Authors: Patti Hill
Seeing Things (29 page)
“Oh yes, the trial-visit cottage is our ace in the hole,” Ms. Carlyle said. “Few guests can resist the beauty of this place once they've luxuriated in this cottage for twenty-four hours. My daughter is an interior designer for one of the most prestigious studios in the Denver area; she did the decorating. Besides the jetted tub, fireplace, and efficiency kitchen, every amenity, including all recreation facilities and excursions, will be yours to enjoy during your stay. There's no better way to truly appreciate all that Grand View Cottages offer.”
“Ma, if you don't stay, I will. This is lovely,” Diane said. “I love the fireplace.”
“Do you accept pets?” I asked.
“Yes, we allow small pets.”
Fletcher said, “Bee isn't small, Dad.”
“I've seen enough,” I said and headed for the front door. When I pulled the door open and stepped through the threshold, a cocoon of beige engulfed me. “This closet seems a little small to me,” I said, sure I'd solidified my children's misgivings about my mental failings.
“It's a coat closet, Ma,” Andy said in an I-told-you-so voice.
I bit down on my quivering lip and honed my words with flint. “I have lots of coats, Andy.”
Fletcher, bless his little pea-pickin' heart, took my elbow. “This place sucks.” He led me out.
Chapter 30
It's the prerogative of old women to offer unsolicited advice, so pay attention. I'm in no mood to sugarcoat or mince words, but I'm inclined to be redundant: Don't ever mimic the toddling gait of an old person. Don't make your voice quiver when you say, “Happy fortieth birthday, sonny.” Do not think for one minute that time will stand still for you. The wrinkles will come. Body parts will head south for the duration, and your blood pressure will almost surely head north.
Women drained of estrogen spontaneously combust with what are euphemistically called hot flashes. Hot is a pie fresh out of the oven, or a sandy beach on a summer day, or the steering wheel of a car parked in the sun: a hot flash is a solar flare that signals every pore of your body to spill fluid. They happen when you are freshly dressed for church, or embarrassed over forgetting a name, or in the middle of the night when your brain, absent your conscious bidding, cries, Estrogen! Tote an extra blouse around and never be caught without a bundle of tissues. Consider moving north of the Arctic Circle for the summer. Sleep with the window open all winter.
And never ever brag about your 20-20 vision to anyone.
The reading glasses will come. The holders to keep them around your neck will soon follow. You'll carry a magnifying card in your wallet to read price tags. You'll do so on the sly, cupping the magnifying card in your hand as you read the price tag. The payoff comes when you avoid buying something for $86.00 that you thought cost $36.00. And if you've played and lost the genetic roulette, or you are foolish enough to smoke or avoid green vegetables, the center of your world may slip away.
You will get old. I pray you have the courage to enjoy the sunset years, even if your children think you are going crazy.
Back at Andy's house, the thought of entering squeezed my chest. “I'm going for a walk.”
“I'm coming too,” Fletcher offered.
Diane pulled me into her side. I fit perfectly under her arm. We used to be the same height. “Ma, I have to be at the airport first thing in the morning.”
“I'll be back in ten minutes.” And because I sounded dismissive, when all I needed was some quiet to think, I added, “I'll pack you a snack for the plane when I get back. You don't have to worry; I didn't bake anything.”
“I could go with you.”
“I'll be fine. I need to blow out the pipes. I'll be back by the time you get your suitcase packed. Ask Lupe to brew us some coffee. She makes a mean cup of joe.”
Diane laughed nervously and embraced me like a squirming piglet. “I'm sorry,” she whispered in my ear.
“I'm okay. I'd put my foot in my mouth if I went into the house. Fletcher, he doesn't talk much.”
She laughed again, looser this time. “Like father, like son.”
Fletcher recited baseball statistics, barely audible, under his breath. “Don Drysdale. Brooklyn Dodgers, 1956â1957. Los Angeles Dodgers, 1958â1969. Five World Series, including a shutout against the New York Yankees in 1963. Pitched 58 consecutive scoreless innings in 1968. Amazing. Hit 154 batters.”
I stopped. “What's up?”
“Did that place smell funny to you?”
“Ms. Carlyle kept potpourri on her desk.”
Fletcher turned to continue down the sidewalk. “I hate that stuff.”
“Me, too.”
Despite my best efforts to discount Ms. Carlyle's comments as fear mongering, my thoughts raced like a hamster on a wheel, faster and faster until the contraption threatened to escape its axis and send my mind tumbling down the sidewalk. No question, seventy-two years qualified me for advanced age. Count the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin, if you have any doubts. This wasn't news. And yes, the likelihood of bad things happening increased with age. If not to me, then to people I loved. How many meals had I delivered to homebound folks that year? How many funerals had I attended? Four funerals, and this was only May. And names of people I met chirped and flitted away like sparrows.
Moving into a hermetically sealed cottage wouldn't fix any of this, but would being closer improve things with Andy? I had my doubts. After all, he'd arranged with Ms. Carlyle to express his love and concern. He claimed to want me nearby, but I barely saw him while living in his own home. Five miles of mind-numbing traffic weren't likely to improve our chances of seeing each other. But refusing their offer would send a message I wasn't sure I wanted to send.
Did I need their protection? True, I'd damaged their magazine-perfect kitchen with a grease fire, all because I'd misplaced my magnifying glass. Without it, I can't read a thermometer. This kind of carelessness was new, or at least more recent, for me. Only months earlier, I never would have turned on a stove without a lighted magnifying glass. I knew better. What had changed?
“Let me catch my breath,” I said to Fletcher, leaning hard on the walker.
“Catfish Hunter. Eight-time All-Star. Perfect game, May 8, 1968. Five World Championship teams. American League ERA leader, 1974. Cy Young Award winner, 1974. One toe missing from right foot. Died at age fifty-three from ALS.”
Catfish made me think of Huck Finn, and Huck Finn made my stomach hurt. Getting old was one thing. Watching my mind slip-slide into oblivion scared the bejeebies out of me. I shivered.
“Do you need a sweater, Grandma? I'll go get one.”
“I'm fine,” I said, but he was already running back to the house, leaving me to ponder the future where I hunched in a wheelchair with a bib damp with drool. Would I soon be yelling obscenities at my family and mumbling to myself about Huck Finn?
Lord, help me!
Fletcher arrived with the sweater just as I imagined hefty orderlies strapping me to a bed. “Thanks, darling. That feels good.”
“You know, Grandma, I could do a lot of stuff for you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I could shovel your walks when it snows. Chop wood. Go to the store for you. And pretty soon, I can drive you places. If you should get sick in the middle of the night, I'll go to the pharmacy for your medicine or take you to the doctor. And I'm a whiz at computers. I'll set you up with one of those free online phone services. You could talk to Aunt Diane for nothing.”
“Fletcher?”
“It's perfect. Living with you would get me out of Dad and Suzanne's hair, and I could help you with stuff.”
My heart thumped. “Ouray is a quiet town, Fletcher, honey. Nothing like Denver.”
“You want to go home, and I want to leave. And Bee misses you. This is perfect. Please say yes, Grandma.”
“Oh, Fletcher, if it were up to me, we'd be sipping tea on the cabin porch right now.”
“You can ask Dad tonight.”
“Fletcher, I don't think your dad would consider me the best caretaker under the circumstances.”
“I wouldn't be any trouble.”
“That's not the issue. I'm getting older. Your folks see me as a danger to myself and certainly to you.”
“That's stupid.”
“I'm not so sure.” I stopped to lean on the walker. “Leaving home isn't a step taken lightly. You don't want to burn bridges.”
Fletcher threw up his arms. “What's the difference? I'll be out of here by August. Tell me, how is living with you any different?”
“Fletcher, this is a decision with enduring consequences.”
I pressed on toward home.
Fletcher walked with me step for step. “If you don't want meâ”
“I want you!” I said, grabbing his sleeve. “You're the finest young man I've ever known. This is complicated, and you should know that.”
“I guess so.”
Oh, to be so blissfully naïve! The longer I lived, the more complicated every decision became. Even simple things, like taking an acid-reflux medication that didn't interfere with an antifungal cream without compromising the effectiveness of a blood-pressure remedy got convoluted. Or a good man came along, eager to love, a fabulous dancer, and he didn't qualify for a senior discount. What's a grandma to do about that? Refining medications was one thing; choices involving family muddied the water. Who else but family owned the opportunity to disappoint, hurt, and betray each other over decades of time? My friends remained comfortably unaware that I'd picked up Andy three hours late from basketball practice, or that I'd mortified Diane by chaperoning her senior prom, or that I kept my mouth shut when Chuck lashed out at Andy.
To live in the cottages would mean surrendering almost everything I enjoyed about life.
Trust in the Lord with all thine heart.
To refuse the cottage meant creating a chasm between me and Andy.
And lean not unto thine own understanding.
And now Fletcher wanted to live with me? That meant trouble.
In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he will direct thy paths.
“Do you trust me, Fletcher?”
“Sure, Grandma.”
I heard the doubt in his voice, but I didn't dare indulge him with promises I couldn't keep. “We can't put the cart before the horse. Decisions like this require down-on-the-knees, heart-in-your-hands prayer. God is always faithful, darling boy, to light our path. He only requires that we ask him for directions. I haven't been doing that. Watch and learn from my mistakes. I don't have enough time left to patch all my screwups.”
And honestly, neither did he.
FLETCHER SUMMONED ME TO the dining room where the rest of the family already sat around the table. Andy sat at the head with his arms folded; Suzanne examined her nails; Diane hid her face in her hands. Fletcher pulled out a chair for me.
I considered my options. I could waddle pathetically back to my room to call Emory. Or I could collect my dignity and face my family's concerns, accept their help, and surrender to the deterioration of my aging mind and body. I sat down. Fletcher did his best to navigate the heavy chair and heavier me closer to the table. I squared my shoulders.
“Are you close enough, Grandma?” he asked.
“Perfect.” I looked toward Andy. Huck leaned against the wall behind him, looking ragged from days and days on the river. Huck's jaw twitched and he stepped toward Andy. I closed my eyes to control any response to what he was about to do. When I opened them again, Huck had made horns of his fingers behind Andy's head.
I smiled despite myself.
“Mother?” Andy asked with consternation.
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