by Lisa Sorbe
It feels…wrong…to have someone else fill me in on my grandmother’s life. On her struggles. And a man who’s practically a stranger, nonetheless.
Where do you fit in, Ben Sloane?
To my grandmother’s life?
To…mine?
The house finally comes into view, a splash of brown in a sea of white, and I sigh with relief. My thighs are burning, my calves are aching, and I feel like I climbed a mountain rather than a few mounds of snow. The lightness I felt moments ago is long gone, and the dusting of snow on my shoulders feels like it weighs a ton.
“Lenora never mentioned any other health concerns. I mean, I knew about her back. But other than that…” I reach out and tug on the sleeve of Ben’s coat, forcing him to stop.
For a moment he just stares at me, and something like shock or confusion flutters over his features before he catches himself, reels it in. But I saw it. A startle in his stance, the widening of his eyes, the slight tilt of his head…all of which he’s now trying to hide. “She was supposed to—” But his voice cuts off with a snap of his jaw.
“What else was there? What didn’t she tell me?”
Ben’s expression doesn’t reflect any emotion, nor do his eyes give any tell-tale sign as to what he’s about to say. But when he speaks, there’s an undercurrent of empathy coloring his words, as if the mere inflection can soften the blow.
“Nora had Alzheimer’s, Lenny. She was diagnosed last spring.”
I don’t go down for breakfast this morning.
The smell of something hot and spicy drifts upstairs, letting me know Ben is up and at ‘em (something Lenora used to say). But instead of luring me to the kitchen, the smell makes my stomach churn.
Just like my thoughts have been churning since yesterday afternoon, when Ben broke the news about Lenora.
Alzheimer’s.
I sit up in bed and pull my laptop over, clicking on my favorites bar and pulling up all the relevant sites on the disease I saved yesterday. Scanning an article that describes the symptoms, I think back to the few phone calls Lenora and I shared this past year and recognize none. Sure, when I had to remind her who Daniel was and how long we’d been together, she joked that her memory wasn’t what it used to be. And I just chalked up her lack of recollection to the fact that she’d never met him— something, back then, I had every intention of rectifying. But my schedule was busy, and Daniel’s was even busier, and we never made the trip to Minnesota happen.
There was even talk, one of the last times we spoke, about my coming to visit her this summer. My enthusiasm, however, was half-hearted. The bar didn’t offer much in the way of paid vacation, and I wasn’t eager to spend what little of it I had in Minnesota—especially with Daniel pressuring me to accompany him and his family to Nantucket around the same time. Though now, looking back, I recognize the persistence in her voice for what it really was—a plea bordering on desperation. Lenora always seemed to be sensitive to information beyond her five senses, and maybe she suspected even then that the time she had left on this earth was short.
I’d planned so many trips to Minnesota over the last few years that never happened.
I returned far too few phone calls, responded to even fewer letters, put far too many things first.
None of which seem very important now.
Ben said she’d more than likely had it for years, that the early stages can be easy to overlook—especially on someone as strong-willed as Lenora. But as it’s a disease that increases with age, her symptoms eventually became too difficult to ignore, and eventually even her excuses weren’t enough to cover the truth of what was going on inside her head.
The truth is, I can’t imagine Lenora with such a crippling neurological disease. Intellect was everything to her; she was as sharp as a tact. The woman never stopped studying, never stopped learning. She found such joy in becoming proficient in a new language, a new subject, a new skill. And even though she made a living as a college professor for close to ten years, she always stressed that the best education was one that was self-taught. “Too many institutions teach you what to think, not how to think. Be careful of that, Lenny. Don’t ever let anyone do your thinking for you.”
My fingers itch to dial up Daniel, to share this with him and get his perspective, maybe unleash some of this guilt that’s sitting heavy atop my lungs and making it difficult to breathe.
But something holds me back.
It could be that I dropped my phone in the snow bank-slash-ice coffin (at least, that’s where I think it is) and the only communication device I currently have is the flip phone Ben loaned me after re-tracing our path in the snow and finding nothing. I even tried the phone’s tracker, logging onto the company’s site only to be told UNABLE TO LOCATE DEVICE.
@#@$#@$!
Or, that bit of bad luck aside, it could be that the last conversation Daniel and I had, the one where I laid out the details of Lenora’s will and told him I’d be staying in Lost Bay for the next year, didn’t go so well. He accused me of caring more about money than him, that by staying I was putting not just my life on hold but his as well. And I countered back that he didn’t understand the need I had to support myself, to make sure I did everything in my power to not have to rely on someone else for my own well-being.
When he shot back that by taking Lenora’s money, I was doing just that—relying on someone else—I hung up on him.
It’s been three days since that conversation, and while we’ve apologized through texts, the communication has been distant.
And to think…just a few days ago, I thought Daniel was going to propose.
Now I’m not even sure if we’ll survive the year.
Or if I want us to.
Which is a thought that, as I think it now, makes me wonder if maybe Daniel was right.
And when I realize that I don’t have anyone, that pretty much all of my relationships are either superficial or on the brink of collapse, I do the only thing I can think of.
Grabbing the folded piece of paper Ben gave me earlier, the one that contains Natalie’s phone number, I punch it into the old phone and wait.
Her hello is bright and breathy-bordering-on-seductive, and I wonder if the caller ID on her end registers Ben’s name. I mean, it would only stand to reason, considering I’m using his phone.
“Hey, Natalie,” I say, “It’s Lenny. Lenora’s granddaughter?”
And…band-aid off. If she is expecting to hear Ben’s voice, I just completely burst her bubble.
But despite being a possible bulldozer of dreams, I push on.
“I was just wondering… Is that spot in your book club still available?”
• • •
I’m curled up on Lenora’s old green and blue plaid couch, a book in my hand and Asha at my hip, when Ben comes home that night. It’s just past ten and, I have to admit, a small flutter of concern plagued my nerves when I didn’t hear his heavy footfalls on the stairs at seven o’clock on the dot. After pacing around my room like a caged animal and not really knowing why, I finally decided to flee its confines and wait down here.
Although what I’m waiting for, I don’t know.
I’m not Ben’s keeper, and it shouldn’t matter at all what time he comes home.
Maybe I’m just lonely. Going from a big city, where the sounds and people can at times be claustrophobic, to a small town where I almost have to go out of my way to see another person has been an adjustment, to say the least.
I’m not used to all this solitude.
Though I did risk life and limb driving into town today so I could borrow the book I’m reading, so that’s progress.
Asha hops down from the couch when Ben enters the room, leaping at him like she’s a ten-pound lap dog rather than what she really is, a husky-wolf- behemoth who weighs just shy of a hundred pounds.
“Asha, down! Down! No, no… Come on now, I mean it. Down!”
It’s a command that’s meant to be stern, but from the laughter ringing
in Ben’s voice, I’m pretty sure it’s Asha who’s calling the shots.
“Pushover,” I mutter without looking up.
“Ah,” Ben croons. “How sweet. You waited up for me.” He drops into the recliner sitting catty corner from the couch and pulls up the leg rest. The navy-blue scrubs he’s wearing whisper against the leather, the soft material just baggy enough to give my imagination plenty to work with.
I snort, averting my gaze. “You’re talking to the dog, right? Because I’m just down here to read.” Holding up my book, I give it a little wave. “I’m hosting book club tomorrow night and I’m desperately behind on this month’s read.”
Ben leans forward, squinting as he studies the cover. Bad Boys Cry, Too, he mouths. Then rolls his eyes.
“Have you read it?” I ask, feigning seriousness.
“Um, that would be a no.” He falls back in his seat, lacing his hands behind his head and crossing his feet at the ankles. Heaving a weary sigh, he closes his eyes. “Though I bet you ten dollars Natalie picked that read.”
Thinking of the measly twenty-two dollars in my checking account, I snap that offer right up. “You’re on. Because I have a feeling it was Mimi. A devout fan of Hands Off, B!tch, remember?” I settle deeper into the couch cushions and flutter the pages. “This is right up her alley.”
Ben smiles an annoying little smile, and I have the sinking feeling that I just lost one of the only two Alexander Hamiltons to my name.
I turn back to my book, although after just a few sentences find my attention drifting to Ben. Asha’s leaning against the recliner, her large head propped atop the arm rest. Ben’s eyes are still closed, his fingers absently rubbing the spot just behind her ears. It’s such a peaceful scene, so endearing that I find it hard to tear my gaze away. But when Ben cracks open an eye, I quickly drop mine to my book. At the last minute, I remember to turn a page, rustling the paper louder than necessary.
“It’s cold in here.” He sounds drowsy, like he was just drifting off to sleep when the weight of my stare woke him. “I take it you don’t know how to start a fire?”
I look up at the fireplace, a rugged piece of artwork in its own right, with gray stones in various shades scaling the wall all the way up the vaulted ceiling. The hearth has been swept clean and a dozen neatly chopped logs sit ready to roast in an iron rack on the floor next to it.
“It doesn’t have a switch.”
Ben chuckles, closing his eyes and shifting in the recliner. “Remind me to show you how to do it before I move this weekend. It’s not hard.”
I bite my lip, as if to hold in the idea that I’ve been mulling over all day. Because surely this is a stupid idea, us continuing to live together. For obvious reasons and for a few that I won’t even admit to myself.
It seems I’m all over the place when it comes to this guy, but the truth of the matter is this: I’d rather have him here than not here. And while I tell myself it’s just to keep an eye on him, to make sure he doesn’t try to skip town (because he’s already got Lenora’s money in his account), deep down, I know that’s not the case.
“About that…”
Ben opens his eyes when I pause, dropping one of his hands down to rest on his stomach and turning his head my way. “About what?”
“I was thinking that since, you know, you’ll be moving again after the new clinic is built, you might as well just stay here.” I focus on my book and shrug, like I could care less either way. “If you want to, that is. No sense in moving twice.”
“So,” he says in a voice that’s clearly amused, “you’re fine living across the hall from a complete stranger?”
I puff out a laugh. “Well, you’re hardly a stranger anymore. We’ve had actual sit-down breakfasts every morning since I got here. That’s more than I’ve had with my own family in my entire life.”
“Not this morning.” Ben’s tone isn’t needling, not exactly. But it is filled with concern. “How are you doing?”
I shrug again. “I’m fine. Why?”
He sits up in the chair and props his elbows along the armrest. Crossing his fingers over his stomach, he shoots me a you’re-full-of-shit look.
I groan and shut my book, and then mutter “shit” when I realize I forgot to mark the page. “Look, I’m fine. I’m as fine as fine as fine can be. Under the circumstances,” I add, if only to placate him.
He stares at me for a moment, long enough that I feel like I’m being turned inside out. And as creepy as that sounds, it’s…not. You know how some people—most people—look at you but never actually see you?
Something tells me that Ben sees me. All of me.
And aside from Lenora, I don’t think that’s ever happened before.
“My point is that we’ve been living under the same roof now for nearly a week and you haven’t turned me into a lampshade yet. Obviously Lenora wanted you here, so maybe I was a bit…rash…to suggest that you leave.”
For a moment, that intense stare shifts to one of confusion. “A lampshade? You actually thought—”
“I was joking. Joking!” It’s only a half-lie. “I swear.”
“A damn lampshade,” he mutters, raising his eyes to the ceiling and shaking his head. But the smile playing on his lips tells me he’s hardly offended. “Anyway. Now that you know I’m not a deranged serial killer, if you ever need anything, you know where to find me.” He flashes me an amused wink. “Right across the hall.”
Even though I know there isn’t a hidden inuendo behind his words, I blush. Because while the meaning of anything could mean, well, anything, the thoughts that immediately pop into my head make the definition very, very clear.
“Yeah, well,” I ramble, feeling the need—the obligation—to bring Daniel into the discussion, “my boyfriend will feel better if someone is here with me. That I’m not way out here by myself, completely alone in the middle of the woods and everything.”
Ben doesn’t seem interested in the fact that I have a boyfriend. Instead, he gets up and stretches, the waistband of his scrub pants coming into view with the movement. The little sliver of skin that flashes before he drops his arms heats my cheeks even more. “Well, if you’re absolutely sure, then we’ll stay. Asha likes here better here, anyway.”
I nod, happy that it’s settled.
Just as, it seems, I’m getting settled.
Here. In Lost Bay. In God-freaking Minnesota.
I guess stranger things have happened.
Like Neil Armstrong walking on the moon. And the Phoenix Lights in Arizona.
Or pretty much anything in the National Inquirer.
Ben yawns, pulling me back to the moment. “You gonna be down here awhile?”
“Yep.” I crack open my book, trying to remember where I left off. “I’ve still got over a hundred pages left in this bad boy.” I laugh, the tail end turning into a snort, which make me laugh even harder. “Get it? Bad Boys Cry, Too?” I wave the book. “This bad boy?”
Ben just stares at me, deadpan. “Oh, my God. My roommate is such a dork.” I make a face at him, and he finally breaks, cracking a small, tired smile. “Well, when you feel like taking a break from your book, would you mind running Asha out before you turn in?”
“Not at all.” I pat my thigh. “You gonna hang with me tonight, Asha? Huh?”
She pads over to Ben’s side and leans against leg.
I roll my eyes. “Figures.”
Asha yawns, turns for the stairs, and then looks back at Ben to say, Are you coming or what?
“Leave your door open a smidge. I’ll lure her down here with a c-o-o-k-i-e before I go to bed.”
Ben nods, understanding my dog speak. In the short time I’ve lived with these two, I’ve learned what words absolutely cannot be said around Asha, cookie being a huge one. (And, strangely enough, airplane. Though I haven’t figured out the why of that one yet.)
Ben starts for his room, the “goodnight” he throws over his shoulder turning into a yawn as he does. But when I hear his lead
foot hit the first stair, I let loose another thought that’s been eating away at me all day.
“Hey, real quick. You wouldn’t by chance know of anyone hiring around here, would you?”
“Lost Bay Animal Hospital, this is Lenny.”
It’s been two weeks since I started working at Ben’s clinic, and today is the first day that things have been even remotely quiet. While there may be a shortage of people up this way, the number of household pets per square mile doesn’t reflect that fact. On the contrary, it seems that most families have several furry friends whom they count as immediate members of their clan, and most of them dote on their pets as if they were kids.
Doris Klingensmith, who I’m currently on the phone with, is one of them. I’ve only put in a total of fifty-three hours at the front desk and already know the woman on a first name basis. In the past fourteen days, I’ve talked more with her than I have my own mother in years.
“Lenny, I need to speak to Dr. Sloane right away.”
This is how all of our conversations start. After the first call—which I truly thought was an emergency and pulled Ben out of an appointment to take—turned out to be a nipple that Doris confused for a tick, I’ve learned to fish for more information before calling in Ben.
“Hey, Doris. What’s going on with Mitzi today?”
I’ve never met the dog, but I have its entire medical history pulled up in front of me on the clinic’s computer. All the details are there: eight-year-old shih tzu, gold and white with a black mask, fish allergy, female/spayed. The profile even includes a little picture in the corner, and the whole thing creepily reminds me of a Facebook page. In the photo, Mitzi has a bright pink bow clipped above her brow and a matching glitter collar around her neck. And I can’t say that I’d be shocked to find out that Doris scheduled the clinic mugshot (as I like to call the pets’ photos) right after a grooming session just so Mitzi could look her best for the camera.
Granted, Doris and I haven’t met face-to-face yet, but just from speaking to her on the phone, I already have an image of her set in my mind. And I’m pretty sure she’s the kind of woman who always keeps her makeup on point.