Too Near the Edge (33 page)

It was a mild sun-drenched October morning,
but I shivered as if winter had arrived overnight with a blast of
arctic air. Tanya’s words bounced around in my head as I paced
around the porch, struggling to absorb the unwelcome news. Fury
prodded me to fight back, but at the same time I wanted to curl up
in a corner and cry. How could this be happening just when Shady
Terrace had finally gotten its act together and was providing such
good care? Where could Gramma go? Her Alzheimer’s disease has
progressed to the point that she doesn’t always recognize me, but
she’s been at Shady Terrace for eight years and the staff knows her
ups and downs and how to make her comfortable.

I was a wreck, and the mountain view wasn’t
soothing me at all. As a grief therapist I know there are times
when you need to stop and absorb bad news and there are times when
you need to take action. This moment called for action. So I went
back inside to grab a quick shower and get dressed. As I showered,
anger and sorrow continued to fight for control of my emotions,
while my saner professional side tried to start making a plan.

It was going to be a busy morning. It was
Friday and I had a class to teach at the university at 10:30. I
couldn’t be late for that. The department head had made it clear
that my paranormal psychology class was an experiment and that some
faculty did not approve of hiring an unorthodox therapist like me
to teach even as a lowly instructor. I was on trial and I wanted to
measure up.

For the moment, though, Gramma’s well-being
was my top priority, so I had to make this meeting. I jumped into
my Toyota and headed to the nursing home. Of course the main
parking lot was full and I wasted time looking for a space before I
went over to the auxiliary lot. The meeting was just getting
started in the central lobby when I dashed in, so I didn’t have
time to go to Gramma’s room and check on her. Instead, I found an
empty chair at the back of the room and sat down. This lobby was
designed to look like an old-fashioned town square with fake
storefronts, an ice cream parlor and a popcorn wagon. The theory is
that the residents will feel comforted by a setting that takes them
back to a happier time of their lives.

Maybe it is calming for them. But I felt like
I was sitting in Disneyland listening to
Cruella De Vil. I’d never seen the woman who was speaking, so
I figured she was from corporate headquarters. She was a tall,
large-boned woman, dressed in a snazzy black business suit that was
overkill for a fake main street in a Boulder nursing home but would
have fit right in to Donald Trump’s boardroom. Unfortunately, her
message matched the boardroom image.

“We know that Shady
Terrace is a vibrant community of seniors,” she began in an
incongruously upbeat voice. “But, our building is in need of
significant and costly repairs that we can’t afford to make with
our current operating budget. So, after careful deliberation, we
have entered into a sales agreement with Hugh Symes Development
Company, which will require the closure of the Shady Terrace
skilled nursing center. You will be receiving a letter this week
that will be your official sixty-day notice of closure as required
by Colorado law. We know this decision will be difficult for our
residents and their families, but we assure you that we will do
everything possible to assist you in making a smooth transition to
another living situation.”

I squirmed in my
chair. What did she mean they would do everything possible to
assist us? Do these corporate executives go to a special class
where they learn to sugarcoat horrible news and lie easily to suit
their purposes? I wanted to scream at her, “Doesn’t this
corporation have a slogan that says, ‘Caring for you is what we
do’?”

Listening to her, it
sounded to me like what they do is go for the big bucks. Tears
welled up in my eyes. How could they care more about their bottom
line than they did about people like my Gramma who couldn’t speak
out for themselves and were dependent on all of us for their
care?

Boulderites tend to
be assertive, especially when it comes to issues of human rights
vs. big business. Hands shot up all around me and a man in front
plowed right in without waiting to be called on. “It took my mother
a year to adjust to this place and now you’re saying she has to
move? It sounds like our family members are just dollars to you and
if they don’t bring in enough, they have to go.” His anger and
disgust were front and center.

“I assure you that
this is not personal. It’s just business.” Cruella spoke evenly,
not matching his furious tone. “We understand that this is an
unsettling and difficult time for you and your loved ones and we
will do all we can to make it go as smoothly as—”

“I assure you that it is very personal to me
and to my mother,” the man interrupted. “And it’s not going to go
smoothly for you because I’m going to do all I can to stop you,
starting right now with a call to the newspaper.”

A woman on the other side of the room, tired
of waiting for her raised hand to be noticed, jumped up and joined
in. “Isn’t there something we can do to save Shady Terrace? It took
me forever to find this place and now that Mom is doing well, I
don’t want to move her.”

“We understand that this is difficult, but
after exploring all the possibilities, we determined that closing
is the best option,” Cruella continued in her condescending
I’m-being-patient-with-you tone. “Now I need to catch a plane, but
the Shady Terrace staff and your local long-term-care ombudsman are
here to help you get started on making new arrangements.” With
that, she picked up her briefcase and ducked out the front
door.

I needed to get out of there myself if I was
going to get to my class on time, but Mary Ellen, the Director of
Nursing, and Betsy from Social Services were walking up to the
front and I wanted to hear what they had to say. The both looked
like they’d been crying. “We’re checking on openings in other
nursing homes and we’re going to help you all look for places,”
Mary Ellen said. “And Tim, a volunteer ombudsman from the county,
has offered to help you with information about other facilities.”
She beckoned to a tall thin bald man in the second row, who stood
up to join them in front.

My eyes nearly popped out of my head! Tim
Grosso, Ph.D., the Chair of the university Psychology
Department—the very Tim Grosso who had reluctantly hired me to
teach a class—was a volunteer ombudsman? I hated to miss his
comments, but I knew the students wouldn’t wait for me if I was
late for class, so I slipped out.

As I drove up to the university, I agonized
over Gramma’s plight. This was one more in a long line of
indignities she’d faced over the last twelve years. Before
Alzheimer’s eroded her mind, she was a top-ranked Boulder artist,
whose colorful oil paintings commanded high prices and won national
awards. And she was the sweetest, most patient teacher, whose
students—including me—learned to paint better than we ever thought
we could.

She and my Grampa, who taught philosophy at
the university, had a storybook marriage for more than fifty years
before she began showing signs of Alzheimer’s at age seventy-five.
At first, it was forgetfulness and confusion. But she kept getting
worse, being argumentative and accusing us of hiding her things.
She began wandering out at night in her nightgown—probably to go to
her studio in the backyard. She had always been a night person. If
Grampa locked the door, she would wake him up to let her out. If he
refused, she sobbed and screamed. If he left her alone in the
studio, she often fell and hurt herself.

It was horrible for all of us. Gramma because
she couldn’t make sense out of the world any more, and Grampa and
me because we were losing her at the same time that she was still
here needing us to take care of her. Grampa tried hiring people to
be with her, but she hated having them around and didn’t want them
in her studio. He wasn’t getting any sleep at night and he couldn’t
deal with her constant arguments or keep her safe at home anymore,
so after four years of that he finally decided to move her into
Shady Terrace. He picked it because he thought it was the best
place. The whole thing was terribly hard on him. He visited her
every day, even though it was painful when she kept begging him to
take her home.

I visited a lot too and I still do. It was
easier for me when Grampa was still alive because we could share
the sadness. But he died of a heart attack a year after Gramma
moved to Shady Terrace and I’ve been in charge ever since. My
grandparents practically raised me and I want to do as much for
them as they did for me. They were never close to my mother—their
only child—so Grampa set things up for me to be Gramma’s guardian
after he died. I miss him more than I can even begin to describe
and I do everything I can to live up to his trust. But today I felt
scared and overwhelmed. Even though it wasn’t my fault that Gramma
would have to move, I had a sinking feeling that I was letting
Grampa down.

Too Far Under
is available at
Smashwords and other ebook stores.

For information, visit Lynn Osterkamp’s
website at:

http://www.lynnosterkamp.com

Cleo’s Contact Project was partially inspired
by Raymond Moody, M.D.’s
Reunions
(Villard Books, 1993), in
which he reports on experiences of people who have contacted
apparitions of the dead.

Many friends and family read drafts of this
book and provided support and valuable feedback. I appreciate the
time and enthusiasm they brought to this project.

I am especially grateful for the extensive
editing done by Laurel Umile, Laurie Castleberry, and Sally
Barlow-Perez; and by Vicki, Carol, Thora and Joann from my Sisters
in Crime critique group. Their comments, suggestions and edits made
this a much better book.

There is no way I can ever sufficiently
acknowledge the contributions of my husband, Allan Press, and my
daughter, Laurel Osterkamp. They believed in my writing long before
I did, and kept after me until I wrote this book. They read and
edited draft after draft and helped me resolve sticky plot points.
Their love and support kept me going for the years that it took me
to finish this novel.

Finally, my father, who died too many years
ago, got me started reading mysteries and piqued my interest in the
possibility of making contact with dead loved ones. I regret that
I’ve been unable to tell him about this book.

Other books by Lynn Osterkamp:

Too Far
Under
(second novel in
the Cleo & Tyler mystery series)

Stress? Find Your Balance
(nonfiction)

How to Deal with Your Parents When They
Still Treat You Like a Child
(nonfiction)

For information, visit Lynn Osterkamp’s
website at:

http://www.lynnosterkamp.com