Too Near the Edge (12 page)

The next day being Saturday, I went over to
Shady Terrace to visit Gramma. I make sure to go at least once on
weekends, when they don’t have as many activities. I don’t want her
parked in front of the TV all day. And I wanted to see how the new
medications were affecting her. Confirming my worst fears, I found
Gramma lying on her bed fully clothed—very unusual for her in the
middle of the morning. The TV was on, but she wasn’t watching. She
didn’t move or look up when I walked in.

“Hey Gramma, can I help you up?” I asked,
kneeling at her bedside and looking into her eyes. She mumbled
something unintelligible and rolled over to face the wall. I put my
hand on her shoulder. “No,” she wailed. “No, no, no.” I yanked my
hand back and jumped up.

I knew I should take time to calm down before
I vented my anger on any staff, but I don’t always follow my own
best advice. So, I marched straight down the hall to the nurses’
station. Tanya was at the desk, writing in a chart. I didn’t wait
for her to look up. “Tanya, I can’t believe the way Gramma looks,”
I said. “She won’t even let me help her get out of bed. Is this
your idea of an improvement?”

“Calm down, Cleo. You know it takes a few
days to adjust to medication changes. We only started her on the
Ambien on Thursday. Let’s give her a chance to adjust.” Tanya kept
on writing in the chart in front of her.

“No! I want her off this stuff! She’s like a
zombie. She has enough problems without filling her full of
chemicals she doesn’t need.”

“Cleo, you heard Dr. Ahmed prescribe the
Ambien.” Tanya finally looked up. “I can’t take her off it without
an order from him. I think he’s in his office over on the Rehab
unit, trying to catch up on some paperwork. Why don’t you go find
him, and talk about it?”

I stormed off to find Dr. Ahmed, determined
to get him to take Gramma off the Ambien. As I turned the corner
from the main lobby into the Rehab Unit, I heard raised voices
coming from Ahmed’s office. His door was partially closed, so I
couldn’t see who was with him, but I could hear their conversation
from the hall.

“You need to calm down and be more careful,”
Ahmed said.

“It’s too risky. I’m not going to take all
the blame if this comes out,” a female voice responded.

“Look, you’re doing pretty well here. Are you
ready to give up all that extra income?” Ahmed again.

“The money’s good, but I think she’s
suspicious and that makes me nervous,” the woman said.

I knew I should leave before they opened the
door and saw me in the hall, but I couldn’t get my feet in gear.
What risk? What blame? What money-making scheme were they
discussing?

I heard a chair scrape across the floor, and
what sounded like Dr. Ahmed getting to his feet. “Pull yourself
together and go back to your unit. I don’t want to discuss this any
longer right now. Just do what you’re supposed to do and everything
will be fine.”

I scrambled to get around the corner and back
into the lobby before anyone came out of the office. Since it
obviously wasn’t the right moment to approach Dr. Ahmed with my
complaints, I went back to the Alzheimer’s Unit to see if I could
pry Tanya loose from her bureaucratic mindset.

As I walked through the Fireside Lounge, I
noticed Flora Gypsum on her usual couch, surrounded by newspapers.
She was dressed in a blue and yellow paisley dress, with a bright
orange jacket, red shoes, and a red hat with blue and purple
feathers. I wondered whether she made her own daily clothing
choices, or whether staff had some say. And if so, what they were
thinking.

“Hi Flora, what’s new?” I said.

She turned a scowling face in my direction.
“I’m worried about the Queen of England. She’s a friend of mine,
you know, but I think she might be sick.”

“Well, I’m sure she has plenty of doctors,” I
said, hoping to reassure her.

“Doctors! What do they know? Around here, we
don’t even get the right medicine. And no one even cares.” Flora’s
voice took on a strident tone, as she waved her hands around,
sending newspaper flying.

At this point, I was inclined to agree with
her about doctors—at least Dr. Ahmed. I would have liked to explore
her medication comments further, but I knew getting Flora more
agitated wasn’t a good idea. Not to mention her limitations as a
reliable source. So I picked up her newspapers, distracted her with
a shoe store ad, and went on to Gramma’s room. She was up in her
chair, which was progress, but she didn’t smile when I came in.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“Just visiting,” I said, “to see how you’re
doing.”

She scowled. “Not today,” she said, looking
at her hands. “Come some other time.”

As Gramma’s Alzheimer’s disease has
progressed, she’s become increasingly moody. I’ve found it’s best
not to push her when she’s like this. So, I said “Okay,” trying not
to take her rejection personally. At that point, I decided I’d had
about enough of Shady Terrace for one day. I no longer felt like
tangling with Tanya. I said goodbye to Gramma and left, wondering
how I could find out more about whatever risky business and extra
income Ahmed and the woman were arguing about.

I had a few errands to do, and was in the
parking lot at Whole Foods when my cell phone rang. It was Pablo,
his voice all apologetic. “Hey Cleo, I’m sorry we ended up in such
a bad place the other night. I have tonight off. Do you want to try
again?”

I took a minute deciding whether to accept
his apology or stay mad. Pablo and I have a long history of
breaking up and making up, dating back to when we were madly
infatuated with each other during our last two years as art
students at the university. Our first breakup was about 15 years
ago during the year after we graduated from college. Almost on a
whim—or so it seemed to me—Pablo decided he had to move to San
Miguel de Allende, a colonial town in Mexico that is filled with
artists, art students and art galleries. He said he needed to
nourish his creative spirit and take his art to a new level. And he
said he needed to do it alone. At the time, I thought we were
soulmates destined to be together forever. When he left, I took it
very hard. It took me almost a year to get over him.

We both moved on to other partners and years
went by. Then, a few years ago, we were both unattached and started
spending time together. Since then we’ve jumped in and out of this
relationship like a couple of high school kids. Neither one of us
wants a serious commitment, so we’re mostly drifting. We have fun
together and I think we love each other. But I still have trust
issues, and he still has independence issues, and in many ways we
drive each other crazy.

But here he was apologizing, so why stay mad?
Making up is a lot more fun than continuing a fight. And to be
honest, I really wasn’t sure any more why we’d been fighting. So I
accepted his suggestion. “Tonight sounds good. I’m on my way into
the grocery, so how about I get some stuff and cook tonight? You
bring the wine.”

“Okay. Does 7:00 work for you? I have to
finish up some reports here before I come.”

“Perfect. See you at seven.”

In Whole Foods, I picked up fresh shrimp,
garlic and lemon for scampi, organic greens and other salad stuff,
a crusty French loaf—and, as an indulgence and peace offering,
chocolate raspberry mousse torte. I looked forward to what I hoped
would be a romantic evening. And at the same time, I wanted to pick
his police-trained brain for some technical information. If I
approached him right, maybe I could get some answers without
pissing him off and ruining the evening.

Driving home, I turned over in my mind what I
wanted to ask. I still needed an answer to my question about how
the police decide whether someone who falls off a cliff to his
death was pushed, jumped or fell accidentally. Or at least some
idea of what clues they look for. And I wanted some information
about what Dr. Ahmed might be into. I thought drug scam, or maybe
ripping off Medicare or Medicaid. But I had no idea how to check
out those theories. And there was the threatening call on Adam’s
answering machine. Was there any way to identify the caller from
the voice recording?

I spent the rest of the day cleaning house,
doing laundry and watering flowers and bushes. By the time Pablo
arrived, I felt a sense of accomplishment and was ready for some
fun. I had set the table on the back patio, where it was cool in
the early evening thanks to tall trees and the shadow of the
foothills. I put candles out for later when the sun went down, and
Norah Jones CDs on the stereo, loud enough to hear on the patio
from the kitchen speakers.

Pablo got there right at seven—which I took
as a sign he wanted to make up, since he’s not exactly an on-time
type of guy. We drank some Chardonnay on the patio and talked about
art. Pablo’s artwork is mainly contemporary abstract metal
sculpture. During his years doing the starving artist thing in his
twenties, he began to realize art wouldn’t support him. When his
younger brother got involved in a street gang selling drugs and
ended up in jail, Pablo came home and applied to the police
department. So now he’s a full-time police detective and a
part-time artist.

Lately he’s focused on what he calls “found
object” sculptures, making whimsical birds, dogs, cats, and such
from old metal yard tools, bolts, springs, car parts and stuff.
It’s good work, and he sells a reasonable amount of it at local art
fairs. But that’s partly by keeping the prices low—plus spending
the time to take his work to the shows and sit out there selling
it. He doesn’t get rich from his art, and it eats up most of his
free time—but, like me, he finds the flow of immersing himself in
creative work provides an essential balance in his life.

As we sat on the patio, the wine, the art
talk, the sensuous ballads, and the lazy summer evening brought a
peaceful mellowness. Just as Norah Jones began to sing “Don’t Know
Why,” Pablo leaned over to refill my glass. Our eyes met in a
soul-shaking gaze that blotted out any remnants of last week’s
argument. Without a word, we put down our glasses, stood up, and
dashed to the bedroom, tossing clothes as we went. The sex was
breathtaking, as it almost always is with him—that is, when we can
get along long enough to actually have sex. Afterward, we lay
comfortably in each other’s arms until Pablo’s stomach rumbled,
reminding me we had skipped over dinner.

We worked companionably in the kitchen,
saying little. He made the salad and sliced the bread, while I
shelled the shrimp, sautéed it in olive oil and garlic, added
lemon, salt, and a dash of hot pepper. We took the food out to the
patio, lit the candles, and dug in—both ravenous by then. It was a
sweet evening, at least up to that point.

I made some coffee and brought out the
chocolate torte, which was as yummy as it looked. I decided the
time was never going to be better for my questions, so I started
in. “Pablo, I really need to ask you some police questions. It’s
important, and I don’t know who else to ask.”

“Okay. But let’s keep it short. When we’re
having such a great evening together, I don’t want to have to think
about police work.”

I leaned forward in my chair. “Remember I
asked you how the police decide whether someone who falls off a
cliff and dies was pushed, jumped or fell accidentally? Well that’s
my first question.”

Pablo sighed. “Well, first of all, the police
have to call the county coroner’s office to investigate any sudden
or unattended deaths. It’s the coroner’s job to investigate the
death, maybe do an autopsy, and eventually make a determination as
to the cause of death, the manner of death, and the time of death.
Police investigate the scene, talk to witnesses and stuff. If the
coroner determines that the death isn’t accidental, we do a
criminal investigation.”

“So, how would the coroner decide whether the
death was accidental or not?”

Pablo started gathering the plates and coffee
cups from the table. “The coroner could look for signs of a
struggle at the top of the cliff the guy fell from. Or look to see
if he left a backpack or maybe a note at the top that would point
to suicide. Or maybe the autopsy would find drugs in his system
that could have led to an accidental fall. Or maybe there were
witnesses.” He stood up, blew out the candles, and started in
toward the kitchen with the dishes.

But I wasn’t done yet. I’m a Scorpio. When I
have a question, I keep probing until I find what I’m looking for.
So I grabbed the candles and the tablecloth and napkins and
followed him in, talking as I went. “Do they write this all up? Is
it public information? Can I get their reports about someone who
died?”

“You can call the Boulder County Coroner’s
office and get the autopsy report, but only the next-of-kin or the
police or the District Attorney can get the part about the cause
and manner of death.” Pablo loaded the dishwasher as he spoke.

“Oh, he didn’t die here. It was at the Grand
Canyon,” I said, handing him the frying pan and other cooking
utensils.

He stopped the cleanup and turned to face me.
“Okay, Cleo, this is my last answer. Some states have medical
examiners, some have coroners, but the procedure is pretty much the
same. So you’d have to find out who to contact there.”

“Does your department have some kind of
list?”

“I thought I said that was my last answer,”
Pablo said, reaching under the sink for the dishwasher soap. “Let’s
go turn on Saturday Night Live.”

“Oh, come on, Pablo, I don’t want to watch
TV. I have a lot of other questions to ask you, and I need the
answers tonight.”

“Cleo, I’m done with questions for tonight,”
Pablo said, walking off into the living room. “You have a bad habit
of asking too many questions.” He flopped onto the couch and
reached for the remote.