I Like You Just Fine When You're Not Around (6 page)

Tig gently moved the ceiling-to-floor drapery to the side. A tall nurse with high braids was deftly arranging her mother's gray hair. Both women looked at Tig without recognition.

“I'm Mrs. Monahan's daughter. My name is Tig.”

“I'm Serena,” the woman said to Tig. Then, to her mother, “Look, Mrs. Monahan. Your daughter's here.”

Hallie's face widened with pleasure and lost some of the grayish lines around her eyes.

“Wonderful. I've missed her. It's been weeks. Where is she?”

Tig rushed the three steps to her mother's side and caught the edge of a commode chair with her purse. She untangled the strap from the portable toilet and bent in front of her mother.

“Hey, Mom. Good to see you. How's the hand?”

“
Bien
.” Her mother held her hands up in front of her face and turned them palms out as evidence. She didn't seem to see the bulky bandage covering the soft flesh of skin between her thumb and forefinger. The white gauze looked ungainly on the petite, soft, strangely unlined hands of the seventy-six-year-old woman. “I love it when someone brushes my hair. Your dad does it for me all the time.”

Tig said, “What?”

Serena finished the ponytail and squeezed Hallie's shoulders. “I'm going to let you two catch up.” She maneuvered herself around the side rail, wheelchair, and rolling bedside table.

Tig whispered as the woman passed her, “I was here just yesterday. It hasn't been weeks.”

“I know. They told me in the report.” With a warm touch, she added, “Have a good visit; she has her occupational therapy in thirty minutes. I'll bring her meds before then.”

“I know. I know her schedule.” Tig tore her gaze from the nurse's beautiful skin and calming countenance and took in her mother's sky-blue blank expression.

“Mom?” Tig waited for her mother's attention to light upon the cell phone Tig held out. “I have this for you in case you need me. For anything, anytime. Every button is programmed to call me.”

Her mother took the device, regarding it mistrustfully.

“Go ahead, push any number and hold it down.”

Tig positioned the phone clear of Hallie's bandage, pressed the keypad, and they waited. Moments later, Tig's own phone rang to the tune of “I'm Bringing Sexy Back.”

Startled, her mother glanced around.

“It's here, Mom. You just called me. You can call me anytime you need to, day or night. We'll put it right on your table so you don't miss it.”

Her mother watched as Tig placed the phone next to the sweaty, flesh-colored water pitcher and requisite smashed-at-the-corner tissue box. Hallie said, “Well,” as if meaning to continue with “done” or “thank you” or “what a wonder,” but managing only the telltale half-thought that was so very Alzheimer's-like. Then she pushed back in her armchair and gestured to her rumpled hospital bed. “Sit,” her mother said. “I just ate breakfast and I have a little time before my first case comes in.”

There was a light-blue-and-white waterproof Chux pad, creased and disheveled, in the center of the bed. On the white sheets Tig could see the branding of the MUHL laundry service at the loose tail that dragged on the floor. She shoved the Chux pad aside, sat, and picked up her mother's hand. “What animals are coming in today?”

“Oh, Callie has the appointments; I haven't any idea. Probably a neutering, and maybe a dental.”

Her mother retrieved her hand and clasped her fingers in her lap. She looked around the room with interest, paused at a vase of daisies, and smiled.

Tig followed her gaze.

“Where'd the flowers come from, Mom?”

“Dad, of course, who else?”

“But Dad,” Tig started to say, then thought better of it and let her voice trail off.

“Dad should be home soon. We'll all have dinner.” Hallie pushed a missed strand of hair away from her face and turned. “Won't that be nice for us?”

“Pete and I broke up, Mom. Remember Pete? He helped you get some exercise.” Her mother patted her knee and followed the sound of a buzzing fly to the corner of her picture window. “I was going to Hawaii with him, for work.” Her mother turned and looked into her daughter's eyes. Tig touched a lock of her mother's hair. “How are you doing, Mom?”

A troubled expression settled into the space between Hallie's eyes, the place all of her worries lived. “When my daughter comes, could you ask her about my keys with the French spoon key ring? I've been looking everywhere for them.”

“What keys are you talking about, Mom? I don't remember seeing any spoons or keys when we were moving you.”

Disappointment flooded her mother's face. “Of all the people I know, I wouldn't think you would take my keys. The clinic key and car keys are on that ring, the French spoon key ring I got in Paris.”

“Mom, I don't know what you're talking about. What keys?”

Hallie put her face in her hands, the bandage awkwardly pushing her cheek up. “I just can't believe this. You're just like your father.”

“Do you know who I am, Mom?”

Searching her daughter's face with the frantic energy of someone who knows the answer but can't trip the memory, Hallie's eyes filled with tears. “Where are my keys?”

Just then Serena swept into the room with a small cup of pills. Tig looked helplessly at the nurse. “I've upset her. She lost some keys?”

“Hallie, my gosh, where did those lovely daisies come from?” Serena lifted the water pitcher, filled a matching plastic cup, and handed Tig's mother her pills. Automatically, Hallie took the cup and gazed into the nurse's face.

“
Fleurs
.”

“Yes. Now drink up; take these pills, and let's get on with our lives.”

“Sounds good. I'm forgetting something, though.”

“You have therapy in just a minute.”

“Ah yes, that's it, of course. Send in the next patient.”

“Will do.” Serena tugged Tig's arm and led her smoothly out the door and gazed at her. “She'll get a little better for awhile, but you know this disease is progressive. It's a train without brakes.”

“I was hoping for a plateau of some kind, a little respite, a chance to say goodbye.”

“She's a little better when Dr. Jenson comes. He should be here soon, if he isn't held up at the hospital.”

“Really? Maybe I'll go to therapy with my mom, see if I can catch him today.”

“Tell me something,” Serena said, looking closely at Tig. “Is Tig a nickname?”

“Yes and no. Tig is a nickname all right.” Tig smiled. “My real name is Tiger Lily, after Tiger Lily from
Peter Pan
. My older sister's name is Wendy. They didn't expect there would be another child and, when there was, my mom thought Tiger Lily was the perfect name. She was a trip, my mom.”

“Yes, you can still see that in her. So it's Dr. Tiger Lily, is it?”

“Yes, but Tig is better than Tiger Lily.”

“Oh, I don't know. Tiger Lily has a terribly sweet quality to it that might be something to aspire to,” Serena said, winking as she turned away.

• • •

Tig walked her mother to the physical therapy room where a nursing assistant took over at the door. Stepping back into the hall, Tig dialed her sister's phone. “Dammit, Wendy, I wish you'd pick up once in a while. I just left our mother in the hands of a man with a tattoo of Jesus on his neck and the Ten Commandments printed alphabetically up his forearm.”

She moved down the hall, and dodged a tiny woman wearing spotless navy blue tennis shoes in a wheelchair. “I'm sick of cold toast for breakfast!” the woman shouted over and over as she propelled herself furiously across the carpeted floor.

Undaunted, Tig said, still on the phone, “This man asked our mother which was more fun—physical therapy or occupational therapy? I'm thinking, since our mother can't come up with her own last name, that ‘fun' may not be part of her current cognitive capacities. At least he's trying. But you wouldn't know anything about this.” She paused and took a breath. “When are you going to help in some way? She's your mother, too!”

As Tig slammed though the exit, an alarm sounded. She stopped, held the heavy door, and glanced back into Hope House. A nurse peeked her head out of one of the patient's rooms and said, “That's the WanderGuard alarm. Mr. Heartly is too close to the door with his sensor bracelet.” The nursing assistant jogged in her white Crocs to Mr. Heartly's elbow. Holding his ropy arm, she steered him away. “C'mere, Mr. Heartly, hon. Let's get you away from that door. How about we take a walk to the craft room?”

“This is so unfair,” Tig said to her mother's memory, and she stuffed her phone into her purse. As if the voice of her mother lived forever in her ears, she heard her often-repeated lesson about fairness: “No such thing as fair, Tig. Don't expect fair. Expect unfair and be prepared for possibility. While there is rarely fair, there is always possibility.” She felt the pinpricks of tears and her throat filled.

In the full sun of a beautiful day, Tig hovered her finger over Pete's number. He had been her sounding board and, unlike most men, didn't try and fix every problem she had. He would listen when she talked obliquely about a problem client or her errant sister. Granted, sometimes he would go off on a tangent about human nature in general, but she didn't mind that.

She dropped her head back to feel the warm sun on her face. Feeling eyes on her, she looked up into the nearby face of a young, tanned groundskeeper. She saw him try to identify her role. Family? Nurse? Confused resident? “Don't worry,” Tig called to him, “I'm not resident-confused, just plain old pedestrian-confused,” and showed him her clean, unadorned wrists. “Just having one of those days.”

He nodded and bent over the flowering perennials that, Tig noticed, just happened to be bleeding hearts.

Tig pushed into the Frank Lloyd Wright-ish Prairie-style building that just a week before had been her place of work. She had often reflected on the irony of this new, clean, uncomplicated structure entertaining the knotty feelings of so many people searching for solace. The incongruous meeting of architecture and purpose, Tig always thought, invalidated the feelings of those who entered, as if the building were saying, “Everything's fine,” when, of course, to the clients passing through these doors, so little was fine.

The carpet hushed her steps as Tig approached the reception desk. Macie, her copilot-like telephone headset askew, battled with a series of worried expressions as Tig neared, mouthing a quick and silent, “Are you okay? Where have you been?”

Macie placed her hand on the earpiece of her headset and glanced at her desk phone as if she could see the person who was on the other side of the connection. With her voice directed to the microphone she said, “That's right; Tuesday at two
P.M
. is our soonest appointment.” She held up a finger to Tig and continued, “Well, you get back to me. I've got an emergency on line two. I have to go now.” She punched the disconnect button, and said, “You look tired, Dr. M. You doing okay?”

“I don't know what to do with myself. I went to see my mom and then I made a lot of appointments for things I haven't had much chance to get to. You know, dentist, hair removal of all forms, a personal trainer session, a mammogram. I tried to get a colonoscopy, too, but I'm too young, apparently. I'm sure I'll cancel most of them. Self-care is not my forte.”

“Wow. So, that's a lot of stuff.”

“I need to keep busy.”

Macie lowered her voice and said, “Have you heard from Pete?”

“No.” Tig touched her sternum for comfort and, finding none, said, “I'm really sad.”

Macie said, “If it helps, it's only been a week and it sucks around here. I realized something. You're the only therapist we had that used mascara and didn't wear Birkenstocks.”

“That's not true. Chris doesn't wear Birkenstocks.”

“Tevas. Same difference. Worse, actually, because he wears them with obviously ironed blue jeans.” Macie rolled her eyes as if this were the ultimate fashion infraction.

“A therapist is only as good as the earthy, earnest clothes she or he wears.”

“I disagree, Dr. M. Coolness factor is a must. Therapists are in dire need of street cred.” Macie flipped her tongue stud against the roof of her mouth.

“Maybe that can change today. I'm going to talk Julie into getting my job back.”

Macie looked at her computer screen. “Did you call first?”

“I didn't want to give her time to think of a reason to say no.”

Macie, with a hesitant look on her face, called Julie Purves, the clinic's director, and waved Tig into the last office in the suite. Tig rehearsed her speech one last time as she approached the closed door.
I'm sorry about the Harmeyers. I'll apologize and work overflow, and with only new clients unless my old clients ask for me, until a permanent position opens. I'll take call every weekend and not accrue vacation or sick leave.

Just as she was about to knock she heard, “Come on in, Tig.”

The director's suite was similar to Tig's old office, with eggshell-white walls, plum upholstery, and requisite bookshelves holding addiction books.

“As I'm sure Macie told you, the prodigal therapist has returned.”

Julie leaned forward and said, “Did you forget something?”

“I forgot I want my job.”

Julie's gaze did not waver and her expression remained calm. After twenty years in practice, it took a lot for Julie to break from her serene demeanor. “We've been through this, Tig.”

“I had a whole speech prepared, but the fact is, Hawaii's out.” Tig felt her shoulders slump an inch and knew her eye concealer couldn't disguise the shadow of recent losses under her eyes. “Honestly, it's just as well. I can't leave my mom. Besides, who would see Mrs. Biddle?”