The Return of Jonah Gray (14 page)

“Did you ask Mom?”

“Just you and me and Marcus. Nothing fancy. How's this week. Say, Wednesday?”

“Soon. Wednesday seems really soon,” I said, but I didn't have the energy to fight him. “Sure, okay,” I agreed.

“I think you're going to like him,” Ed said.

“Sasha?” It was my mother, hollering down the hall from Dr. Fisher's office.

“Over here,” Ed called, waving.

She hurried over. “You haven't left yet. Good,” she said. “Lori asked whether you could bring Eddie with you. He doesn't like the hospital. You know how five-year-olds are.”

“Not really,” I said.

“Do me a favor and also bring your father's insurance card back, when you come. It's in that folder where he keeps all his policy information. I want to get him signed up for that in-home service.”

 

In the process of buckling Eddie into his safety seat in the Truckster, I handed him my purse and the twenty-four-hour nursing brochure from Dr. Fisher. During the ride home, my purse slid off his lap, upending itself in the foot well behind the front passenger seat. He held tight, however, to the multicolored brochure Dr. Fisher had handed out. Eddie had just learned the basics of reading and was eager to practice.

“Care in the com…comf…fort of your own home,” he read.

“That's great, Eddie,” I said, checking him in the rearview mirror.

He kept reading, his lips moving as he sounded out the words. “How do you pronounce q-u-a-l-i-t-y?” he asked.

“Quality.”

“What does that mean?”

“Um, something that's good,” I said.

“Quality he…heel…heelth?”

“It's probably
health.
What's the next word?”

“Care,” Eddie said.

“Yeah,
health. Health care
means, well, it has to do with keeping yourself from getting sick,” I said. We were on Banner Hill at that point, almost back to my parents' house.

“I'm getting sick,” Eddie said.

“Oh, sweetie—I'm sorry to hear that. Do you think you're getting a cold?”

“Sometimes car reading makes me need to throw up,” he said.

I PULLED INTO THE DRIVEWAY AND HAULED EDDIE
from my father's car as quickly as possible.

“Here we go,” I said. “Just breathe deep. Is it better now that we've stopped?”

Eddie nodded.

“Why, you're not Jacob.” I looked up to see Ian Maselin heading toward us.

I forced a smile. “No. Just borrowing the car.” I hurriedly scooped up the contents of my purse from underneath the car seat.

Mr. Maselin took his time walking over to us. He was out with his dog, an obese golden retriever named Buddy. Eddie shied away, but I knelt down and let Buddy lick my hands.

“You're spending a lot of time out here,” Mr. Maselin said.

“I guess so.”

“You must not be dating anyone.” He smiled.

“Not right now, no,” I said.

“Did my wife reach you?”

“Earlier, yeah.”

“I couldn't give a hoot about plants myself. Never saw the point of getting my hands that dirty. But it keeps Ellen out of trouble.”

It bothered me that Ian Maselin and I shared an indifference for gardening. I didn't want to have anything in common with him.

“Good thing I'm not a jealous man,” he went on, “or I'd be worried about that fellow she goes on about. Your mother's got a green thumb, doesn't she? I'm surprised she doesn't know about him.”

“She does now,” I said, watching Buddy sniff one of the Truckster's back tires and lift his leg.

“I'm going to pick that rose and watch her as she grows in my garden.”
Ian Maselin was looking at me as if he expected me to start singing along. “No? Tom Jones again. ‘Spanish Harlem'? Great song.
There is a rose in Spanish Harlem,
” he sang.

“I'd better get this little one inside,” I said, motioning to Eddie.

“You should stop by some time and see the new wine cellar,” Ian said. “Anytime you'd like. Come on, Buddy boy.” I felt Ian Maselin's eyes on me as I led Eddie away.

“Who was that man?” Eddie asked as we reached the door of my parents' house.

“That was Mr. Maselin,” I said. “We don't like him.”

 

I brought Eddie into my father's study and set him up with a pen and a ledger pad, the sort I colored on as a girl. Then I opened my father's filing cabinet and found his medical folder.

Glancing inside, I couldn't help but admire the way he had tracked the total cost of his first bout with lymphoma. A CPA to the core, every reimbursement amount was noted, every aspirin, every doctor's visit, every test. I hadn't realized just how expensive his cancer had been. The tally came close to a million dollars.

At the bottom of the page, I saw that he had subtracted the total from one million. I smiled. Clearly, he'd been thinking the same thing. Like father, like daughter.

But on the next page, the details of his insurance policy caught my eye. One million was not just a round number but the lifetime limit of my father's health insurance. That's why he had compared it against the total cost. He had used up almost all of his coverage.

Alarmed, I scrambled to call the insurance company. A woman there confirmed what I was afraid I had read.

“What about upgrading his policy?” I asked.

“You could look into it,” the woman at the insurance company said, “but it's a little late for that. In cases like this, it'll get real expensive, if they allow it at all.”

“Eddie, do you still have that paper you were reading me in the car?” I asked.

Eddie brought over the brochure and I scanned the text. Home care was cheaper than hospital care, but it was clear that the nursing service would quickly use up everything that was left. And who knew what the brain surgery had cost? And now radiation? I thanked the woman and hung up the phone.

“Time to go back?” Eddie asked.

“Yeah. I guess so.”

 

I dropped Eddie in the cafeteria, where my other nephew, brothers and mother were having a snack, and my mother pointed me toward the room where my father was recuperating from his surgery. Peeking inside, all I could see were his feet and the backside of an attendant who leaned over the bed, making some sort of adjustment. A curtain blocked the rest of my view, and I was afraid that if I explored any further, I might see my father in an uncomfortably exposed state. The cancer and the brain surgery were enough. I didn't want to barge in when he was naked.

Backing away from the door, I bumped into Lori.

“So you and Eddie are back,” she said.

“Yeah. Everyone's in the cafeteria.”

“I'm sorry the boys and I didn't make the party last Saturday,” she said. “Sounds like it was a good one.”

That struck me as a strange thing for her to say, there and then, but it was like Lori to try to put people at ease with small talk. “I'm sure my parents understood,” I said. “Pink eye isn't much of an anniversary present.”

“Kurt said that he left,” she began. Then she bit her lip and looked away. It dawned on me that she wasn't engaging in small talk. She had a very specific goal.

I waited. I wondered about the gap between what Kurt had told her and what she'd heard from my mother. But Lori seemed to steel herself. She stood a little taller and gave me a smile. Forced, but still a smile.

“You have enough to deal with right now,” she said.

I glanced back toward my father's room. The attendant had not yet emerged. “So how's it going in Stockton?” was all I could think to ask.

Lori's smile eased into something more genuine. “It reminds me of Iowa, actually,” she said. “Very green. Nice, real people. Gets rural awful quick.”

I nodded.

“Your brother hates it,” she said.

“No, he doesn't.”

She looked at me, almost grim. “I think he does.”

I didn't know what to say. I hadn't expected Kurt to like Stockton—he maintained an air of vague disdain no matter what his address—but I had expected him to make the best of it.

“Kurt mentioned that you have a friend in town,” Lori said.

“He did?”

“I'm forgetting what he said. Someone who works at the paper? A reporter?”

“Jonah Gray,” I said. “He's not a friend, exactly.”

“The man you got the phone call about? I guess I got it wrong,” she said. “Why did I think it was someone you liked?”

I shrugged. I didn't want to get into it. Just like she didn't want to get into whatever was brewing between her and my brother.

“Anyway, I hope we'll get you out for a visit before too long,” she said. She nodded toward the room. “The nurse just left, if that's what you were waiting on.”

“That guy was a nurse?” I asked.

Inside the recovery room, my father was awake, but he looked awful. On his shaved head perched a bandage and over that, what looked like a thin sock.

“Don't look so worried,” he said. “I'm not going to die this instant.”

I was relieved to hear him speak. His voice sounded the same, that Virginia drawl laced with exasperation.

“How do you feel?” I asked him.

“Fine,” he said. “That is, for someone who's had a little brain surgery.” By the way he smiled, I could tell he was floating on pain-killers. I wished I'd been offered some, too.

“I don't think there's such thing as a little brain surgery,” I said.

“I hope we have good weather for the next six months. But what can you do?” He shrugged.

“Not this,” I said, shaking my head. “I thought I could, but now I don't think I'm going to be able to. It's going to be so hard.”

“Oh, come on now. Chin up. Be a big girl.”

“At least try to act like you care,” I said.

He patted the bed and I went to sit beside him. He looked more subdued than before. “Why wouldn't I care? I don't want to leave your mother. Or you or your brothers.”

“You barely have any insurance left,” I said. I pulled the folder from my bag and put it on the bedside table. “But you already know that. Is that what you wanted to share with Ed?”

He smiled. “You want to see something scary, check the financial records in the same filing cabinet. If you'd worked with me, you'd already know this stuff. But it can be our little secret.”

“What can be?”

“I'm tapped out.” He tapped me lightly on the nose as he said it.

My stomach soured. “You're not serious.”

He sighed. “Getting sick, not working, that gets expensive. And all these trips your mother wanted to take. Celebrating my return to health. And the Tahoe condo upkeep, the greens fees, your mother's needs—she's got her needs,” he rattled on.

“Dad!”

“Don't worry, your mother will be fine.”

“Mom isn't sick. What about you?”

“Dr. Fisher assures me that I won't be fine. But all the money in the world isn't going to change that,” he said. “I'm sure there's stuff we can do. He mentioned radiation. And chemo.”

That got his attention. “I don't know how much of that I'll be up for,” he said, suddenly sober. “Look at this place.”

I considered the false wood grain of the night table, the industrial vinyl of the chair by the window, the antibacterial curtains. I wondered how many people had died in the same bed where my father now lay. I didn't want him to spend the rest of his life in that room any more than he did.

I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT I WAS SUPPOSED TO DO, OR FEEL
, after that. It hadn't sunk in, or maybe it had but I couldn't feel it yet. That seemed the most likely scenario, as I don't quite recall where the next few days went.

We were all at the hospital on Saturday, and before I knew it, it was Wednesday morning, and I was finally returning to my bungalow in Oakland. What a relief to get back to my life, or get away from my life, or probably both. What I knew for sure was that I was looking forward to changing out of the shorts and shirt and bathing suit I'd left the house with on Saturday.

Finally back, I pulled the mail from my overstuffed mailbox and opened the front door. And then, I gagged.

I'm no neatnik, but I've always been reasonably finicky when it comes to my kitchen. A stack of newspapers might mean that you're behind on your reading, but a stack of dirty dishes means bugs and mold. I have nothing against collecting, as a hobby, but my attitude is that whatever you amass oughtn't require refrigeration. Hummel figurines are one thing. Hamburger is quite another.

Four days earlier, I had locked up my house, leaving trash in the trash can, breakfast dishes in the sink, coffee in the coffee-maker and a nice fat salmon steak defrosting on the kitchen counter. Still believing I would only be attending to a pool cover, I had only planned to be gone for an hour or two. By Wednesday morning, that salmon steak had reached a state quite distinct from thawed.

Once I was able to keep from retching, I pushed my way inside and threw out everything I thought might be contributing to the stench—dishes included—all while trying to hold my breath. I could almost taste the rotten fish when I tried breathing through my mouth. Had I realized what I'd be walking back into, I might have stayed away for another week.

When the garbage was double-wrapped and safely outside, I opened every window, then dropped to the couch to sort through my mail. Most of that belonged in the trash, too, but one hand-addressed note stuck out of the mix. I recognized Gene's handwriting.

I wanted to make sure that you're okay,
he wrote.
Your box is getting full, so I guess you haven't picked up your mail for a few days. Maybe you're on a much deserved vacation?

I had to smile. The previous four days hadn't felt like a vacation, even though I'd struck out on Saturday morning with a bathing suit in my purse.

On Saturday afternoon, coming back from the hospital, we had again pressed into my father's old station wagon—my mother driving, Kurt in the front seat, me, Lori and the kids crammed in the back, with Blake in the way back. Perhaps it was because the cramped quarters reeked of fuel and motor oil and age. Perhaps it was our agitation from the news of my father's diagnosis. Either way, everyone scattered as soon as we got back to the Banner Hill house.

Blake had stormed off to his friend Barney's house, still angry that he hadn't been treated like an adult—or at least the same as me and Kurt. Kurt and his family quickly retreated to Stockton, though he and Lori still seemed to be on the outs. My intention had been to return to Oakland that afternoon, but my mother asked me to stay the night, so that the two of us could keep each other company. Then she proceeded to spend most of the evening on the phone, informing her friends and various relatives of our newfound situation.

Actually, I didn't mind the time alone. I sat out on the deck and watched the dusk turn to nighttime. You can't really share grief. You might be sad side by side with someone else. You can show and receive sympathy. But at the core, everyone's sorrow is their own company, like a shadow or a bad date you can't shake. No one was going to come and rescue me from it, so I thought that I might as well sit a while and get to know its personality. I had a feeling we would be companions for some time.

On Sunday, as I readied myself to leave, my mother knocked on my bedroom door. “Honey, I hate to be an inconvenience, but could I borrow your car for maybe an hour? I have some papers to sign at the hospital.”

“Can't you take the Truckster?” I asked. “I was sort of hoping to get home, at least for a change of clothes.”

“I had Duncan come get it last night.”

“Duncan?”

“Your dad's mechanic. You know him. Remember, I tried to set you two up a few years back?”

“You got rid of Dad's car?”

“I didn't get rid of it. I'm having it overhauled. If your father's going to be driving it in his condition, I want it running safely.”

“Fine. My keys are in my purse.”

“If you want a change of clothes, go ahead and dig through my closet.” She came back in a few moments. “Where did you say your keys were?”

“They should be in my purse.”

She handed me my purse. “I don't think so,” she said.

I dug through, listening for the familiar clang. “They always end up at the bottom. They can be hard to find,” I explained, my hand in the bag, feeling around. Finally, I gave up and poured the contents of my purse onto the bed. I pawed through. No keys.

“Can you remember where you last had them?” my mother asked.

“I haven't needed them since I got here yesterday,” I said, patting down my pockets. “I must have had them then.” I went outside and crawled around on the ground beside my car, but found nothing. I searched behind the bed and dresser in my former bedroom, under the couch cushions, everywhere.

“Never mind, dear. I'll ask your uncle Ed to give me a ride,” my mother said. “You just stay and look.”

At some point that afternoon, I realized that my keys were most likely in my father's car, under the front passenger seat, where my purse had disgorged itself when Eddie and I came back to get Dad's medical folder.

“I'll go get them tomorrow,” I told my mother, once she was back home that evening.

She frowned. “Not tomorrow. Duncan is closed on Mondays.”

“Closed on Mondays? Why?”

“Because he's open on Sundays, I guess. I never asked him why.”

“So we don't have any working cars?” I said, now exasperated. “Aren't you supposed to be getting a new one?”

“Do you need to go somewhere?”

“I was hoping to get home.”

“Sasha, dear, you are home.”

“Back to Oakland, I meant.”

“Do you want to take a cab? I can pay for a cab.”

I thought about my father's insurance situation. The day before, I had delved further into his financial filing cabinet. He hadn't been kidding when he'd described himself as nearly broke.

“I can wait,” I said. I wasn't going to be the daughter that leveraged her father's medical care for a cab ride.

On Monday, I called in sick and sat in my father's study. Before long, I was at his computer, and soon after that and against my better judgment, I found myself back on Gray's Garden. There'd been a healthy amount of chatter in the preceding few days and I found myself welcoming the diversion it offered. Some postings voiced concern over a new form of black rot. Others discussed the emerging menace of Sudden Oak Death. Someone with the screen name “Clematis_cutie” had asked whether it was true that sourdough bread deterred slugs (apparently it doesn't). “Lindasmom” wondered whether it was possible that mulch made from cocoa beans could poison dogs (apparently it can).

But the liveliest discussion remained Jonah Gray's impending audit, now just two weeks away.

That's where Jonah stepped in.
Hey there,
he wrote.

I wondered how much headway Susan had made with his file. I found myself regretting that I'd reassigned it to her. Why had I been so compulsive? I wasn't a compulsive person. Hell, I was the opposite. But this guy—or the whole situation—brought out an emotional reaction in me that I wasn't accustomed to. Why had I worried so much about my impartiality? Given my father's diagnosis, a friendly audit would surely be a welcome distraction. And yet I'd gone and transferred his case to Susan. So he was married. Did that mean he wasn't worth knowing? I tried to remember whether Susan had any plants in her cubicle.

My father's study overlooked the back patio and the pool. From where I sat, I could see my mother patiently picking bugs off her broccoli plants. I looked back at Gray's Garden and clicked to the form Jonah provided, the one that allowed anyone to join the fray. Even better, no e-mail account was needed. Just a screen name.

My mother is having issues with broccoli,
I typed.
She thinks it's loopers or something. Any easy suggestions? I know next to nothing about gardening.
I smiled to myself as I signed off,
J-E-F-F-R-I-N-E.

 

On Tuesday, the Truckster was ready. My mother called me as she drove it out of Duncan's shop. “It's practically purring,” she said.

“That's great. And my keys?”

“Safe and sound. I've got them in my purse,” she said. “I figured you'd want to stick around until I brought your father home from the hospital.”

My mother had spent a lot of energy on my father's homecoming. She had caterers prepare a week's worth of his favorite meals. She had put new linens on the bed. She had bought bouquets of fresh flowers for every room. No expense had been spared, which of course had me agitated.

I'm not saying that my father didn't deserve some TLC, but it seemed apparent to me that he hadn't come clean with my mother about their financial situation. At least, I wanted to think that my mother wouldn't have gone to such extravagant length shads he known better. I had also checked with Dr. Fisher about the costs of my father's radiation therapy, due to begin the very next day. And I had double-checked my calculations, twice. They couldn't keep this up. Their funds were nearly gone.

As soon as the front door opened, I could hear her chattering on about the home nursing service.

“Won't it be wonderful knowing that someone will be here, twenty-four hours a day if we need it, to keep an eye on you?” she asked. “And these people are professionals.” She sounded relieved—then again, my mother had always taken comfort in the prospect of spending money. It was part of the problem.

For some reason, it irked me just then, as if she were trying to buy her way out of his illness. Wasn't she willing to take care of him at all? Sure, I hadn't exactly offered, but he'd certainly accept her help before he accepted mine.

I followed their voices into the kitchen and found my mother pulling a bottle of champagne out of the refrigerator.

“It's eleven in the morning,” I said.

“Your father's home,” my mother said. “Time to celebrate!”

“Should he even be drinking? He's on some pretty heavy pain-killers.”

“Jacob, you're not planning on driving anywhere, are you?” my mother asked. “So it's fine, dear.”

“Dad, you've got to tell her,” I finally said.

“Tell me what?” my mother asked. She was smiling, as if she thought I might have news of a trip or a party.

“The insurance, your finances,” I said. “The fact that there's no money.”

“What are you talking about, Sasha?” my mother asked.

My father began to push himself away from the table. “Maybe no champagne for me,” he said. “I'm a little tired.”

“Now,” I insisted. He was already losing strength. It only took one firm hand to keep his chair from moving. “It won't get any easier,” I said.

“Sasha, I will not have you treating your father that way in his fragile condition. The man just had brain surgery, for goodness sake!”

“You can't afford the in-home nurse,” I told her.

She looked at me as though I were still a child. “Maybe this service costs a bit more than you're comfortable with, but it's important.”