How to Knit a Heart Back Home (12 page)

The sweatshirt today was one that he’d bought in Florida for her: it had dolphins leaping over a glittery moon. As she sat in the passenger seat, one finger stroked the top of a dolphin’s head.

He’d transported lots of prisoners over the years. Some had been chatty, some sullen. But even the drunk ones hadn’t been like this. Owen began to doubt the wisdom of what he was doing.

He hadn’t taken his mother out of Willow Rock since the time he lost her in the mall last Christmas when he’d been visiting. It had been his own damn fault: he’d sent her into the women’s room while he used the men’s room as fast as he could. But when he’d sent another woman in to look for her, his mother had vanished. A half hour’s worth of searching with every security guard on duty had turned her up, tucked into a display bed in Macy’s, a box of half-eaten powdered doughnuts under the covers.

Now, even though small sobs wracked her body every fifteen seconds or so, and the tears streamed down her cheeks, Irene’s face was relaxed, and she watched out the car window as if pleased to be moving. Her fingers played over the door handle.

“Anytime you want to tell me what’s wrong, you just let me know.”

She looked at him blankly, wetly, and then turned back to the window.

So what if he was seen leading his crying mother into a bar at two o’clock on a Monday? Oh, God, what if the bar wasn’t even open on a Monday afternoon? It was possible. Probable, even. What the hell would he do then?

It wasn’t even like his mother had been a big drinker when she was younger. That had been his father.

But every night at Willow Rock they offered the residents a drink, fixing them a glass of bubbly water with a splash of grenadine. Owen supposed it calmed the ones who remembered the evening tradition. Sometimes Miss Verna added a little drink umbrella that she provided herself. This pleased Irene and made her tractable enough to tuck into bed for the night.

They were smart there.

Smarter than he was, bringing her out in public crying like this. People would think he was beating her.

Best to move quickly, then.

He parked. Of course there was a spot in front—normal people didn’t go to the bar at two in the afternoon. Just lushes and sons with crazy mothers. Come to think of it, there was probably a good amount of overlap between the two groups. He was dying for a beer.

He unlocked the doors and got out. Opening her door, he said, “Here we are, Mom. Dry your face. You don’t want people to see you crying, do you?” Owen said, and then felt immediately ashamed.

She had Alzheimer’s. Who cared if she cried, if she wanted to? He straightened his shoulders as he helped her out of the car.

This was his mother. Who cared if anyone stared?

But he sure as hell wished she would stop crying. His mother looked up at him with a puzzled frown, tears still streaming.

“We’re getting a drink. You want a drink, Mom?”

She nodded.

“Here, hold this handkerchief, all right?” Owen handed her a white one that Miss Verna had given him as they left. Maybe if she had it in her hand, she’d use it. “Can you dry your face a little before we go in?”

Irene patted her face with the handkerchief. The tears didn’t stop rolling, but now at least her chin wasn’t dripping like it had been. There were already big wet spots on her blue sweatshirt. It looked as though the dolphins really
were
leaping through the seas.

“Come on, Mama. In here.”

Quickly, into the bar, before anyone suspected elder abuse.

The high windows let the afternoon light stream in over the polished bar down to the dark wood floor. The large room was empty. Not even Lucy’s brother was visible, which was a relief.

Owen led his weeping mother across the room to a booth. Irene, still holding the handkerchief, dabbed it under her dripping chin. It was eerie, really, how placid she looked. No emotion crossed her face, which was unlike her. Usually her irritation showed. Sometimes, when listening to him talk about her house and her roses, she looked happy. But this calm face with tears still flowing as if she’d sprung a leak, this was something he’d never seen before.

Jonas came out from the back room, whistling. He stopped, pitching forward, his lips still pursed, when he spotted them in their booth.

“I didn’t hear anyone come in,” he said coldly.

Owen took a deep breath. Maybe he should have gone to Tillie’s, or the ice-cream shop, but those places were so crowded, so loud and confusing for someone like his mother. If it had to be game on with Jonas, then so be it.

“Just here for a drink.”

“Fine,” Jonas said without meeting Owen’s eyes. “Get something for you?”

“A beer for me. Whatever you have on tap. And for Mom, she’d like a virgin old-fashioned, I think.”

Jonas looked surprised. Irene gazed past him into the room, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Is that possible?” Owen tried to sound nonchalant, tried to keep the desperation out of his voice. He slung his arm up onto the back of the booth and hung his head to the side.

“Everything all right?”

“We’re working on it.”

Thank God for beer. In a couple of minutes, Jonas delivered their drinks. “The lady’s old-fashioned.” Under his breath and speaking rapidly, he muttered to Owen, “It’s iced decaf coffee with a little sugar and a cherry.”

Feeling a gratefulness he didn’t want to betray, Owen said, “Good. Thank you.”

Jonas jerked his chin. “We all have keys to the parsonage, you know. We drop by. To check on things. A lot. All the time. We don’t call first.”

He had to say it, Owen knew. He was the older brother. If he’d had a sister like Lucy, he’d damn-straight be protective, too.

“I’m not the same punk I was in high school.”

Jonas looked at him like he was sizing him up, as if he was trying to see if there were a visible way to tell if this was true or not. “You can say that all you want, but you’re still the guy living in my sister’s rental, and I don’t have to trust you farther than I can throw you.”

Owen felt his gut clench, the same way it always did right before a foot pursuit, or before a perp tried to twist out of his grasp. It took everything he had to still his breath and remain seated, his hands quiet, open. “What’s your problem with me? Are you like this with all the people she rents to?”

“Only the men.”

But Jonas looked away when he said it, and Owen knew that it wasn’t the men that Jonas felt this way about. It was him, in particular. He wondered if Jonas’s father had known his dad. God help him if he had. Hugh Bancroft hadn’t left Owen a legacy to be proud of, but if he had to make up for the sins of his father, there wasn’t enough time in the world.

“Fine,” said Owen. “I gave your sister a list of references. I can give the same list to you.” The words burned like liquid nitrogen in his throat.

Slowly, Jonas shook his head. “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt. But you only get that once.”

Irene finished her drink and burped. Her shoulders still shook with sobs.

“Seriously, guy,” said Jonas. “Is she okay? Do you want me to call someone?”

“Could we have another one of those drinks for her? Maybe even more watered down? I’m worried she’s crying out all her hydration.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Thanks.” Owen felt relief he wasn’t going to have to fight Jonas. Not that he would have, not in front of his mother, of course. It wouldn’t have come to that. But the relief he felt was palpable.

The front door opened. A middle-aged woman dressed in a purple sweater with snowflakes on it entered. She seemed to bring noise and light. Were those bells attached to her shoes?

Irene noticed her as well. Her face, so still and unmoving, lit up as she looked across the room.

The woman waved both arms at Jonas. “You have to help me! I think one of my tires is going to go flat! It looks funny. I touched it and it doesn’t feel like the other ones—it feels like it’s just not really confident about wanting to be a tire.”

“Mom, now?”

“I’m just outside, it won’t take a minute.”

Grumbling, Jonas followed his mother outside. Irene’s face went back to disinterested. And wet. Still very wet.

A few minutes later, Jonas reentered the bar and brought over the second drink to Irene. “Here you go. Sorry. You know mothers.” Jonas gave Irene a half smile and for one moment, Owen saw Lucy’s eyes in his face.

“Are her tires okay?”

“They’re fine. She has strange ideas sometimes.”

Jonas’s mother, entering the bar again, heard this last. “Don’t be silly. It’s worth getting my son to check on these things for me. It’s about my safety, isn’t it?”

Jonas rolled his eyes, but turned to face his mother. “Yeah, Mom. I made sure that you’re safe. You feel better?”

“So much! Thank you, my darling boy!” She went up on her toes and embraced her son’s neck. She kissed him twice on the cheek.

“Look at him!” she said across the room to Irene. “Isn’t he just the most handsome thing? Oh, Bart and I made some good babies. How nice to see you out, Irene. Is that your son? He’s handsome, too.”

“Mom,” said Jonas.

Irene’s eyes opened wide through their tears. The woman crossed the room, bells tinkling.

“Owen Bancroft.”

“Toots Harrison, so nice to meet you.” She shook Owen’s hand and then held her hand to Irene.

“She probably won’t . . .” started Owen. But then his mother folded the damp handkerchief, placed it carefully on the table, and shook Toots’s hand.

“Wow,” he said.

“Pleasure,” said Toots. “Honey, what’s wrong? I haven’t seen you in a long time. You look so sad.”

Toots didn’t let go of Irene’s hand, and Irene didn’t pull hers back. There was a quiet moment as Owen and Jonas watched their mothers stare at each other. The tears didn’t slow on Irene’s face, but her eyes softened.

“We don’t know what’s wrong,” said Owen. “The nurse said she’s been doing this for hours now, without stopping.”

“Well,” said Toots. “We’ll just have to deal with that, won’t we, Irene? Crying is good for the soul, but then it has to stop, too.” She gently pulled her hand away from Irene and gave her back the handkerchief.

“You just hold that tight for a minute, honey. I’ll be right back. I can fix this.”

Owen was too surprised to say anything.

“Mom?” said Jonas, looking startled. “Mom, you’re not going to do anything like . . .”

“Just a little bit, Jonas. No one will mind.” She was already darting out of the bar. “Be right back!”

Jonas groaned. “She’s out of her mind.”

“So’s mine.”

Owen took another gulp of his beer. Thank
God
his drink wasn’t virgin.

Back through the door Toots jingled, carrying a red tote.

She said, “Scoot a little, honey,” to Irene, who did indeed scoot, to Owen’s surprise. Toots sat next to her and took things out of her bag: alcohol, cotton balls, long thin needles.

Needles?

“What the hell?” said Owen.

“Mom, you can’t do this to just anyone.”

“Do what?” Owen held up a hand.

Toots grinned and crossed her eyes at Owen. “Just a little acupuncture. It’ll fix her right up.”

“Acupuncture?” Owen almost yelled the word.

“Mom, that’s not sanitary. Not in my bar. I’ll lose my license!”

“Hush. No one’s going to see me doing it. You boys pipe down.”

Irene leaned forward to look, and tears dribbled off her chin and onto the tabletop.

“You see that?” said Toots. “She’s interested. She knows this is good stuff. You want to try this, honey? Here, wipe some of those tears away again, I don’t want you crying into my kit bag.” Her touch looked light as she used the soggy handkerchief on Irene’s chin and cheeks.

Owen blew a puff of air from his cheeks. How bad could this be? “You know what you’re doing?”

Toots nodded. “Of course. It’s one of the many things I was meant to do.”

She stripped paper from the needles. At least they looked sterile. Small comfort.

“Mom, you’re not even licensed yet. You’ve only had like four classes.”

“Licensed, schmicensed. I don’t need the government to approve of what I do, and neither do you, my boy.”

Owen said. “
Excuse
me?” That’s what every gun-toting off-the-grid libertarian had ever said to him, right before he arrested them.

Toots held a finger in front of his nose. “Shhh. Don’t disturb the process. Irene, take a deep breath in for me.”

Irene drew a shuddering breath.

“Now, this won’t hurt a bit, and it will make you feel better, all right?”

Owen knew he should jump in, but he felt frozen. He couldn’t do anything, couldn’t move, and he couldn’t stop it, either.

Toots raised a needle high and then stuck it, quickly, with a small tap, into the very top of Irene’s head.

“Are you
crazy
? Her head?”

“Quiet. Don’t scare my patient.” Toots’s voice was stern, and Owen fell silent.

“Just two more. One here,” a swab with a cotton ball and then a needle went into the flesh between Irene’s right thumb and first finger. “And one here.” Another needle, just the very tip, went into Irene’s other hand.

“Put your hands on your thighs, love. Lean back into the booth. Close your eyes. Rest in the breath.”

“Mom? Does it hurt?” Owen didn’t think Irene would answer him, but she rocked back and forth in a no gesture as she kept her eyes closed.

“Let me see one of those,” he demanded of Toots. She nodded and handed him a needle. It didn’t even look like a regular needle—it was so thin it was almost transparent at the end. Barely the width of a hair, the whole needle moved and bent with the lightest touch.

“Do one in me,” Owen said.

Jonas raised his eyebrows. “You sure, man?”

“Yes. Put this one in me. I want to see if it hurts.”

“Just one?” asked Toots, sounding disappointed.

“One.”

“Just one place for it, then.” She swabbed a place between his eyes, up about a centimeter. Then she held the needle to his forehead and gave a slight tap. She drew the outside casing back, leaving the tiny wire bouncing above his eyes.