Remember (3 page)

“Look.” Ashley started to stand. “Maybe I should leave.”

“Nonsense.” Lu waved her hands in the air as though she were shooing away a swarm of bees. “Don’t mind Belinda. She needs a vacation.”

She needs more than that,
Ashley thought. But she kept quiet and sat somewhat stiffly in the chair.

Lu snatched a pair of bifocals from the desk drawer and set them low on the bridge of her nose. Then she sifted through the papers until she found Ashley’s application.

“Hmmm.” Lu scanned the piece of paper. “No experience.”

“No, ma’am.” Ashley kept her eyes from Belinda. The interview was going from bad to worse. She couldn’t imagine working for a miserable woman like Belinda. No wonder they had trouble keeping help.

“You understand the job duties?” Lu handed Ashley a printed list. “Alzheimer’s patients are often delusional. At Sunset Hills it’s our job to keep them grounded. In other words, we do everything we can to make them live in the here and now.”

Ashley glanced at the list of tips and suggestions for working with Alzheimer’s patients:
Use simple sentences. Remind them where they are and who they are. Ask them if they need to use the bathroom. Suggest daytime naps when they’re—

“You’re a . . . ?” Lu lifted her eyes to Ashley’s. “. . . a painter,  is that it?”

The list fell to Ashley’s lap. Her patience was wearing thinner than the plasterboard walls. “I’m an artist.” She hesitated. “Actually, it’s more of a hobby for now.”

Belinda chuckled. “What she means is, painting don’t pay the bills.”

“Wait a minute.” Ashley shot the heavy woman a hard look. There was no point being polite. If the job wasn’t going to work out, they’d all be better off knowing up front. “You run the house here, right?”

“Ten years straight.” Belinda lifted her chin.

Ashley looked at Lu. “She doesn’t want to work with me. We’re wasting our time.”

“It’s not her decision.” Lu glared at Belinda. “I do the hiring around—”

“Look,” Belinda cut in. She crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows an inch. “People come here thinking they’ll spend all day baking cookies and watching soap operas with Grandma. It isn’t like that.” She cast a dismissive glance at Ashley. “Pretty Girl needs to know the facts; that’s all.”

Ashley locked eyes with Belinda and slowly rose from her chair. Then without blinking she dropped to the floor and peeled off thirty purposeful push-ups. From the corner of her eye she saw Lu wink at Belinda. The heavyset woman could do nothing but stare at Ashley, her lower jaw hanging from her face.

When Ashley finished she stood up, dusted her hands on her jeans, and took her chair again. It wasn’t the first time her morning workout routine had paid off. “Some of us pretty girls”—she was barely breathing hard—“are stronger than we look.”

Belinda said nothing, but Lu took Ashley’s application and tapped it on the desk. “When can you start?”

Anger seared its way through Ashley’s veins. She shifted her attention to Lu. “I didn’t say I’d take the job.”

“Fine.” Lu shot another look of disdain at her manager. “Think about it for a day, and let me know tomorrow. I’d like you five days a week, seven to three.”

Lu shook Ashley’s hand and excused herself.

Before Ashley could leave, Belinda cleared her throat. “Look, I’m . . . uh, sorry. We needed someone yesterday, and . . . well, I didn’t think you could handle the job.” She shrugged. “Maybe I was wrong.”

Memories of every other time Ashley hadn’t measured up shouted at her. She wanted to spit at the woman and tell her what she could do with her apology.
Calm, Ashley . . . be calm.
She pressed her lips together and breathed in through her nose. “Don’t worry about it.”

Ashley left the room without saying good-bye. She was halfway through the main room when a rusty voice called to her from one of the recliners.

“Dear? Are you leaving?”

Ashley stopped and turned. One of the white-haired women was sitting straighter in her chair, smiling at Ashley, bidding her to come close. Images of Belinda’s mocking face came to mind, and Ashley hesitated.
I have to get out of here.
She crossed the room and stood before the old woman.

“Yes.” A gentle smile lifted the corners of Ashley’s mouth. “I’m leaving.”

The woman reached up and took Ashley’s hand. Gently, with a strength borrowed from yesterday, the woman pulled her close. The skin on her face was translucent, gathered in delicate bunches. Her eyes were foggy from the years, but her gaze was direct. “Thank you for stopping by, dear. We should visit again sometime.”

The words did unexpected things to Ashley’s heart. “Yes.” She ran her thumb over the old woman’s wrinkled hand. “Yes, we should.”

“My name’s Irvel.”

“Hi, Irvel. I’m Ashley.”

“My goodness.” Irvel stared at Ashley and brought a shaky hand up toward her face. With a featherlight touch, she brushed her fingers through a lock of Ashley’s hair. “You have the most beautiful hair. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Ashley smiled. “Not lately.”

“Well, it’s true.” Irvel strained to see past Ashley and out the window. “Hank’s out fishing. He’ll be here anytime.”

“Hank?”

“My husband.” Irvel worked her tired lips into a smile. “He brings me here for tea. Peppermint tea.” She managed a wink. “He likes fishing with the boys. Has plenty of fish tales when he comes back.”

Ashley dropped to her knees and tried not to look confused. “Is that right?”

“He’s later than usual.” Fear fell like a veil over Irvel’s face. “You don’t think he’s run into trouble, do you?”

“No, it’s still early. When does he usually—”

Belinda rounded the corner and planted her hands on her hips. “Telling stories again, Irvel?”

Ashley’s blood ran cold. Belinda’s tone wasn’t cruel or even unkind. It was patronizing—as though she were the parent and Irvel the distracted child.

Before Ashley could defend the woman, Irvel smiled, and a nervous chuckle sounded from her throat. “We were just talking about Hank.” The corners of her mouth fell back into place. “He’s . . . he’s later than usual.”

Belinda lowered her chin and raised her eyebrows. She patted Irvel on the back. “It’s time for your nap, old girl.”

Ashley felt the muscles in her jaw tense. “She doesn’t look tired.” Ashley shifted her gaze from Belinda back to Irvel. “We were having a nice talk, weren’t we?”

“Yes.” Irvel patted Ashley’s hand. Her face relaxed some, and she looked grateful to have Ashley as an ally. “We were talking about Hank’s fish tales, right?”

“Right.” Ashley tilted her head and smiled at the older woman. Somehow in their few minutes together, Ashley felt a connection with Irvel, the kind she had hoped to find with each of the residents if she’d been willing to take the job. Ashley flashed a warning look at Belinda but kept her tone even. “I want to hear all about Hank.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Belinda huffed and rolled her eyes in a way that wasn’t altogether mean. Then she lowered her face so she was inches from Irvel. “Hank’s been dead fifteen years, Irvel.Remember?”

Ashley’s heart dropped to the floor.

Hank was dead? The realization set in. Of course. These were Alzheimer’s patients. Ashley wanted to cry. She would have done  anything to shield the precious woman beside her from Belinda’s cruel reminder.

“No. No . . . that’s not true.” Terror filled Irvel’s eyes, and she began to shake her head in small, jerky movements. “Hank’s fishing. He told me so this morning. Before tea.”

Belinda’s eyes grew wide, her tone bored and gently sarcastic, as though she and Irvel had this conversation every morning. “There’s no tea, Irvel. You live in an adult care home, and Hank’s been dead fifteen years.”

Panic joined the emotions wreaking havoc on Irvel’s expression. “But . . .” She looked at Ashley, desperate for help. “. . . my friend and I just had tea together. Hank always takes me to tea with my friends when he fishes.” Her eyes implored Ashley. “Isn’t that right, dear?”

Ashley shifted her gaze to Belinda as Lu’s words came back to her.
“We do everything to keep them living in the here and now.”
Belinda’s eyes dared her to find an acceptable answer for the old woman. Ashley faced Irvel again. “Tea was wonderful. We must do it again sometime.”

“Yes.” Peace flooded Irvel’s eyes, easing the wrinkles on her forehead. “That would be lovely.”

“Whatever.” Belinda uttered a humorless chuckle under her breath and walked off toward the kitchen.

Irvel touched Ashley’s hair again. “Has anyone ever told you, dear, you have the most beautiful hair? Short, but so very pretty.”

“Thank you, Irvel.” Ashley gave the woman’s hand a light squeeze. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to take care of.”

Irvel settled back in her recliner and nodded, holding Ashley’s gaze. A contented smile settled low on her face. The woman seemed to draw strength from Ashley. “Everything’s going to be all right, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Irvel.” Ashley looked beyond the woman’s cloudy white cataracts to the soul behind them. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Completely at ease once more, Irvel returned her attention to the television set. Around her, the other women continued to sleep peacefully. The moment the situation seemed stable, Ashley stepped into the adjacent kitchen and found Belinda scrubbing a pan.

“I need to talk to you.” Ashley pointed down the hallway.

Belinda rolled her eyes but dried her hands on a dish towel and followed Ashley to a place out of earshot from Irvel and the others.

“Where’s Lu?” Ashley crossed her arms.

“She’s busy.” Belinda was matter-of-fact, just short of being rude.

“Tell her I want the job.”

“Old Irvel got to you, huh?” Belinda’s expression was just short of a sneer. “Fine. Take the job. But don’t come in here all high-and-mighty, thinking you’re going to rescue Irvel.” Belinda lowered her chin, the sarcasm gone. “Sometimes life’s hard. I found that out the day my husband walked out on me. So what, right? Get over it. Didn’t get much education growing up, so I work here. Tough, right? Break my back every day to make a living. That’s life.”

She paused, her eyes hard. “Ever heard of Vicodin?”

Ashley shook her head. Why was Belinda telling her this? To make up for her attitude earlier?

“Vicodin kills pain. I take it every other day just to survive. That’s what working with these dear, sweet, old folks has done for me. Lifting them into the bath, heaving them into a chair, picking them up off the floor. It’ll kill you eventually.” She grabbed a quick breath. “So don’t think you’re going to be some kind of savior. People like ol’ Hank die. That’s life. The more the patients here understand that, the better off we all are. And that’s why Irvel and her friends need to be grounded in the present day. It’s what their families want, and it’s part of the job. If you don’t like it, maybe you should think about another line of work.”

Ashley could think of a dozen smart responses, but she didn’t feel like fighting. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Belinda took a step backward. “I’ll tell Lu to call you with a schedule.”

Ashley felt the muscles in her face relax. As Belinda turned and walked back toward the kitchen, Ashley realized she was no longer angry at the heavyset woman.

She pitied her.

And somewhere in the back alleys of her soul—though she didn’t often pray—Ashley begged God that the patients at Sunset Hills would help her remember what was important in life. That they not harden her heart the way they had hardened Belinda’s.

But rather that they might revive it.

Chapter Three

Landon Blake’s chances for survival were almost nonexistent.

Just before noon, he was wheeled into the emergency room, his long, muscled body motionless on the stretcher. He was unconscious, suffering from severe smoke inhalation, a fractured leg, and a burned back. A thin line across his uniform pants had melted into the back side of his thigh.

John Baxter was waiting for him in the ER. “God, help us,” he whispered when he saw Landon’s blood oxygen level. “We’re going to need a miracle.”

Paramedics, friends of Landon’s, wheeled him into a treatment room and carefully lifted him onto a bed. John rattled off orders as the medical team sprang into motion. “Get his uniform off, but be careful.”

The oxygen treatment tank was ready, and John slipped a mask over Landon’s face. “Hang in there, Landon. Come on.” It was unusual for a firefighter these days to suffer from such severe smoke inhalation. After all, Landon should have had breathing apparatus. Unless—for some reason—he hadn’t used it.

The treatment was administered through a ventilator that would breathe mechanically for Landon, forcing clean, damp air mixed with medication into his lungs in an attempt to clean out the smoke and chemicals. But damage done in a fire was often too severe for the treatment to do much good.

The first hour was critical.

Red numbers flashed on a monitor. Minutes after his rescue, Landon’s blood oxygen level had been in the seventies—barely high enough to live. Paramedics had intubated him immediately, but even now his oxygen level was dangerously low. He had mild burns on his throat, but miraculously his blood tests didn’t show severe carbon monoxide poisoning.

A strapping young paramedic came up alongside John and stared at Landon. “We . . . we can’t lose him, Doc. He’s the best there is.”

John glanced up and saw fear on the paramedic’s face. For a moment their eyes held; then John looked back at Landon’s still form. He crossed his arms tightly in front of him. “I’ve known Landon Blake since he was a boy.” John pinched his lips together, his chin quivering. “I’m not letting go of him yet.”

There was silence for a moment, and the paramedic coughed. “How’s the boy? The one who came in before Landon?”

“He’s fine.” John gazed at the oxygen monitor. Eighty-nine . . . eighty-eight. . . .
Come on, Landon, breathe!
“The child has some smoke damage, but not bad.” John shot a look at the paramedic. “It’s amazing, really. He was in the fire as long as Landon. Smoke like that usually kills children first.”