Island Girl (20 page)

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Authors: Lynda Simmons

BOOK: Island Girl
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Following the row of ants with my finger again, I traveled with them to the top of the bag and finally took a look inside. My hair-brush, my wallet, a pair of underwear, a knot of socks, and a plastic toiletries bag—black with cherries on it. One of those gifts with purchase for some makeup I bought last year.
Feeling myself relax a little more with each new discovery, each small recognizable item, I set the clothes and socks on the floor and reached in again, hauling out a pink nightgown followed by the navy blue U of T sweatshirt I’d stolen from Mark way back when we were together. I laid the nightgown on the chair and pulled on the sweatshirt, wondering who had packed this bag anyway.
“Good morning,” Mark said softly.
I turned and smiled at him over my shoulder, “Good morning to you,” I said, but wasn’t ready when he groaned and struggled to get himself into a sitting position on the side of the bed. Something was wrong, but since I had no idea what that was or even why I was there, the day still officially belonged to Big Al.
Over the past year, I’d become quite adept at ducking and weaving, finding ways to keep my inadequacies to myself for as long as possible. In the same way that a clever child who can’t read finds ways to fool everyone for a while, even herself.
I smiled again and said, “How are you feeling?” and hoped Mark would fill in the blanks without knowing it.
“Better,” he said, gingerly touching his left knee. “Still a little tender, but I’ll live.” He grimaced and propped the pillows behind his back. “How are you doing?”
Gripping the bag tighter, like a charm or an amulet, I said, “Good,” and watched him closely. Hoping his actions might trigger an image, a memory, something to hold on to. Something I could point to and say with certainty,
That’s right, that’s what happened
,
that’s why I’m here
. But all I had were vague and shifting images, momentary flashes that wouldn’t bind together to form any kind of meaningful whole. Nothing that would bring back the warm glow of confidence the way the ant bag had.
“You’re not tired are you?” he asked.
“Why would I be tired?”
“Because you hardly slept. You kept waking up with nightmares.”
I stared at him. Nightmares and no sleep? It all made perfect sense now. No wonder I was having a bad morning.
Meds. Exercise. Sleep.
My neurologist’s mantra.
The illness is progressing faster than we’d hoped for, Ruby
, she’d said the last time I was in her office.
Dr. Mistry. Pretty little thing. Impossibly young. But she seemed to know what she was doing and for the most part I liked her.
“You hungry?” Mark asked, picking up the phone on the nightstand. “I’m starving.”
Hopefully this new medication will slow things down
, Dr. Mistry had said.
That was the dream, wasn’t it. Pop the pills and bam! Clarity restored. Big Al sidelined. Somewhat. For a while anyway. We both knew my future was predictable. We both knew the truth.
“I’ll phone over and see how Jocelyn and Grace are doing,” Mark said.
Grace. Wasn’t she here somewhere?
“I’m sure they had a great time at your place last night,” he said. “Jocelyn would have loved being anywhere I wasn’t.”
My place. They were at my place alone? I’d allowed that?
“I’m sure they’re fine,” he went on. “I just want to say good morning. See if Jocelyn is speaking to me yet. She wasn’t when they dropped off that bag for you.”
The ant bag. If the girls had dropped it off, that meant that Grace had dug it up from God knew where and packed it. But why bother? Why not just toss everything into the bag I usually used?
He pressed buttons on the phone, put the receiver to his ear. “Once we talk to them, we can pick up some breakfast at the café in the clubhouse. They’re open this early, aren’t they?”
Try to avoid stress and noise as much as possible
, Dr. Mistry had said.
You’ll find a calm environment helps.
I remember I’d laughed. How do you manage a calm environment in a beauty parlor?
You close it
, she said softly, and patted me on the back.
“Hey, Jocelyn, how’s it going ...”
You simply cannot go on much longer on your own
, La Mistry had said, taking that firm, parental tone that always made me want to smack her.
You’re going to need a caregiver sooner rather than later. Someone to help out at home, prepare meals, make sure you take your medications at the right times
.
Someone to remember my life for me.
Have you given any thought to who that might be?
Why would I when I wasn’t going to be around long enough for it to matter? I didn’t tell her that, of course. She’d have had me locked up and thrown away the key. It was her job to save lives, after all. Even those that weren’t worth living.
“How’s Grace ...”
I can put you in touch with a support group. People who—
Not interested
, I’d said, adding,
Not yet anyway
, when she frowned at the interruption. She was the doctor after all, and I was the one with half a brain.
About the caregiver
, she’d said.
I’m looking into solutions,
is what I told her. She didn’t know I meant poisons.
She’d smiled and opened the door.
See you in six months.
“Do you and Grace want anything from the café ...”
Six months. Half a year. When exactly would that be over? When exactly was that last appointment?
“Sounds like you’re having fun ...”
I’d have to check my calendar, my notebook. Where was my notebook?
I always kept the notebook handy. So I could write things down. Important things like meds, exercise, sleep. My neurologist’s mantra. See you in six months.
How long is six months?
“Ruby?” Mark had a hand over the receiver and was smiling at me funny. “What are you searching for so intently?”
I looked down, saw my hand inside the bag. “Nothing,” I said, and curled my fingers into my palm, slowly drew my hand out. “I was just seeing what’s in here.”
Wrong answer. I could see it on his face. Six months might have ended yesterday.
“I mean, I packed in such a hurry, I wasn’t sure...” Wrong again. The girls brought it. Remember that, remember that. I picked up the underwear and socks, stuffed them back in the bag. “I need to go.”
“I’ll call you back,” Mark said into the phone. “Ruby, where are you going?”
“Canoeing.”
I hadn’t known that before I said it, but it made sense. A nice long paddle always set things straight, set
me
straight.
Mark threw back the sheet. “You’re going out this early?”
“It’s not early. It’s late.” I stuffed in the toiletries and the hair-brush. Pulled on my shoes.
“A nice long paddle,” I said, and got to my feet, swung the bag up onto my shoulder. It felt good there, as it always had. I walked with it to the door, wondering why I hadn’t used it in such a long time. And where it had been. And how Grace had known exactly what to put inside.
Except for the pills. Where were my pills?
In the bathroom. Secret pills. Shhhh. Don’t tell Grace.
“Ruby, wait,” Mark said.
I stood perfectly still in the doorway, studying the hall in front of me. Three doors, a potted plant, and a window with pretty ruffled curtains.
“I’ll go canoeing with you,” he said.
I could hear him dragging on jeans and zipping them up while I searched for the way out. Door number one, door number two, door number . . .
“Wait for me downstairs,” he called.
Stairs. Of course. Right there at the end of the hall. Idiot.
I headed over with renewed purpose. If I could just get outside, then I could find my way home, I was sure of it. And when I got home I would swallow my pills, grab my paddle, and go canoeing. And all would be well again. Meds and exercise. Meds and exercise.
I went down the stairs.
“Ruby.”
Mark was only a few steps behind when I reached the bottom. I stopped again. More doors, more furniture, more pictures that meant nothing. The burning question: How to get out?
“Over there,” Mark said softly, pointing to a big wooden door with a brass handle.
The front door.
“I knew that,” I said, marching across the foreign living room with its red tile floors and slippery area rugs. I grabbed the brass handle and pulled. Stepped out into a yard smelling of cinnamon and overrun with Russian olive and honeysuckle. “Needs pruning,” I muttered, and followed the stone path to the gate.
As soon as I was on the other side of that gate, things started to come together again. The city was to my left. Home was the other way, over the bridge. I looked back at the house. I recognized it now. It belonged to someone I knew. But why was Mark sleeping there?
I heard the ferry horn, bringing the hordes over again. Soon, the lagoons would be too crowded for a good fast paddle, and that was what the doctor ordered today.
“Ruby, wait up,” Mark called. “I’m coming with you.”
“Coming where?”
“Canoeing, of course.”
“You hate canoeing.”
He smiled and closed the gate behind him. “I used to hate canoeing. Today, I’m ready to love it.”
I started walking. “If you think I need company, you can think again.”
He managed to keep up, but was limping slightly and breathing heavily. “My desire to pick up a paddle has nothing to do with you. If last night taught me anything, it’s that I’m out of shape.”
That much was true. He had never been fat and flabby when he lived with me. It was good to know he was trying to do something about the problem. But what had happened last night? Why was he limping?
I walked faster. Over the bridge, turn left. Heading for familiar territory. I needed the peace of the water and the work of the paddle. And meds. Mustn’t forget the meds.
Once I had all of those, I would try again to think, to remember what had happened. I just needed to hold on a while longer.
Turning the corner onto my street, I broke into a run. Not a jog, a run that left Mark far behind and shouting my name. I didn’t stop. He’d catch up. He always did.
I drew up short at my gate, flipped the latch, and walked into a garden party. Not a big one. Just three women with towels on their heads sitting around my birdbath sipping coffee from my mugs and eating muffins. I recognized most as clients.
A horrible heat moved through my entire body, right down to my fingertips. Dear God. I’d forgotten all about them.
“Ruby, darling, how are you?” Audrey DeSanto called, and twiddled her fingertips at me over the rim of her cup. “Didn’t expect to see you today.”
I walked toward them. “I’m as surprised as you are.”
To Audrey’s left, Marla Cohen laughed and said, “You are such a card. By the way, Grace is doing a great job.” She shucked off the towel and ran her fingers through her hair. “And that bird she saved? No one can believe it survived the night. She’s definitely got the touch.”
What bird? What touch? What was she talking about?
To her left sat Judy Vanlith—a scowl on her face and a muffin bottom in her hand. “Ruby, you know I don’t like to complain.”
“But you will,” Marla said, and got to her feet. “I need more coffee.”
When Marla was halfway to the front door, Judy started again. “I don’t like to complain, but if I’d known you wouldn’t be working today, I wouldn’t have come. I have to be out by noon and she hasn’t even started the cut yet.”
“I understand,” I said. “I’ll have you on your way as soon as possible.”
Laughter, music, and women’s voices came at me from inside the house. Behind me, Audrey DeSanto started telling knock-knock jokes, trying to jolly Judy out of her bad mood. Knock-knock. Who’s there? How should I know? I couldn’t even think with all this racket. And somewhere in the yard a bird was singing and singing and singing.
“Ruby,” Mark called. He was at the gate, saying hello to my clients, making his way to where I stood, lost.
“You poor dear,” Audrey said to him. “We heard all about what happened. I can’t believe Liz would do such a thing.”
Liz? What did she have to do with anything? I hadn’t seen her in over two years. Not since Grace came home after the trial.
A girl with stop-sign red hair burst through my front door. “Daddy,” she called. “You should see what Grace and I found at the lighthouse!”
That yanked me out of my stupor. What had they found? And was it inside my house?

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