by Sarah Gay
“I’m not ready to talk.”
“I know. I just assembled a few things I thought you would like. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. If you’re ready to talk, great. If not, I understand.”
“Thanks.”
“And you’re not stupid. If you’re going to talk to yourself, tell yourself you’re beautiful and smart.”
Annie rolled her eyes as she closed the door. She unwrapped the box to find five things— a bottle of lavender hand lotion, an envelope with old photos, a Cindi Lauper CD, a bar of dark chocolate filled with caramel, and a silky scarf.
“She wants me to dance with a scarf to Cindi Lauper, while eating chocolate, rubbing my hands with lavender lotion, and scrapbooking? And I thought I was crazy.”
Annie placed the CD in the player, and advanced it to her favorite song. She began singing along, “They just wanna, they just wanna, girls…”
She kneaded the lotion into her hands, then placed her fingers around her nose and mouth. She took in a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then exhaled, repeating the process several times.
The metallic wrapping on the chocolate bar crackled in her fingers as she unwrapped it. She slowly nibbled away, square by square, savoring each morsel. The smooth, rich chocolate melted before Annie could chew down. She felt the stress-relieving endorphins being released throughout her body. Annie took in a deep, therapeutic breath as she relaxed into the calming sensation.
When she had completed her chocolate, Annie rubbed the scarf in one hand as she arranged the photos onto the carpet floor. It was a mix of hairstyles and eras. In one photo, she was twelve, poised on top of Stardust for a picture, immediately after a barrel race. She sported two braids in her hair, with her father holding the buckle she had won. A proud smile turned up the corners of her father’s lips.
In the second photo, she couldn’t have been over five years old. It was of her and her dad at Disneyworld, spinning in a large pastel teacup, her loose ringlets whipping him in the face. The last photo was of her making the winning shot on goal during a hockey game when she was eight. The angle of the photo also captured her father, his arms high in the air, cheering for his little girl, with tears streaming down his face.
There was a soft knock on her door.
“You can come in, Mom,” Annie said, now completely relaxed and in the present. “That was quite the compilation.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Not as angry. Still embarrassed. Still unsure why my father wants to marry me off to any man who’ll have me.”
“I caught something earlier that you said to Cam.”
“When?”
“About arranged marriages.”
“I was joking,” Annie said, raising her fists in the air in frustration. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“You wouldn’t? Perhaps not, but what if you found an amazing girl that you wanted to set him up with? Someone who would complement his personality? Someone who was kind and successful? Would you set him up?”
“Of course.”
“What if he were dating someone at the time who wasn’t good to him, and he refused to listen to your counsel? What if he would always run from anything that could hurt him? What if he was terrified of falling in love and being hurt again, so he only dated people he knew he wouldn’t fall for?”
“Then I would have to get a little crafty. I get it. Dad loves me,” Annie said, holding up the photo of her hockey game.
“More than you could ever imagine.”
“But Paxton? I just can’t fall for him, Mom. I could get destroyed. I mean, permanently damaged. Look what happened today?”
“And you didn’t have a part in this whole manipulation, treat a guy like a dog thing?”
Annie’s mother knew the exact words to use with the corresponding intonation to flatten Annie of all her pride. The rising guilt oozed from her gut, slowly poisoning her entire body.
Her mother continued, “And personally, I think it’s too late to steer clear of him. Don’t you? From my vantage point, you’re already head over heels.”
“I’m in so much trouble,” Annie said, snatching the pillow from the daybed, and burying her head in it. The pillowcase had the same smell that it did when Annie cried into it as a child. Her mother never strayed from her Tide. “Okay, fine. You can tell him to come in now.”
Annie’s mother opened the door to her husband leaning against the wall, adjacent to the door.
He came in and sat on the floor beside her. “Sorry.”
“Sorry for trying to marry me to my ex, or sorry for trying to marry me to a guy you had stalk me?”
“I wasn’t trying to marry you to Trent. Operation Halt was not about getting married.”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you think that you could have ever moved on with the memory of Trent hurting you seared in your frontal lobe?”
Annie twisted the scarf between her fingers as her lips scrunched in consideration of his thoughts. She continued listening.
“I should’ve told you about Paxton. I was hoping that he could facilitate for the two of you to run into each other in Healdsburg, and hit it off. I didn’t fathom that things would get so,” he intertwined his fingers in demonstration, “tangled.”
“What do I do now, Dad?”
“That’s your decision. I officially place myself on probation.”
“Here, here,” Annie said in agreement.
“Paxton was right. I do admire him. I find him to be real, like the old man. You wonder why I enjoy that book so much. Aside from the epic fishing, it’s a story of a humble, honest man who values life and friendship. The book is simple. Life is simple. Why do we do this,” he questioned, interweaving his fingers again, “to ourselves? When it’s completely unnecessary?”
“Where’s Paxton now?”
“He left to visit with his great-grandfather in Milwaukee.”
“Hmm. I think I may need to pay his great-grandfather a visit tomorrow,” Annie said, tapping her fingertips together. “Operation Halt. You’re a genius, Dad.” She leaned over and kissed his forehead. “I couldn’t ask for a better father.”
Chapter 19
Annie sat outside the nursing home in the driver’s seat of her mother’s Chevy Tahoe, adjusting the straps of Mr. Famous’ doggy carrier attached around her shoulders and chest.
“Jump on in,” she said to her ever-eager pooch sitting in the passenger seat. “Good thing we got you certified.”
Annie’s father had explained how to best avoid stopping at the many nurses’ stations along the way to Timothy’s room. She studied the detailed map in her hand as she approached the front doors. The building was situated on the lake front, with the majority of the rooms overlooking Lake Michigan.
Warm, sweet air billowed from the building as Annie pried open the heavy glass and metal doors. She postulated that the weight of the doors was a deterrent for any residents attempting to leave the nursing home.
Cinnamon rolls and coffee formulated the aroma in the central hall. The open room was adorned with a cozy reading nook and gas fireplace, sprinkled with glass rocks.
“Not bad,” thought Annie, aloud.
She wound through the many hallways to the number she was searching out, 227.
“Hello. May I come in?” Annie questioned, after giving a customary knock.
“Yes. Come in,” responded a husky voice from deep within the dark room.
A small figure sat crumpled in a corner chair. As Annie approached, Tiny Tim transformed into a mammoth creature, as he raised himself up from his seated position, to stand, and welcome his guest.
“How do you do?” he said, towering over her.
“Well. Well, thanks,” she stammered. “I’m a friend of Paxton’s, and was hoping to find him here.”
“Have a seat, my dear. Let me open these blinds.” Tall Tim turned and adjusted the wood shutters to allow the full sunlight to pour through the room.
“That is a stunning view,”
Annie exclaimed, peering out over Lake Michigan.
“I’ll take your word for it. My eyesight isn’t what it once was. I close the blinds to enjoy an afternoon nap in my chair.”
“I apologize. I hope that I didn’t disturb your rest.”
“Not at all. A pretty lady like yourself is always welcome here.”
“I missed him. Didn’t I?” Annie lamented.
“Not exactly. He is not physically with us, but now is your chance to ask me anything you’d like about him.”
Annie smiled. She enjoyed his spunk. “Okay, how does he take his coffee?”
“Can’t stand coffee. Never drinks it. But, he does love the smell. I used to catch him sitting at the kitchen table over my mug, sniffing away.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone doing that.”
“Now you have. What else?”
Why do his kisses transport me to the moon? Annie thought, but didn’t dare vocalize.
“How do I get him to accept my apology?”
“Sit down with me,” Tim said, pointing to the couch, as he sat himself in his corner armchair.
“Annie, I presume?”
“Yes.”
“And you love him?”
“Yes.”
“Very good. Tell him.”
“Excuse me?”
“Tell him. I try not to mince my words.”
“I shouldn’t apologize for being manipulative, vain, short-sighted? I could go on.”
He relaxed into his chair, tipped his head back, and began whooping with laughter.
“Not sure how that was funny. I was a real jerk.” Annie said softly.
“Aren’t we all. I find it humorous that you both think you are complete imbeciles. It reminds me of when my wife and I were courting. That’s why I laugh. Humanity will never change.”
Imbecile? Did Annie really see herself as being an imbecile? Maybe she needed to do the affirmations in front of the mirror, as her mother had suggested.
“Tim. I brought a friend. How do you feel about dogs?” she asked, waking Mr. Famous from his nap in the sling.
Tim clapped his hands. “Wonderful. I miss Charlie’s visits. Paxton only brings him in the summer. Can I see him?” he asked, reaching for Mr. Famous.
With Mr. Famous now snuggled into Tim’s lap, licking his forearm, Annie took the opportunity to gaze at this relic. His brown, lemon shaped eyes were cast in a hazy blue, denoting his loss of sight. His once broad shoulders slumped in and downward. His head was devoid of any hair, save a few prickly whiskers. His wrinkles were deep and plentiful. He was like an aged sphynx cat, hairless, wrinkly, with large ears, a muscly neck, and pronounced belly. Tim caught her stare.
“Must be difficult to see me as anything but ancient, but I did once court a beautiful woman, who, by the grace of God, agreed to marry me.”
“How long have you been a widower?”
“Twenty-two years too long. But not much longer now,” he said, pointing to a photo on the wall.
The oval, black and white photograph was of a bride and groom. Their smiles were serene and unreadable. The real story was told in their eyes.
“She was a glowing bride,” Annie said.
His bride did have an aura of goodness, but her dress also had enough incandescent white fabric, beginning high on her neck down to her lavish train, to clothe ten bridesmaids.
“The great depression was just ending. I had finally felt financially secure enough to start a family. She waited six years for me to propose.”
“From what I can tell, it was well worth the wait,” Annie said, softly touching him on the arm. “Must have been quite the life, to live through the Great Depression, two world wars, not counting the many other wars and conflicts.”
“Did Paxton tell you about my birthday, July 28th 1914?”
“No.”
“It marked the day World War I began. I was always fascinated with the military, enlisting at the age of fifteen. They sent me to an international style training, where I would learn German from natives. Being large in stature, the military believed my age to be twenty-five.”
“What did your mother think about that?”
“She had died of consumption, tuberculosis, when I was a small boy. My father, as much as he loved me, appeared relieved. Can you imagine having to feed a six foot, teenage boy during the depression? That military training is where I met Henning. He was thirty-five, but lied as well, pretending to be twenty-five. They placed us in the same living quarters. I was to learn German. He was to learn English.”
Annie suddenly felt as if the stars were aligning to direct her path to this old man, he was her “Old Man.”
“Tim, did you know that I’m a writer, trained in journalism?”
“Yes.”
“How would you feel about me interviewing you, and writing your biography?”
Tim nodded his head. “Yes, I’d like that.”
“I have an idea. I want to write this biography, as if it were an autobiography. As if I were you, holding the cool gun in my hand as the enemy is approaching. I want to make this real for those who are reading it. I want them there, crouching down in the trenches.”
“I think it’s brilliant,” he said with a soft smile.
“I’m excited to get to know you better. And those are exactly the details I need. Shall we begin,” she said, pulling a clip-on tripod from her purse and attaching it to the cell phone. She took her tripod everywhere. Boy scouts had bandages. Journalists had tripods. Within a few seconds her recording studio was organized and operational.
“The first, and perhaps most telling question; what do you dream about?”
“Dream about?”
“Lions on the beach? Catching fish? The war?”
“There’s a letter in the top drawer of my dresser. Will you bring it to me, please?”
Annie walked to the dresser, topped with an assortment of frames holding a variety of photographs, mostly of children playing. She reached into the top drawer, shuffling through manila envelopes and metal trinkets. She found a weathered envelope addressed to “My Dearest Husband.”
“Is this it?” Annie questioned, holding it up in the air.
“I believe so.”
As Annie pulled the folded letter out, a light blue, dingy swatch of cloth fell to the ground. She picked it up, rubbing it between her fingers. It felt like satin. The edges were completely frayed. Annie imagined that the antique, faded blue was once an enchanting powder blue, or Tiffany blue, the dominant color in Annie’s house. She would have gotten along great with this woman.
Tim smiled. “That’s it. Can I see that, please?” he said, reaching for the fabric.
Annie handed him the material as she unfolded the paper, which appeared as if it would crumble under any additional handling. To her surprise, the pencil strokes had almost completely faded, rendering the letter unreadable. How would she decipher anything from this?
Tim rubbed the fabric back and forth between the palms of his hands and said, “My dearest husband, you are going off to war this morning. I cut this from the gown I wore to bed last night. Please do not forget me, or the love I feel for you. If ever you forget the lilt of my voice or the smell of my skin, just touch this, and know that the remainder of the cloth is touching my heart, where you will always be with me. If ever you are tempted by another, please take this in your hands and think of me, in your bed, awaiting your return. Love you always, your Sweetheart.”
“Now that, is romance.”
Tim nodded his head. “Now you know what I dream about.”
Annie left an hour later. She would need to keep her visits to an hour. She deciphered from his slowness of speech and change in demeanor that his stamina and focus were limited. Perhaps she could visit twice a day for the next week? She would need to find a hotel in the vicinity and begin working on reviewing and transcribing the videos. And if the story began taking form, she would begin writing as well.
Tim had recommended that Ann
ie take a short cut through the Alzheimer’s wing. Annie marveled at the thought that she had just asked someone else if she could write their story. She had had countless people approach her, petitioning for her to document their lives. But now, it was her after his story. Was she doing this for herself, or Paxton? she wondered.
Annie pulled the door handle with her entire force, but it wasn’t budging. She turned around and noticed an attendant seated at a welcoming desk a few yards down the corridor.
“Excuse me, can you tell me how I can exit through those doors?” Annie questioned the young attendant.
“I’ll beep you out,” she said, nodding her head at the doors.
“Thank you,” said Annie, walking to the exit.
A thin elderly man approached Annie quickly from behind. He lifted his arm to hold the door open for her as she pulled on the thick metal handle. Annie panicked.
She turned and held out her hands, preventing him from passing. “I’m so sorry, but I don’t think you’re allowed outside. Can I help you back to the nurses’ station?” Annie said in a sweet voice, as if directing her words to a child.
“Thank you. That’s kind of you, but I don’t live here. I was visiting family,” he said in an apologetic voice, acknowledging her ignorance.
Annie walked to her car with her head lowered nearly to her chest.
“What is wrong with me?” Annie said aloud.
“Oh, sweetie. Bless yer heart. Have the doctors not found a diagnosis yet?” an elderly lady said with a thick Southern accent, approaching Annie’s side. “Ya know, it took that dagum doctor three years to finally figure out that I had irritable bowel syndrome. I was poopin’ and tootin’ all over the place. And the crampin’. Oh, Lord have mercy. Ya’ll keep houndin’ those doctors till they know what is goin’ on in there. K?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thanks for that advice.”
“You take care a yerself.”
Annie nodded, slipping into her car.
“Mr. Famous, you need to get me to stop talking to myself,” she said, shaking her head.
Chapter 20
Tim’s eyelids drooped down as his chin lowered. He caught himself before his chin hit his chest, popping his head up. Annie looked at her watch. She hated wearing one, but her phone was needed for filming, not time keeping. She had been interviewing Tim for forty-five minutes. It was time to start wrapping up. This was the second interview of the day, and it appeared to Annie that Tim was in need of his afternoon siesta.