As the last stragglers filtered into the room and found seats around the large table, Michael brought the meeting to order.
“I know you are all busy and I’m sorry to have to take up your time, but something has come up and I need your input. I feel this is something that cannot wait, something on which we need to take immediate action.”
He turned to Vera, who sat beside him at the head of the table. “Over the past several months, several questionable incidents have been brought to our attention, but until this morning we did not feel we had any valid reason to take action in the matter.” He went on to briefly review the significant events that had transpired.
“Vera and I have interviewed Cynthia Harper,” he concluded, “and while she categorically denies any wrongdoing, Mrs. Joharissen, Ms. VanMeter, and I agree that in light of our recent observations and statements made by at least two other employees, Nurse Harper does not seem to have the stability necessary for the extreme responsibility she holds in her position.” He took a deep breath. “As of this morning, Cynthia Harper has been suspended from employment at Riverview, and I am requesting that an in-house investigation begin immediately.”
A collective gasp rose from the table.
“Do you think this is wise, Michael?” Jack Braverman posed. “You hold to this suspension and we’re liable to have a lawsuit on our hands. You said yourself she denies the accusations!”
There were assenting murmurs.
Michael held up a quieting hand. “Yes, Jack, that’s true. But we have two unrelated sources attributing some pretty incriminating statements to Cynthia. In light of the information we have, I don’t think it would be prudent to do anything less than dismiss her. This is only a suspension, of course, until we have solid proof of anything. Hopefully our investigation will answer all the questions we have, and we will be able to dissuade any legal action for the time being.”
He paused before addressing the room again. “As administrator of this facility, I am bound by law, and certainly by ethics, to report any legitimate suspicions of abuse or foul play—anything whatsoever that would put our residents at risk. And while it’s true that we don’t have solid proof of anything at this time, I don’t think there is any doubt that this situation has come dangerously close to warranting a report to the health department. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what that kind of investigation would mean for this facility.”
Several of the board nodded knowingly. Mildred Swafford took her reading glasses off her nose and let them dangle on the chain around her neck. “While I do understand your concern, I wonder why the board wasn’t consulted on this before action was taken.”
Vera came to Michael’s defense. “Mildred, we have never required board approval to dismiss an employee who was not performing to expectations. That has always been an administrative decision.”
“Yes, Vera, but Cynthia— Surely there was some other more . . . diplomatic way to deal with this.” The matronly woman glanced in Jack Braverman’s direction as though he were a conspirator in some secret.
Her action gave Michael courage to broach the subject that he dreaded. “I understand that Cynthia Harper is somehow related to Nita Dalhardt?”
His question was met with silence, except for a nervous clearing of throats. Nita Dalhardt was the main benefactor of the new senior center and a long-time contributor to many manor building programs. It was her name that Gerald Stoddard had invoked as his reason for being pressured to hire Harper, even against Vera’s objections.
“I’ve heard some disturbing rumors about the circumstances under which Cynthia Harper was hired in the first place,” he said now, his growing anger giving him courage. “If I think for a minute that her relationship to Nita Dalhardt is influencing your reaction to this decision, I will have no choice but to turn this whole mess over to an unbiased agency for investigation.”
He felt sick to his stomach. He made such a threat because he was convinced that the opposition he was facing had everything to do with Dalhardt, the philanthropist. For him to make good on his threat was tantamount to professional suicide. Scrutiny by an outside agency would irreparably damage the pristine reputation of Riverview, and certainly his own professional reputation. Even if his suspicions about Cynthia Harper ultimately proved to be unfounded, by then it would be too late.
Apparently the board took his threat seriously. Jack Braverman looked around the table and spoke, presumably for the entire board. “We’ll stand behind you, Michael. Let’s do everything possible to keep this quiet and to clear Cynthia’s name as quickly as possible.”
The meeting was adjourned and the boardroom became a hive of activity as the attendees broke into groups of two and three, discussing the situation in hushed whispers as they edged toward the door.
Michael sought Vera out in the hallway and together they and Beth VanMeter walked back toward the building that housed their offices.
“You were wonderful in there,” Beth told him. “Talk about a rock and a hard place.”
“Well, thank you, Beth. I loathe having to make threats, but I felt I had no choice.”
“What are you thinking, Vera? Did I do the right thing?”
“I think you did the only thing you could do at this point, Michael. But. . .” Vera stopped abruptly and shook her head, as though she’d decided not to say more.
“What? Please, Vera. I’m certainly open to any advice.”
“It’s just that I don’t think there’s any way we’re going to keep this quiet. This is a small town, Michael. I have a feeling you’d better be preparing your statements for the six o’clock news.”
Chapter 27
As the days progressed, Claire felt almost guilty at the benefit she received from her volunteer work. Unable to resist playing professor, Robert Tripleton was making Claire’s reading sessions an enlightening experience. Every few paragraphs he would stop her and challenge her with a question or an observation. When he pointed out the correlation between events in the story and those in Tolstoy’s life, Claire was pleased that, because of her reading of the biography, she was able to add to his observations. Soon she became comfortable asking him to explain a difficult passage or define a word. He was making the book come alive for her, and she relished the feeling of accomplishment it was to tackle a literary work such as this. She was beginning to see why certain works became classics. And although the story still seemed rather depressing to her, she saw that it had spiritual dimensions she might not have perceived without the guidance of her “tutor.”
One afternoon she'd asked a question about the story, addressing him as always as Mr. Tripleton.
He answered her with an amicably mimicking “Yes, Miss Anderson.” Then, suddenly serious, he asked, “May I call you Claire?”
His sudden change of tone surprised her but she replied in the affirmative.
“And please, even my students call me Rob. I’d appreciate it if you’d do the same. I feel enough like an old geezer in this place as it is. It doesn’t help to be addressed as Mr. Tripleton.” He lowered his chin into the neck brace and spoke the title in a mockingly formal baritone.
“Okay…Rob.” She tried out the informal label, then wrinkled her nose. “Oooh . . . that’s going to feel strange after all this time. Rob,” she repeated firmly, as though to commit the change to memory.
“Claire,” he reciprocated, sounding satisfied. “And while we’re at it, Claire, would it be too personal if I asked you what you look like?”
She was taken aback. “Does it matter?” she asked tentatively.
He flashed a grin in her general direction and goaded, “I have this picture of you in my mind. I’m curious how accurate it is.”
“Let’s hear your preconception first,” she said with feigned suspicion.
“Well . . . Oh, I’d guess about four hundred pounds, a big wart on your nose, frizzy gray hair—”
“Hey! Wait a minute! Okay, okay, I give.” She laughed. But suddenly she felt te
rribly self-conscious. She realized that she cared very much what he thought about her. But how did one describe oneself to an attractive man?
She thought for a minute. “Well, you’re right about the frizzy hair. But it’s reddish blond, not gray. I’m about five-seven, my eyes are hazel. And I don’t quite weigh four hundred pounds. Not yet, anyway.”
Rob spoke in a tone that suddenly unsettled her. “How old are you, Claire?”
“I’m . . . I’m twenty-six.”
“And I’ll bet you’re beautiful.”
She started to protest, but he cleared his throat and shook his head as if to clear away some disturbing thought. “We’d better read on.”
Claire found the place they'd left off and read in a quiet voice, but she looked up at him surreptitiously between paragraphs and sensed that if he'd had his sight she would have caught him staring at her.
Claire tried to eschew the undercurrents she felt flowing between them. This feeling—a tenderness that seemed too intimate even though it remained unspoken—made her uncomfortable and yet it intrigued her too.
She finished the chapter and said her good-byes, but conversation was awkward between them now, and she feared she'd somehow allowed things to become too personal.
The following day, however, Rob greeted her with his usual joking manner. Their discussion of the book resumed its scholarly feel, and by the time she left that afternoon, she wondered if perhaps she'd imagined the—were they romantic?—undercurrents.
Claire had asked for and been assigned two more residents to whom she began to read. Guiltily, she found herself cutting her sessions with these two elderly women short and saving her voice and her time for Rob. She thoroughly enjoyed his company, and day by day she grew to know him better.
Though they had each shared personal stories of their lives and had seemingly mutually come to view their relationship more as that of equals than of student and teacher, or invalid and “nurse,” they still deftly skirted around any straightforward discussion of their friendship.
Claire thought about Rob as she drove home one afternoon after spending an hour reading and visiting with him. Since the day they'd come to be on a first-name basis, she'd tried to ignore the decidedly romantic undercurrent she'd sensed early on. She simply didn’t need that complication in her life. Yet when she carefully searched her heart, she knew that the feelings she held for Rob were beginning to go deeper than mere friendship.
She began to wonder if their friendship might blossom into something more if she permitted it. Perhaps the easy, comfortable friendship she shared with Rob held more of the kind of emotion that made for a good lifetime relationship than the roller-coaster feelings she had for Michael Meredith. Maybe the emotions she felt for Michael were based more on sympathy than on true love. Yet she had to admit that if anyone deserved to have her sympathy, it was Rob. But she felt none of that for him because he didn’t ask for it and wouldn’t have allowed it.
Still, if her friendship with Rob was to lead to something more, she knew she would feel more than mild disappointment that there was not the “electricity” that she always felt in Michael’s presence. Perhaps she was too hung up on romance. She shook her head to clear away the confusing thoughts and turned her attention to the traffic in front of her.
As the upcoming school year drew near, Claire found it more and more difficult to find time to spend with Nana. She'd learned that a major change in curriculum—which unfortunately, included her grade level—would need to be reviewed and her lesson plan adjusted accordingly. It was a frustrating undertaking for a second-year teacher. In addition were the hours spent each week with Riverview’s volunteer reading program. She'd warned Lana Welbourne that she would have to cut back drastically during the school year, but she'd committed to the summer and was determined to fulfill that promise.
Nana was doing well, growing stronger each day, and seemingly very happy at Riverview. But the combination of her physical limitations and her newness to the Riverview “community” had curtailed the active social life she'd experienced at Elmbrook. This meant that for now, Claire was Nana’s social life. Claire felt sure things would change as Nana became more mobile, but for now, it put an extra burden on her.
Though Nana didn’t seem the least confused or disoriented, Claire found it rather disconcerting that since, the move, the elderly woman seemed to be dwelling on the past—almost reliving her life aloud to her only granddaughter. Most upsetting to Claire was the fact that Nana seemed to have Michael—though of course she spoke of him as Joseph—on her mind often.
On a Saturday afternoon when Nana had brought up her worries about Joseph yet again—wondering aloud what had become of him—Claire decided that perhaps now was the time to reveal the truth about Michael’s identity. Nana seemed to be emotionally strong, and Claire felt certain that now that she herself had come to a tentative peace about what had happened with Michael, the knowledge of “Joseph’s” whereabouts and well-being would give her grandmother peace as well.
Walking together in the hallway, Claire followed slowly beside Nana. The stroke had left Katherine Anderson unable to walk unaided. Now she used a walker, taking frail, halting steps and barely managing to keep her balance as she pushed the metal framework along in front of her.
“I just pray that we might yet know what became of your brother, Claire.”
Claire cringed inwardly at Nana’s reference to Joseph—Michael—as her brother. “Nana,” she finally said, “let’s sit down for a bit.”
Gathering her wits, she steered her grandmother to a quiet window seat at the end of the hallway.
“You have something on your mind. Tell me, Kitty.”
Claire hesitated for the slightest moment, then plunged in. “Nana, I have something I want to tell you. This is going to come as a shock to you. It still doesn’t seem possible to me but—well, I do know where Joseph is.” She let the revelation soak in and was surprised by the emotion that rose within her as she prepared to speak the profound words. Taking her grandmother’s hand tightly in her own, she spoke quietly. “Nana, you remember my friend, Michael Meredith?”
“Well, of course I do. Oh, Claire. Are you seeing him again? I know how much you liked that young man.”
Claire bit her lip. “No, Nana. It. . . it turns out that Michael was . . . Michael is Joseph, Nana.”
The smile faded from her grandmother’s lips, and the blood drained from her face. “Michael Meredith? Your young man? I don’t understand. What are you saying, Kitty?”
“Nana, when Dad—when we sent Joseph away,” she said gently, “he was adopted by another family—the Merediths—and he took his real name back and . . . then we met and…” Claire felt her eyes well with tears and she struggled to keep her composure. “We were talking one night—Michael and I—about our childhoods. One thing led to another, and suddenly we realized that we had known each other before. Michael is the boy we . . . the boy Mother and Dad adopted. He remembers you, Nana,” she said, trying to give some fragment of happiness to her grandmother. Despite her attempt to keep the revelation upbeat, a sad smile crossed Claire’s face. But it turned into a frown of concern as she saw the sum of this information register as shock on her grandmother’s face.
“Nana, are you all right? Nana?”
“It’s just so unbelievable, that’s all.” Nana’s voice quavered. For a moment, her words seemed slurred as they had right after the stroke. But when she spoke next, Claire was relieved to hear her enunciate clearly as she had learned through many sessions of speech therapy. “To think that it would turn out this way,” she said slowly. A faraway look came to her eyes and she whispered to no one in particular, “Joseph. Joseph. I always wondered . . .”
Returning to the present, she gave Claire a searching look. “How long have you known this, Claire? Is Joseph all right? Is he. . . ?” She couldn’t seem to find the words.
“He’s fine, Nana.” Claire patted the frail hand, concerned that the news had been m
ore of a shock than she'd foreseen.
Trying to reassure her grandmother, she went on. “The family Michael has now is wonderful. It’s obvious that he loves them very much. It hasn’t been easy for him, but he has a strong faith—a very real faith—and his life is good now. Remember I told you he’s the administrator over all of Riverview Manor,” she told her grandmother proudly, as though she held some claim to Michael’s success. She brightened for a moment just thinking about him. “He is wonderful with the older people here, Nana. He really has made a successful life.”
“Joseph…” Nana whispered, still shaking her head at the news.
“Nana,” Claire asked suddenly, “why would Mother and Daddy have changed his name? He was eight or nine when he came to live with us, wasn’t he?”
Nana nodded, a faraway look in her eyes. “His real name was Michael—but of course you know that. Michael, just like Raymond and Myra’s first baby. Your mother simply couldn’t abide the boy having the same name as her firstborn son, so they decided to change it.”
Claire was stunned. “I never knew that.”
“No. There was much you weren’t told, Kitty. Of course, you were just a child yourself.”
Claire let the revelation soak in, imagining how confusing it must have been for Michael trying to adjust not only to a new life and a new home, but even a new name. For the first time she was almost able to picture young Joseph as Michael Meredith—the wounded little boy who had grown into the man she loved. And her heart broke for him.
Unbidden, his name escaped her lips. “Oh, Michael,” she whispered, tears springing to her eyes.
“You still love him, don’t you, Kitty?” Nana’s gaze pinned her down.
“Oh, Nana, I do feel love for him, but… I don’t think I’m allowed to love him the way you mean. After all, he was my brother. And I… we hurt him so. . . .” She let her words hang in the air.
“I certainly hope he doesn’t hold against you the choices Raymond and Myra made for him,” Katherine Anderson said.
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