Too Near the Edge (5 page)

For the rest of the ride, Maria filled me in
on her progress with the Boulder Symphony. I listened with half an
ear, while I thought about the two faces of Waycroft. His threats
had me nervous about what sort of trouble he might stir up. I’d
heard horror stories about the difficulty of getting tenure at the
university. Could Waycroft find a way to keep Elisa from getting
tenure just because he disapproved of her introducing Sharon to me?
And what about Sharon? Would he be able to keep her from even
trying to contact Adam?

I wasn’t inclined to worry too much about
what Waycroft might have in mind for me. After a lifetime of
arguments with my own father, I’ve learned not to be intimidated by
bluster and demands. If anything, Waycroft’s pompous assumptions
that I was a flake or a fraud made me more interested in helping
Sharon, just to show him how wrong he was.

On Monday morning, I thought about Sharon as
I stepped out of my dusty green Toyota into the sweltering parking
lot of Shady Terrace Care Center. Belying its name, the ranch-style
nursing home was bathed in fiery Colorado morning sunlight, even
though it was only 9:00 a.m. No wonder the residents keep their
blinds closed, I thought. The drought had reduced Shady Terrace’s
attempts at landscaping to toast, so there wasn’t much to look out
at anyway.

As I walked into the main lobby, the
air-conditioning hit me with a cold blast. I’ve never liked air
conditioning, which is another big reason I’ve always favored
Colorado over Kansas in the summer. Like the temperature,
everything in the Shady Terrace lobby is artificial—plants,
flowers, fake store fronts that have the look of an old-fashioned
barber shop or ice cream parlor. The theory is that the old people
will feel more comfortable in the cozy environment of their past,
but to me it has always felt like a stage set without a play.

I crossed the lobby to the Alzheimer’s unit,
punched in the security code on the number pad next to the door,
and walked in. As usual, I felt like I had fallen through the
looking glass to an alternate reality, where the people tuned in to
some far-off frequency I couldn’t receive. In the unit’s main room,
called the Fireside Lounge because it has a fake fireplace in one
corner, Maxwell Kohn paced in circles singing “Row, row, row your
boat,” while making vigorous rowing motions with his arms. Dianne
Amball slumped in her wheel chair in front of the TV and stared
open-mouthed at a commercial featuring Dealing Dan Your Mattress
Man. Her expression remained impassive as Dan pointed his finger at
his viewers and ranted on about “the deal of a lifetime.”

Flora Gypsum, always dressed as if for a
party, wore a red and black paisley skirt with a purple sweater and
silver high-heeled shoes. A hat with pink roses perched crookedly
on her tightly curled white hair. She sat on a small blue
plastic-covered couch reading the daily paper upside down.

I try hard to respect the dignity of these
residents by learning their complete names, finding out a little
about who they were before they came here, and having conversations
with the ones who are able. It’s the way I hope other people will
treat Gramma.

Hey, Flora, any good news today?” I
asked.

“Same old stuff,” she replied. “My father
will be very upset about the economy.”

Since I figured Flora’s father, if alive,
would be at least 110, I didn’t explore this further.

“My father’s planning to buy this place, you
know,” Flora went on.

“Do you think he’ll change it much?”

“Well some of the people here are pretty
crazy. I think he’ll be able to bring in a better class.”

I suspected my 87-year-old grandmother
Martha, whose Alzheimer’s disease is more advanced than Flora’s,
was one of the crazies Flora wanted to get rid of. My grandmother
is more and more confused and disoriented these days. Sometimes she
thinks I am her sister, Gail, who has been dead for 20 years. In
the beginning that was hard for me to deal with, but I now respond
to any name she calls me. I’ve come to realize there is no use in
trying to set her straight on who is who. Besides, what does it
matter? She is still my Gramma, and always will be.

When I visit, I try to find ways to connect
like we used to. My grandmother was quite a movie buff and
sometimes when I play a video of an old movie for her, she perks
up.

As I headed down the hall, I saw Tanya, one
of the unit nurses, leaving Gramma’s room. Tanya’s easy to pick out
from a distance. She’s short, and wide, and walks with a rolling
gait like she recently got off a ship. She usually wears bright
multicolor-flower-patterned scrubs that I personally think are a
bit intense for the agitated residents.

“Cleo, could I talk to you a minute?” she
asked frostily.

My stomach did a quick flip. The last time
Tanya had a talk with me, it had been about my grandmother’s habit
of collecting any stray pair of glasses she came upon and hiding
them in the back of her closet.

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Could we talk down at the nurse’s
station?”

Another stomach flip.

“Sure.” I followed along down the hall

Tanya said nothing until we got to the
nurse’s station, where she was all business as usual, standing
behind the station counter. Did this woman ever smile? “Your
grandmother’s not having a good day today, Cleo,” she said. “And
she’s been upset all weekend. She’s been wandering at night instead
of sleeping. Last night she wandered into Flora’s room and tried to
climb into her bed. You can guess how that went down with Flora.
She started screaming, and your Gramma burst into tears. It was a
mess.”

Ouch! This was so what I didn’t want to hear.
Gramma’s decline and my inability to stop it is a continual lesson
in coping with having no control. That’s one of the reasons I’m
studying meditation with Masuka. But I still find it hard that I
can’t help her more. “I wish we could figure out what’s bothering
her,” I said with a big sigh....

“I think she still misses Jenny. She asks for
her.” Jenny, Gramma’s favorite nurse, had died tragically on a
backpacking trip the previous fall.

“But Jenny died almost a year ago,” I said.
Standing on the other side of the nurse’s station counter, I felt
like a kid arguing with a teacher, but I went on. “With Gramma’s
memory problems, I can’t believe she even still remembers her.”

“These Alzheimer folks can surprise you
sometimes,” said Tanya.

She was too busy going through a stack of
papers in front of her to even look at me. “Anyway, I’m wondering
if we should talk to Dr. Ahmed about changing her medications.”

“Let’s give it a couple of weeks,” I said.
“Every time she gets new meds, she loses a little more of who she
is.”

Tanya kept her face down and began writing.
“OK. We’ll watch her for now,” she said, dismissively. “I put on
that Cleopatra movie she likes so much—maybe that will help her
stay calm for a while.”

That Cleopatra movie—the mega-blockbuster
starring Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton—was one of Gramma’s
favorites. It came out a few years before I was born. My mother
loved it too, which is how I got the name Cleopatra. I’m proud of
my name and I take it seriously. Cleopatra VII was an amazing and
inspiring woman. She was Queen of Egypt when she was only 17. She
was quick-witted, fluent in nine languages, and a shrewd
politician, who fought to save her county from absorption into the
expanding Roman Empire. Her life gives me a lot to live up to and
she was only two years older than I am now when she died. She
killed herself at age 39 in order to avoid the humiliation of being
marched through Rome in chains. Sometimes when I feel my life is
too difficult or out of control, I remind myself of what she faced
trying to save her country.

But when you grow up with a name like
Cleopatra, you develop a thick skin for jokes and insults. I’ve
heard all the “Where’s Anthony?” comments you can think up, and
don’t even get me started on barges.

When I walked into her room, Gramma greeted
me with her usual questions. “What time is it? Where’s James? I
haven’t seen him all day.” This is a hard one for me. At first, I
used to gently explain to her that Grampa had died, but she would
refuse to believe me and I didn’t feel comfortable arguing the
point with her. So now I just say, “He went to a conference in
Boston,” or “He had to give a paper in San Francisco.” She
remembers him doing those things, so she accepts the
explanation.

I diverted her attention to the video, and
sat with her for about half an hour watching it. When it came to
the part where Julius Caesar was murdered, Gramma lost interest and
dozed off. I had an appointment at my office downtown, so I turned
off the video, gave Gramma a quick kiss and headed down the hall
toward the front door.

When I let myself out of the Alzheimer’s unit
into the main hall, I saw Sharon absorbed in conversation with a
muscular, dark-haired thirty-something guy. He wore royal blue gym
pants and a matching sleeveless sport top—the fancy micro-fiber
kind with the black side panels. I could barely take my eyes off
his bulging muscles long enough to look at Sharon. It took her a
minute to notice me as well.

“Cleo, I was just telling Erik about your
project. This is Erik Vaughn. He’s a fitness trainer and
nutritionist. He comes over here twice a week to work in our
Wellness Center with some of the residents of our Senior
Apartments. Erik was one of Adam’s best friends, and he’s been
helping me and Nathan out a lot since Adam died. I don’t know what
we would have done without him. He’s the one who gave Nathan the
plants that had the unfortunate accident the other night.” Sharon
gave Erik a big smile.

“Good to meet you, Cleo.” Erik shot out his
hand for a handshake, which I have to admit left me sort of tingly.
His eyes and hair were brown, nothing spectacular, but somehow I
felt myself drawn to his straightforward gaze.

“I think that’s a great idea for Nathan to
have those plants to grow,” I said. It probably helps him to have a
positive focus like that.”

“Maybe that helps,” Sharon broke in, “but I
think it’s mainly the money Nathan is thinking about with those
seeds.”

“It’s actually a business,” Erik said. “I’m
working with the Natural Herbal Remedies Company to find people
willing to grow herbs at home, dry the medicinal parts and sell
them back. Right now we’re getting people to grow valerian plants.
The home growers invest $500 for the seeds, and stuff like
containers, peat pellets, and a greenhouse dome. They’re
slow-growing, but eventually you can make about $5000 selling back
the roots. I gave Nathan a set a couple of months ago, and he’s
really excited about the whole thing.”

“Interesting. What is valerian used for?” I
asked. Boulder being a center for natural foods, supplements,
herbal remedies and so forth, I figured I was showing my ignorance
by not already knowing about valerian.

“Some people call it an herbal valium,” Erik
said, “because it’s relaxing and sleep inducing, relieves spasms,
calms the digestion, and lowers blood pressure. It’s especially
useful for severe insomnia because it can bring on a restful sleep
without morning sleepiness or other side effects.”

“Sounds like an unusual business,” I said,
“growing medicinal herbs at home.”

“Your business sounds more unusual,” Erik
replied. “Talking to people who have ‘crossed over,’ or whatever.
It would take some convincing to get me into that.”

“I’m thinking about trying it,” Sharon
said.

“Hmm…” Erik said. “Good meeting you, Cleo. I
have to get over to the gym. Let me know if you’re interested in
getting in on the herb-growing business. See you later, Sharon.” He
loped off toward the Wellness Center.

Turning to me, Sharon asked, “Do you remember
Jenny, the nurse who worked here and died last fall? She was Erik’s
wife. It was so tragic what happened to her.”

“I certainly remember Jenny. She was my
grandmother’s favorite nurse. Didn’t she die of an asthma attack on
a backpacking trip?”

“Yes, she forgot her inhaler. Erik hiked out
as fast as he could to get help, but by the time he got back Jenny
was dead. It was awful. Erik has had a tough time, feeling guilty
and all. I told him that maybe he could look into your Contact
Project to try to reach Jenny. I’m sure she’d forgive him for not
being able to get help fast enough. And he’d probably feel more at
peace with the whole thing. But Erik has pretty much the same take
on it as my dad does.”

“Never mind. I’m more concerned about you
right now,” I said.

“Me too. Do you have a couple more minutes to
talk about it?” she asked.

“I have an appointment downtown in about 15
minutes. Could we set up a time for you to come to my office and
talk? We can talk about the Contact Project and see if it’s a good
fit with what you’re

looking for.”

“OK. When can we do it?

“Could you come after work today? I’m free
anytime after 5:15.”

I don’t usually provide appointments on such
short notice, but Tyler’s warning was still bothering me.

“I could be there by 5:30.”

“Sounds good. I’m at 736 Pearl. Unfortunately
I don’t have a parking lot, so you’ll have to find parking on the
street.”

As I rushed out to meet my client, I found
myself thinking about Erik. I was curious as to whether his herbal
remedies might be able to help Gramma calm down and get some sleep
at night. I also wondered whether Adam had told him anything about
what he’d been so worried about.

Pearl Street has become the place to be in
Boulder. Maybe you’re wondering how I could afford an office there,
and how I could offer Sharon free participation in my project. Am I
rich or do I owe my soul to Visa and MasterCard? Well, here’s the
deal—to my amazement, the Contact Project is an actual funded
project. I have an endowment from a man who was able to contact a
family member and wanted to help other people do the same. His
first name is Bruce. I can’t tell you his last name because, even
though he’s very high on the project, he doesn’t want to be
publicly connected to it. Go figure.