Rain

by Leigh K. Cunningham

  “Good morning, Mrs. Baden,” said the teller. “Did they catch the person who stole your purse?”

  “What purse?” Helena asked.

  The teller cocked her head to the side. “You came in last week to cancel your cards, remember, because your purse had been stolen.”

  “Oh, right,” Carl interjected. “It hasn’t been found yet. Thanks for asking.”

  “Your new cards are here, if you’d like to sign for them.”

  Helena poised a logo-embossed pen, and looked up at the teller who pointed at the spot.

  “Just write your signature on the white strip,” said Carl.

  Helena stared to cry.

  “Would you mind getting a glass of water, please?” Carl asked. “She’s still a little upset…from losing her purse.”

  In the teller’s absence, Carl showed Helena how to sign her name, the exercise pointless as no two signatures would ever be the same again. It cast a storm cloud over another imperative—the future management of her affairs, and her life. Carl and Matthew would have to assume control while she was still sound enough to meet the legal criteria. As soon as Matthew returned, they would attend the offices of Rey, Carol & Mendelson to sign powers of attorney. Carl hoped Matthew would hurry home for the mind they had known would soon be lost, and no one else could appreciate what that meant.

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  May 2005

  MATTHEW stepped through the plastic floral archway that welcomed visitors to Maine. He walked with a bend, his legs still cocked at the knee from a long, economic flight. Carl cried at the sight, not at the form itself, but because he was there to share her burden.

  “I need a decent coffee,” he said bending to hug her. “You look awful.”

  “Nice to see you too, Matt…and so do you by the way.”

  “How’s mum?”

  “She has bad days and not-so-bad days.”

  “Does she still know you?”

  “At this stage, but she’s slipping away, fast—right before my eyes.”

  “It seems so sudden. I didn’t expect this would happen for years, a decade or longer.”

  “Matt, when you wrote to me in January, you said she was OK. Was she really? Was she able to take care of herself back then?”

  “Well, the house was a bit of a mess, and the yard, but I arranged a housekeeper and a gardener, and everything else seemed fine.”

  “I wonder what happened to them. Clearly they haven’t been around for a while.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she forgot to pay them and they just downed tools.”

  “Did you notice anything else back then? Was she, you know, clean?”

  “Yeah, she seemed to be taking care of herself from what I could see although she was breaking new ground in the fashion stakes, but then who am I to judge?”

  “So that was all there was? Her dress sense, and the house and yard were untidy?”

  “She was a little forgetful. I found a carton of milk in the laundry, and she had trouble remembering stuff—everything became ‘thingy’,” he replied.

  “The decline seems dramatic. Alzheimer’s is supposed to progress at a rate of three to twenty years, and it’s only been a year.”

  “But she might have had it for the past ten years and we just didn’t notice.”

  “What a sad indictment on us if that’s the truth.”

  Matthew grabbed his suitcase from the carousel, and they walked together toward the car.

  “I have to warn you, Matt…it’s harder than you think, seeing her like this. It’s really important that you don’t treat her differently even though she is.”

  “Of course, Carla. I’d never treat her differently.”

  “I didn’t mean to suggest you would. I’m just trying to explain…it’s hard not to get angry sometimes, and frustrated, like when she repeats the same thing over and over until you swear if she says it one more time you’ll explode, then she does.”

  “I can be patient.”

  “And, one other thing…she forgets basic things…like going to the toilet. When she has an accident, she gets really upset and embarrassed. It’s probably best if you leave those moments to me. Go to your room or somewhere else out of sight.”

  “If you think so, but I’ve seen a lot worse. It won’t bother me.”

  “But it will bother her, and this is harder for her than it is for us.”

  “What about you, Carl? You really do look awful.”

  “I haven’t been well for a while now, and seeing mum like this…I’m sure the stress isn’t helping.”

  “Maybe we should think about a hospice.”

  “Definitely not. She should live out her days at Orchard Road. It’s the least we can do.” Carl paused. “It’s good to have you back, Matt.”

  He placed an arm around her shoulder and they hugged. “So when’s the baby due?”

  “It’s gas, Matthew, it’ll pass.”

  “Make sure I’m not around when it does,” he said with a laugh. “It won’t be good for the ozone layer given the size of that thing.”

  “Did I say it was good to have you back? My mistake.”

  Carl made a doctor’s appointment, leaving Matthew in charge at Orchard Road. She would be the easiest of patients having completed her diagnosis and solution: she needed something much stronger than a Rennie for her stomach, pills for the insomnia, and an elixir for the general malady. A squiggling across a script pad was all that was required.

  The hour-long wait at the surgery passed by in no time thanks to an unexpected encounter with the former Olivia Naylor, now known by her more successful maiden name, Olivia Rey. Life had grayed her eyes too—their crystal shimmer wasted on a life choice. It seemed ironic, or fateful, that their respective journeys had brought them together in a doctor’s surgery—a place of healing or of death. It seemed almost symbolic, Carl thought, in the strangest kind of way.

  Carl followed the nurse, as ordered, down a long blue hallway to the marked entrance for Dr. Grant. She waited longer in his treatment room, thinking more of Olivia, and the two of them as children, with Tulip, not knowing then where life would take them. The recollection brought a smile, as in retrospect, it seemed like an easier time.

  Dr. Grant disturbed the reflection, and began with a series of interfering questions. He was not the cooperative medico Carl had hoped for, ignoring her diagnosis and nominated drugs as if she had not spoken. Instead, he prodded, poked and pried, raised brows, pinched lips, and tapped at his table with an array of medical and stationery accoutrements. He ordered tests to prolong the production, purposefully, Carl believed, to remind her that a degree in medicine was required before proffering a diagnosis even for oneself.

  Carl thought more of Olivia as she drove home to Orchard Road in Helena’s sedan: a motorized contraption ten years passed the value of scrap metal. Up ahead, she saw Matthew running from one neighbor’s door to the next. She pulled to the curb to wait, beeping the horn to catch his attention.

  “What’s up?” she asked, as he leaned into the open driver’s window

  “Can’t find Mum,” he gasped

  “Good grief, Matthew. I leave you alone with her for two minutes and she disappears!”

  “I’m sorry. She was there one minute, and gone the next.”

  “It’s OK.” Carl sighed. “It’s not your fault she wanders. I’ll drive around and see if I can find her. You keep on with the door-knock. She can’t have gone far. Wait a second…is that—? I think that’s her up there.” Carl squinted. “What’s she doing?”

  “Picking leaves out of a tree by the look.”

  “What is she wearing? It’s beige…”

  “Nothing,” Matthew replied with a smile.

  “She looks like Eve in the Garden of Eden.”

  “But without the fig leaf.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” said Carl. “Get in, Constable Baden. Let’s pick her up.”

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  May 2005
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br />   CARL was ushered into the specialist’s treatment room to wait in an expensive leather armchair. She wrestled for comfort, stretching her torso to release a confined, bloated stomach. Within minutes, she was dozing, insomnia wreaking havoc on her daylight hours. Technically, it was not insomnia at all, for Carl would be able to sleep if circumstances allowed it. Matthew had no problem sleeping through Helena’s nocturnal scratchings—after decades in a war zone, a radio loud enough to wake the dead was, by comparison, intensely quiet. Sleep, for Carl, was more like an intermittent state of consciousness, but it had at least saved the dinner plates from the clothes dryer.

  Dr. Mustaf interrupted a dream, startling Carl when he cleared his throat. He clasped his hands and rested his cherry lips on two rigid index fingers, and Carl struggled to keep up with the flow of information. At conclusion, she asked him to repeat the monologue, which he did with no sign of frustration or angst, and Carl wondered if he would be so patient after repeating the same story ten times or more, as she did with Helena every day. She heard some of his words the second time around: ovarian cancer, surgery, as soon as possible. The timing was most inconvenient, but she promised to give the matter some urgent thought.

  Helena was asleep on the lounge when Carl returned to Orchard Road, much to her relief. She followed the rapid tapping that emanated from the end bedroom, and stood at the doorway, unnoticed. She sat down on Matthew’s bed and waited for an opportunity.

  “I have news,” she said.

  Matthew continued to type, raising one finger to order silence. “Give me one second,” he said. The rhythmic keyboard sped toward a crescendo with a period dotted dramatically to signify the end. He swiveled in his chair with similar theatrics to face Carl.

  “So, what’s the news?” he asked. “What did the doctor say?”

  “I need surgery it seems.”

  “To remove the baby?”

  She stared at him. “No…I have ovarian cancer.”

  Matthew smiled. “That’s not funny.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  Matthew smiled again. “You are joking. You’re too calm for someone who has just announced they have cancer.”

  “I wouldn’t joke about something like this. I’m calm because I don’t care. I’m not afraid to die.”

  “You’re not going to die. When’s the surgery?”

  “I’m not having surgery.”

  “Now you’re being ridiculous. If you need surgery, why wouldn’t you have it? You’re not making any sense, Carl. You must be in shock.”

  “Matthew, the reality is…I have nothing to live for. I’ve tried to find a reason these past few years since Ethan…but there’s nothing, especially now with mum as she is. It’s a relief actually, to know there is an end in sight.”

  “That’s selfish, Carl.”

  “Why is it selfish? I’m not letting anyone down. Mum doesn’t even know who I am half the time, and it’s only going to get worse. It’s not like I’ll be dead tomorrow. I’ll be here until she’s gone.”

  “What about me, Carl?”

  Carl laughed. “You don’t need me, Matthew. You don’t need anyone. You’re almost thirty-five, and you haven’t shared your life with anyone as far as I know. It doesn’t get less needy than that.”

  “If you think that, then you don’t know me. I need you. I’ve always needed you, since we were kids. You were always there for me. Nothing has changed.”

  “You’ve never said so…”

  “What about Simeon?” Matthew asked after a time.

  “Simeon? What about him? What’s he got to do with this?”

  “He loves you.”

  Carl laughed. “And you know this, how?”

  “I’m a journalist—that’s my job, to observe, witness the truth, and, I know because…he told me.”

  “He told you? Simeon said that to you?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “I didn’t think men discussed that sort of thing.”

  “You haven’t answered my question. What about Simeon? He’s a good man.”

  “That’s another world away, another lifetime, not this one.” Carl stood to leave. “I’m tired. Can you keep an eye on mum while I have a lay down?”

  “Sure, but think about what you just said to me—that I’m not a good enough reason for you to live.”

  “I’m sorry, Matthew. I didn’t mean it that way. I will think about it. Make sure mum doesn’t wander.”

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  July 2005

  HELENA’S descent was rapid. She could no longer walk unaided or sit without support. The mellowed smiles were gone, and her cragged head now flopped about like a rag doll.

  Carl resisted perpetual, well-reasoned suggestions to place her in a hospice, to be cared for by professionals experienced in death as it comes when the brain fades into oblivion. Carl surprised herself with her dogmatic foolishness, and all because of a promise she made to Helena months earlier when she knew nothing of the carcinogenic cells that grew within her own body. This legitimately changed the terms of the promise, but Carl stuck rigidly to it.

  The malignant tumors were not painful, making the pretense that everything was OK much easier. If it were not for the chronic fatigue and bloating, no one would even know her health was failing. Matthew persisted with demands that Carl seek treatment, “for his sake if nothing else”. He seemed optimistic that he could change her mind, and Carl participated in the farce, “for his sake”, meeting with Dr. Latseo, an oncologist, to learn more about the proposed surgery and her subsequent life span.

  An invasive procedure was required, including a hysterectomy to be sure, but Carl still saw no point: her path was ending and she had been ready for it since Ethan died. If the solution had come in a pill, she would have obliged, but the more she learned of the treatment and all that it entailed, the less she wanted any part in it. Her only hope was to outlive Helena, and that seemed likely. Matthew did not really need her, and although his words had swayed her for a moment, and touched her heart, it made no sense to stay around for him, knowing as she did that he was a loner and a runner, and would be gone again at the first opportunity. Besides, she had barely seen him in the past decade although that did not affect how much she loved him.

  The pneumonia came on suddenly, hospitalizing Carl at Maine Memorial Hospital. She worried during her conscious hours about Helena in Matthew’s care—he did not talk to her as if she still lived somewhere within her gray flesh, and while he did not neglect her, ensuring her comfort and needs were met, he did so in a clinical, distant way, his way.

  The pneumonia was a serious complication for Carl’s weakened constitution and genuine fear arose that she might go before Helena, contrary to the plan. The fear forced her to take the cancer tests since she was already in the hospital, and had nothing better to do with her time except sleep.

  Matthew, acting with wisdom and good sense, arranged Helena’s placement in a hospice. Carl nodded powerless acceptance at the news, and cried over another unfulfilled promise. It sealed her fate—she was free to go, by pneumonia or cancer, whichever called first. She closed her swollen eyes, and fell into another drug-induced sleep where suppressed memories floated to the fore, and where people she loved lived again, but in strange places she did not recognize.

  In her dream, Ethan had returned to her, but he had no face. She wanted to find it for him, but he could not remember where he had left it. All she could do was cry in frustration. The attacking rain woke her. She reached for the nurse-call, Kevin appearing before the first press.

  “What is it with you and rain?” he asked, pushing the curtains to expose the pale room to the winter dusk. He blackened the room before he left so Carl could stare into the bared pane to watch raindrops disintegrate upon impact with the glass.

  Minutes later, Nurse Hilda bustled in. She turned the lights on, closed the curtains, and left Carl alone in the aseptic glow of over-luminous bulbs with no distraction from her thoughts. She stare
d at the bright floral pattern, which took her back to earlier times at Orchard Road where the carpet had similarly overpowered everything in its vicinity. Matthew would soon be its only occupant. It was best this way—to go as her grandmother had done, toward the white light without resistance.

  When Carl woke next, daylight filtered through the bared window. She sensed a presence at the side of the room, blinked rapidly to clear the mirage and shook her head. The drugs had clearly taken control.

  “Simeon? Is that you?” she whispered.

  “It is, Carl,” he said approaching her bed. “Matthew called me. I had to come.”

  “Matthew called you?”

  “He did.”

  She smiled. “I don’t know if you’re real or not, but it is good to see you.”

  “I’ve missed you, Carl.” He took her hands inside his and kissed her fingertips.

  “What did Matthew tell you?” she asked.

  “That you have refused treatment. Is it true?”

  “I’ve done all the tests, for Matthew, but it is major surgery and I just can’t see a point to it all.”

  “There is always a point to life, Carl. Did you not see that for yourself in Angola?”

  She shrugged. “My mother doesn’t know who I am anymore.”

  “I am truly sorry about that, Carl, but that’s no reason to give up on you.”

  She sighed. “You said once that you loved me—”

  “I said it more than once.” He smiled.

  “I just wanted to tell you…I’m glad that you do,” she said, fighting for consciousness.

  Two muscular frames dwarfed the pale wall, black and white, same height, arms folded, and ankles crossed. Matthew talked, Simeon listened then Kevin appeared to shoo them away.

  “Gentlemen, you’ll need to leave while I attend to my patient. You might want to try the cuisine they serve in the cafeteria.”