by K. J. Young
Oh, so that’s it. She couldn’t keep up her Mother Teresa act for long. “It hasn’t happened yet, so don’t worry about it. By the way, Dr. Cross asked if you’d make a cup of tea.”
“For him or what?”
Mark shakes his head. “He didn’t say.”
When Dr. Cross comes into the kitchen fifteen minutes later, he sinks into a chair. When Monica offers him a cup of tea, he gratefully accepts. Apparently, the tea was intended for him.
“How is she?” Monica asks, her face showing concern. Both she and Mark are leaning back against the kitchen counter, giving the appearance of diligent employees, taking a short break out of respect for the situation, but ready to work at a moment’s notice.
Dr. Cross takes a sip. “I gave her a shot, which should help, but I think it’s safe to say the end is near.”
Mark says, “I’m so sorry,” before Monica can.
She shoots him a sideways glance of irritation before echoing his words and asking, “Should I go sit with her? Take in some tea or some breakfast?”
“Maybe later, but right now Roy would like some time alone with her. He’s pretty broken up.” Dr. Cross’s mouth stretches into a brief, sad smile. “Those two are like two peas in a pod. I’ve never met a brother and sister with such a close connection. He’s going to be lost without her.”
“How much longer does she have?” Mark asks.
“No way to know with any certainty.” Dr. Cross shakes his head sadly. “It could be hours; it could be days. I don’t think it will be more than a week, though. She’s been such a trouper up until now, but she’s so frail. Her body has just had enough.”
“If there’s anything we can do to help,” Monica says, “just let us know.”
“I’m glad you asked.” As it turns out, Dr. Cross has a whole list of things for them. He wants Monica to call the other members of the Redevine Society, since they’ll want to spend time with Alma while they can. For Mark, Dr. Cross has other ideas, so many chores that he pulls a pad of paper out of his pocket and jots down a list. Prescriptions will need to be filled, so a trip to the drugstore is the first priority. Mark will also need to stop at a medical supply store to finalize an order for a hospital bed. “I’ll call ahead with the specifics. All you’ll have to do is sign for it and arrange for delivery.” Lastly, he wants Mark to go grocery shopping. “I’ll write down a few ideas, and you can add to it if you think of anything else,” Dr. Cross says. “She won’t be able to eat much, but I’d like to have soft foods available for her. Canned soup, applesauce, that kind of thing.”
“Of course,” Mark says. He sounds sympathetic, but mentally he’s already behind the wheel of the Excalibur, driving away from Alden Manor. He will not mind avoiding the doom and gloom of a deathbed scene. “Whatever you need.”
“Should I go with him?” Monica asks.
“No, you should stay here,” Dr. Cross says. “Alma needs you.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Just like before, driving the Excalibur makes Mark want to shout with glee. He finds himself slowing down when he spots a yellow light ahead, for the sole purpose of actually stopping at the intersection. Waiting at traffic lights while driving this car is one of the best experiences he’s had on four wheels. Mark makes a point to keep his gaze straight ahead, hands on the wheel, playing the part of one cool guy. Inwardly, though, he’s taking note of the surrounding cars and the pedestrians on adjacent sidewalks, all of them staring in admiration. Hell, some of them actually stop and point in awe like he’s John-fuckin’-Travolta.
If driving the car is this exhilarating, owning it is going to be the bomb.
Soon. Very soon.
Picking up the prescriptions takes an hour and a half. While he’s waiting for his order to be filled, he flips through Newsweek and wishes they didn’t keep Playboy behind the counter. What he wouldn’t give for a skin magazine right now, but if he asks for one, he’ll have to buy it, and he’s not paying good money to be a looky-loo when he’s got the real thing back at the house.
After he gets the white paper bag filled with two different types of pills and one bottle of codeine, he gets back in the Excalibur and drives forty-five minutes, following Dr. Cross’s written directions to the medical supply store. The store isn’t there, though, so he circles the block and tries again. No dice. He heaves an irritated sigh and pulls up the car in front of a pay phone. Standing in the phone booth, he keeps an eye on the parked car while flipping through the pages. When he finds the listing for Fogleman’s Medical Supply Store, he sees that the address is completely different from what he was given by the doctor. Fishing a quarter out of his pocket, he calls the store and winds up talking to an earnest young man who tells him they changed locations more than a year before. After confirming the new address and getting detailed directions, Mark is back behind the wheel, heading that way.
If Dr. Cross had thought to confirm the address, Mark wouldn’t be getting the runaround right now. Most people would be irritated at the doctor’s blunder, but Mark is only mildly annoyed. Given the choice, he’d rather be out and about driving this fabulous vehicle than back in the gloom of Alden Manor.
Someday, he thinks, this may even make an interesting story to tell acquaintances at a bar. A tale about the time he ran around town looking for a hospital bed while a woman lay dying back in a run-down mansion. If anyone could make it sound amusing it would be him, but right now, this errand is just one more thing to do. At the medical supply store, he’s led through the showroom, where Curtis, the earnest young man he talked to from the pay phone, shows him how the bed operates. “This is our top-of-the-line model,” he says with a little too much enthusiasm. With his unruly hair and glasses that don’t sit right on his nose, Curtis is clearly the type of guy who would have sat alone in the lunchroom in high school, but now, as an adult, he has found his calling in medical supplies. Curtis is happy to show him how the bed works. “You can raise and lower the side rails. And the bed itself adjusts so the patient can be elevated to a sitting position.” He demonstrates and then addresses Mark directly. “Is this for a family member, by any chance?”
Mark nods. “My grandmother. A very sweet lady.”
“The doctor who called in didn’t specify her medical condition.”
“It just happened. We believe she had a stroke.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Curtis says, and he looks mournful on Mark’s behalf. “That has to be difficult.”
“It is difficult, but we’re all doing our best. You understand, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure that having a loving grandson brings her comfort.” When they set up a time for delivery, Curtis is apologetic but explains that the bed won’t arrive until the day after tomorrow. “We have a guy out on vacation, and then the other delivery fella took a sick day, so we’re backlogged. If we can deliver it sooner, we definitely will. I’ll call if that’s the case.”
Mark signs the form and assures him it will be fine. If it’s not fine, Dr. Cross will have to figure out another option. He’s just the errand boy. With the carbon copy in hand, he leaves the store and heads to buy groceries. The doctor gave him a few twenties, a hundred dollars in all, which turns out to be plenty. Mark fulfills the list and buys a six-pack of Schlitz to keep stashed in his room. The store receipt will be conveniently lost on the trip back.
When Mark returns to Alden Manor, he sees several cars parked in front. The Redevine Society, no doubt. After parking, he walks down the sidewalk with the paper grocery sack in his arms. Arriving at the house, he looks around to ascertain he’s not being observed, then sets the six-pack of beer behind the row of bushes lining the front porch. He steps back to make sure it’s hidden from sight. Perfect. He’ll retrieve it later.
While he stands there, a male voice rings out. “Hey there, mister. How’s it going?”
Mark turns to see Doug leaning against the building next door, one leg bent and flat against the brick façade. One hand comes up to his mouth to inhale
from a cigarette, the other hand dangles at his side, holding something between two fingers. It appears to be a piece of cardboard. A mask, no doubt, which would make him the weirdo who appeared in front of the house that night. Mark knows he should ignore this idiot, but there’s a smug part of him that wants to put him in his place.
“Were you the one who was standing outside the other night wearing a mask?”
“Like this?” Doug holds up a piece of cardboard so Mark can see the holes cut out of it.
So it was him. Asshole. “What’s your problem?”
“I got no problem.” Doug laughs. “The mask is a metaphor, rich boy. Think of it as a sort of a warning.” He scratches his eyebrow with his middle finger. “Things aren’t always what they seem, especially in that house. Even the birds get the whiff of death. They get too close, it’s the end for them.” With one pointed finger, he mimics the shooting of a gun. “I think you’d be able to figure it out.”
“You don’t scare me,” Mark says, anger rising from his chest. “And if I see you on the property again, I will beat you to a bloody pulp.” He squeezes his right hand into a fist.
“Duly noted.” Doug blows out a puff of smoke and cackles. “You’re on your own now.”
“Just leave me alone.” And with that, Mark bounds up the steps and into the house. Inside, he’s surprised to hear what sounds like party chatter coming from down the hall. The Redevine Society, no doubt, and they sound fairly boisterous. His eyes narrow in confusion. With Alma’s collapse and imminent death, he expected somber tones, crying even, but not this. He can’t make out the words, but the voices are definitely upbeat.
The front door makes a loud thud as he closes it behind him, and the sound of conversation immediately ceases. When he’s halfway down the hall, he’s met by Dr. Cross, who is exiting the blue room. “Mark, glad to see you’re back.” he says, his tone serious. “Let me help you with that.” He takes the grocery bag out of Mark’s arms.
Mark glances through the doorway and sees Roy sitting with Monica and the other four members of the Redevine Society, all of them seated with drinks in their hands. “What’s going on?”
“Come with me.”
When they get to the kitchen, Dr. Cross sets the bag on the table. “I’m afraid I have some sad news. While you were out, Alma passed away.”
Mark’s eyes widen. “She died?”
“Yes, I’m sorry to say she did.”
“But I was just here and she was fine.” Well, not fine, exactly, but not that close to dying.
Dr. Cross gives him a sympathetic look. “Sometimes it happens suddenly. I know you were fond of Alma and this is a shock, but honestly, I think it’s for the best. She hasn’t been feeling like herself for quite a while now.” Dr. Cross peers into the grocery bag. “Why don’t you put these things away, and then I’ll take you for a showing.”
“A showing?” Mark carries the bag over to the pantry closet.
“To pay your respects.”
He’s not entirely sure what that will entail, but he nods in response anyway. With his back to the room, Mark empties the canned food and applesauce onto one of the shelves. He pulls the change out of his pocket and puts it on the table, pushing it toward the doctor. “I’m sorry, but the receipt flew away in the parking lot,” he says apologetically.
Dr. Cross shrugs. “No matter.” He tucks the money in his pocket. “Come with me.” He turns and leads Mark into Alma’s bedroom. They end up standing next to the bed where Alma lies, flat on her back, eyes closed, her hands folded with fingers interlaced. She is still wearing her nightgown, but the sheet is pulled up past her waist. Dr. Cross fusses with the cover, smoothing out the wrinkles. “Doesn’t she look peaceful?”
“Yes, she does.” Mark is lying. Alma doesn’t look peaceful. She just looks dead. Furthermore, looking at her still body is creeping him out. A stray thought runs through his mind: What if she suddenly opened her eyes and yelled, “Surprise!” That would be the ultimate, unexpected practical joke. He’d definitely crap his pants if that happened. “Very peaceful.” He hopes the act of paying respects is not a lengthy process. “I’m glad she’s not in pain anymore.” He’s not sure that she was in pain, but he knows that’s something people say when old folks die.
“You can touch her if you like,” Dr. Cross says, gesturing toward the body.
Mark recoils in horror and tries to cover it up by running his fingers through his hair. “Oh, that’s okay. I’m fine right here.”
“I think you should take her hand.” Dr. Cross speaks firmly—maybe too firmly. “It’s important for a sense of closure.”
Mark scans his face, looking for a sign that he’s kidding, but he doesn’t see it. He shifts uncomfortably. “No, I’d rather not.”
“You don’t need to be afraid of death, Mark. It’s part of life, something every person faces sooner or later.” And before Mark can respond, Dr. Cross grabs his wrist and pulls him forward until his hand is pressed against Alma’s cold fingers. “See. Nothing to fear.”
Mark sucks in a sharp breath. What the hell? He yanks his hand out of Dr. Cross’s grasp and takes a step back. “I’m not afraid. I just don’t find it necessary.” He’s shaking in anger, but thinking of the long-term repercussions, he reins it in. Dr. Cross holds sway over Roy, and it wouldn’t be smart to get on his bad side. Mark glances down at Alma. “She was a sweet lady.” His gaze goes to the doctor, and he firmly says, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Dr. Cross’s demeanor lightens, and he claps Mark on the shoulder. “It’s a loss for you too, Mark. Every human life that’s extinguished takes away from all of us.”
“Of course.”
“Would you like to say a prayer with me?”
“No, thank you. I like to pray in private.”
Dr. Cross gives him a nod of approval. “Suit yourself. Well then, come along and let’s join the others. We’re having a celebration of Alma’s life.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
As they approach the blue room, it sounds like there’s a party in progress. When Mark and Dr. Cross enter the room, the conversation doesn’t pause. Mark sees multiple open bottles on the coffee table. Every seat in the room is full. “Mark, my boy!” Roy calls out, his hand over the top of the handle of his cane. “Have you met everyone?” Mark scans the room and takes note of who is there. Monica is squeezed in between Neela and Sam on the couch. Lara and Baird Whitlock occupy the wing chair opposite Roy’s own, with Lara perched on Baird’s lap, her arms around his neck. The occupants of the room are configured much like other parties Mark has attended, and all of them have a champagne flute in hand.
“Yes, I’ve been introduced to everyone.” He tries to catch Monica’s eye, to get some sign that she finds this gathering unconventional, but she’s currently engrossed in something Sam is telling her. A joke, judging by the way she laughs at the end of his statement.
Sam gets up and pours a glass of champagne, handing it to Mark. “It might seem odd that we’re not crying,” he says pointedly to Mark, as if he’s read his mind. “We are sad to lose our friend, but we also believe that a life well lived is worth celebrating.”
“Well put.” Roy hoists his glass high and says, “I’d like to make a toast to Alma Walgrave. She lived life with passion, and she died a good death.”
“Hear! Hear!” Monica says, and all of them follow suit.
“Hear! Hear!”
“To Alma!”
“To a life well lived!”
They all take sips at the same time, and Monica gives him a sly smile, which he returns. He can’t wait until they can talk privately later on. Behind him, Dr. Cross comes into the room carrying two kitchen chairs. Mark didn’t even realize the man left, but now he’s offering him a place to sit, and Mark gratefully accepts. As he sits down, he suddenly remembers something. and so in a hushed voice, he tells the doctor, “They’re going to be delivering the hospital bed the day after tomorrow.”
“Not to worry,” Dr
. Cross says. “I’ve already canceled the order.”
Mark drinks his glass of champagne, a silent participant at a gathering honoring a body in a bedroom down the hall. When the doorbell rings half an hour later, he starts to rise from his chair but is ushered back down by Dr. Cross. “That would be the funeral home,” he says. “I’ll handle it.”
The group continues talking. Their voices are loud, nearly rowdy. Sam tells another joke, this time loud enough so the whole room can hear it. Mark wants to commit the joke to memory because it’s pretty funny, but ten minutes later all he can remember is that it was told with an Irish accent and had something to do with building a wall and having sex with a goat. Monica, who was made for this kind of social interaction, laughs like a party girl. Mark usually holds his own at social gatherings, but he feels out of place. He’s just an employee, not an actual friend. Should he excuse himself and go to his room? No, here comes Sam with a newly opened champagne bottle coming to top off his glass for the umpteenth time. They obviously want him here, or they wouldn’t keep plying him with alcohol.
When the funeral home staff wheels a gurney topped by a black body bag past the open doorway, Baird calls out, “Goodbye, Alma. Safe travels.”
Lara adds, “It’s been swell,” and the group laughs.
When Dr. Cross returns to the room, he sits down on the kitchen chair next to Mark. “The worst is over,” he says, which strikes Mark as odd. Isn’t the worst thing not having the person you love around anymore? But maybe it’s different when the one who dies is old and confused. Alma was never going to get better. Still, at the very least, it must be a loss for Roy.
“Is Monica going to have to leave?” Mark asks the doctor in a quiet voice.
Dr. Cross gives him a puzzled look. “Why would she leave?”
“Because Alma is . . . gone? I mean, wasn’t that why she was hired? To take care of her?”
“Oh, I see what you’re thinking. No, Monica will be staying. There will still be plenty to do around here, and someone will need to keep Roy company here at home while you run errands.”