Dakota Blues (28 page)

“This is fantastic,” said Frieda, settling into a chair at the head of the table as Karen brought her a full plate. “You ladies do this every day?”

“Twice a week,” said Belle, pouring a splash of wine into a paper cup for Frieda. “Stick around. After lunch, we play cards.”

“Count me in.” Frieda grinned at Karen. “Have some more wine, honey pie. We’re not going anywhere soon.”

.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

“W
hat I like about being old is, I don’t care what people think about me anymore,” said Fern, gnawing on a fried chicken leg. “I’m free to express my opinion.”

Belle chuckled. “When did you ever not?”

“And that can go too far. Some old people use age as an excuse for bad behavior. Like this old fart at church,” Gina began.

“When do you ever go to church?” asked Belle.

“I do every Sunday.”

“I’ve never seen you there.”

“Because you’re asleep,” said Gina. “Ask the rest of them. But anyway, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, seniors often feel entitled to act belligerent just because of their advancing years.”

“Works for me,” said Fern.

Karen helped herself to another plateful of casserole. She was enjoying the back and forth between the old ladies, and she could see Frieda nodding and smiling along, completely relaxed.

“I heard it’s the absence of hormones that makes you mean,” said one woman from the end of the table.

“They took away my hormones and baby, let me tell you, I got mean,” said another.

“When you’re younger you hold back, trying to be nice and all. I heard it’s the hormones make you pliable. Any truth to that, Doc?”

A woman with spectacles and a long white ponytail nodded. “Some think it’s nature’s way of encouraging a woman’s receptivity to breeding and nurturing.”

“Too much information,” said Frieda.

Doc continued. “But after menopause, you break out of the fog and start to feel more independent again. Some say you return to the person you were before puberty, and that person is more true to who you really are.”

Karen felt that way herself lately, as if she were getting in touch with her inner eleven-year-old.

“I’ve been the same from Day One,” said the Cougar. “No man is safe around me.” She scrunched up her shoulders and squeezed her eyes shut in a girlish grin.

“That’s just too much trouble,” Fern said. “Comes a time in life you should kick back and stop worrying so much. Some things I just don’t care about any more. You’ve heard of the Bucket List? I made a Fuck It List.”

“Fern, we have guests. Watch your language,” said Belle.

Fern grinned at Karen. “Fuck it.”

“So, what’s on your list?” asked Karen.

“Well, I figure I’m never gonna bungee jump, or run for President.”

“Or win the Miss America Pageant,” said Frieda.

“You don’t know that.” The Cougar scowled. “They have older categories all the time.”

“What about you, Karen? What’s on your Eff It List?” asked Belle.

“I don’t have one.”

“How old are you?”

“I just turned fifty.”

“Fifty’s the minimum. You are now officially old enough for a Fuck It List,” said Fern. “Pour me some more wine, and let’s make her one. Anybody got a pen?”

.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

T
he hoarse cry scratched through the darkness, reaching into Karen’s dreams. She sat straight up, listening and wondering if the horrible sound was real, but in the next second she bolted to her feet, flailed at the light switch, and threw open the flimsy dividers. Frieda lay twisted in bedding. Her mouth drooped and one eye remained closed. The other roved the room, the white showing. She struggled to speak but could manage only garbled sounds, more painful than any cry for help.

“Shh.” Karen grabbed for her phone and knelt down on the floor next to the bed. Hands shaking, she punched the keypad. “It’s okay, Frieda, I’m getting help.”

“This is the operator. What is your emergency?”

Karen blurted out the van’s location twice. Then she hung up and covered Frieda with a heavy blanket, putting a pillow behind her shoulders and raising her up so she could breathe more easily. “They’re sending somebody. You’ll be okay. We’re going to get you to the hospital.” She turned on the heater and sat on the edge of the bed, gently pulling socks onto Frieda’s small feet.

“You’ll be okay,” Karen repeated, slipping her arms around Frieda, warming her. “We’re only ten minutes from Moab. I’ll call Sandy as soon as we get to the hospital.”

Frieda shook her head. “Home.”

“We’ll go home later. First we’re going to get you to a hospital. Hang on.” A few minutes later, Karen saw headlights bouncing down the dirt road toward the van. She eased away from Frieda, yanked open the door, and ran outside.

“Over here!” She waved her arms over her head as the lights hit her in the face. The ambulance braked in a cloud of dust, and men in dark shirts and heavy boots piled out. She felt the hot breath of the ambulance’s motor as the paramedics stomped past, piling into the van with their equipment. As soon as she could edge herself in, she peered over their shoulders, straining for information.

Minutes later, the men carried Frieda out of the van and onto a gurney, her face nearly swallowed up by an oxygen mask. They collapsed the legs of the gurney and slid it into the back of the ambulance with a great clatter. Karen tried to climb inside, but an EMT blocked the door, his face sympathetic.

“Can’t do it, ma’am. I apologize.”

The camp host, a thick woman in a plaid jacket, watched from sidelines. Karen hurried over. “I need a ride.”

The woman ground a cigarette butt under her heel and gestured toward her truck. According to the clock on the dashboard, it was almost two when they pulled out of the campground entrance and began chasing after the ambulance. The flashing red lights ricocheted off the canyon walls as they raced toward Moab, the friezelike etchings ghostly in the darkness.

At the hospital, Karen jogged alongside the gurney, pawing through Frieda’s wallet for her medical card and answering questions as best she could, but when they arrived at triage, the nurses booted her out and pulled the drapes closed.

She returned to the waiting room and slumped in a chair. Then she thought of Sandy. Whatever was going on with Frieda, Sandy would need to know immediately. Swiping at her wet cheeks, Karen searched Frieda’s purse for the address book. The phone rang twice, three times before being picked up, and as soon as Karen said hello, Sandy dropped the phone and began screaming. Seconds later, Karen heard the phone being jostled, and then a man’s voice. Richard listened quietly, asking only for logistical clarifications while she explained.

“I have a plane,” he said, his voice calm. “We’ll be there in three hours.” He gave her his cell number before hanging up. Karen stared at the phone. She didn’t even know these people and now she found herself shepherding their mother in her last moments.

Sandy had been right in predicting disaster. Karen tried to console herself with the knowledge that Frieda, ever independent, had chosen to make this trip. It was her decision, and the decision had made her happy.

Karen hugged the purse. The cold air in the waiting room smelled like dirty sneakers and pesticide, and the chair was all hard angles, its arms sticky. She leaned her head against the wall and watched the images on a muted CNN. The stories jumped from the latest setback in the Middle East to anorexic supermodels to a commercial about steak knives.

Nothing changes, Karen thought. People you love go through all this suffering, they fall out of love and hurt each other and fight for life in a hospital room. Life and death. Nothing changes and an oblivious world keeps rolling along.

Rolling. She grimaced, remembering the Bronco cartwheeling through the sagebrush.

She would never know exactly what had happened, and told herself for the hundredth time there was nothing else she could have done, but the memory wouldn’t go away. Alone in the waiting room, she couldn’t find the easy wisdom that had seemed so accessible on the open road, and now the only other person who could help her deal with it was probably dying.

She closed her eyes.

After dinner last night, she and Frieda had talked for hours, of men and children and love and work.

“Don’t be afraid to live your life,” Frieda had said, staring into the flames, “because if you don’t, someone else will.”

Someone else had. A whole trainload of somebodies, from her family to her teachers, to her husband, her job, her coworkers–all in the interest of being good. Thinking of herself as doing the right thing.

“Ms. Grace?”

Karen opened her eyes. A nurse stood before her.

“You can join Mrs. Richter now.”

Karen gathered her things and followed the nurse into the land behind the door of the ER, where the ill or maimed lay in un-private rooms and moans emanated from behind thin curtains. She found Frieda in a green-draped bed, around which various machines chirped and sighed. Lines and tubes connected the old woman to the machines, but her chin nestled on her chest, and her eyes remained closed. Karen pulled a hard chair over next to the bed and put her hand over Frieda’s.

When a doctor looked in, Karen demanded information, but when the young man rubbed his face, she tempered her voice, wondering how many shifts he’d worked.

“Mrs. Richter has had multiple strokes since they brought her in,” he said, consulting a chart. “The last was about an hour ago. It was a pretty strong one. We’re keeping her comfortable. Beyond that? We’ll have to see.” He apologized with his eyes and hurried away.

Karen studied Frieda’s face for a creased brow or a flicker of anguish, but she saw no movement to indicate whether the old woman remained in this room or if her spirit had already moved on, unburdened. Loneliness swamped Karen, and her forehead dropped to Frieda’s arm. It felt cool, but a pulse still fluttered under her papery white skin.

An hour later, she heard footsteps and crying, and the drapes flew back and Sandy rushed in, followed by a tall man in a windbreaker. Karen stood up, offering her chair.

“Oh, Mom,” Sandy wailed, but the monitor registered no change as she threw herself across her mother’s body. Richard put his hand on his wife’s back, making small, useless circles while she sobbed. Sandy straightened up and dug in her pocket for a tissue. “What did the doctors say?” she asked, her eyes still on her mother.

“All they can do is confirm that she’s had strokes.”

“Strokes plural? Oh, my God. How bad is she?” When Karen didn’t answer, Sandy glared at her, her face slick with tears. “Are you happy now?”

Karen took a step back. “I’m sorry.”

“How sorry can you be? You got what you wanted. You got somebody to keep you company while you went gallivanting across the desert.”

“I am so sorry, Sandra. Please know this. Your mom was happy at the end. Last night, at dinner, she talked about you. She really loves you, and she wants you to be happy.”

“Happy! Get the fuck out of this room. Now. NOW.” Richard pulled his screaming wife into his arms and nodded at Karen.

“I am sorry,” Karen said again. She parted the drapes and let them fall shut behind her while Sandra sobbed. The ER staff barely noticed as Karen left, pushing through the door to the waiting area and disappearing into the waiting room.

In the hours since she arrived, the room had filled with wailing children, hikers with swollen ankles, and trail bikers who tried to fly. She waded close-mouthed through the crush of coughing, drippy-nosed humanity, cutting a path to the door and bursting outside. In the light of late morning, she sucked in a cleansing lungful of fresh air. Past the entrance she found a sun-baked cement bench, and sat against the warm back rest, letting the heat soak into her muscles.

Alone outside the ER, Karen felt the great weight of impending grief, but both of them had known what might happen. Frieda would die the same way she had lived, on her own terms, trying to gentle her family along but in the end, making her own decisions. To Karen, it seemed a great privilege to have been with Frieda at the last, and she thought again of her mother and said a prayer of thanks to Aunt Marie for filling in.

The sun baked her aching limbs, as Karen wondered where her mom and Frieda were now in their cosmic journey. After so many years spent mastering life on this planet, a body would rejoin the earth, but what about the mind and soul? All the wisdom gained, the thoughtful maturity–was it simply gone? The memories of family and farm, dissipated into nothing?

That wouldn’t make sense. In high school science, Karen had been taught the earth is a closed system, that nothing is ever lost. Elements change into other forms and recirculate. Water evaporates into the sky, turns into clouds and returns to the earth in the form of rain. If a physical body returns to the soil, then where does the rest of the energy go?

A shuttle van pulled up on the opposite corner, towing a colorful load of kayaks, headed upriver for a day of fun. Today was just like any other for the boaters who would paddle with the current, unaware of Karen’s great loss or any other. The world just kept rolling.

She pushed up off the bench, shaking her head to clear it. Maybe the driver would give her a ride to camp. Time was passing and she needed to get back to the RV park and figure out what to do next. She started across the driveway toward the shuttle, her feet moving more quickly, her muscles loosening. Overhead, a jet streaked through the cloudless blue sky, spinning contrails in its wake. Karen looked up, watching as it disappeared, and envious of the pilot who, from his perspective, could see the curvature of the earth.

.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

K
aren thanked the shuttle driver at the campground office and set off on foot down the unpaved lane, her footsteps silent in the powdery dirt. When she rounded a row of oleander bushes, the van loomed into view, waiting for her in the parking space like a tired old horse. Karen unlocked the double doors and pulled them both open wide, leaving them agape to offset her sudden sense of isolation.