Dangerous Women Part 65

Mom's good streak held for about a month and a half. Every visit, she'd tell me to go on vacation; before long, I was looking at travel websites with real intent and work be d.a.m.ned. There was a nagging concern in the back of my mind, however, as to how a change like my absence would affect Mom's stability.

I decided to talk it over with her before I did anything, or didn't. She'd probably just tell me to fly to Jamaica for lunch-Jamaica was her latest idea of a dream destination-but what the h.e.l.l, I thought as I arrived on my usual Thursday afternoon. My mother was outside on the patio, enjoying the lovely weather, an aide told me, and would I mind bringing her a gla.s.s of cranberry juice, thanks.

I found her parked at one of the umbrella tables in her wheelchair, away from the handful of other residents also outside. The lovely weather was lost on her. She sat glaring at a book of sudoku puzzles and holding a thick mechanical pencil in one fist like a dagger. The wheelchair meant that she was having dizzy spells, no doubt because she had swimmer's ear again. It could be chronic for people who needed two hearing aids. As I got closer, I saw that she was only wearing one today. Hence the sudoku, which she did only when she wanted to be alone.

"Well, you took your sweet time," she said as I sat down next to her and put the cranberry juice on the table. "I asked for that hours ago."

"Mom, it's me, Valerie," I said, hoping I didn't sound like my heart was sinking.

"Oh, for chrissakes, I know who you are." My mother looked as if she couldn't believe how stupid I was. "You said you'd bring me some cranberry juice and I've been waiting forever. S'matter, they make you pick the cranberries yourself?"

"I'm sorry you had to wait, Mom," I said gently, "but I just got here. This is Thursday. My last visit was Sunday."

She started to say something, then stopped. She set the pencil on the table and looked around-at the patio, at the umbrella overhead, at the aide and the elderly man in a bright blue sweat suit coming slowly up the path from the garden in front of us, at me, at herself-searching for what Dr. Li referred to as mental true north, some single thing that hasn't suddenly changed like the rest of the traitor world. Her face went from bewildered to fearful to suspicious, until finally she sat back heavily, covering her eyes with one hand.

"It's okay, Mom," I said, putting an arm around her. She was little more than skin and bones now, but in three days she seemed to have diminished even more.

"There you are!" Gloria materialized on Mom's other side. "Why didn't you tell me you were here?" Her too-bright smile vanished as Mom looked her over with a critical frown, tsk-ing at a food stain on her navy blue smock. "What's wrong? What did you say to her?"

"Nothing, I've only been here two minutes.

Gloria was about to answer when Mom put both hands up. "Don't fight," she said. "I can't stand when women fight. The hectoringhector, hector, hector! Like crows arguing with seagulls. Is today Thursday?"

The fast change of subject was not, in fact, unusual; my mother thought segues were for politicians and game-show hosts. "All day," I said.

She pushed the book and pencil away. "I don't like writing outdoors. I told them that but they always forget. Maybe Alzheimer's is catching. Take me inside."

I moved to obey but Gloria beat me to it in a rush that seemed oddly desperate. "That's what I'm here for," she told me, as if it explained something, or everything.

My mother wanted a nap, so Gloria and I helped her into bed, fluffed her pillows, and promised not to hector-hector-hector even if she couldn't hear us. I settled into the chair by her bed, intending to dip into one of the novels on my iPad. But as soon as Mom fell asleep, Gloria insisted that I go back outside with her.

"Is this going to take long?" I said.

"It's important."

I followed Gloria away from the now empty patio, down the walk to a bench under a large maple tree. "Make it fast," I said. "I'd like to be back before Mom wakes up."

"Not so loud." She leaned forward and spoke in a half whisper. "As an aide, I see and hear a lot more than when I was a visitor. I think there's something funny going on. And I don't mean funny ha-ha."

At last, the Gloria I knew and loved. "Why? Did something in particular happen?" When she didn't answer right away, I added, "Or did someone just give you a dirty look?"

She drew back, looking stony as she folded her arms. "I should have known you wouldn't take me seriously. You never have."

"That's not true," I said promptly, but I could hear the lie in my own voice.

"You think it's just my imagination, because I'm the little sister. Baby sister. I'll never be more than a child to you. You have no idea what it was like, growing up with you three adults. Dad, Mom, and Mom, Jr. You all knew better about everything. When you weren't all tolerating me-ho-hum, another Christmas, we have to do Santa again; you all acted like you didn't want me to grow up. Like Mom trying to make me sit on Santa's lap when I was eight."

"Just for the photo," I said, which was true. "I know, I was there. She wanted me to sit on his other knee but the guy said he'd quit if I tried it." Also true; the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Gloria almost smiled at the memory, then caught herself. "You're doing it again-trying to pacify me. Just listen to me for once, will you? Something's not right here."

"I'm only asking why you think that," I said, trying to sound utterly reasonable and not at all like I might be smarting (a very tiny bit) from certain (very minor) points she'd scored. "It's a fair question. If it was the other way round, you'd ask me the same thing. Especially if this was the first you'd heard about anything being the slightest bit wrong even though I'd been coming here every day for weeks."

"I told you, this isn't like just visiting," she said. "You don't know, you haven't done both." A movement behind Gloria caught my eye, an aide looking around the patio. She picked up my mother's forgotten sudoku book and dropped it in the large front pocket of her smock, then paused when she noticed us. I smiled and waved. Gloria twisted around to look; when she turned back to me, she was p.i.s.sed off again.

"Fine. Don't believe me. I'll prove it. Then you can't say I'm jumping at shadows." She got up and walked off. Unbidden, the memory came to me of her doing the same thing as a toddler during what Mom called one of her bossy episodes. I suppressed a smile, just in case she looked back, but she didn't. She hadn't back then, either.

Things were strained between us after that. My tries at initiating a conversation fell flat; if she answered at all, it was usually just a wordless grunt that let me know she hadn't gone deaf. She thawed a bit by Monday, occasionally even speaking to me first. Encouraged, I suggested we go shopping and see a movie, in an actual movie theater, my treat, including popcorn dripping with artery-hardening b.u.t.ter-flavored goop. She declined politely, saying her feet hurt. Considering she always went straight into the tub as soon as she came home, they probably hurt all the way up to her hips.

Maybe finding a bath all ready and waiting when she got home would soften her up even more, I thought. The first time surprised the h.e.l.l out of her; she sounded awkward when she thanked me, and spent the whole evening watching movies with me in the living room, even making a bowl of popcorn without being asked. She wasn't quite as surprised the second time; the third time, she asked me what I wanted.

"What do you think I want?" I said, holding half a pastrami on pumpernickel; I'd splurged at the deli counter that morning, a treat for the extra work I had to put in on a new account. "I want us to be friends again. I want us to be sisters again. You're acting like I owe you money and I slept with your boyfriend."

She stared down at me, expressionless. "You just don't take anything seriously, do you?"

"Oh, for chrissakes." I sighed. "I'm trying to break the ice between us before it turns into permafrost." Her mouth curled briefly and I felt a surge of irritation. "I'm sorry-still not serious enough?"

"Don't bother running any more baths," she told me. "I keep a swimsuit at the home so I can use the Jacuzzi. Sometimes Mom and I go in together."

I bit back a smart remark about being a lifeguard in a whirlpool and then felt ashamed for even thinking it. Maybe I had been making her feel small all her life and never realized it.

"I was just trying to do something nice for you," I said. "I've seen how much work you do-"

"How kind of you to notice," she said stiffly. "But, being a grown-up, I can run my own baths." She actually turned on her heel and walked out.

"Fine," I said at her back, my sympathy evaporating. If my sister wanted to be taken seriously-as a grown-up, no less-she could d.a.m.ned well act like one instead of a thirteen-year-old girl with her period.

Oh, no, you didn't, said my brain.

My face burned, even though I was alone. Okay, maybe Gloria did have her period. Back in the day, I hadn't exactly been a ray of suns.h.i.+ne during Shark Week. Now I was coping with the onset of menopause and doing fairly well thanks to hormones, but every day wasn't a picnic and neither was I.

My thoughts chased each other round and round. Had I really been horrible to Gloria all her life? Or were we just doomed to be permanently out of step no matter what? We were from different generations, after all; we practically spoke a different language. Still, if I had acted like that after she had run a bath for me, my conscience would have tortured me for years. Of course, that was me-the-older-sister. Could I see things as if I were the younger sister? Etc., etc., and so on, and so forth. When I finally remembered to eat the sandwich I'd been looking forward to all day, it sat in my stomach like a hockey puck.

My indigestion subsided later when I heard her go out again instead of putting her sore feet up. Gloria wasn't letting the problems between us affect her relations.h.i.+p with my car.

Gloria continued volunteering with a wholeheartedness she'd never shown for paid employment, or at least none that hadn't involved wearing a bathing suit. I did wonder occasionally if her apparent dedication might really be an unhealthy obsession with finding evidence that didn't exist to prove something that wasn't true.

Except that when I saw her during my visits, she didn't look obsessed. She looked cheerfully busy, the way people do when they're happy in their work. Maybe in trying to prove something to me, Gloria had found herself, discovered that caregiving was lifeguarding in street clothes-unlikely but not impossible. Her being too embarra.s.sed to say so wasn't impossible, either, and even less unlikely.

Unless she still believed that something wasn't right and she was playing a role more Method than anything Brando had ever done while she watched and waited for something to happen. I really couldn't tell. While she wasn't openly hostile, she was still distant and had little to say beyond updates on Mom.

Maybe I was jumping at shadows now. After a lifetime as the gra.s.shopper in a family of ants, Gloria was now up close and personal with the reality of Mom's decline. Coming to terms with that would shake anyone up. I wished like anything she'd talk about it with me, but if she really felt that I'd always patronized her, I could hardly be surprised that she was keeping her distance. Nor could I blame her.

Eventually, she warmed up enough that we occasionally saw a movie or went out to eat together, but the wall between us remained. Much as I wanted to, I didn't push her. Partly because I was afraid she'd get angry and shut me out again. But I'd also developed this rather weird, superst.i.tious idea that looking too closely at her newfound self-discipline would somehow jinx it. She'd stop volunteering or even visiting more than once a month, if that. Eventually, despite rules I'd laid down, she'd drift into sleeping all day and staying up all night. I'd seen it happen before. Regardless of what had inspired her sense of purpose, I didn't want her to lose it. Even if it meant we'd never say anything deeper than It's gonna rain or Guess what's on TV? Hint: wolverines! to each other for the rest of our lives.

Gloria held still for Red Dawn and even made popcorn. But she never suggested any more true-crime programs. That was fine with me, although I wasn't sure what it meant, if it meant anything at all.

A month and a half after Gloria's initial blowup, Mr. Santos and his daughter Lola sought me out to tell me my sister was a hero. Mr. Santos was a wiry little man in his late seventies who shared my mother's fondness for puzzles and card games. I knew Lola to nod to, but she and her father had made Gloria's acquaintance in a big way.

"I've never seen anything like that in real life," Lola Santos said, looking at me through wide, dark eyes, as if my being Gloria's older sister was an accomplishment in itself. "I was in the bathroom for maybe two minutes. Gloria had brought him some juice-"

"And if she hadn't, I wouldn't be here right now." Mr. Santos thumped his chest twice with one bony fist before his daughter caught his hand.

"Don't, Popi, you're still bruised!"

"Good. The bruises remind me of the heroine with the curly brown hair and the dimple in her cheek who saved my life." He shook his index finger at me. "She's a wonderful girl, your sister. I don't know what we'd do without her. She's our heroine. She's my personal heroine."

"And mine," Lola added.

I had no idea what to say to that, so I just smiled and thanked them for telling me. I tried to talk to Gloria about it at home later, but she wasn't very forthcoming; when she started to look annoyed, I let it go. The next day I rearranged my work schedule and went back to see if I could find out anything else, but I might as well not have bothered. I couldn't get any more out of Mr. Santos than what he had already told me. My mother alternately claimed to have been taking a nap or sitting in the garden. The few other residents I spoke to had nothing new or useful to add. Even the usually chatty Jill Franklyn was reticent on the subject; after praising Gloria's mad CPR skillz and her ability to stay calm in a crisis, she made a very pointed comment about patient privacy and the confidentiality of medical records. I took the hint and spent the rest of the time with Mom, who was slightly confused by my consecutive visits.

I went back to three visits a week, on the grounds that it made Mom happy and not because I was still trying to find out more about Gloria's big heroic moment. Because that would have been pointless, considering that I'd gotten a full account from Mr. Santos and Lola themselves. Happy ending, smiles all round-what more could there possibly be to the story? If I were jumping at shadows now, they were shadows I couldn't even name. Maybe all the she's a heroine business was getting on my nerves; weeks after the fact, it had yet to die down.

Jealous much? said that still small voice in my brain.

I was pretty sure I hadn't become that neurotic. Practically certain. But if I were-I wasn't, but if I were-I told myself, there was still only one way to kill the shadows. Mom would benefit from the extra visits and so would I-no one knew how much longer she'd be herself. If good things sometimes got done for stupid reasons, it didn't make them any less good. Did it?

"Weren't you here yesterday?" my mother asked as I sat down next to her at the umbrella table. To my surprise, she seemed vaguely annoyed.

"No, I came on Thursday and today's Sat.u.r.day. What's the matter, you sick of me hanging around?"

"I don't understand why you won't take advantage of Gloria's being here," she said, "and go away, even just for a long weekend. Instead, you come here more. What's the matter with you? Don't you have a life?"

"No," I said honestly.

"What about your friends?"

"They don't have lives, either. It's rough out there. I was thinking about moving in with you."

My mother gave a grim laugh. "You better win the lottery first. They don't let you split expenses." She looked around. "Where's that thing? You know, with all the books inside and the screen. I coulda sworn I had it. See if I left it in my room, will ya? Since you're here anyway."

My mother's door was open; inside, an aide stood with her back to me, doing something on the tray table next to the bed. On her left was a cart, both shelves crowded with water pitchers.

"Oh, hi," I said cheerfully, and she jumped. The pitcher she'd been holding sprang out of her hands, spilling water over the bed before it fell to the floor. "Oh, d.a.m.n, I'm so sorry!" I rushed to help.

"Don't, it's okay, I can take care of this, it's fine-" The aide sounded almost desperate as she tried to wave me away, grab the pitcher, and pick up several small white pills all at once. "It's only water, not plutonium, I can manage, really, I can."

"I'm sure, but let me help anyway," I said guiltily as I got down on my knees. The pitcher had come apart and the lid had gone under the bed. I used it to sweep up several small white pills.

"I was just taking something for a headache," the aide said, grabbing up the pills and dumping them into the front pocket of her smock, ignoring the minor dust bunnies attached. "I have cl.u.s.ter headaches, they're murder."

"How awful." I had no idea what cl.u.s.ter headaches were, but judging by how stricken she looked, she wasn't exaggerating much. Her olive complexion had gone almost ashy. I made another sweep with the pitcher lid in case I'd missed any pills before I got to my feet. "I really am sorry, I didn't meant to sneak up on you. I should change the bed-"

"No, absolutely not, you don't come here to do the housekeeping, I'll take care of it." She spoke so quickly she was almost babbling. "I'll take care of this, you don't have to worry, please don't take any time away from your visit, but if-" she cut off suddenly. Her color had improved slightly but now she looked like she was going to cry.

"What's wrong? Is it your headache?" I asked.

I was about to suggest she sit down and drink some water when she said, "It's nothing. Please, just go on with your visit, I'll be all right."

"Look, you won't even let me help you change the bed, so anything I can do to make up for scaring the bejeebus out of you, just tell me."

She looked down, embarra.s.sed. "It's kind of stupid."

"Kind of stupid-that's definitely in my wheelhouse," I said. That got me a smile.

"Okay, it's that-I just-" All at once, she was stripping the bed. "No, I can't. I was going to ask if you'd mind not mentioning this to your mother, but forget it." She dropped a bundle of wet linens on the floor and started to pull off the padded mattress cover. "It's only because I feel like such an idiot. But I have no business asking you someth-"

"It's done," I said, holding up one hand. "I can't think of a good reason why I'd have to mention it anyway."

"But-"

"Forget it. I'm not talkin' and you can't make me."

She gave a small, nervous laugh.

"I really only came in here to get her e-reader-" I spotted it on the nightstand and pointed. The aide handed it to me somehow looking grateful, sheepish, and relieved all at once. Her name tag said she was Lily R. "Thanks. What's the R for?"

She stared, baffled.

"Lily R." I nodded at her name tag. "R for ...?"

"Romano," she said, and rolled her eyes. "You must think I'm a real clown."

"Hardly." As I went back outside to my mother, I couldn't help feeling a bit guilty for leaving Lily R-for-Romano to remake the bed by herself. Then Mom asked me to read to her and I put it out of my mind. I might never have given it another thought if I hadn't found a pill in the sole of one of my very expensive athletic shoes.

I wore them not because I was particularly sporty but because walking in them felt so good. Plus, they came in bright, jazzy colors, which I had a new fondness for in my old age. And what the h.e.l.l-if I ever decided to defy my old age and run a marathon, I was ready.

Running a marathon was probably the only thing that could have been farther from my mind than Lily R. when I felt something stuck to the sole of my shoe. Pausing at the kitchen door, I took it off before I scarred the tile flooring for life. A tiny rock-I used an ice pick to flip it out the open door, then checked the other shoe, just in case. The pill was about the same size as the rock but wedged in more deeply. Maybe that was why it was still intact, I thought, carefully working it free. Although I had no idea why I was bothering-I was hardly going to give it to Lily Romano next time I saw her. Hey, girlfriend, found this on the bottom of my shoe, thought you'd want it back anyway. Now who's kind of stupid?

I put it in an empty ring box on my bureau. As Mom always said, waste not; in a cl.u.s.ter-headache emergency, I'd be glad I'd saved it. Stranger things had happened; were happening now.

A week later, Jill Franklyn called in the middle of the afternoon, apologizing so much I couldn't get a word in edgewise. The I heard her say something about death being harder for some people, especially the first death.

"The first death?" I interrupted. "Are you talking about my mother?"

"Oh, no, no, no, your mother is fine!" she said quickly. "It's your sister-"

"My sister?" Suddenly the pit of my stomach was filling with ice water. "Something happened to Gloria?"

"No, no, no, she's fine," Jill Franklyn said. "Well, not fine, exactly-"

"Is she still alive?" I demanded.

"Yes, of course she's still alive." Bewilderment crept into her apologetic tone. "But-well-you need to come and get her, she shouldn't drive home."

I said I was on my way and hung up without telling her that would be a bit longer than either of us would have liked, because I'd have to take a cab, and although this wasn't the middle of nowhere or darkest suburbia, it wasn't Manhattan, either. I got there in half an hour, which was actually sooner than I'd expected.

Jill Franklyn was waiting for me at the reception desk, looking a bit fl.u.s.tered. "I'm so glad you're here," she told me, smiling, but I could hear the admonition in her voice. The receptionist pretended not to eavesdrop by studying something intently on her desk.