The Nightmare Room (The Messy Man Series Book 1)

by Chris Sorensen

  “The kitchen from Hell?”

  Hannah grinned. How long had it been since he’d seen that grin? “When are we going to see your dad?”

  “Let’s settle our business with Mr. Moots and then we’ll swing by the home.”

  “His name is really Mr. Moots?”

  “Gary Moots, yes, ma’am.”

  The cinnamon roll came and Hannah dove for it. Peter let her have the whole thing.

  “Everything’s going to be okay, right, Peter?”

  He took a long sip of coffee. “It is.”

  “You promise?”

  “I do.”

  The diner door opened, and a portly man sporting a bushy mustache and a brown suit entered. He was carrying a battered briefcase.

  Hannah leaned into Peter. “A hundred bucks that’s Moots.”

  She was right.

  “You folks the Larsons?” the big man boomed, flashing a toothy smile.

  “Guilty,” Hannah said.

  “Guilty! That’s funny.” He offered her his beefy hand. “Gary Moots. And you’re Hannah?”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Moots.”

  “You must be Peter.”

  “Thanks for meeting us.” He sat next to Hannah, letting Mr. Moots sit opposite them in the booth. It was a tight fit for the lawyer.

  “You should get a skillet,” Mr. Moots said. “Ham scramble, corned beef hash, home fries. They make a mean skillet.”

  He looks like a walrus. A walrus who loves skillets.

  The man flagged down the waitress. “I’ll have what they’re having.”

  “A cinnamon roll?” the waitress asked, her arms weighted down with plates of pancakes.

  “No, just the coffee.” He turned back to Peter. “Your dad set this all up in advance, so this should be a relatively simple process. You’ve been out to see him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Nice place, Applegate. I’ve got a lot of clients out there. Good outfit. Great food. They lay out a Sunday buffet that’s top notch. As good as anything you’d get here. Bacon, eggs, sausage—the works.”

  Peter’s stomach rumbled, recalling the spoiled meat in his parents' kitchen. "Can you give me a little more info about what happened? My sister is incommunicado, and the woman I talked to from your office didn't have a lot of details."

  “I can only tell you what the home told me. The gal from Meals on Wheels found him in quite a state. Not your typical fluster, mind you, more of a panic. Couldn’t calm him down. After that, I don’t really…see, your dad’s case wasn’t specifically mine. I’m sure they’ll have a lot more information for you at the home.”

  Mr. Moots cracked open his briefcase and shuffled through papers. His search continued for some time, accompanied by a series of unconscious grunts. Hannah glanced at Peter, threatening to break into yet another grin.

  "I'm sorry, folks. I'm working out of my car at the moment. My partner up and left town with our secretary a couple of days ago. After twenty years, you think you know a person." Triumphantly, he pulled a folder from the case. "Ah! Here we go."

  He laid the folder open on the table. The waitress returned with his coffee.

  "Okay, so, like I said, your dad’s set. They’ve got him in a room with your mom. They do that sometimes out there at Applegate. Keep the couples together when they can. Like I said, they’re a good outfit. Anywhoo, he’s set. He worked this all up in advance.”

  “That’s great,” Peter said, then added, “I mean, that it’s going to be so simple.”

  Mr. Moots slapped the folder shut. “So, loose ends. Just a few. I’ve already got some nibbles on the house—sight unseen—so it’s great you’re here in town. I’m no realtor, so I’ll introduce you to Lillian Dann. Do you know the Danns? Nice folks. Her husband Bob works over at the True Value. Lillian can help you get the place cleared out and get it listed right away. Might as well strike while the iron’s hot.”

  Peter frowned. “What do you mean, nibbles?”

  "Potential buyers. Like I said, I'm no realtor, but word gets around, and I start getting calls. With its proximity to the college, I'd be surprised if their business office didn't put in an offer."

  “But we’ll be staying in the house, Mr. Moots,” Hannah said.

  “Oh?” The lawyer cocked his head. “So, you’ve decided to buy it?”

  “No.” Peter felt his face go flush. Hannah gripped his hand under the table. “Your office told me that we were good to move in. My wife and I…we’re here to move in.”

  The lawyer grew flustered, almost spilling his coffee. “My office said that? Who said that?”

  “I’m not sure. A woman.”

  Mr. Moot’s face went white. “Was it Ms. Eagleton?”

  “That sounds familiar.”

  The man put the folder back in his case, then pulled it back out, unsure of his next move. "Folks, unless you want to buy the house, it's got to be liquidated. Applegate gets paid out of the proceeds. My secretary—that is, Ms. Eagleton—should never have led you to believe…" He shook his head. "She let things fall through the cracks before she took off with Willem. She let things fall through the cracks."

  Peter saw red. “Are you telling us that we drove halfway across the country and now—”

  Hannah put a hand on his shoulder. “Calm down, Peter.”

  “I’m sorry,” the lawyer muttered.

  “What do you suggest we do, Mr. Moots?” Peter asked.

  The man swallowed hard. “I think you should go see your father."

  * * *

  Hannah sat in the car holding a to-go container while Peter paced outside in the parking lot behind the diner, willing his little sister to pick up the phone. After the fourth call, she finally did.

  “Peter—”

  “They’re selling the house, Gina.”

  “What? Why?”

  Peter gritted his teeth. “To cover his expenses. How could you not know that? How could you not tell me?”

  “Dad took care of everything himself. He didn’t want a big mess like after Mom…he arranged it all himself.”

  “Well, he bungled the whole thing. Hannah and I thought we were good to go, and now we’re stuck here with everything we own…”

  “Oh, God…”

  “…and now this Moots fellow says we’re up shit’s creek.”

  “You shouldn’t have… All I did was sign the papers the nursing home Fedexed.”

  A scarecrow of a cook slipped out the back door for a smoke, but one glare from Peter sent him scurrying back inside.

  “We’ve got our hands full out here, Peter. We’ve been taking care of Dave’s sister’s kids ever since her husband ran off. I’ve got reports due, and Dave’s got corporate from Iowa City coming in—”

  "I've been pretty damn busy myself if you recall."

  Silence on the other end. “How is Hannah?”

  “She’d be a hell of a lot better if we had a place to stay,” Peter said and ended the call.

  He hopped into the car.

  “What’s the plan, Mr. Larson?” Hannah asked.

  “Not sure yet.”

  “But you’re working on it?”

  “I am.”

  Peter’s phone vibrated—probably his sister texting to apologize. But the incoming text was from Mika at Flatiron Audio.

  PDFs of your first three books are up on the FTP let production know when you’re going to start recording thanks.

  “Who’s that?” Hannah asked.

  Peter sighed. “Work. They’re nipping at my heels.”

  “When do you need to start?”

  “ASAP.” Peter flipped on the windshield wipers and watched as dead bugs danced in the blue wiper fluid. “What do you say we go get this over with?”

  Applegate was out on the north edge of town, along with the town’s only hospital, the YMCA and a couple of auto body shops. It was a nondescript, one-story brick building that sprawled across the landscape, sectioned off in multiple wings. Behind it str
etched farmland as far as the eye could see.

  Peter soured at the sight of it.

  Hannah was watching him closely. “How long has it been since you’ve seen your mom?”

  “Almost a year, I think. Great visit. Half the time she was screaming at me, the other half she was screaming at someone else. And I was the only other person in the room.”

  Hannah rubbed his neck. “Still—”

  “Still nothing, hon. I put in my time with that woman. Your mom and my mom? Like night and day. I’m only here because of Pop.”

  Peter turned down the drive leading to the home. A member of the grounds crew stood in the middle of the road filling a pothole. He took a drag on his cigarette and grudgingly stepped aside and waved them past.

  “Are you…prepared to see him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know. Like this.”

  Peter steered toward visitors parking.

  “We don’t even know what this is yet.”

  But that was a lie. As Peter was locking up the house on Oak Street, his folks’ neighbor Mrs. Nathan had stopped by to chat.

  “So sad. So sad,” she had said. “Always such a nice man. He fixed my Robert’s lawnmower, you know? For free, God bless him. To see him like that. Never heard a curse out of your father until that day. The things he said to those paramedics. Dear me!”

  She had gone on to describe the history of his slow, downhill decline—one which had ended with Bill Larson being taken away in an ambulance as his lifelong neighbors watched. Listening to the woman's chronology, Peter had realized that he couldn't have been there for his father even if he had known. He'd had his hands full. He was back east trying to hold his own world together while his father's was falling apart.

  “Peter?”

  He roused, realizing that he had already parked—the Prius’s gas engine gone silent as the electric kicked in.

  “Are you going to be okay?”

  “I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” he snapped, instantly regretted it.

  “I’m right here with you, you big dope.”

  “Okay.”

  Hannah snuggled close. “Right here.”

  * * *

  After checking in at the front desk, Peter and Hannah made their way down the hall to the dementia ward. They passed the day room where a middle-aged man with a stiff toupee hosted a karaoke session. A cluster of elderly women in wheelchairs surrounded him—the world’s oldest groupies. The man belted out Sinatra like there was no tomorrow.

  Hannah took his hand and laced her fingers in his. She’d never been here to the home because that’s the way he wanted it.

  An old fellow with a bowed back zipped out in front of them in his wheelchair. “Beep beep!” he cried.

  “Back to your room, Reggie,” a nurse called, but Reggie was already wheeling it down the hall.

  Go, Reggie, go.

  Following the front desk’s directions, they skirted past a clutch of women watching Fox News on the small TV at the nurses’ station and stepped into D Ward.

  D for dementia. A little on the nose, isn’t it?

  Hannah squeezed his hand and brought him back to attention.

  This wing of the home was quite different. There were no residents out in the hallway, save for a young man with Down Syndrome wearing a Star Wars sweatshirt and standing vigil next to the wall-mounted hand sanitizer dispenser.

  A tall, black orderly sauntered down the hall, ignoring the young man’s attempt at a high five. Hannah approached him.

  “We’re looking for Room 16? Bill and Myrna Larson.”

  The man pointed to a room behind him and kept going, never missing a stride.

  As Peter passed the man in the sweatshirt, he offered up his hand. “High five?” This time, he was the one who was ignored.

  “Here,” Hannah said, and stepped back, allowing Peter to enter first.

  Peter paused just inside the room. It was sparse. There were no pictures on the walls, no knickknacks on the dressers. The first bed was made but empty—his mother’s. On the second sat William P. Larson.

  Peter couldn’t move.

  His wife walked past him and approached the old fellow. “Hello, Papa Larson. It’s Hannah.” She took his frail hand in hers and gave it a rub.

  “Hannah Banana?” His voice was dry as toast.

  Bill Larson had always been a big, hearty fellow—the kind of guy people called jolly. But the years reduced him to almost nothing.

  “Come say hello to your dad,” Hannah urged.

  Reluctantly, Peter went to his father’s side. The man needed a shave. He’d mention that to the nurses.

  "Hey Pop." His voice broke, and he tried again. "It's Pete. You're looking real…" He couldn't finish. He turned and dropped onto the other bed, opposite his father.

  “We brought you a cinnamon roll from the diner,” Hannah said, holding the Styrofoam container out to him. “Peter says they’re your favorite.”

  The man stared at the offering. “No, that’s not mine.”

  “Yes it is,” said Hannah. “We got it for you.”

  Peter’s father looked worried. “I’m so sorry. I don’t have my wallet.”

  “It’s okay, Pop,” Peter said, his voice tight.

  The old man stood up and instantly sat back down. He searched his pockets. “No, I didn’t…I’ve been meaning to get more organized…” He shook his head as if to jar his thoughts loose. “That’s mine, you say?”

  Hannah opened the container and showed him the cinnamon roll. His whole demeanor changed.

  “Ah! That looks good. You make that?”

  "No, Pop," Hannah cooed. "It's from the diner. Peter bought it for you, didn't you, Peter?" She was forcing him into the conversation, and he resented her for it.

  “Peter,” his father said, his smile straining as he searched for the next thing to say. “Pete…?”

  Hannah took the old man’s hand and gave it a rub. Something about the gesture lit up Peter’s memory, and before he could block it out, he saw his wife standing over another hospital bed, holding another trembling hand.

  Stop it.

  The puff of oxygen.

  No.

  The IV drip.

  No!

  “Get off my bed!” a voice shrieked.

  Peter leaped to his feet and whirled about. Standing in the doorway was a shrunken woman in a baby blue house dress. She was shaking her cane at him and scowling.

  Jesus, it’s Bette Davis.

  But of course, it wasn’t—it was Myrna Larson.

  “Get out of my room!”

  “It’s me, Mom.”

  Peter and his mother had never been the closest of friends—quite the contrary. He was a boy, and boys were messy. Many were the night that Myrna Larson forced him to dust or mop or vacuum away the dirt he brought into her life. His father, bless him, would always reward him for these episodes by inviting him to the garage to listen to the Cubs on the radio and to enjoy an ice-cold Coke.

  “What are you doing in my room!” his mother screamed.

  Just past the raging woman, Peter spotted the young man in the Star Wars sweatshirt trying to catch a glimpse of the action.

  Peter took a step forward, hands out. His mother took a swing at him with her cane.

  “Easy, Peter,” Hannah said.

  “Mom, it’s me. It’s Peter. Your son.”

  "You're not my son!" the woman roared and took another swing. This time, she clipped his hand.

  The man in the sweatshirt darted into the room and planted himself firmly in between Peter and his mother. “No!” he huffed, literally putting his foot down. “No!”

  The old woman patted the fellow on his shoulder. “Thank you. Oh, my. Thank you.”

  The stubborn, tubby man locked eyes with Peter and pointed an accusing finger. “No.”

  Peter felt an uncomfortable rush of anger toward the guy.

  “Hey, Skywalker—”

  “Peter,�
� Hannah urged. “Stop.”

  “Why don’t you—”

  Hannah yanked him back, forcing him to face her. “What the hell are you thinking?”

  A matronly nurse appeared at the door. “You’re on the wrong wing, Ronnie. Leave these people be.” She coaxed the young man from the room. Ronnie went, but not before flipping Peter double birds.

  “Peter?”

  Peter turned to see his mother staring at him, her face a picture of sheer bafflement.

  “When did you get here?”

  * * *

  Two nurses and a woman from administration—who kept referring to his mother as Mrs. Logan—gave Peter and Hannah the lowdown on Peter’s father’s intake, condition and prognosis. He had come in screaming but had settled down considerably since.

  “Is this a passing thing or not?” Peter asked—his only question.

  The woman from administration’s answer was short and sweet. “Not.”

  After allowing the woman to give them a perfunctory tour of the place, Peter and Hannah took their leave of Applegate. The fresh air brought welcome relief.

  Peter paused before turning the key in the ignition.

  “You all right?” Hannah asked, her eyes trying to find his.

  “I just had a big wave of lonely wash over me. Not loneliness, just…lonely. Like I don’t want to stay, and I don’t want to leave.”

  “I feel the lonely too.”

  “Fuck it,” Peter said as he turned the ignition. “You wanted to know the plan, Mrs. Larson? Well, here’s the plan.”

  Hannah raised an eyebrow. “You got the plan?”

  “We swing by the house, grab the truck, call the Ryder office to buy ourselves an extra day or two, find a place to stay for the night, grab ourselves a hard, hard drink and then…”

  “And then?”

  Peter threw the car into reverse. “Let’s get that far first.”

  The Intermission Motor Lodge turned out to be both pleasant and accommodating. Not only was there a room available on the top floor—Peter couldn’t stand listening to people tromp above all night—but they could check in right away.

  “I don’t understand why places make people wait if their room is ready,” the woman behind the counter said. She wore paint-spattered coveralls, and her hair hung down in wisps from underneath a paper hat. “There’s probably a good reason for that, but until I figure it out, what the hey.”