Sea Glass Summer (16 page)

When they went through the door the man came out from the office to greet them. He was thin on top, had a bristly moustache and was of a comfortable and somehow encouraging sort of build. Rather like that nice man at the Post Office who pretended to look fierce when someone came in with an armload of packages, then winked at Brian and Oliver. Brian collected stamps. He was sure the one he'd bought of Elvis would be worth millions one day. Oliver drew in a slightly relieved breath. The air smelled faintly of what the lady in the Victorian Parlor gift shop had told him was called potpourri. He didn't exactly like it, but supposed it had to be there. He had to admit to being reasonably impressed. Wide openings connected one space with another and there were lots of windows, bringing the outdoors in. Oliver glanced around him, taking in the seating area with its walls painted the pinkish red of the rhododendrons. Its window showed a glimpse of them. There were a number of homey-looking sofas and chairs along with coffee and lamp tables. Inside the fireplace was a large brass plant pot. The plant wasn't real but it was doing its very best to look like it could sprout new leaves any minute. On one of the sofas was a thin-faced old lady. Sitting next to her was a much younger man wearing a baseball cap. She reached out, took it off his head and put it on hers. Oliver saw the man smile; it was a gently amused smile.

‘That looks good on you, Grandma.'

‘I bought it this morning. There's a nice shop in my room.'

‘That will be her roommate's closet,' said the man who had come out of the office to greet Twyla and Oliver; he dropped his voice low enough not to be overheard. There was a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Many of the women all like to shop. Labeled clothing enables us to keep track of where items really belong and a sense of humor on the part of staff and visitors can do a lot to lift the general mood, as you'll know, Mrs Washburn. Even our most confused residents respond to atmosphere.'

‘Very important,' Twyla agreed.

Oliver was sure they were right. The lady wearing the baseball cap did look very pleased with herself, in a straight-backed self-important sort of way. But, he reminded himself, Grandpa wasn't confused. Or only late in the evening when he was very tired.

‘This is Mr Braddock who's in charge here, Oliver,' said Twyla.

‘Hi, Mr Braddock.'

‘Make it Kevin, or better yet, Kev.' He had a similar twinkle in his eye to the man behind the counter at the Post Office. ‘I was the resident RN here before they shuffled me sideways.' Oliver liked that he didn't say ‘moved me up.' That could have sounded braggy. He also thought Kev had mentioned he was an RN because he knew Twyla had been Grandpa's nurse, and so hoped that information would be reassuring. ‘Good to meet you.' He shook Oliver's hand. ‘I've been looking forward to doing so. I know just how important grandsons are. I've one of my own, just three months old.'

‘I expect he's lots of fun even though he can't do much yet.' Oliver had always thought it must be kind of boring being a baby, but he didn't let this show. ‘How is my Grandpa? I don't see him out here.' Oliver looked around again, this time focusing on taking in the dining room with soft green paint and white-topped round tables. There were eight people seated at them in light-colored wooden chairs, mostly women, and all looking like residents. A young woman in a smock with cats on it was passing out brownies. Grandpa wasn't at any of the tables. The large area opposite, with folding chairs lined up around the walls and a music center, was empty.

‘Is Grandpa in his room?'

‘He hasn't been out of it today.' Oliver could tell Mr Braddock hoped this didn't sound worrying. ‘It's very common for residents to be extra tired for a few days following their arrival. It's a huge emotional adjustment, in addition to the physically taxing experience of being transported here.'

‘I saw how much it had taken out of Frank when I came yesterday,' agreed Twyla. It was why she had suggested on the phone yesterday morning that Oliver wait until today to come. ‘We were just talking about taking him outside in the wheelchair, but we'll size up whether it would be better just to sit with him, don't you think, Oliver?'

‘Right.'

‘Can someone help me?' A woman with a ragged face and shoulder-length hair wearing a long flannel nightgown and fuzzy slippers was coming down the hallway to their left. An aid in a pink smock went over to her.

‘It's all right, Muriel. Let's sit down. I was just coming for you to do your nails. How would you like blue polish this time, like I'm wearing?'

‘There's something wrong with me – am I going to get better? Where's my husband?' The distressed voice rose.

‘We'll have a nice talk. Let's go and sit at your favorite table.' The aid led her into the dining room, where another resident could be heard complaining that there was a man under her bed.

‘I've yelled at him to go away, but he won't. I know what he's after, filth, filth, filth. Men! They're all the same and he's worse because he's got two of them. He showed me – the disgusting pig – and I told him I'd cut them off, but I can't find my scissors; someone's taken them.'

‘Try your brownie, Lucy,' said the aid with cats on her smock, ‘they're really good. Made from scratch. I know how you feel about things out of a packet.'

Oliver looked at Twyla. The outer doorbell sounded and Kev said he'd let the person in and then go down with them to Frank's room if they would like him to do so.

‘That's not necessary,' replied Twyla. ‘We don't want to keep you. Whoever's coming in could want a word.'

‘I expect it's Mrs Robbins with her visiting companion dog; she brings him regularly at this time on a Sunday. A lot of the residents really brighten up when Goldie comes in. He's trained to size up which ones to pet him. We have another dog and its owner on Wednesday.'

Kev turned toward the door and Twyla and Oliver started down the hallway to their left.

‘A great idea that,' she said, ‘especially as some of those in here won't often, or ever, have anyone come to see them. Out of sight, out of mind. I know that sort of neglect is hard to understand, but it's a sad fact of life, lamb baby. And it doesn't do to judge. It's not always that people don't care; they just can't take seeing loved ones so terribly changed. They convince themselves the person they've come to see won't even remember they were there.'

‘But their family person would know at the time,' Oliver protested.

‘Not perhaps who it was visiting, but that it was someone familiar who cared enough to talk and listen – yes, I think that has to get through.'

‘What's Grandpa's roommate like?' Twyla had explained that Pleasant Meadows had been unable to provide Grandpa with a private room. There were only six of them, all presently occupied. The twenty other residents all had to share.

‘I didn't see him when I was here on Friday or yesterday. He must have been out in the communal space, unless someone had taken him out for a while. I do know he doesn't have Alzheimer's, which Kev said is the case with two thirds of the residents. Except for your grandpa all those with Parkinson's have private rooms and it's a matter of waiting for one to become available for him.'

Which meant someone else's loved one would have to die. Oliver couldn't wish, let alone pray for that. They had reached a door on their right close to the end of the hallway. Tucked into a meal holder was a white card with the name Willie Watkins printed above and that of Frank Andrews below. Oliver felt like his smile was printed on his face. It was so important that Grandpa should believe he was only happy and excited to see him.

The room could have belonged in a motel. Oliver had only been in a motel once when he was seven and Grandpa had taken him for a weekend to Orchard Beach outside Portland, but he remembered the plain furniture, the metal-framed window, the door opening into the bathroom and, most strongly of all, the feeling that it had no stories to tell. Nothing was left, or would ever remain, of the people who had stayed in it over the years. In this room there were two single beds, with two mid-brown dressers across from them, and two chairs with wooden arms tucked into corners. There was no one in the bed closest to the hallway door; it was made up with a faded patchwork quilt and a frog-green pillow case. Grandpa was in the bed by the window. It was brightened by the new red comforter Twyla and Oliver had picked out together. They had been able to tell on entering that Grandpa was asleep. His face was turned toward them, his skin a whitish gray stretched over his now painfully prominent bones. For the first time Oliver saw the impact of death's reshaping hand, the shedding of the flesh, the stripping down to the skull. He recalled, with a clutch at his heart, Grandpa saying before they left for that trip to Orchard Beach, ‘He who travels light travels fastest.'
The thought crept into Oliver's mind that he could understand why some of the relatives couldn't bring themselves to visit their family member; it hurt too much. If you didn't see it might not be happening; easier to think that death had already come. Oliver was horrified at the possibility that for the slightest moment he might have been thinking of himself and Grandpa. He would never, ever stop coming here. However much Grandpa changed on the outside, he would still be the same inside; even if the time came when he could no longer talk he would still be there breathing out love. Frank Andrews' mouth slackened and a trickle of saliva slid down his chin. Reaching for a tissue on the bedside table Oliver wiped it away.

‘I love you a trillion billion,' he whispered. ‘You're the best grandpa there ever was in the entire universe, even if there are little green ones on Mars.' The last part was the sort of joke he and Grandpa would laugh at; it had never taken much to make them laugh.

Twyla was beckoning to him. She picked up one of the chairs and crossed with it to the bed. Oliver tiptoed forward with the other one. They sat without talking for about five minutes and then began a quiet conversation about nothing in particular – how nice the new red comforter looked, wondering if the other residents were enjoying the visiting dog, how kind Kev had sounded. Grandpa slept on. The light from the window showed up the bruises on his arms and hands. They were the result of the blood thinners he took, nothing to do with the Parkinson's. They were called something that sounded like a spice, one that Mandy Armitage, Brian's mother, put in her chili. Cumin, that was the name – of the spice, not the medicine. Oliver retrieved the name that floated toward him, first in big letters, then smaller ones that grew smudgy before disappearing into a mist. Somewhere inside it were himself and Grandpa walking hand in hand across a bridge. He couldn't see, but he knew. Along with this awareness came the certainty that his parents and Grandma Olive were waiting on the other side in place of rainbow clouds and that soon he, Oliver, must turn and walk back on his own toward Sea Glass.

His eyelids grew heavy. He hadn't slept well the past two nights at the Cully Mansion or, for that matter, the past week. In the middle of last night he'd shot up in bed with his heart hammering. For a moment he had wondered where he was. The furniture stared back at him as if wondering what he was doing there and wishing he would go away. Alien shadows slithered and stretched, but it was the ones that crouched unseen in corners that bothered him the most. The fear gripped him that they were thinking slyly how much fun it would be to pop up for the purpose of making him yell out. The tall one alongside the open-curtained window, with the broad seat beneath, could have come from the high dresser, but it had a person-like look to it. What if those thin poky bits weren't reflected tree branches, but transparent fingers itching to touch him? His breath had frozen at the thought that it could be the ghost of old Emily Cully and he'd huddled back under the musty-smelling covers, willing himself back to sleep. It was all right for Brian to say what fun it would be but what if the talk around Sea Glass wasn't just hopeful made-up stuff, and she really and truly did haunt the Cully Mansion? Brian didn't have to live, let alone sleep here.

Voices woke him and he sat up to find himself in the chair in Grandpa's room at Pleasant Meadows. What he heard was Twyla and Grandpa talking, but they stopped now and looked toward him.

‘Good snooze?' Grandpa asked quite clearly. There were times when his voice came out better than others. The skull-like look was gone and his face even had some normal color.

Oliver beamed back at him. ‘Was I asleep long?'

‘About an hour.' Twyla smiled at him. It was a relaxed smile. The lines that showed around her eyes when she was tired or particularly worried weren't there anymore.

‘You should've woken me up.'

‘Your grandpa wouldn't let me; you know how he can be when he gets deciding to be boss.'

‘Right!' Oliver laughed. ‘You're both scared piddle pants of me, aren't you?'

‘None of that language!' Grandpa tried to pull a fierce face. ‘I thought if I'd slept the day away you could have a catnap.' The words continued to come without obvious difficulty. ‘Twyla's been telling me about this new job of hers. Sounds great. That mother and son will be blessed to have her.'

The three of them continued on this topic for a while. On hearing that Sonny Norris had taught music, Grandpa brought up the fact that Clare had learned to play by ear on a friend's piano, but had never asked for lessons and said afterwards that it had been only a passing interest. Whenever Oliver listened to Grandpa talking about Mom, it felt as though she was reaching out her hand for his. This time sense of contact was especially strong because he had so often wished he could take piano lessons, but was sure they cost a lot. Holding his mother's hand was something quite different from being touched by a ghost. Twyla brought the topic round to Grandma Olive's wonderful recipe for soda bread, but quickly cut off what she had been about to say next. The fidgety movements under the bedcovering told them Grandpa needed the bathroom quick. Instantly Oliver remembered the piddle-pants joke and could have kicked himself. Grandpa had been wearing those grown-up diapers for over a year now, but still fought against having an accident. Twyla was in the room one moment and gone the next. She now returned with an aid pushing a wheelchair. This one wore glasses and a tie-died smock.