John explained, “I only made the point that some people would consider it playing God. Not that I necessarily did.” He scooted over to sit directly beside her, then put an arm across her shoulders. “Kitten, if I’m ever in Winter Wine End-Stage Dementia Unit, feel free to pull the plug.”
Susan found tears in her eyes and could not wholly explain them, which sparked more irritation. For the past week, her emotions seemed to be acting irrationally, of their own accord. “Unfortunately, there aren’t any plugs to pull, Dad. Dementia eats away the brain, but it doesn’t affect the heart and lungs at all. That’s what makes it so singularly awful.”
“Yeah, well.” John stroked his chin. “Feel free to put a pillow over my head, then. And don’t visit. I could never live with the thought I might become a burden or cause pain to my daughter, assuming I could still think in any capacity. Getting on with your own life would be the best thing you could do for me in such a situation.”
Susan winced. She did not want to think about the matter any longer, though she did feel a kinship with the families of the patients she would be tending for the next month. They went through a private hell she hoped she never had to deal with, never had to bear. Until that moment, she had focused wholly on the patients, on their lack of future, on their discomfort and inability to beg for mercy. Now she considered the lot of the loving caretaker and could not imagine anything more confusing or exhausting, more testing of a person’s stamina, resilience, and grief. No wonder people responded so differently: the demanding son who berated an overworked nurse for not tending to his mother’s hair quickly enough, the daughter who came up with myriad excuses not to visit, the brother who sat weeping over a patient without tending to his own needs, the grandchildren standing in stunned boredom, the neighbor who sat and stroked a comatose man’s hand for hours. All of them coped with an impossible situation in their own way. A tear rolled down Susan’s cheek.
John Calvin said softly, “You’re thinking of Remy, aren’t you?”
Susan did not believe that to be the case, nor could she see where her father had come up with his theory. “What?”
“You’re imagining your life, had the explosion destroyed his brain but left his body intact.”
Susan could not deny the thought had occurred to her; she had said as much to Nate. She brushed the tear from her cheek. “I don’t like thinking about that possibility.” She could not help asking, “Is it…immoral to be glad he died instead?”
“I don’t believe so.” John Calvin reached behind him to pull a bulky envelope from the shelves. “I thought you might want this.” He dropped it into Susan’s lap.
Susan had no idea what it might contain. She hoped it was not his will; she had contemplated his mortality enough for one day. Opening the flap, she pulled out a professionally framed, glossy 8-by-10-inch photograph.
Susan recognized the site in the picture immediately: a concrete bench just outside their building, beside an immense playground. If she walked out on the terrace and looked down, she could probably see it almost directly beneath them. What held her spellbound were the figures on the bench. She sat on the right, her attention riveted to the man beside her, looking as content and comfortable as she could ever remember appearing. The wind carried a strand of her hair; her open and genuine expression softened her features until they looked almost pretty. It was the best picture of herself she had ever seen. Beside her, Remington Hawthorn looked as suave and self-assured as always. Dressed in casual khakis and a T-shirt, he studied Susan with a look of obvious adoration. The familiar dark blond curls swept across his forehead and barely missed eyes that held Susan’s gaze longer than any other feature. In the picture, she saw genuine affection. No one could feign that depth of feeling. As he had stated that day, while they sat on the bench together, he had truly loved her.
“Oh, my God,” Susan whispered. She could no longer slow the tears bunching in her eyes. They ran down her face in rivulets. “Oh, my God.” She tore her gaze from the picture to meet her father’s stare. “Where? Where did you get this?” She had no idea such a picture existed.
“Old Ms. Crabtree.” John Calvin jerked a thumb upward to indication their upstairs neighbor. “She said she saw you sitting there, and you looked so happy she snapped the picture with her Vox. She forgot about it until last week, when she took some other snaps in for enlargement and found it. I took it to the art store for framing and picked it up after work today.”
Susan’s attention returned to the photo. “It’s…” She did not know what to say. “Perfection” seemed immodest. “Beautiful” did not do it justice. “…wonderful. Thank you.” She clutched it to her chest, the metal frame cold on her arms.
John shifted his position so he could comfortably keep his arm around his daughter’s shoulders without interfering with her special moment. “I’ve been thinking.”
Susan wiped away her tears, and a glimmer of joy slipped through. She remembered the conversation on the bench, the first time she had told Remington she loved him, the first time any man, other than her father, had spoken those words to her. They had made plans for her to lose her virginity to him that night but were interrupted by a visit to USR, which had led to a string of harrowing events and, ultimately, to his death.
Although Susan had not acknowledged her father’s words, he continued what he had to say. “It’s clear something special was happening on that bench.”
Susan nodded but did not go into details. It was not the sort of conversation a daughter had with her father. Realizing she needed to say something, however, she nodded. “It was.”
John pushed on, “With Remy being buried in his hometown, does it bother you that you can’t…commune at the gravesite? Put some flowers on the marker now and then?”
Susan forced out a chuckle. Neither she nor her father were spiritual people, although they did make a twice-yearly pilgrimage to Amanda Calvin’s grave. “Dad, if there is a heaven, we know they sent a limo for Remy. Whether there is or isn’t, there’s no real purpose to visiting the place where the empty shell was placed. Even if ghosts existed, I couldn’t imagine Remy’s hanging around his coffin, waiting to see who visited his rotting corpse.”
John Calvin quirked an eyebrow, shrugged. “Surely you don’t really think people visit gravesites to appease the ghosts of their loved ones. It’s a great place to sit and think about the person who died, regardless of your religious beliefs, a quiet place to reflect and remember or to privately say all the things you wish you had managed while they were still alive.”
Susan rubbed the last of the tears from her cheeks. “I know that. I really do. It’s just hard to justify the time and cost of flying to Ohio on my rare days off just to visit a gravesite. It’s not like I know his family, either. I never laid eyes on them until the funeral.” The Hawthorn family seemed nice enough, but they could not possibly understand how close their son had become to her in the short time they had known one another.
“That’s what I was thinking,” John explained. “We can’t be hopping planes or trains to Ohio on a whim. But that bench…”
Susan studied the picture again. Ms. Crabtree had clearly taken it from behind the playground structure, where scores of preschool children had been playing. “You do know that’s the bench right outside the building, right?”
“Of course.”
“Well, one could hardly consider that a place of”—Susan tried to think of words that described the typical gravesite—“serene seclusion.”
John grinned. “Well, no. But it’s symbolic, isn’t it? We could share fond memories of him there with no one the wiser. Even though it’s filled with children during the day, the kids are too busy having fun and the parents too busy watching their kids to notice a person enjoying a spiritual experience. And if you do need quiet, it’s always empty after dark.”
Though Susan liked the idea, she could not help adding. “Empty…except for the muggers.”
John smiled at the facetious comm
ent. “Well, there is that. But I doubt you need to carry a mess of valuables to visit a dead guy.” Gingerly, he took the framed photograph from Susan’s hands and placed it on the wall beside the one of Amanda Calvin. Apparently, he had planned that as well, as a preplaced hook anchored the picture at the exact same height and an eye-pleasing distance from Susan’s mother.
Susan did not have to force a smile. She appreciated what her father had done for her and wished she had not turned his thoughtful idea into a joke. “Thanks for memorializing the moment, Dad. It means a lot to me.” She tore her eyes from the picture to add sincerely, “And for the idea of using the bench as a spot to connect with my memories and grief. It is a great symbol, though I don’t think I’ll leave any flowers unless I get a hankering to provide preschool kids with bouquets for their mothers.”
John tipped the frame this way and that until he found the perfect balance, then straightened Amanda as well. Finally satisfied, he returned his gaze to his daughter. “Just because Remy’s picture’s up there with Mom’s doesn’t mean you get to go doolally, like I did.”
Susan understood the reference, having confronted her father only a year ago about what she had decided were neuroses. He had not dated in the more than twenty years since Amanda’s death, and he dined only when alone. John had reminded Susan he had survived the same accident that had killed her mother, a fact Susan’s young age and denial had allowed her to forget. Neurological impairment affecting his senses of smell and taste, as well as sexual desire and function, explained his peculiarities. “Nerve damage is different from neuroses.” She gave him a sly wink. “And most of my ilk require an actual psychosis to diagnose someone ‘doolally.’”
“All right, a bit nutty, then. My point is you have to start dating again, Susan. Someday I want grandchildren to spoil.”
Susan quirked an eyebrow. “You got anyone in mind for the father?”
“How about that redhead you keep talking about? Kendall Stephenson.”
“Kendall Stevens.” Susan corrected, shaking her head. She had met Kendall the same day as Remington, the first day of their residencies, and had never thought of him as anything more than a friend.
“He’s funny, right?” John persisted. “And you could use some humor in your life. Is he seeing anyone?”
For the first time, Susan thought about the possibility of she and Kendall becoming a couple. She had never seen him with a woman who could pass for a girlfriend, and he had not mentioned dating anyone she could remember. They spent enough time together that, had he engaged in even a casual relationship in the past year, she ought to have known about it. “Not to my knowledge, Dad. But he’s never shown that sort of interest in me, either.”
“No good man would. You were seeing Remy,” John Calvin reminded her. “Then Remy died. Not a good time to cozy up to any woman.”
Susan found herself unable to imagine Kendall and herself in a relationship. “He’s a good friend, Dad, but only a friend. We have a good thing going. Why complicate it with…”
“Sex?” John filled in.
Susan felt her cheeks heat up, and it surprised her. She thought medical school had inured her to embarrassment. In the presence of her father, however, she reverted to the mental status of an eight-year-old. “Dad!”
“What? You asked me about my sex life, and turnabout is fair play. Right?”
Susan did not see the comparison. “But I’m a doctor, a budding psychiatrist. And you…were acting…”
“Doolally?”
This time, Susan did not quibble with the terminology. “Yeah. And master headshrinker that I am, I thought I had all the answers.” She rolled her eyes. “Only to discover I didn’t even have the questions right.”
John laughed. “You know, when I was young, my best friend was a woman.”
“Really?” Susan could not help asking, “How did that work out?”
John grinned nearly from ear to ear. “I married her.”
Susan realized she had walked right into his trap. Her demeanor softened, and she could not help looking at the picture of her mother she had memorized over the years. “And I’m glad you did. Otherwise, I wouldn’t exist.” She leapt to her feet. “And now I’ve got some research to do. There aren’t many treatable causes of dementia, not a whole lot of differential diagnoses, either. But, if I can save just one patient from the hellhole that is Winter Wine Dementia Facility, I will consider this rotation worthwhile.” She headed toward the palm-pross in her bedroom.
“That’s my Susan,” John said to her retreating back.
The rancid odor of the dementia facility pervaded Susan’s nose, and she wondered how long it would take to become so accustomed she ceased to notice it. She had spent as much of the morning as possible poring over the patients’ charts, trying to find some small clue to suggest a misdiagnosis. Every few moments, her study was interrupted by a nurse seeking fresh orders, asking her to medicate an agitated patient, or assessing some blemish, erythematous area, or scratch that might indicate an impending wound infection or bedsore.
Once again, the hopelessness of the place invaded Susan’s soul. Though she hated the interruptions to her examinations and thought processes, she did appreciate the dedication and caring of the nursing staff. She marveled at their ability to see these shambling bodies as the human beings who had once inhabited them. Tireless and strangely upbeat most of the time, the nurses performed their duties without grumbling or complaining, without screaming or crying, with the patience of Job. Though they dealt with the same issues day after day, month after month, year after year, they treated the patients as individuals and answered the identical questions of concerned, angry, desperate, and grieving relatives as if each case were fresh and new, unique and special. They had a knack for this type of work, and the patients and families had little idea how lucky they were to have found these forbearing angels.
And then Susan saw him. He was just one aimless, meandering man among many, an average-sized adult with spiky gray hair, a medium build, and the typical parkinsonian masklike face. Susan was not even sure what had caught her notice, but she found her gaze riveted to him and she drifted toward him. She was on Unit 2, the second step in the three-stage shuffle, which meant he might still have enough of his faculties to carry on the reasonable facsimile of a conversation.
Susan moved directly in front of him, and he stopped. He stood hunched over, his limbs trembling beyond his control, weaving back and forth as if he might fall at any moment. Yet he remained standing, almost rigidly at attention. His face revealed little expression, but his eyes drifted upward to find her own. They were brown, soft, and sad, but at least they did not stare through her. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Dr. Susan Calvin.”
“Hello,” he returned in a hoarse voice that suggested he did not use it often. “I’m Chuck.” His eyes rolled, and he repeated, “Chuck, Chuck, Chuck.” She did not know if he had echolalia or was searching for a last name somewhere deep in what remained of his memory. She knew she would need more than “Chuck” to find his chart and examine his history.
“Do you know what you’re here for, Chuck?”
“Chuck,” he repeated. This time, he parroted her. “In for.” His facial expression did not change, but she thought she saw a bit of effort in his eyes, as if he was using repetition to gain time to find a more rational answer. “I’m lost,” he finally said. “I was on my way to the bathroom.”
Susan could see the telltale bulge of an adult diaper beneath his slacks. If he was seeking the restroom, he clearly made a habit of not reaching it on time. “Come with me, Chuck. I’ll take you there.” She headed toward the patients’ toilet. When he did not follow, she turned to face him again. Chuck had not moved. His eyes revealed confusion bordering on panic, and Susan did not want to pressure him. Pushing demented patients often resulted in a violent backlash.
Susan returned in a gesture of harmless concession. “Nice meeting you, Chuck.”
“Nice meeting you,
” he said, though whether to complete the ritual or as more echolalia, she could not tell. His face revealed nothing. He paused for several moments, focused on the floor, as if his brain could not convince his feet to begin moving again. After a few seconds of this, he continued his awkward facsimile of walking, and Susan observed his ambulation from the side and the back, certain his movements were what had attracted her attention in the first place.
Chuck had clear bradykinesia, slowness of movement; his steps were short, his slippered feet barely clearing the floor, and his ankles rotated outward.
One of the nurses, a woman named Asha, left her patient to approach Susan. “That’s Charles Tripler,” she explained. “He goes by Chuck. He’s sixty-six years old. Used to be a plumber. Parkinson’s disease for ten years and dementia for the last two.”
Susan acknowledged Asha with a nod and a “thank you,” but kept her gaze on Chuck. If she had had to guess his diagnosis, she would have gone with Parkinson’s, but not everything about his movements was typical for the disease. Pressing the Record button on her Vox, she settled into a chair, planning to observe Mr. Charles “Chuck” Tripler until her next interruption.
Chapter 4
Susan knocked firmly on Dr. Reefes’ office door, excited but uncertain about her findings and conclusions. Beside her, Kendall shifted his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable with disturbing their attending, yet too curious or gallant to leave her to present the patient alone. They had become accustomed to the routine of Manhattan Hasbro, where humorless attendings insisted on daily rounds with every patient, quizzing the residents mercilessly and demanding they remain informed on every aspect of each patient’s care.
On a chronic unit such as the Winter Wine Dementia Facility, Susan had not expected the same type of precision. The patients did not require moment-to-moment care. There was little hope for improvement, their medications rarely changed, and their conditions remained stable on a day-to-day basis, with only a gradual and anticipated slide toward oblivion. Still, Susan had expected their attending to show some interest in the new residents, to listen to their plans, and to take an active role in their work.
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