by Sharon Potts
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Probably just paranoia, then,” the nurse said. “Happens to lots of older people. Your grandmother lives alone?”
Kali nodded.
“You know, she could have killed herself.”
Kali glanced over at Lillian, whose eyes were darting around the room like a skittish bird’s.
“Do you have other relatives who can help?”
Kali shook her head. “There’s only me.”
“Well, it’s not safe for her to stay alone.”
“I understand.”
“Here are her discharge papers.” The nurse pointed to the instructions. “She should see her own physician for follow-up.” He started walking away. “And you might want to thank the man who rescued her,” he called over his shoulder.
What man, she wanted to ask? But the nurse was already on the other side of the nurses’ station.
Lillian’s eyes were closed when Kali returned to her, but her lips were moving silently. How she had aged in the last few years. Why hadn’t Kali noticed? But the truth was, Kali had been denying the changes and the obvious signs of deterioration. Because once her grandmother was gone, Kali would lose her last connection to her roots.
Kali touched the blanket on Lillian’s shoulders. “Ready to go?”
She opened her eyes. “I’ve been ready for a long time.”
Kali took the handles on the wheelchair and pushed, glancing around to see if Seth had arrived.
A guy wearing gym shorts and sneakers was gingerly getting up from the edge of a bed in one of the alcoves, blinking as though to clear his eyes. He was long and lean like a stretched-out taffy bar, with mussed black hair, several days’ beard growth, and a bruise on his high forehead. His chest, forearms, and hands, except for his fingers, were wrapped in bandages.
There was something familiar about his cleft chin and gray eyes. Familiar, but incomplete. Eyeglasses. Kali pictured the face with tortoise-shell frames, remembering how she’d look down from her bedroom window and see him adjusting those glasses as he stood partially hidden by the poinciana tree waiting for her.
“Neil Rabin,” she said, stopping in front of the alcove.
His eyes met hers. He didn’t seem surprised to see her. “Kali Sullivan.”
Her heart hiccupped. Other than her mother, Neil was the only one who pronounced her name so that it sounded like the dog— “collie.” Everyone else called her “Kaylee.”
“Wait. That’s not right,” he said. “Not Sullivan. I heard you’re married.”
“That’s right. It’s Miller now.” She subconsciously touched her abdomen. Her pregnant body felt conspicuous in her short yellow dress and form-fitting leggings.
But Neil didn’t seem to register Kali’s discomfort or condition as he knelt slowly in front of Lillian’s wheelchair. “You okay, Mrs. Campbell?”
“I’m fine. I just need to get home.” She scowled at the bandages on Neil’s chest and arms. “What happened to you?”
“I’m okay. Just a few little burns.”
“Oh, God,” Kali said. “You were the one who saved her?”
He stood back up, grimacing a little. “I was out for a run. I saw flickering lights, then one of the drapes caught fire.”
Kali was about to ask how he’d gotten into the house, but was afraid that might trigger her grandmother’s paranoia. “Well, thank you so much for rescuing her,” Kali said instead.
“Glad I could help.”
The large door to the ER opened and several men from fire rescue came in wheeling a gurney with a woman in a neck brace.
“Are you staying with your mom?” Kali asked.
“Actually, Mom’s in assisted living. She has Alzheimer’s. I’m at the house, packing up so we can sell it.”
“I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Your mom was always so, so—” Kali was at a loss. So nice to me, she wanted to say.
A voice over the loudspeaker was requesting a doctor to come to the nurses’ station.
“Let’s go, Kali,” Lillian said. “I have to get home.”
“Okay, we’re going.” Kali took hold of the wheelchair handles. “What about you?” she asked Neil. “Do you need a ride?”
“I’ll walk. It isn’t far.”
The room was cold, too cold, and Kali wished she had something to cover herself with. “I can drive you.”
“Kali.”
She turned toward Seth’s voice. He was working his way around the gurney with the woman in the neck brace.
“Here you are. They certainly don’t make it easy to get in here.” Seth pulled on his open shirt collar, further loosening his tie. He took in Lillian in the wheelchair. “Is she okay?”
“My hearing’s perfect,” said Lillian. “And I’m even able to speak for myself.”
“Of course you are.” Seth gave her a forced smile. “I just got worried when I saw the wheelchair. How are you?”
“Fine. Why does everyone keep asking me that? Would you please just take me home?”
Seth looked at Kali and frowned.
“I’m driving my grandmother. And Neil. Neil lives next door. He saved her from the fire.”
“Really? You’re a regular hero.”
“Hardly,” Neil said.
“No, seriously. You are. Thank you. We appreciate it. I’m Seth Miller, by the way. Kali’s husband.” Seth extended his hand to shake Neil’s.
Neil held up his two bandaged ones, wiggling his exposed fingers. “Sorry.”
Seth laughed. “Well, why don’t we get out of here? You take your grandmother, Kali, and Neil can come with me.”
Neil caught Kali’s eye, then looked away quickly. “That would be great,” he said. “Thanks.”
6
The first thing Kali noticed when she opened the front door of her grandmother’s house was the smell—smoke, candle wax, and something caustic, like burned fabric. She turned on the light, then took Lillian’s arm. Her grandmother stiffened like a tense cat as they stepped into the foyer.
Although Kali had lived here for five years after her mother died, it had never felt like home. She’d been a guest, a tolerated visitor to a pristine museum. Nothing was comfortable or natural. The curved walls of the circular foyer opened up to a formal living room to the right, a large, rarely used dining room to the left. Straight ahead was a winding staircase with a wrought iron banister. The white marble floor, which had yellowed with age, was covered with footprints and crushed red flowers from the poinciana tree. It looked like a herd of men in boots had tramped through the house.
Her grandmother was looking around wildly. “Who’s been here?”
“Firemen. They had to put out the fire.”
“No one else? You’re sure?”
“Maybe the police.”
Lillian’s arms were wrapped around herself as she stared at the gilded entranceway table against the wall near the living room. “How stupid of me.”
“Would you like me to help you up to bed?”
“I don’t need help. This is my house.”
“Fine. Whatever you say.”
Lillian went over to the entranceway table. A dozen small glass tumblers containing burnt-down candles were reflected in the mottled mirror above the table. “So stupid of me,” she muttered.
“Why’d you light so many candles?”
Her grandmother didn’t seem to hear her. She looked back at the front door. “You’re sure no one else was here?”
“Neil Rabin was. You remember; he helped you.”
Her grandmother pressed her hand against her chest. “No one else? You’re sure?”
“Why? Do you think someone was here? Is anything missing?”
Lillian’s eyes went from the front door to the staircase to the dirty marble floor to the narrow hallway that led to the kitchen.
Paranoia, the nurse had said. Happens to lots of older people.
“Lock the door,” Lillian said, then she went slowly up the stairs, closing he
r bedroom door behind her.
Kali leaned against the arched doorway that opened to the living room and tried not to inhale the acrid, burnt air. This was one of the rooms that had been off-limits when Kali was a child. Even though she’d occasionally sat in here as an adult, years of conditioning were irrepressible. She stepped into the smoky room, fighting down a wave of nausea. The overstuffed rose-colored Queen Anne sofa and cut-velvet wingback chairs were arranged on a patterned Oriental rug like props for a royal family portrait, just as they’d always been. But the carved cherrywood tables, fireplace mantel, and other surfaces were all covered with dozens and dozens of candles.
Kali touched a blackened wick. Yahrzeit Memorial Candle, the label on the glass read. These were used in remembrance of a dead relative, Kali had learned in her Judaism conversion class. But what was Lillian doing with them? She wasn’t Jewish. In fact, she had no religious affiliation, as far as Kali knew. It nagged at her. There was so much about her grandmother she didn’t know, a past that Lillian refused to talk about.
And then there was the question of why had she lit so many candles? The nurse at the hospital had been right—her grandmother could have killed herself.
There was a light knock on the front door. Kali started at the sound. The tap came again, then a muffled voice. “Kali? Are you there?”
Kali went to let Seth in.
He stepped into the foyer, rubbing the back of his neck. He was still wearing his loosened tie and looked tired, like he often did when he came home late from work.
“Smoky in here,” he said.
“I know.”
“Is she okay?”
Kali gestured to keep his voice down. “She’s in bed, hopefully sleeping.”
“Good,” he said in a half whisper. “Sorry it took me so long. Your neighbor needed some help. He’s a bit incapacitated with those burns.”
“It was nice of you to drive him. I know you have to get up early for court.”
“Glad I could do something.” Seth gave a little cough. “So Neil tells me you two grew up together. I hadn’t known there was a ‘boy-next-door’ in your life.” He wiggled his fingers when he said ‘boy-next-door’ as though he was putting it in quotes.
“He was a bit of a nerd.”
“Well, he seems like a good guy. Not a lot of people would have put themselves at risk to help an old woman.” He glanced into the darkened living room. “Damn. This place always reminded me of a funeral home, but it’s worse than ever. Let’s get out of here.”
Kali pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m spending the night.”
“Spending the night?”
She put her finger over her lips to hush him. “Let’s go outside. I don’t want to wake her.”
Seth held open the front door and they stepped onto the portico. Mildew had grown over the coquina tiles, which were littered with wilted red flowers from the poinciana tree. The Doric columns were chipped and covered with spiderwebs and the house needed a paint job. It was obvious that Lillian was having a tough time maintaining the place since Kali’s grandfather had died ten years before.
Seth ran his fingers through his short, dark hair. “Look, baby. I totally understand that your grandmother shouldn’t be alone, but the house is full of smoke. It’s not good for you or Bucephalus.”
“I can’t leave her by herself.”
“Then let’s call a nursing agency.”
“It’s after ten. I doubt they’d be able to send someone out at this hour. Besides, I don’t want my grandmother waking up to a stranger in the house. I’m sorry, but I really need to spend the night.”
He started pacing between the columns, crushing the small red petals beneath his wingtips. “It’s not safe. She doesn’t even have an alarm system.”
“Of course it’s safe. This is where I grew up, remember?”
He stopped directly in front of her. His eyes seemed to be pleading with her. “Please, Kali. I can’t be alone.”
She realized in the two years they’d been living together, they’d never spent a night apart. “Then stay here with me.”
“Here? This is your grandmother’s house. I can’t stay here.”
A dog barked excitedly up the street.
“She won’t mind.”
“I can’t.”
“Sure you can.”
He shook his head, looking like a lost little boy.
“It’s just for tonight, Seth. I’ll get an aide to come tomorrow.”
He took in a deep breath. “Okay. You can stay.” He stood up straighter. “I’ll open a few upstairs windows so you aren’t breathing carcinogens all night.”
“I can open them.”
“No way.” He wagged his finger at her. He seemed to have recovered from his brief panic attack. “Bucephalus doesn’t want his mommy exerting herself.”
“Bucephala. I think it’s a girl.”
He was smiling when they stepped back into the foyer.
“What are you grinning about?”
“I got you to accept Bucephala.”
“I haven’t accepted anything.”
He started toward the stairs, but his attention was caught by the candles on the entranceway table. He picked one up and turned it over in his hands. “What’s your grandmother doing with these?”
“They’re everywhere. Dozens of them. She apparently lit them all.”
“But why Yahrzeit candles? These aren’t decorative candles. They’re supposed to be lit in memory of the dead.”
“I know. I’m guessing she bought them in bulk somewhere and didn’t realize the significance.”
He was squeezing the tumbler.
“She didn’t mean any disrespect, Seth. You know that, don’t you?”
He kept looking at the candle, not meeting Kali’s eyes.
“I’m sure there’s some reason she did this that makes sense to her,” Kali said. “Maybe she lost friends during the war.”
“Jewish friends? I doubt that.”
“What? Why would you say such a thing? You don’t know anything about her.”
“And you do?”
Kali’s mouth fell open. Just like during dinner with his parents, she felt like she was being unjustly accused of something she didn’t even have any knowledge of.
The tenseness went out of Seth’s face. “Look, baby. I love you, but your grandmother’s something else. Haven’t you noticed how she acts toward me and my family? It’s like we’re yesterday’s garbage.”
“That’s just how she is. It has nothing to do with you being Jewish.”
“You really believe that?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Then tell me, what exactly was she doing during the war? How come she never talks about it?”
“What are you implying?” Blood rushed to her face.
“Nothing. Forget it.” He put the tumbler down on the entranceway table with a clatter.
They stood without talking, staring at the yellowed marble floor, Seth in his polished wingtips, Kali in her paint-spattered sneakers.
Seth was the first to take in a long breath and relax his shoulders. “I’m sorry. It’s late. I’m tired. I’d better go home.”
Kali nodded. A lump had formed in her throat.
Seth took a hesitant step toward her, as though he wanted to give her a hug or kiss. She wished he would.
But he turned and left the house, without even a pat for Bucephala.
7
Kali went into the kitchen. Her hands were shaking as she filled a glass with tap water, then took a couple of swallows. She wasn’t sure what she was feeling. Hurt? Sadness? Anger? Concern?
Could there be any truth in Seth’s accusations? No. Not possible. As remote as Lillian was, Kali couldn’t believe her grandmother was capable of evil or had had any discrediting involvements during the war. Then what could be the explanation for her lighting all those candles? And why was her grandmother obsessing about a break-in? Was there something of value in the h
ouse?
Kali finished the water and put the glass in the sink, noticing the crud around the faucet. She took another look around the room. The counters were covered with piles of mail and stacks of newspapers, there were crumbs on the black-and-white-checkered-pattern linoleum, and the appliances were rust-stained. It was clear that things were running away from Lillian. Kali flipped through the mail on the counter. Some of it was opened, some still in the envelopes. A few bills, bank statements, mostly advertisements and solicitations. Nothing out of the ordinary.
She went to turn out the kitchen light, noticing that the wicker étagère that used to be against a kitchen wall had been moved so that it was completely blocking an interior door her grandmother always kept locked. Its shelves were loaded down with more newspapers, more mail, and a large bag of cat food. Kali had grown up believing the door opened to a closet, then shortly before she left for college, she found the key. She discovered a staircase, which led to two small rooms and a tiny bathroom intended as servants’ quarters, but the rooms were used for storage. Until Kali had come up with another purpose. But Lillian never knew about that. So why had she blocked the door?
Kali reached behind the étagère and tested the doorknob. Locked. She wondered where her grandmother kept the key these days. But even if Kali found it, she couldn’t be rummaging about the storage rooms while Lillian was home. Still, it bugged her. Was her grandmother paranoid, or was some secret from her past finally surfacing?
Kali mounted the stairs to her bedroom. A haze of smoke hovered near the ceiling around the crystal chandelier. The door to her grandparents’ bedroom was closed.
She stood for a moment on the worn carpet runner that covered the wood floor outside the bedrooms. There had been a time when Kali had looked forward to coming here for Sunday family visits, enjoying her grandfather’s lap in his favorite armchair, playing hide-and-seek with an imaginary friend. Even her grandmother’s disapproval when Kali touched something off-limits seemed part of the game. Then Kali’s mother died, and Kali came to associate the house with everything she had lost.