Tranquility
Page 5
It had been painful watching Gran struggle to recover. When I was growing up, she’d always seemed so much larger than life and invincible. Her short hair was always perfectly styled, dark and glossy with no hint of grey. She never left home without makeup on and lipstick in her bag. She strode into every room with purpose and exuded confidence. She was full of life, laughter and crazy, wonderful ideas.
“Let’s go for a car ride,” she’d say.
I’d clap my hands in excitement and squeal as she swept me up and carried me to the car. I’d wrap my arms tightly around her neck and breathe in her sweet, musky perfume. “Where should we go, Gran?” I always asked, even though I knew the answer.
“Anywhere we want!” she’d say, smothering my face with kisses.
Gran drove, sometimes for hours, with no direction or particular destination in mind. We tore down country roads with the top of her little, white convertible down and dust from the dirt roads flying up for miles behind us. We explored roadside stands and obscure little junk shops. The ice cream parlor was always the last stop before Gran took me home, dusty, sticky, exhausted and deliriously happy.
She’d always been there. After Dad died, I cried every night for weeks. Mom sank into a deep depression and barely left her bed for months. Beneath my hurt, anger festered and grew. I was angry with Dad for leaving us and with my mother for being weak and, because she was the only other person in my life and she could handle it, I lashed out at Gran. She took every angry word I threw at her and gave me only love and support in return.
I’d been devastated when she had the stroke, and terrified that she’d leave me the way Dad had. But Gran had other ideas. She was strong and stubborn and within six months had fought her way back to near-normal health. Despite that, she continued to suffer from depression long after the stroke. We were told it was normal. She just needed time. It turned out what she needed was Kayla. Somehow, amid the chaos of Gran’s rehabilitation and the rebuilding of our lives, a four-year old girl and an eighty-two year old woman had become the best of friends.
Everything’s fine, I told myself as I hurried into the living room, but I had visions of Gran lying on the floor. I pulled up short in the doorway when I saw her curled up on the couch under a blanket.
She stirred and looked up. “Sarah,” she said, stifling a yawn. “What time is it?”
“It’s three. I just got home.” I crossed the room and sat in the chair beside her. “Are you okay?”
She sat up and stretched. She had no makeup on and her nail polish was chipped and faded. “I’m fine. It’s just been one of those days. I didn’t feel like getting out of bed this morning and, when I sat down after lunch to read, I could barely keep my eyes open.”
“Can I make you a cup of tea?” I asked. My shower could wait until after I picked Kayla up from school.
“Only if you have one with me.”
Gran came into the kitchen and sat at the island as I was pouring the tea. I left it to steep and went to the fridge for milk. When I turned around Gran was sitting with her elbows on the counter, holding her head in her hands. I set the milk in front of her. “Do you have a headache?”
She looked up and gave me a weak smile. “I do. I woke up with it this morning. I was hoping the nap would help.”
“You’ve been tired all week and now you have a headache. Do you think maybe you should make a doctor’s appointment?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing, but I suppose it couldn’t hurt. Have you heard back from the university yet?”
I smiled and shook my head in resignation. Gran was good at changing the subject when she didn’t want to talk about something.
Shortly before transferring to Dementia I’d applied to nursing school. Working at Tranquility had made me realize how much I loved helping people. It made me feel good to go home at the end of the day knowing I’d made someone’s life a little better. This discovery had led me to the decision to go back to school to get my nursing degree and specialize in gerontology.
“No,” I said, “I may not hear back for a few months.”
Gran reached for my hand. “You make me so proud. You’re beautiful and smart and such a good mother to that little imp of ours.” Her eyes shone with tears suddenly.
“That,” I said, giving her hand a squeeze, “is because I take after you.”
* * *
I got to the coffee shop at seven sharp, ordered a decaf mocha and sat down at a quiet table in the corner to wait for Tracey. She sauntered in ten minutes later, waved and went to the counter to order.
She sat down across from me a few minutes later. “Sorry,” she said, stripping off her jacket. “Lost track of time. I’m notoriously late for everything.”
“That’s okay. I would have bought you a coffee, but I didn’t know what you’d want.”
She lifted her cup. “Vanilla latte,” she said before she took a sip. “I like to try a different one each time. Kind of like men.”
I choked on my mocha.
Tracey smiled innocently before she looked around the room and leaned across the table. “I found out more about what happened today.”
I took a napkin and wiped the spots of coffee off the table where I’d spewed in surprise. “And?”
“Tina said she overheard Sheila tell Abby that she “accidentally” hit John in the mouth.”
“Oh, c’mon. Does she seriously expect anyone to believe that? She would have been better off saying he fell and banged it.”
“Right? But get this—she said John got angry and grabbed her arm when she tried to dry his privates, and when she tried to pull away, he let go and her arm hit him in the face.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Wow. If Abby believes that, then what hope is there of ever convincing her that Sheila’s mistreating people?”
“Oh, don’t you worry. Sheila’s so bitter and burnt out she’ll probably end up doing something so stupid that even Abby won’t be able to sweep it under the rug.”
“I know. That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“So, no more talking about Sheila. It’s way too depressing. Tell me what you think of Dementia so far?”
“I like it. And you were right, I do have some characters.”
“Right? They’re hilarious. Has Albert molested you yet?”
“Albert? I’d be more worried about Sam. He actually knows what he’s doing.”
Tracey nodded her agreement. “True.”
I folded the napkin carefully and placed it under my cup. “So,” I said slowly, “what do you think of Edie?”
“Sweet lady. Seems kind of sad sometimes.”
“I think she is, but then a lot of the residents are. Have you noticed how on the ball she is?”
“Hmm, she’s pretty quiet, but yeah, now that I think of it, she’s pretty with it.”
“She’s quiet until you get her one on one, then she’ll talk your ear off. I checked her chart. She was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a few months ago, but they had her on meds that can interact and cause confusion and hallucinations. She’s awake early every morning when I go in, just sitting in her chair waiting. She doesn’t wander or get confused and I never have to remind her to do anything. I think she may have been misdiagnosed.”
“And if she was,” Tracey added, “she doesn’t belong in Dementia. You talk to Abby about this?”
“No, not yet. I was planning to today, but dealing with the mess put me behind. By the time I went to the nurse’s station she was gone.”
“Do it. Soon. And I hope Abby does something about it. Poor Edie. No wonder she’s sad.”
Chapter 6 - The Fight
DECEMBER BROUGHT SNOW AND THOUGHTS of Christmas. I was off work two days in a row for the first time in a long time. Mom had Monday off as well, so we spent a good part of the day Christmas shopping.
We were sitting in the food court at the mall eating lunch. I’d just finished telling Mom and Gran about the soup incident. We were still chuckling and wiping tears from ou
r eyes, when a tall, distinguished-looking, grey-haired man walked up to our table and put his hand on Mom’s shoulder. “Brenda?”
She looked up in surprise. “Andrew, how nice to see you. This is my daughter, Sarah, and my mother, Elaine.”
He nodded at us. “Nice to meet you.”
“Would you like to sit?” Gran asked.
“No, thank you, I’m on my way home.” He held up his shopping bags. “I finished it all this morning, so I won’t need to come back. This place is getting crazy.”
“It is,” Mom agreed. “And it’s only going to get worse. How have you been keeping since…?”
“I’m doing okay. The kids and grandkids keep me busy. It’s a hard time of year to get through, but I don’t need to tell you that. I’ll leave you ladies to your lunch now. Have a good Christmas.” He smiled down at Mom and gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “It was nice seeing you, Brenda. We should meet up sometime for coffee.”
“He seemed very nice,” I said, watching him walk away. I shot Gran a conspiring look.
“Very,” said Gran. “And about your age I’d say, Brenda.”
Mom had gone back to eating, seemingly oblivious to what we implied. “He’s a couple years older I believe. His wife just passed away last January.”
“Nice looking guy, too,” I added with a mischievous grin.
Mom looked up from her food. She glanced from me to Gran suspiciously. “What are you two up to? My God, his wife hasn’t even been gone a year.”
“Mom, he asked you out for coffee. It wasn’t a marriage proposal.”
“He did not ask me out for coffee. He suggested we should meet for coffee sometime. There’s a difference. And he was only being polite.”
“I don’t know,” I said, “he seemed interested to me. He didn’t take his hand off your shoulder the whole time he was here.”
“Brenda,” Gran said. “There’s no harm in meeting the man for coffee. You know as well as I do, the older we get, the faster time goes. You have to take these opportunities as they come.”
Mom gave an exasperated sigh and said with firm finality, “Enough, both of you. You know I have no interest in dating.”
Gran looked at me, shook her head in disappointment, but wisely said nothing.
“Okay, then,” I said too brightly. “I think we should go home and take the Christmas decorations out of the attic so we can decorate the tree tonight.”
* * *
We kept Mom busy getting the house ready for Christmas, but, despite how we tried to distract her, I could see the sadness creeping back into her eyes. It was a hard time of year for both of us. Dad had been diagnosed with stage-three pancreatic cancer in July ten years earlier. The treatments had only prolonged the inevitable and by November he was in the hospital. He never came home. Three weeks before Christmas, he died.
Mom and I went to the cemetery together on the evening of the tenth anniversary of his death. I stood back and watched as she knelt down and placed a wreath on the grave. She put her hand against the cold earth, bent her head and began to cry.
I wandered to a nearby bench and sat shivering as I waited. I’d learned long ago that my mother was inconsolable in her grief. I closed my eyes against the cold sting of December’s first snowfall. The sound of my mother’s sobs conjured up memories of the funeral.
Mom had sat in stony silence throughout the service. I hadn’t heard or seen her cry once when he died, but when she walked up to the casket, she broke down and collapsed onto the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. The minister helped Gran pick her up and they led her away to another room. I stood alone beside the casket as friends of my parents and people I’d never met filed past somberly. Some barely looked at me as they mumbled awkward words of sympathy. Others reached out, took my cold hands in theirs and tried to offer comfort. But it was not comfort I needed. It was my mother.
I’d lost both my parents the day my dad died. It wasn’t until three years later, when I told my mother I was pregnant, that I finally saw a faint spark of hope in her eyes. The first time my mother held Kayla in her arms she’d cried tears of joy and wonder. Kayla had filled a hole in my mother’s heart and made her happy in a way I hadn’t been able to since my dad’s death.
It was impossible to be depressed with Kayla around. Her excitement and laughter were contagious. She and Mom spent hours baking and making homemade decorations. They sang along to Christmas carols and watched Christmas movies. Thanks to Kayla, the glimmer of sadness in Mom’s eyes remained just a glimmer.
* * *
Three days after John’s accident, I was back at work, still trying to get images of the mess out of my head, and hoping for a typical day with no surprises.
Tranquility, however, was rarely boring. I’d only been back to work for a few hours when the fight started.
I’d taken a group of animal lovers to the auditorium for Pet Therapy after breakfast and was on my way to Hall B to start making beds, when I heard raised voices. I followed the sound to the lounge.
Sam was sprawled on a loveseat, humming along to his iPod. He seemed oblivious to the drama unfolding in front of him. Beth was beside him, sitting on the edge of her seat, wringing her hands anxiously. A few other residents were scattered throughout the room, watching in fascination as Lily and Mrs. W battled over the large flat screen TV in the far corner.
Mrs. W leaned precariously out and to one side of her wheelchair. She stretched her hands frantically toward the control buttons on the TV as she shouted in a hoarse voice, “Zamknij sie.” It was a phrase she said often when she was angry. It meant simply “Shut up.”
Lily jumped in front of Mrs. W and grabbed her hands. Her whole body trembled with rage as she squeezed them tightly. “I. Want. It. On.”
Mrs. W winced in pain. I rushed toward them as Mrs. W let out one angry, terrifying roar, pulled a hand loose and struck Lily across the face. Lily dropped Mrs. W’s other hand, took a quick step back and touched her cheek in disbelief. Her face crumpled and she began to cry.
I moved quickly across the room as Mrs. W turned her chair toward Lily and prepared to charge. The images that flashed on the screen behind them were horrific; World War II footage of hundreds of emaciated bodies in mass graves.
I choked back the bitter taste of revulsion that rose in my throat. I could hear the narration now that I was closer. “…occupation that lasted more than five years. The Nazis were eager to implement policies against people classified as ‘racially inferior.’ Entire Polish villages were set fire. Those still alive were taken hostage or executed.”
I grabbed the handles of Mrs. W’s chair before she could use it as a weapon. “Lily, it’s okay,” I said gently. “Go sit down, please.” I nodded to a nearby chair.
Lily sat obediently, pulled a handkerchief from inside her shirtsleeve and blew her nose loudly. Beth rushed to her side and rubbed her arm consolingly as she spoke to her in a low voice.
The narrator’s somber voice droned on tirelessly. “The Nazis’ goal was to turn Poland into a nation of slaves. By the fall of nineteen-forty, half a million Poles were crammed into the Warsaw ghetto. Starvation and infectious diseases were killing more than five thousand people every month.”
Mrs. W made a pitiful, heart-wrenching sound of despair. She covered her eyes as she rocked in her chair, crying softly over and over, “Zamknij sie.”
I came out from behind her chair and hit the power button with firm resolution. The image, of children, barefoot, half-naked and filthy, sitting, huddled against the high wall that imprisoned them, faded. The children were skeletal shells of the people they had once been. Empty, hopeless eyes stared out at me, through me. Dead eyes.
The room became eerily quiet save the quiet whimpers and sniffling of both women.
I crouched down in front of the shelf unit beneath the TV and pushed the channel button on the digital box. I left it on the channel it was normally on, that showed old movies and TV shows from the fifties and sixties.
She had stopped crying and was slouched in her chair, muttering forlornly in Polish. Her hands lay limply in her lap. Her eyes drooped with exhaustion. Streaks of drying tears lined her face.
I pulled a tissue from a box nearby, bent down in front of her and gently wiped the dampness from her cheeks and nose. I tucked her lap blanket around her legs as I spoke in a soothing voice. “You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you.” I put my hands over hers comfortingly and looked up at her weary face. Her pale blue eyes were filled with the pain of remembering. She nodded her head in understanding and sighed heavily.
I straightened up and looked over at the twins. Beth had a comforting arm around Lily’s shoulders. Her face was lined with worry as she fussed over her sister. Lily’s cheek was a little red where Mrs. W’s hand had connected, but she seemed to enjoy the attention and made a show of dabbing at her tears.
I went to where they sat and crouched on my heels in front of them. “Are you okay, Lily?”
She sniffed once more and sighed loudly as she tried to look pitiful, then nodded hesitantly and gave me a weak, trembling smile in return.
“Good. I’ll be back in a few minutes with some ice for your cheek.” I smiled at Beth as well and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze before I stood and walked back to Mrs. W. I wheeled her past the TV, pushing the power button as I passed. Ingrid Bergman’s striking face lit up the screen as I continued out of the room, pushing Mrs. W in the wheelchair ahead of me. I took her to the relaxation room at the far end of the hall, away from the noise of the lounge and dining room. I turned her chair so she faced the projector screen. She lifted her head wearily to look around.
“Would you like to listen to some music, Mrs. W? Nice soft music. And you can stay here where no one will bother you and have a nap if you like.”
She nodded. Her body sagged with relief.