by Brad Graber
Luis glided the wheelchair down the hallway, past the nurse’s station, to the elevators flanked by floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Daisy couldn’t imagine why anyone would install mirrors in a hospital. She caught sight of her reflection. She flinched. She had no makeup on. Her bouffant hairdo looked like a deflated balloon. She’d planned to have her ash-blond color touched up before the accident, but had missed the appointment. Dark grey roots created a two-tone effect.
I look like a psychiatric patient who just had electroshock therapy, she thought sadly.
The elevator doors opened. It was midday and the car was crowded. Strangers stared at her. She took a deep breath and resigned herself to the situation. She didn’t look her best and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. She was at the mercy of her left hip.
A young man with shaggy brown hair wearing a Jesus Loves Me tee shirt smiled politely and stepped to the side of the elevator. Luis turned the wheelchair around and pulled Daisy in backward. There was just enough room.
Daisy faced the front of the car. In the reflection of the metallic doors, she could see a girl of six or seven standing nearby, cradling a stuffed floppy-eared white bunny in her arms, sneaking furtive glances at a bald spot on the side of Daisy’s head. The child’s eyes searched Daisy’s crown like an explorer traveling through uncharted waters. Daisy closed her eyes to block the little girl out.
When the elevator doors opened onto the lobby, a stiff breeze blew up from the shaft. The gust caught Daisy by surprise. She struggled to keep the front of the flimsy green hospital gown closed but her fingers were like hardened rubber. The two tiny strings, barely knotted in a bow, unraveled. As the wheelchair advanced, the gown slipped hopelessly out of Daisy’s grasp and caught in the mechanism of the wheel. Kindly strangers turned away. Others stared as she fumbled and tugged on the trapped gown, bare breasts exposed.
Daisy blushed crimson.
Luis pulled the chair backward in an effort to release the gown as he reached over Daisy’s head to stop the elevator door from bouncing back and forth against the wheelchair. The first bounce had created a high-pitched beeping which had alerted security. Daisy was soon surrounded by uniformed guards.
Luis successfully freed the gown, but the damage had been done. The child who stood at Daisy’s side had witnessed the entire debacle. The mother tugged roughly on the little girl’s hand before she finally left the elevator.
What had taken less than three minutes to unfold felt as if it had happened in slow motion.
Daisy boldly returned the gaze of those in the lobby who’d been too shocked to look away. She nodded politely, as if it had all been planned. She pretended she was enjoying a ride in an Audi convertible on a warm Phoenix day. And though nothing could have been further from the truth, for that moment, Daisy shifted reality.
“Daisy Ellen Lee?” asked the driver, an African-American man whose bent posture and graying hair hinted he was well past retirement age. He took the paperwork from Luis and quickly compared it to his own documents. “Yup, that’s you,” the man answered with a warm smile. “You just sit tight and relax.”
The wheelchair was rolled onto the van’s electronic hoist. In moments, Daisy was lifted like so much cargo. “There you go,” the driver said, unlocking the safety and pushing the wheelchair into place, his brown eyes projecting pure kindness and consideration. With a quick snap, he locked the chair. “Now that wasn’t so bad.”
The hospital disappeared in the distance. Daisy thought, Thank God, I’ll never see those people again as she tightened her grip on the hospital gown, reliving the experience.
“I’ll have you at The Village in no time,” the driver called back.
Along the interior walls of the van were large glossy photographs of active seniors. A fashionably dressed woman, silver hair cut in a short perky bob, gaily held a glass of red wine, smiling as if ready to make a toast; a handsome gentleman in a bright green Tommy Hilfiger golf shirt and white shorts was on the greens, club in hand, preparing to putt; an older woman emerged from a hot tub, cap adorned in brightly colored flowers, her smile beaming. The Village promised to offer more than rehabilitation. It professed to be a lifestyle community.
Daisy thought, The Village . . . now that’s a lovely name.
* * *
Jack Lee broke into a big grin as his 2007 white Ford Escape passed Anthem on Interstate 17 heading south. He’d spotted the olive green marker. Phoenix—33 miles. They’d traveled three days, stopping overnight in St. Louis and Amarillo, some two thousand miles across country from Detroit. Enid, his wife, fast asleep in the passenger seat, was gently snoring. She’d drifted off somewhere south of Flagstaff, leaving Jack alone to thrill at the majesty of the red rocks of Sedona.
Growing up in New York, Jack had often heard about Arizona from his father Jacob who had boasted of having a sister, an aunt Jack had never met, who’d settled in the Phoenix area. Cowboys. Desert. Wide open spaces. Jack fondly remembered his father expressing an interest in visiting, though he never did get west of the Mississippi. Together, they watched Wagon Train, Bonanza, and Have Gun—Will Travel. Jack could never seem to get enough of the Westerns. And then, in 1985, Jack made his first trip to Phoenix to attend a conference at the Arizona Biltmore. The memory of the beautiful property and the surrounding homes had stayed with him. I’m going to live here someday, he thought.
It was a promise he’d been determined to keep.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” he said, gently nudging his wife’s shoulder, “you’ve got to see this. The scenery is amazing.”
Enid, a petite woman of delicate features, who wore her dark auburn hair in a severe mannish cut, opened her eyes. “My God, it’s so bright,” she said, shielding her face with her hand. “Someone dim the lights.”
“You’re just tired. It’s been a long trip. But I promise, you’re going to love it.”
“You didn’t tell me you could go blind from the sun.” She pulled down the car visor.
“We’ll get you a pair of dark shades. Heck, we’ll be like movie stars and tint the car windows. ‘Who’s that?’ everyone will ask. ‘Enid and Jack Lee. They’re new here.’”
Enid shifted in her seat. “Are you being funny, Jack?” she said with a withering glance.
“Come on. This is the beginning of a new life. Arizona. Yee ha!”
“Jack,” she admonished him, checking her hair in the visor mirror, “you’re acting like John Wayne is going to show up atop a stagecoach with guns blazing. Phoenix is a sophisticated city. Last night when you drifted off, I read Fodor’s. The days of the Wild West are over,” she announced with certainty.
“Ah, but nature is everywhere. Just look around. You can see it in the cacti and the desert landscapes. So beautiful. This is a dream come true for me.” His voice was barely able to contain his excitement.
Enid sighed. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into this. Why not Florida? What was wrong with Boca Raton? I have family there.”
“Enid, this is an adventure.” Jack sidestepped the perilous trap of commenting on Enid’s family. “We can still vacation in Boca.”
Enid nodded, seemingly appeased.
Jack caught sight of an eagle soaring overhead. His heart skipped a beat. Besides, he thought about Florida, if I wanted to live in a damp swamp, I’d have moved to the bayous of Louisiana.
* * *
Jack Lee couldn’t wait to get out of Michigan. After thirty years teaching high school history in Detroit, he was terrified that his pension might be affected by the trials and tribulations of Michigan’s financial woes. The auto industry was on its knees, with the city of Detroit struggling to find bottom. Sick of listening to the daily drumbeat of financial mismanagement, he and Enid had agreed to sell their historic Indian Village home after the fourth break-in in two years. Each time, they’d been lucky. Neither of them had been home. The following week Jack was on a plane to Phoenix where he made an offer on a two-bedroom townhouse in The Biltmore Terraces; a gr
eat property with views of the golf course.
“It’s so small, Jack,” Enid complained when she reviewed the property online.
Jack was not about to be second-guessed. “We’re awfully lucky to have picked up a Biltmore property at such a great price. And this is the time in life when we can do with a little less. Besides, that house perfectly fits our budget.”
Another reason Jack had pressed for Arizona was its reasonable cost of living. Too young for social security, he’d seen the value of Enid’s trust setup by her father, tumble. Over the years, it had generated enough income to keep Enid in the style she craved. But with the uncertainty of the times, and the bottoming of the stock market, the value of the portfolio was at an all-time low. They’d have to watch their spending.
“It won’t be long now,” Jack said as the car headed down Missouri Avenue toward 24th Street. “Look at those hedges.”
A high wall of greenery enshrined the one-square-mile Biltmore property that included the hotel and surrounding property.
“Oh my God,” Enid gasped, her mood suddenly brightening. “You didn’t tell me it was so private and lush. It’s as lovely as the Boca Raton Hotel and Country Club.”
They crossed 24th Street and entered the Biltmore. Enid sat up straight and adjusted her blouse. Jack smiled as she checked her face in the mirror.
“Where’s my lipstick?” She searched her bag. “Jack, you didn’t tell me it was so exclusive. I should have worn something nicer.”
Enid’s eyes popped as the car crossed the 18-hole golf course before passing the many mansions that lined Thunderbird Drive. Jack was thrilled that she was so excited. I knew she’d love it. She just needed to experience it. A quick right, and the car stopped at the gate of the Biltmore Terraces.
“Hello,” Jack said to the redhead who popped her head out of the window to greet him. “We’re the Lees. We’re new. You should be expecting us.”
The woman checked the roster. “Lee, Lee. Oh yes. Here you are. Well, welcome. I’m Sheila. I’m filling in today, but anything you need, be sure to ask.”
“So you’re new too,” Jack said exuberantly.
Enid nudged him with her elbow. It was her cue for him to stop talking to strangers.
“Not exactly,” Sheila explained. “I work full-time at Biltmore Greens. I’m just helping out today.” She handed Jack a manila envelope. “Inside is a parking pass and a decal for your window. Make sure you place the sticker on the inside driver’s side. It allows you access to all the Biltmore neighborhoods.”
“Thank you,” Jack beamed. “Tell me, is it always this beautiful here?”
“Absolutely,” Sheila smiled.
“This is just a dream come true. A dream come true,” he said.
Enid’s elbow poked him again.
“I know this is an odd question,” Sheila suddenly asked, “but are you folks related to Daisy Ellen Lee?
Jack was astonished. “My father had a sister Daisy who moved to Phoenix. I was just thinking about her.”
“There must be a million women named Daisy in the world,” Enid offered. Her tone left no doubt that she was eager to get past the gate.
“But you did say Daisy Ellen?” Jack clarified with Sheila. “How many Daisy Ellens can there be?”
“A quarter of a million,” Enid snapped. “At least as many as there are Jack Allen Lees.”
“She’s a lovely woman,” Sheila went on. “Now my brother’s daughter, my niece Alison, is the spitting image of me as a girl. Every time I look at her, it’s like looking in a mirror. You know, Mr. Lee? The more I look at you, the more I think you and Ms. Lee are just like two peas in a pod. You have the same eyes. It’s quite unnerving.”
“I wonder if she’s my aunt,” Jack said to Enid, before turning back to Sheila. “Now that would be quite a coincidence. Tell me, which is Daisy’s house? I’d love to meet her.”
Sheila’s expression shifted. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, a worried look crossing her face. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m not allowed to provide personal information about the residents. But I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you give me a note with your name and phone number, and I’ll make sure Ms. Lee gets it.”
“Fine,” Jack agreed. “Whatever works.” He waited for Sheila to open the gate. “Imagine that,” he said, turning to Enid, “I may have an aunt who lives in the Biltmore. A long-lost aunt. Who’d have guessed?”
* * *
Dear Ms. Lee,
My name is Jack. My wife and I have recently moved to Phoenix. I wonder if we are related. My parents were Jacob and Rose. They’re gone now, but I remember my Dad telling me about a sister who lived in Phoenix. Is it possible you’re my aunt? If so, we’d love to meet you. Please ask Sheila to share with us your phone number. Or, if you’d like to call us directly, I’ve enclosed my phone number on the back of this note with our address.
Fondly, Jack Lee
* * *
Later that day, Sheila visited Daisy at The Village. She offered a friendly hello to a gentleman sitting in the lobby before realizing he was babbling to himself. She averted her eyes as she passed the white-haired seniors, dressed in their bedclothes, who lined the hallways slumped over in their wheelchairs, fast asleep. The closer she got to the wing where Daisy was housed, the stronger the smell of urine.
She gagged.
Arriving at Daisy’s closed door, she knocked. “Ms. Lee,” she called out. “Ms. Lee, are you there?”
There was no response.
She knocked again, this time louder, cracking open the door and peeking inside. The room was dark. It was midafternoon and the Venetian blinds were tightly drawn.
Perhaps this is the wrong room, she thought, rechecking the name on the door. No, she was in the right place.
She entered, slowly approaching Daisy’s bedside.
Daisy stirred. A weak voice pleaded, “Nurse, I need to go to the bathroom. Please help me.”
“Ms. Lee, it’s me, Sheila.”
Daisy struggled to focus. “Sheila, where did you come from?”
“I’ve been concerned about you,” Sheila said in a sudden pang of guilt. Why hadn’t she made it her business to visit sooner? “How are you?” she asked, helping Daisy to sit up.
“Not well, I’m afraid. I’ve developed an infection and I have a fever.”
Sheila’s heart sank.
“They’re giving me antibiotics.”
“That sounds like the right course.”
“I don’t know.” Daisy shook her head. “I’m so tired . . . and I have terrible cramps. What time is it?”
Sheila looked at the wall clock. “It’s three.”
“How long have I been here?” Daisy asked.
Sheila had no clue.
“How about we open these blinds?” she suggested, tugging on the little white cord. Light flooded the room. “There, that’s better,” she said, turning back to Daisy. “It’s such a lovely day . . .” she began, as her breath caught in her throat. Seeing Daisy in the bright light, she struggled to suppress her shock. Daisy’s face looked haggard. The gentle lines which had once graced her friendly eyes and mouth had deepened severely from sudden weight loss. Her skin was white and pasty, a far cry from Daisy’s normal rosy complexion. Daisy was no longer the vital, energetic person Sheila knew. She’d become a withered old woman,
“I wish I felt better,” Daisy said, adjusting herself in the bed. “But it is so good of you to visit. How kind.”
Sheila leaned against the windowsill, unwilling to commit to a seat. The smell of disinfectant permeated the air. She maintained a pleasant, outward demeanor, all the while knowing that something horrible had happened.
“Bert sends his regards,” she said in a chipper voice. “We both came to the hospital to visit but you were really out of it. I’m not sure you even knew we were there.”
“I don’t remember,” Daisy confirmed. “Morphine is an amazing drug.”
And then Daisy pulled back
the top cover of her bedding. Her feet were blueish-red and swollen. Sheila diverted her eyes, fighting the urge to flee. Instead, she retrieved Jack’s note from her purse.
“Well, you’ll never guess who I met,” she bravely said, holding up the note from Jack which after all had been the reason for her visit. “It was the strangest thing . . .” and as she started to tell the story, a young African-American woman sporting a close-cropped Afro appeared in the doorway.
“Honey,” the aide called to Daisy, “have you been ringing for me?”
“Oh yes,” Daisy answered, relief in her voice. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
Sheila, grateful for the interruption, placed the unopened note on the bedside table. “Well, I better be going,” she said, concerned her presence might cause Daisy embarrassment. “I need to get home,” she lied, eager to escape. “I just wanted to be sure and bring this note.”
Mission accomplished, Sheila was out of the room before the aide lowered the bars on Daisy’s bed. She moved quickly down the hallway, past those who seemed frozen in time. Is this what becomes of us? Sheila thought, rushing to her car. I’d rather die than wind up in a place like that.
* * *
“I’m home,” Dave called from the open door, his key still buried in the lock.
He was exasperated. He’d hoped to leave the office early, but cornered at five o’clock, he’d fidgeted his way through an impromptu meeting with Daniel that lasted nearly two hours.
Doesn’t he have a wife and a home to go to?
He chalked it up to Daniel’s endless need to micromanage.
Charlie stood in the galley kitchen, separated from the living room by an eat-in counter. A small dinette table was within steps. “The roast’s in the oven, warming.” Charlie came around the counter. “Let me give you a hand with that key. You have to jiggle it.”
Dave and Charlie switched positions.
Dave dropped his workbag by the door and headed to the kitchen. “It smells good,” he said, spotting the mail on the counter. He looked through the stack.