pam pushed a button on the front of the coffeemaker and filled the kitchen with the jolting whirring noise of pulverized beans that released a sweet, rich, and nutty aroma. She sniffed the air, "Doesn't that smell delicious?"
Ben spun around on the stool and asked Pam, "Do I have to keep holding these?"
"No. Since I finished making coffee for Miss Marsha, I'm going to surprise the dogs with them in just a bit."
"That lady smelled like peppermint sticks." Ben put the dog bones on the counter. He leaned toward me. "She talked kinda mean, too."
Overbearing, I thought, but not mean. I leaned back on the stool to peer into the den to make sure Marsha and her husband weren't in earshot. "Ben, we can't always judge people by the way they talk." I needed to file that one away in my unwritten rule book of parenting. A book Ben added pages to every year. Funny how children made me confront my own issues.
"Your mom's right." Pam served herself a slice of pound cake, broke off a piece and ate it. "Sometimes the people who are the hardest for us to be nice to are the ones who need it the most. We can't always look at people and know what's happened in their lives." Pam paused to finish the rest of her pound cake. "Miss Marsha and her husband moved here to live close to Bethany, their daughter. The weekend after they settled in, Bethany flew to Boston to attend a sales meeting. She died in a car accident the day before she was supposed to come home. She was their only child."
"I'm sorry for saying she was mean," Ben said to Pam, his voice solemn and soft.
"Ben, Sister Pam didn't tell you that about Marsha and her husband for you to feel like you did something wrong. She wanted us to know because it helps us understand better why people might act a certain way. And that's a good lesson to learn. To not judge people too quickly."
Pam held Ben's hand in hers. "Your mom's right again. And you know what I learned from Miss Marsha's story? To be very grateful for all the people God's placed in my life, and to let them know I care for them while we're still here together." She picked up the chew toys and eyed Ben. "Remember what your mom said about not judging people too fast?"
Ben looked confused, but nodded anyway.
"Well, mister, we're going to go practice that lesson with Moses and Noah."
"Uh, but," he turned around on the stool and peered out the window, "but they're dogs."
"Works the same way," she said. "I'm just going to introduce you to the boys, and let you learn a little bit about each other. I'll be with you the whole time. I don't want you to be afraid of them, and the only way to get over that is to get to know them. And how could they not like someone as cool as you, right?"
&
nbsp; He shrugged. "Right."
"You trust me?"
"Yep." He slid off the stool. "You're going to watch, huh, Mom?"
"Of course," I said. "I'm proud of you. It's a very big deal to do what you weren't sure you could do."
My words made a round-trip flight and crash-landed in my gut. I'd just commended my son for doing something I was unwilling to do myself.
15
By the time Saturday arrived, Ben couldn't stop himself from looking out the window of his bedroom every hour waiting to see the Pierces' car in their driveway.
"You're sure they're coming home today?"
"Yes. Remember, Miss Julie sent me a text message that they were an hour away?"
"But that was a long time ago."
I looked at my cell phone. "No, Ben. It was less than fifteen minutes ago."
He scratched his head. "How come time goes so slow when you're waiting for something good to happen?'
And that's why, for me, time was supersonic.
"We could play a game. Or you could sweep the porch. Or you could . . ."
He stared at the ceiling, then at the floor and kicked an invisible something with the toe of his shoe. Probably one of those microscopic bugs. "You're just giving me things you know I don't want to do so I'll think of something to do. Right?"
Smart kid. "You mean you're going to pass up a chance to beat me at checkers?" I pretended to be insulted.
He looked suspicious. "You let me win."
"Truth is, buddy, I don't." And I didn't. The game required more focus than my brain could summon when I sat for that long.
"Okay," he said and pulled up his shorts. "I'll go find the game."
He walked away, but I heard him mumble, "Maybe Nick will get home by the time I find it."
Several games later, Nick finally saved Ben and me from each other.
When Ben heard the doorbell, he leapt out of the chair and bolted to open the door. Of course, he opened it and the only thing jumping up and down was the excitement in his voice. He was already entering the "cool factor zone" where it wouldn't be too cool to act like he really felt.
The Edge of Grace Page 9