Too Far Under (8 page)

“Looks like you missed a bunch of messages,”
Pablo said. “Do you have some desperate grief-therapy clients?”

“Sort of,” I said, not wanting to get into
the Lacey thing with him again. “But it was also Tim Grosso about a
family meeting at Shady Terrace at 4:00 today. I feel like I’m
sinking in the quicksand with this relocation thing, so I hope he
has some good news for us.”

“Seems odd that he’s doing this ombudsman
thing.” Pablo gave me a strange sideways look. “How well do you
know Tim Grosso?”

“Not well. Why?”

“I wouldn’t think he’d like dealing with
rules and regulations much. He’s kind of an old Boulder hippie
type, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “No long
hair—he’s bald. And he has a traditional job. He’s the head of the
university Psych Department. He hired me to teach that paranormal
class and he seemed concerned the class might not be respectable
enough. Warned me it was on a trial basis. Why do you think he’s a
hippie type?”

“He’s one of those don’t-trust-the-cops guys.
The word is that he grows a lot of pot—not at home, probably at
various places in the mountains. No one has been able to find where
it is or to catch him at it yet, though.”

That was a surprisingly different take on
Tim. I hadn’t thought of him that way at all, especially because
he’s my boss at the university. Still, he is a mellow guy and drugs
aren’t that unusual in Boulder. Plus Pablo isn’t often wrong about
this sort of thing. “So how do you know he’s doing it?” I
asked.

He brushed me off. “I don’t. In fact you
should probably forget I mentioned it. It’s not important to what
he’s doing for you. I’m not even sure why I brought it up.”

Before I could probe further, he changed the
subject. “Hey, do you mind stopping at Faye’s when we get to town
so I can see if any more of my stuff sold since the opening?”

I decided to let the Tim thing go until
another time. “Sure. Let’s stop.”

We were on North Broadway by then so it was
only a few minutes to the gallery. Once there, we went straight to
Pablo’s work to look for red “sold” stickers and to our delight
found two new ones—one on a steel dog with big round eyes and
pointy ears, and the other on a rusty bird with long spindly legs.
We were hugging each other and laughing when a stocky
broad-shouldered guy with large muscled arms and legs came along
and stood right next to us, staring at me intently from under dark
bushy eyebrows.

“Cleo?” he asked. “You look great! How have
you been?”

Whoa! I recognized those muscles and the
eyebrows and the cowlick in his straight dark hair. Back about ten
years ago I’d been on intimate terms with every part of this guy’s
body. But I hadn’t seen or heard from him since we broke up and he
moved to California.

“Ohmigod! Brian?? What are you doing back in
Boulder?” Shock and awe hit me full in the face. And it didn’t help
any that Pablo was standing right next to me. Brian and I were
together during the years Pablo was away finding his inner muse, so
Pablo had never met him, although I had mentioned him occasionally.
Now I’d have to introduce them.

“It’s a long story,” Brian said slowly. “A
lot of things have changed in my life. I’ve actually been back here
about a year.” He paused briefly as if collecting his thoughts,
then continued in a cheerful tone that rang a little false. “I
thought about looking you up, but it’s been so long and I felt
embarrassed that I hadn’t called. So I was waiting for the right
moment to come along, and here it is.”

Wow! What were the odds that Pablo and I
would both reconnect in the same week with former lovers from years
ago? Not that I felt any connection to Brian—but anyway, here he
was.

If there’s any good way to introduce a former
boyfriend to a current one, I don’t know what it is. So I sucked it
up and forged ahead. “Um, Brian, this is my boyfriend Pablo. This
is his work here that we’re looking at. Pablo, this is Brian. He’s
an old friend.” Just like Mia is your old friend, I thought.

They shook hands and muttered polite, not
very sincere nice-to-meet-yous. To break the tension, I turned to
Brian and asked, “Do you come to Faye’s gallery often?”

“Sometimes. Not often. But today I came to
see Angelica Townes’ paintings,” Brian said motioning toward the
back of the gallery where her work was hung.

“So you know Angelica?” I asked.

“Not well, but I knew her mother and I know
how proud she was of Angelica’s art, so I wanted to see her show.
I’d say she’s talented for a ten-year-old. But you’re the artist.
What do you think?”

Brian looked genuinely interested in my
opinion, but I didn’t want to engage him in conversation. “We were
here for the opening, but it was crowded and I didn’t get much
chance to look at her work,” I said.

“Sure. Well, I have to go right now anyway.
But maybe we can get together next week and catch up. Give me a
call when you have some time.” He stuck a card in my hand, waved
and headed out the front door.

“Okay. See you. Bye.” I stuttered, still in a
daze. I glanced down at his card. “Brian Alavi, Creative Graphic
Design.” A phone number and a web address followed. Did he really
expect me to call? Especially after he’d been in town for a year
but hadn’t called me? That was so Brian. Always needing to be in
control, looking for the perfect way to present himself. Thinking
he could design his life as if it were a book cover or a
brochure.

I noticed that Pablo wasn’t standing next to
me anymore, looked around and found him talking to Faye over at the
counter in the middle of the gallery. When I walked up, their
conversation seemed to take a sudden turn as if I’d interrupted a
confidential talk.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Faye was filling me in on who bought my
work,” Pablo said.

“And dishing the dirt on your old boyfriend,”
Faye leaned back against the counter and gave me a big smirk.

“What dirt?” I asked.

“Was he a Scientologist when you were
together?” Faye asked.

I laughed. “A Scientologist? No way! Brian?
He was so conventional he thought vegetarians were weird. You’re
not saying he’s a Scientologist now, are you?”

Faye nodded vigorously. “Oh yes. He’s a
Scientologist all right. Very involved. He came in here one day
with Mirabel Townes—you know she was the silent partner in this
gallery, so she was here quite a bit. Anyway he gave me a bunch of
literature about the way to happiness and invited me to a free
lecture.”

“Yes, I heard that Mirabel became a
Scientologist after her daughter died,” I said, remembering what
Elisa had told me.

“True,” Faye said, “but one thing I have to
say for Mirabel, after she got into Scientology she never tried to
convert me. But this guy Brian is quite the evangelist.”

“Sounds like you and Brian have a lot to
catch up with,” Pablo said.

“At least as much as you and Mia,” I shot
back.

“Touché,” Pablo said with a grin. “How about
we drop the former-relationships argument and head home. I have a
plane to catch tonight.”

“Deal,” I said. But I didn’t need to be
psychic to know that we’d be revisiting the Mia and Brian part of
our relationship in the weeks to come.

Right after Pablo dropped me off at home, I
drove over to Shady Terrace so I’d have time to visit Gramma before
Tim Grosso’s relocation meeting for the residents’ families. She
was in her room just waking up from an after-lunch nap. I sat down
on the side of her bed and gave her a slow, gentle hug. She doesn’t
always recognize me, and when she’s waking up she’s more confused
than usual, so I wanted to be careful not to startle her.

“Hi, Gramma,” I said. “I’ve been missing
you.”

“Where was I?” she sounded worried.

“It’s okay. You were right here. But I
wasn’t. I went to a wedding in Estes Park and then Pablo and I
stopped by Faye’s gallery.”

She squirmed, got to her feet, and started
toward the door, looking troubled. “Faye’s gallery. I need to
finish my paintings.” These days Gramma lives more in the past than
the present, so she sometimes thinks she has a deadline to meet
getting paintings ready for a show. Back in the day she was usually
more excited than anxious about an upcoming show, but now the
agitation and confusion that accompany Alzheimer’s throw her into a
panic at the idea.

I put my arm around her shoulders. “Don’t
worry. Everything’s fine. Faye has plenty of your paintings at the
gallery. Would you like to get some ice cream?”

“Chocolate?” she asked.

We walked together to the activity room where
they have ice cream, juice and other snacks available for the
residents any time. Several other residents were watching a
travelogue on the large-screen TV. I told her I had to go to a
meeting and left her there eating her ice cream with them, while I
went off to find out what Tim had come up with to help us deal with
Shady Terrace’s closing.

Twenty or so family members were already
gathered in the faux-town-square lobby when I walked in. To my
surprise, one of them was Derrick Townes. I took a chair next to
him, reminded him that we’d met Friday night at Faye’s gallery, and
told him how worried I was about having to move Gramma.

“I know,” he commiserated. “My dad’s been
here ever since his stroke last year. He’s on Medicaid so we were
lucky to find this place. It wasn’t easy. I don’t know what we’ll
do now.”

I thought the Townes family was rich. Why
would he be so short of money that his father had to go on
Medicaid? At least Gramma has money to pay for her care, which
gives her more choices. I silently thanked Grampa’s financial
management skills.

The room had filled up by then and Tim was
passing out copies of a
Boulder County Senior Housing Guide
that had information about all the long-term-care facilities in the
county. I opened the booklet and began reading through a list of
things to look for when touring a facility, like whether there are
unpleasant odors, whether the residents are appropriately dressed
and so on. My heart sank. Where was I going to find a place that
measured up to all these criteria? And if I did find such a place,
would it have openings? I was getting more and more scared for
Gramma.

Tim got the meeting started by directing our
attention to charts in the booklet that listed various living
facilities, showed their locations on a map, and gave information
about costs, services, levels of care and such for each place. “I
would recommend that you decide on some places to visit,” he said.
“If you call our office we can give you information on how various
places did on their health department surveys and whether there
have been complaints against them.”

“But we aren’t in a position to be picky are
we?” a plump blonde woman asked. “Aren’t most of the places
full?”

“Some are,” Tim admitted. “But quite a few
have vacancies.”

“I need to have my husband in a place I can
visit easily,” a gaunt gray-haired woman said. “Doesn’t Shady
Terrace have some obligation to help me find a good place for him?”
She sounded close to tears.

“They do, and they will help. But it’s best
if you can check out the places yourself so you can choose the one
you like best.”

“This is all bogus.” Derrick had jumped to
his feet to confront Tim. “You’re not here to help us. You’re
supposed to be neutral but it looks like you’re just trying to help
Shady Terrace look good. If this was happening to your own father,
you wouldn’t be so calm. We need to stick together and make them
keep Shady Terrace open. Why don’t you help us with that?” His face
was as red as his crimson sweater, and sweat trickled down his
face.

Tim stayed cool as he answered slowly.
“Actually as a long-term-care ombudsman I’m not supposed to be
neutral. My job is to advocate for the rights of the residents. But
I don’t know any way to keep Shady Terrace from closing and if I
pretended I did, I’d be leading you on a path away from what you
need to be doing, and I certainly wouldn’t be helping you.”

“Forget it! I’m not going to waste any more
of my time here,” Derrick said, stalking off to the front door. His
dramatic exit was spoiled when he had to stop and find a staff
member to put in the door code to let him out, but he’d made his
point. And although I personally did believe Tim was trying his
best to help us, I was beginning to realize that there wasn’t much
he could do.

My mood was dragging bottom when I left the
meeting, so when I stopped at Wild Oats to get groceries I picked
up roasted salmon and asparagus for dinner to cheer myself up. At
home I put on one of my favorite
Sex and the City
DVDs, had
a couple of glasses of wine and ate my meal. Then, feeling a bit
more mellow, I got out my cell phone and listened again to Lacey’s
messages.

The first message came in Saturday afternoon
at 2:30. “Cleo, it’s Lacey Townes. We talked after class on Friday.
About my mom and how my sister and I need to reach her. It’s
urgent!” Her voice rose in pitch and volume. “I can’t believe I
didn’t get you. We have to meet with you. I don’t know if you meet
clients on weekends, but you must have some sort of emergency
coverage. And this is one. An emergency! This is a huge emergency!
So call me at 303-819-8203 as soon as you get this message.”

Whew. She definitely sounded frantic, but I
didn’t share her sense of urgency at that point. Even if I’d gotten
that message on Saturday, I wouldn’t have responded. My emergency
weekend coverage doesn’t extend to wanna-be clients.

She left another hysterical message Saturday
at 4:30. “Cleo, Lacey again. Where are you? You have to help me! I
have no one else to turn to. How can I ever live with myself if I
don’t find out what happened to Mom? You have this gift. How can
you refuse to help us? I told Angelica you’d be sure to call today.
So don’t make a liar out of me, okay. Call me at 303-819-8203.
Please!!”