All I'll Ever Need

by Harry Kraus

  Randy Jensen and the county sheriff ’s department kept a vigilant eye out for Tyler Crutchfield, but after three months, the trail was so cold, Claire was convinced they’d never find him. Stoney Creek Family Practice finally got their mower back after the first snow, and Sol Diaz took a job in maintenance at the Pleasant View Home, partly at Claire’s recommendation that he did such a nice job mowing her home and office yards.

  Claire kept up her nightly closet sweeps for two weeks, slept with the gun beside her bed for a month, and eventually settled for double-checking all the doors and setting the door and window alarms.

  By spring, everything seemed to be falling into place for the perfect wedding. Early on the morning of the ceremony, the third Saturday in May, Della picked up the phone after three rings. “Hello.”

  “Hello, Doll.” Jimmy Jenkins’s voice was easy to recognize. “Did you survive the rehearsal?”

  She sighed. “It was a typical McCall zoo,” she said. “Grandma Elizabeth choked on the prime rib, and Kyle and Margo had a spat in the parking lot right in front of everyone.”

  Jimmy chuckled.

  “It wasn’t funny. I think Margo saw how nice things are for Claire and wishes she wouldn’t have eloped.”

  “That’s life, Della.” He paused. “I know this is a busy day for you, but I was wondering if I can pin you down on next weekend’s concert.”

  She shook her head. Jimmy was nothing if not persistent. “Jimmy, I can’t think beyond today.”

  “So don’t think. Just say you’ll go.”

  She hesitated, her resolve weakening. He didn’t let her reply before he spoke again. “Look, Della, I know you’re uncomfortable spending time with me in public around here. You’re married. I understand. We don’t need to plow this ground again. But the concert is in Brighton.”

  She closed her fist in quiet determination. “Not while Wally is alive.”

  She listened as his breath rushed out in frustration.

  “I’m sorry,” she added. “Look, Jimmy, let’s talk again. But right now, I’ve got a wedding to pull off.”

  Jimmy seemed to hesitate. When he spoke, his tone was sympathetic. “He’s not going to live much longer.”

  She understood that he spoke of Wally. “He keeps surprising me.”

  “He doesn’t look good. He won’t be alive long.”

  “You’ve seen him?”

  “I’ve visited him several times over the last few months.”

  The idea struck Della as odd, almost sad in a sick sort of way. Was he visiting Wally just to see how long he had to live, a premorbid fascination to see when she was going to be a free woman again? She didn’t have time to process his motives. Perhaps he was truly interested in Wally. They were, after all, old classmates. She listened as the front door opened.

  “Mom?”

  “Claire’s here. We can talk later.” She hung up the phone and turned to face her daughter.

  Claire smiled and held open her arms. “Today’s the day.”

  Mother and daughter fell into an embrace. Della whispered into Claire’s hair, “My lovely daughter.”

  “Did the florist add the roses I wanted?”

  “It’s all taken care of.”

  “The cake?”

  “I saw it yesterday morning. It’s perfect.”

  “Did Margo get her dress back from the seamstress?”

  “The alterations are perfect.”

  “Linda’s voice?”

  “Her mother called. The strep test was negative. With warm saltwater gargles, she’ll be able to hit an F with no problem.”

  “Did — ”

  Della put her hand against her daughter’s mouth. “Shhh,” she said, looking at her watch. “Everything is ready. Now you’re due at Emma’s for your hair in fifteen minutes.”

  Claire took a deep breath. “Okay.”

  “You’re about to have the happiest day of your life,” she said, pulling her daughter into a hug. “I’m going to see to it.”

  “I want Daddy to see me.”

  Della smiled. “Take your dress to Emma’s. You can drop by the home after you get your hair done. You can model it for him and still get to the church on time for lunch at 1:00.”

  Later that morning, June Mason steadied the back of Wally McCall’s head and lowered the end of a straw into his mouth. “Here, Wally,” she coaxed. “Some of your favorite.”

  Wally pulled on the straw, swallowed, coughed, and made an exaggerated grimace as he tried to swallow again.

  June smiled. “There,” she said, retrieving the straw. “Good job.” She set the jug on the nightstand. Working with patients like Wally McCall at Pleasant View had been challenging, but as a nurse, she loved the chance to spread a little joy to her patients. “Two guys walked into a bar,” she said, “the third one ducked.”

  Wally groaned.

  “What’s wrong, Wally? You don’t like my jokes?” She laughed. She was tugging at the edge of a rebellious fitted sheet when movement in the doorway attracted her attention. She looked up to see Claire McCall. “My oh my! Don’t you look beautiful!”

  Claire smiled. Her hair was braided into an elaborate updo, and she held her dress in her arms. “I came to show my father my wedding dress.

  Where can I change?” She walked across the room and stood at the edge of her father’s bed. “Hi, Daddy. Today’s my big day.”

  He looked up, as his head weaved from side to side.

  June took Claire by the arm. “You can change down the hall in fourteen. It’s unoccupied.”

  The nurse watched Claire as she ushered her to a room down the hall. Claire’s expression turned from sober to sad.

  “What’s wrong, dear? This is supposed to be the happiest day of your life.”

  Claire sighed. “I know. It’s just such an emotional day. I wish Daddy could escort me down the aisle.”

  June offered a little hug. “It must be tough,” she said. “But I’m sure he’s glad you came by to give him a preview.”

  Claire nodded and stayed quiet.

  “I’ll leave you to change,” she said, pushing open the door to an empty room. “Use the room to change back if you like.” She pointed. “There’s a pretty good mirror in the bathroom.”

  “Thanks.” She seemed to hesitate. “I want to be alone with him.”

  “Sure, honey.” June left her, but couldn’t help puzzling over the bride’s countenance. She seems sadder than she wants to admit. I hope there’s nothing wrong between her and John.

  A bit later that morning, Evan Harrison sat in the 911 control center in Brighton and picked up on the blinking line. “State police, 911 emergency, please state the nature of your emergency.”

  The other end of the phone line was quiet, followed by the sound of clothing rubbing together.

  Evan wore a receiver headset, a hands-free setup that allowed him to listen regardless of his position. Nonetheless, he leaned forward reflexively, straining to hear. He slid up the volume control on the panel and looked at the digital readout in front of him. Caller identification read, “Pleasant View Nursing Home.”

  The rustling sound continued. For a second, he thought he heard a spoken voice, a muffled groan. A man?

  He looked to his right. Tracy Greene was reading a detective novel. “Trace,” he said, “listen to this.” He pulled off his headset and pressed a button to put the voice through to an external speaker.

  The muffled groan continued in a rhythm, “Mmm, mmm, mmmm.” Another sound, a knocking, rattling noise intervened, followed by silence.

  Tracy shrugged and turned a page in her book. “I can’t make anything — ”

  “Shh!”

  The duo listened as a woman’s voice began, “I remember you in my room.” The voice was strained.

  Evan shook his head and whispered, “It’s a hoax.” He stopped short, as the woman spoke again.

  “You touched me.” Another pause. “You hurt me.”

  Evan and Tracy’s eyes met
in silent communication, not understanding. Tracy twisted her voice in an expression of question. They listened to the sound of a woman crying, soft sobs of someone in pain. “You abused me. I was drunk. I couldn’t defend myself. You — You — ”

  The line went dead.

  Tracy looked back at her book. “Weird. You’d better call the source. See if they know what’s going on over there.”

  Sally Weathersby, RN, had worked at Pleasant View Nursing Home for six years. Now as the charge nurse on day shift, she oversaw the care of all forty-one patients. She passed the front reception desk, carrying the summary stocking reports from night shift, when Blanche Trainum motioned her over. “It’s the state police,” she said, holding up the phone. “He says they just got a 911 call originating from this number.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I haven’t called anyone from here.”

  Sally picked up the phone. “Hello, this is the charge nurse, Sally Weathersby.”

  “This is Evan Harrison, state police 911. I just got a pretty weird call. My readout says it came from there.”

  “What kind of weird call?”

  “A sobbing woman, talking about being abused.”

  Sally shook her head. “That’s different. I have no idea offhand who could have made a call. We do have a few Alzheimer’s patients who know how to use the phone.” She paused. “Tell you what, why don’t I check through the assisted living section? They’re the only ones capable of using a phone.”

  “Okay. Call me back if you find out anything we can help with.”

  “Sure.” She hung up the phone and shrugged at Blanche. “I wonder what that’s all about.” She laid her clipboard on the desk. “I’m going to make rounds in assisted living.”

  Sally smoothed the front of her white dress as she walked, bypassing Emma Nichols in a wheelchair and Roy Brunk shuffling beside her.

  “Morning, Sally,” Roy said, emphasizing each syllable of her name with a tap on the floor with his cane.

  “Morning, Roy.” She smiled at his greeting. It was the same way he’d said her name every morning for the past six years.

  She walked through the hallway, which was home to sixteen assisted-living adults. George Smith was taking a midmorning nap. Chessie Baker and Kristine Chang played checkers, and three others were watching a game show at a volume that rattled the furniture. The Stevens were walking the nature trail by the garden. Briggs Donovan and Esther Bun were arguing over a game of shuffleboard. The rest of the gang were in their rooms, and everyone laughed at the thought of making a 911 call. Everyone except Mary Porter, who took everything very seriously and promised to report any suspicious activity to Sally right away.

  Sally checked with the staff nurses on east and south wing, and they reported no problems. With that, she returned to the reception desk and picked up the stocking reports.

  Blanche looked up. “Solve the 911 mystery?”

  The supervising nurse chuckled. “Everyone’s fine. Must have been a computer glitch.”

  Sally poured a cup of fresh coffee and sat at her desk to begin sorting out her staffing schedules for the next month. Ten minutes later, her phone rang.

  “Sally Weathersby.”

  “Sally, this is June over on south. Wally McCall died. I just found him while doing med rounds.”

  Sally took a deep breath. “Oh, boy. I’ll have to call Della. This is all she needs, what with their daughter getting married today.”

  “She was just in this morning to see him. She modeled her wedding dress for him.”

  Sally put her hand to her mouth, feeling her throat suddenly thicken. She looked away from Blanche. “Okay, I’ll take care of things from my end. I’ll call the funeral home and Della.”

  “Thanks, Sally. I’ll leave him in his room for now, in case she wants to see him here.”

  Sally hung up the phone and wiped the corner of her eye. Everyone in Stoney Creek knew Claire McCall and the trials their family faced because of Huntington’s disease. If anyone deserved relief from a constant barrage of family crises, it was the McCalls. Sally thought for a minute about waiting until after the wedding to tell Della about her husband’s death. No, I can’t keep this from her, even on a day like today.

  As the supervising nurse, she needed to confirm Wally’s death, so she plodded on heavy feet to south wing. There, she entered the room which had been Wally’s home for the better part of a year. She touched the edge of a crayon picture of a horse which had been taped to the wall over his bed. It had been drawn by his granddaughter, Kristin. Beneath the horse, it said, “Get well, Grampa.” Sally smiled and thought, It must be nice being young and naïve.

  On the bedside stand sat a Tupperware pitcher of lemonade and a few packets of a thickener which needed to be mixed with all of Wally’s liquids. She was alone in the room when she realized the oddity of the silence. She studied Wally’s pale face for a moment and became aware that this was the first time she had ever seen him still. The thumping of his arms against the padded bed rails, and the whistling of his legs against the sheets, sounds which were his constant shadow in life, had disappeared only in death.

  She touched his forehead, still moist with sweat, and moved his head from side to side. He was cooling but not stiff. He must have died within the hour. She closed his eyelids and dried her hand on her white dress. Then she took out her stethoscope and listened to his chest, now a cavity empty of life. She stared at her watch for fifteen seconds, lifting his linens to check for a pulse. As she placed her fingers over his radial artery, she noticed a red circle on the sheet beneath his elbow. As she inspected further, she could see dried blood over the inside of his elbow.

  Anxiety gnawed for recognition. Something wasn’t right. Wally had been a DNR for months. Most of the Do Not Resuscitate patients didn’t need blood drawn. So why was there evidence of a venopuncture on his arm?

  Sally stepped away, suddenly spooked. A rubber tourniquet lay on the bed, partially concealed by a pillow. She scanned the room, wondering just what had gone on. Everything seemed normal at first glance. A comb and brush were on the dresser beside a collection of family pictures. One picture was facedown. Sally reached for it. It was Claire, a photograph taken at her medical school graduation. From the dresser, she looked back at the body. Perhaps a nurse had just given some medication? She made a mental note to check the record. The room felt close and eerily quiet. She walked back to straighten the covers when her shoe struck a small object and sent it skidding across the floor. It was a small vial, a medicine container. She lifted it from its resting place and gasped as she read the label. Morphine sulfate. The multidose vial was empty.

  She gripped the little bottle in her hand as her stomach tightened. Shaking her head, she walked to the nurses’ station.

  June Mason looked up. “What’s wrong, Sally?”

  Sally set the vial down on the counter. “I found this in Wally’s room.” She paused to watch June’s expression. “Did he have any meds this morning?”

  “We gave morning meds with his breakfast.” June leaned forward. “But nothing IV.”

  Sally frowned. “Has anyone else been giving meds this morning?”

  “Not on south wing.”

  “Where’s Betty?”

  “Giving baths. I think she’s in sixteen.” June’s forehead wrinkled. “What are you thinking?”

  “I don’t know. I’m afraid to say what I’m thinking.” Sally rubbed the back of her neck. “When is the last time you saw him?”

  “Let’s see, I gave him breakfast at 7:30, then some lemonade at 9:00 and again at 10:00. I left him when Claire came in to show him her wedding gown.”

  Sally looked at her watch. An hour had gone by since Wally had been seen by staff. She took a deep breath. “I think I should call the police.”

  “You think someone killed him?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “Shouldn’t you call Mr. Johnson?”

  Sally thought about calling the administrator. He would
be just the type to try to brush this all under the rug so as not to spoil the reputation of Pleasant View. No, she would call the police first, and then tell the administrator what she had done.

  Della had just pursed her lips to freshen her makeup when the phone rang. It was probably Claire, calling to ask her to bring something she’d forgotten. She checked her watch. She had thirty minutes to be at the church for the pre-wedding luncheon.

  “Hello.”

  “Della? This is Sally Weathersby over at Pleasant View. I’m calling about Wally.”

  Della could hear the tension in Sally’s voice. “Is something wrong?”

  She listened as Sally sighed. “Della, I know this is a special day for you.”

  But? Della tapped a manicured nail on the kitchen counter and waited, knowing that with Wally, there was always a but.

  “Wally died this morning.”

  Della gasped. She was ready for “he fell out of bed” or “Wally choked.” Even “Wally’s asking to see you now,” but not “Wally died.” She shook her head. “I — , are you sure?” As she said it, she knew it sounded stupid, a ridiculous thing to ask a medical professional, but out it slipped before she knew what to say.

  “Della, I — ”

  “Oh, Sally, I’ve imagined this call a thousand times, but never did I expect that today — ” Suddenly her voice betrayed her, snapping shut in emotion. “Not today.” She covered her mouth as she paced the kitchen floor. She couldn’t say more. It was if someone had a grip on her throat. Her eyes began to tear. She closed her fist. This wasn’t the reason she wanted to cry today. Today, she was to cry tears of joy for Claire’s happiness, not tears for Wally.

  After a moment, she heard, “Della?”

  She struggled to find her voice. “I’m here.” She took a deep breath and continued numbly. “I’m on my way.” She put the phone in its cradle without saying good-bye.