“He says he doesn’t, Nana, but I know I must be a constant reminder to him of the worst time in his life . . . the worst thing that ever happened to him.” She spoke the words almost as a question, perhaps subconsciously hoping her grandmother could dispute what she feared to be true.
Instead, Nana asked her again, “Do you love him, Kitty?”
“I can’t love him, Nana. Not that way. I don’t have that choice.”
“Well, darling, I’m not sure we choose whom we love—whether it’s allowed or not. But I can’t believe that it would be wrong for you and Michael to have that kind of a friendship—a romantic one, I mean—if you are both agreed. After all, you’re not related by blood.”
“I’m just so confused, Nana. One minute I don’t think I can live without him, and the next minute I realize it couldn’t possibly work between us.”
“Does he return your love?” Nana asked.
“He did. Once.” She shook her head quickly. “But not anymore.”
“I’m sorry, Kitty. Maybe it will still work out. Only the Lord knows what is right for the two of you,” Nana said quietly, patting Claire’s leg softly. “If it was meant to be, it will be.”
A gleam came to the aged eyes. With some effort, she reached up and put a withered hand on Claire’s arm, and with a hint of mischief in her voice she told her only granddaughter, “If an old woman could put in a word though, it certainly does not seem to me that the Lord would forbid two innocent young people love simply because they had been thrown together as brother and sister for one ill-begotten year of their lives.”
Nana’s words confused her and put a terrible seed of hope inside her. Claire couldn’t let this conversation continue. She'd already worked this out in her mind. She and Michael had only recently come to the place where they could be friends again. She didn’t need to hear this. She couldn’t allow herself to think this way.
Quickly changing the subject, she broached the real reason she'd been wanting to discuss this matter with her grandmother. “Nana, I’ve been wondering. Would you . . . would you like to meet Michael?”
“Oh, Kitty. Do you think he would be willing to do that?”
Claire smiled. “I know he would, Nana. I’ve already talked to him about it.”
“It would mean more to me than you can imagine.”
“I’ll invite him for a visit as soon as possible.”
Nana reached up and put a frail hand to her head, finger-combing the yellow-white curls. “Oh now, Kitty. Please try to arrange it for late in the week. They come to do my hair on Thursdays. I don’t want to scare him off with this mop.”
Claire laughed and squeezed her grandmother’s shoulders. “You always look beautiful, Nana. But I’ll make sure it’s after Thursday.”
The corridor was wrapped in a cloak of midnight silence. Only the soft whir of air conditioners and the drone of the computer at the nurses’ station broke the perfect stillness. The lone figure padded softly down the tiled hallway and slipped unobserved through the door to Margaret Wallace’s room.
Maggie had finally ceased the tossing and moaning that had tormented her earlier in the day. Now she lay exhausted, barely conscious, in the bed. She did not hear the door open, nor did she see the slight figure lean over her bed.
Hands sheathed in sterile surgical gloves reached out and patted her emaciated shoulder with great tenderness. A deep intake of breath could be heard and then the instrument of mercy, a small syringe, was withdrawn from a pocket and uncapped. It took only seconds to inject the contents into the IV line.
As silently as they'd come, the footsteps retreated down the hallway and descended the stairwell, out into the sultry night air.
Chapter 28
Late Sunday afternoon Claire left her grandmother’s room and headed down the corridor toward the main entrance. She was still excited about her conversation with Nana the previous day, pleased that her grandmother was so open to meeting Michael. She would try to speak with him about it tomorrow. After his positive response the first time she'd mentioned the possibility, she felt certain Michael would be happy to know that Nana felt ready for such a meeting. But she didn’t want to talk to him in front of the other office staff. Perhaps if she came later in the day she could catch him alone.
Preoccupied with trying to think of what she would say to Michael, she almost didn’t notice the disassembled trash receptacle in the middle of the main hallway. The lidded top piece was lying upside down on one side of the hallway, and on the other side Oliver Moon was cursing—at least the inflection in the unintelligible words sounded profane—at a large plastic trash bag, attempting to secure it inside the container, which was almost as tall as he. Beside him lay the overflowing bag he'd just removed.
Just as Michael Meredith had promised Claire when she first moved to Hanover Falls, she’d quickly come to know Ollie as one of the town’s eccentric characters. Everyone seemed to agree that Ollie was harmless, and most spoke of him with deep affection. But though she would never have admitted it, the man made her very uncomfortable.
The first time she'd run into him in a hallway at Riverview, she'd asked for directions, not knowing that a serious speech impediment was part of Ollie’s “charm.” She could not make head nor tails of the garbled instructions he gave and had finally thanked him abruptly and headed in the last of the six different directions he'd pointed. The encounter had embarrassed her and since then, though she felt guilty about it, she often went out of her way to avoid Oliver Moon if she could.
Unfortunately, it was too late for that now. She would have to step around the mess he had strewn across the hall.
Avoiding his eyes, she eased past, stepping over the full bag. However, as she did so, the heel of her shoe caught a corner of the bag, causing her to lose her balance. She managed to remain upright, but in doing so, she dragged the bag several inches across the floor. Paper cups, soda cans, a half-eaten apple, and various other garbage scattered across the tile.
Ollie clicked his tongue and wagged his head back and forth, but he was uncharacteristically silent, staring at the mess she'd created.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Heat rose to her face. She stooped down and gingerly picked up a half-empty fast food drink. Ollie squatted beside her and began scooping trash into a heap.
Claire stood up and used the toe of her shoe to push the less offending trash into the heap, while Ollie started stuffing things back into the bag. Expertly sorting through the debris, he spotted a red-and-white drinking straw and cleverly slipped it into his pocket. Likewise a plastic spoon.
Claire never saw the spoon in Ollie’s hand, but she did see his hand go into his pocket. Thinking nothing of it, she picked up another piece of trash. But when she looked back at Ollie, what she saw in the hand that had just come from his pocket was an unsheathed plastic syringe.
Her alarm must have registered on her face, because when Ollie realized that she'd seen him with it, he began to jabber incoherently.
“Nah my . . . nah my . . . uh-uh . . . uh-uh . . .”
What on earth was he doing with a syringe in his pocket?
By this time, Ollie had thrown the offending instrument into the trash bag and had backed as far away from it as the wall would allow. He swatted at the air in the direction of the bag and continued his garbled diatribe.
Thinking quickly—and not caring if she offended Oliver Moon—she reached into her handbag for a tissue, carefully extracted the syringe from the trash, wrapped it in the tissue, and hurried to the parking lot.
Michael felt as though he was being hounded by an invisible menace. Vera’s prediction about the media picking up the story of Cynthia Harper’s suspension had not yet come to fruition, but he jumped every time the phone rang and decided he might as well be stalked by the paparazzi, vulnerable as he felt.
Sunday night he turned on the television and was watching the evening news, half expecting to see a blurb about the brewing scandal at Riverview, when Vera called.
> “Michael, I thought you’d want to know that Maggie Wallace died this morning.”
Michael truly felt sad to learn of the sweet old woman’s death. “I’m so sorry to hear it, Vera.”
“Don’t be, Michael. It was a blessing. I don’t know if you’d seen her recently, but she was in terrible shape. In great pain and, unfortunately, very much alert and aware.” Vera gave a sad, cynical laugh. “I guess we needn’t have worried about Cynthia’s so-called angels after all. The night shift found Maggie on their rounds early this morning. She apparently died very peacefully in her sleep.”
Michael was silent on his end, wondering suddenly what Cynthia Harper’s reaction would be when she heard the news. He had been told that Harper had called the floor several times since her suspension, asking about Maggie’s condition.
Finally Vera said, “Maggie was quite a lady, wasn’t she? You know, she would have turned ninety-six next week.”
“Yes, she was,” Michael agreed. “Thank you for letting me know, Vera. I assume there will be a memorial service at the manor chapel?”
“I would imagine so, although her family lives out of state. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear the details.”
Michael hung up feeling depressed. Life was strange. Even though Maggie had lived nearly a century—and he knew she’d had a strong faith and was rejoicing in heaven this minute—still it saddened him to realize that on this earth there would forever be good-byes. And in the profession he'd chosen, he would have more than his share of them.
As she did so often, Claire Anderson came to his mind now. Claire was the only one who had ever seemed to understand his sorrow over the solitary nature of this life. He had seen the sadness that shadowed her face after her grandmother’s stroke, and he understood that Claire was only too aware of how little time was left before she would be completely alone in the world. They had shared the despair of those feelings during the long talks they’d had back when romance had blossomed between them.
Lately he'd been so overwhelmed and burdened by the problems at Riverview that he didn’t have time to dwell on the abrupt ending of his romance with Claire. Now that Katherine Anderson was at Riverview and he and Claire saw each other more often, they seemed to have formed a tentative friendship. For that he was grateful.
He had been heartened the day she told him she wanted him to meet her grandmother. She'd said nothing further about it since then, but he felt that very soon she would. Despite the fact that things were less awkward now, something still felt unfinished between them. Maybe meeting Mrs. Anderson would bring closure for him.
When he thought of Claire, it was hard not to remember how wonderful it had been to have someone in his life with whom to share his doubts and fears, someone who was a willing recipient of his love. He remembered most of all how she'd given him a growing hope that true happiness and healing from his past were possible. With Claire there had been such a feeling of oneness. It was like nothing he'd ever known before.
He wasn’t sure he could ever truly accept a mere friendship with Claire. She had meant too much to him. And yes, he believed he still loved her—even after all these months. There was no other way to explain the powerful feelings that came over him whenever he was near her. When she was near, he wanted only to take her in his arms and hold her close. He wanted to touch her hair and look into her eyes and whisper his love. But he had no outlet for his emotions.
He was glad, of course, that now he could run into her unexpectedly and not feel the agonizing pain such meetings had brought at one time. But that didn’t mean it was easy. The pain was still there, though now it was less intense—a dull ache in the region of his heart. He wasn’t sure what he would do when he heard that Claire had found someone else—as a beautiful woman like she surely would.
Reluctantly, he realized that perhaps it had happened already. His heart sank as he recalled a day just last week when he'd seen her in the courtyard with the new patient in respite care, Robert Tripleton.
Michael had seen Claire’s name on the list of manor volunteers and knew that Tripleton was one of those she'd signed on to help in the new reading program. It was only natural that Claire would be drawn to the personable newcomer. Michael had met the man when he first arrived and had found him to be intelligent and likeable. It was quite an oddity for Riverview to have someone as young as Tripleton even in the respite-care program, but apparently this man had no family to take him in.
Then it struck him. Tripleton was alone in life. He would have the same things in common with Claire as Michael had had. It all began to make sense now.
He replayed the day in the courtyard over again in his mind. What he'd seen that day hurt deeply. There was no denying that there had been more to what he witnessed than a volunteer reading to a patient. Claire had not spotted him as he walked by some distance away, headed for the retirement apartments. Her eyes had focused completely on the good-looking man in the dark glasses sitting beside her. Hearing the easy laughter between them, Michael’s heart had sunk with sadness and jealousy as he realized that the playful music of her laughter was for someone else now. The few brief seconds he watched them as he passed by were enough to discern that there was very little reading going on. He had seen that look of attentiveness and concern in Claire’s eyes before. But then, it had been directed at him.
His heart ached as though he'd lost Claire all over again. And yet a part of him was happy for her . . . glad to see her smile again, to hear her laughter.
If only it could have been for him.
Michael was sitting in his office Monday morning, mulling over the disturbing events of the previous week when the phone on his desk rang.
“Michael?” It was Claire and she sounded upset.
“Hi, Claire,” he said, hesitant. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m not sure where to begin, but there’s something I think you should know about. I tried to call earlier, but I got your answering machine and I didn’t want to bother you on your cell.”
In a faltering voice she went on to tell him about her encounter with Oliver Moon the day before, ending by saying, “I have the syringe, Michael. I… I sort of panicked and carried it out of the building with me. But I thought—well, I thought the syringe might be some kind of evidence or something.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, suddenly defensive.
“Surely that man shouldn’t be walking around the halls with sharp needles? I thought you might need it as evidence against him.”
“You’re certain there is still a needle in the syringe?”
“Of course I’m certain,” she said, sounding irritated and defensive herself.
“I can’t imagine what Ollie would have been doing with a syringe, but I don’t think you need to worry about it. If you don’t mind, though, I would like to have you bring it in to the office. We’ll need to talk to Ollie about this, and sometimes it’s easier to communicate with him when we have—well, for lack of a better term—a visual aid in front of us.”
“I hope I haven’t caused any trouble. But the more I thought about it, it just didn’t seem right that he would be carrying something like that around.” She hesitated for the slightest moment before giving what seemed to be her final contention. “It seems like this is something that needs urgent attention. I hope you agree.”
Michael didn’t like her accusing tone, but he realized that he'd overreacted with his defensiveness. Forcing himself to calm down and attempting to appease her, he told her, “You were right to call, Claire. Ollie definitely shouldn’t have had the syringe. Thank you for letting me know.”
Sounding somewhat mollified, she said, “I’m running a little late for school this morning, but if I bring it in when I come to see Nana this afternoon, would that be soon enough?”
“That’ll be fine. And, Claire… be extremely careful. The needle could be contaminated.”
“I know. I will.”
Michael hung up, puzzled. This just didn’t make
sense. As he'd told Claire, he truly had no idea why Ollie would have been carrying around a syringe. And why would he have taken it out of his pocket in Claire’s presence?
He called Vera’s office, and not getting an answer, he went looking for her. He finally tracked her down on the north wing, where she and Geneva Grayson were at the nurses’ station discussing a patient’s chart. The floor was quiet for a Monday morning.
“Good morning, ladies.”
“Hi, Mr. Meredith.”
“Hello, Michael.” Vera’s tone acknowledged that he’d had a rough weekend.
Michael lowered his voice. “Would either of you happen to know—Oliver Moon’s not diabetic is he?” he asked, the possible explanation coming to him suddenly.
Looking puzzled, they both shook their heads.
“Well, at least I don’t think he is,” Vera said. “Why do you ask?”
“A visitor on the north wing saw him take a syringe out of his pocket yesterday. The needle was still intact.”
The blood drained from Geneva’s face, and she let out a seemingly involuntary gasp.
“What’s wrong?” Michael and Vera asked in one voice.
“I… I caught Ollie with a needle too. It was quite a while back—last winter, I think. I know I should have reported it, but I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. Sherry Kensington had just started working here, and she apparently left the syringe on the nightstand after she gave an injection.” Geneva was speaking rapidly now, trying to explain herself. “Ollie found it when he was cleaning the room. I was certain he hadn’t stuck himself or anything and I just. . .”
Geneva’s voice rose as she tried to defend her actions. “Sherry was doing her best and having such a rough start. I did speak to her privately about her carelessness, but I should have reported it, I know,” she repeated. “I don’t know what to say. I am sorry.”
“That doesn’t explain where he would have found the syringe he had yesterday,” Vera said, ignoring Geneva’s apologies. “Has Sherry or anyone else done this again since that day, Geneva?” she asked.
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