Beautiful Star of Bethlehem Page 7

  Guest activity is picking up. There are more visitors coming and going, bringing potted plants to residents. When I return from my daily walk, I note with surprise that I have company. Jack Jr. and Melissa wait in my room. The woman is arranging a small bouquet of cut flowers in the vase beside my bed. I pause in the doorway, taken aback by the sight. Organ music swells from corridor one.

  Jack Jr. flashes a grin that reminds me so much of Jack Sr. that my heart nearly stops. “There you are, Mom.”

  “Why—my!” I clasp my hands to my chest. I have spent eyes from studying my family pictures, and I feel rather good the effort has paid off. I can almost with certainty identify Jack Jr., Steven, and the two ladies they bring with them. Melissa and Julee. “Is it a holiday again? I wondered why the corridors smell so festive today.”

  The man crosses the room to give me a bear hug. “Sorry we haven’t been to see you lately. I’ve had a big case, and Missy’s… always tied up.”

  I know. He doesn’t have to explain; the time it takes to excuse why he doesn’t visit cuts into today’s visit. They never stay long, anyway. There is something I need to speak to him about. My eyes move from the pretty lady—Melissa, I remind myself of her name—to the man, Jack Jr. Something very important that I need to tell him, but I can’t recall what.

  “You know who I am, don’t you, Mom?”

  “Why, silly. Of course I know who you are.” I enter the room and store the cane that I’m carrying these days. Does he think I’m feeble? “I hoped you’d come today.” My eyes automatically skim the room in search of Jack Sr., but I don’t mention my husband’s name. The subject only upsets the couple.

  The woman steps around him, smiling. “Come see what I’ve brought you, Arlene.” She turns me toward the bed and points to the lovely bouquet of fresh-cut flowers and a pink nightgown. Both are nice. Her perfume is even lovelier. Elizabeth Taylor’s Passion.

  “Now don’t ask, ‘What am I going to do with the gown?’ You’ll wear it,” the man says.

  His voice is patient—almost patronizing. I do not appreciate the work-with-me tone. I ease closer, my eyes assessing him, feeling a bit daring. “Where am I going to wear it?” The garment is beautiful but completely out of place in the dining room, and I will freeze sleeping in the sheer fabric.

  He guides me over to the straight-back chair and sits me down. He perches on the sofa. “What have you been up to these days?”

  I need a moment to sort through my answer. Each day is the same. “Did I tell you that I got the place of honor at the door this Halloween?”

  “Congratulations.” He addresses the woman in a cool tone. “Steve brought Ella by this year, didn’t he?”

  “Of course he did, Jack.” Her tone is cordial but guarded.

  I change subjects because it seems to me that these two have a gate between them—a big iron gate that prevents them for speaking in cordial tones. “Have I told you about my best friend, Una? We have grown so close. I feel like she’s family.”

  He nods, smiling. So like my husband, Jack. “I’m glad that you have a special friend.”

  “It’s the best friendship ever,” I admit. “I don’t know how I’d pass the time without our long talks.”

  “Some night,” the man promises, “I am going to come and have dinner with you and Una. Would you like that?”

  “I would love that.” I smile at the pretty woman, who is busy tucking the new nightgown in the drawer. “Miss…” Her name is on the tip of my tongue but won’t slide out. “I want you to come, too.” The facility has a special room—a separate area where people who love each other gather to eat. I never personally get to use the room, but I see and hear the contagious laughter coming from behind closed double doors.

  The man nods. “It’s a date. Make a note of the day on that oh-so-important calendar, Melissa. It’s high time that we meet Una.” He gives my hand a firm squeeze.

  “I’ll do that, Jack—and you make certain to leave ten minutes open so that you can join us. I’m sure the country club and your golf buddies will understand.” She bends forward to quietly speak to me. “Thank you, Arlene, I’d love to have dinner with you and Una.”

  I stare at her. “Gwendolyn thought she was eating butter beans for breakfast. Isn’t that funny?” There are so few comical events around here; the mistake suddenly strikes me as hilarious.

  The lady’s gaze slides to the man’s, and a hesitant smile parts ruby-red lips. “Charming.”

  “She was eating Cheerios,” I clarify.

  “Oh.” She sends another brief glancing smile toward the man. “How very… witty.”

  I don’t think Gwen was trying to be witty; she really thought she was eating beans.

  The man’s name rushes back, and I make sure to use it. “Jack Jr.?”

  “Yes, Mom?”

  “Is that a bit of silver I see in your hair?”

  He runs a self-conscious hand over the top of his head. “My barber must have missed a patch.”

  “Silver is attractive. My Jack was gray by the time he was thirty.” I can remember almost everything about my husband—his grin, his flirty looks, his teasing remarks—yet I don’t recall when or how I met him or married him. Memories flicker and evaporate into thin air.

  “Mom.” Jack Jr.’s features sober. “Are you happy here?”

  “Happy?” The answer surfaces like a fishing bobber. “I don’t think so, dear.”

  “Would you like to move to another facility? Can we do anything to make this time in your life easier?”

  Such a serious George. He sounds like he’s wrecked his new bicycle and dreads to tell me. “I don’t think so. I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “Melissa”—his gaze switches to the woman—“feels that you would be happier elsewhere. You have everything you need, don’t you, Mom? If you want anything, you know that all you have to do is pick up the phone.” He pauses. “Have one of the staff call me or Steven. We haven’t left you here to…” Clearing his throat, he starts again. “Steven and Julee are fifteen minutes from here. If you ever need or want us for anything, all you have to do is let them know.”

  “Really?” I think about his generous offer. Dare I tell him that I live to go home to my bed, my cozy electric blanket? Drift off to sleep with the sound of my creaky old furnace coming on and off and the big old house settling down for a long winter night?

  “Mom?”

  I look up. “Did I mention that Milton Ashley on corridor four was caught sneaking into a woman’s room after hours?”

  Considering their vacant stares, I must not have mentioned the incident. So I tell them. “The occasion created quite a stink. Even the chefs make innuendoes about ol’ Milt when Frances and I fold napkins. Milton’s actions are disgraceful: That’s what Frances says. He should be banned from the general population. A man his age needs to stuff his hands in his pocket and avoid temptation.

  “I sidestep men,” I assure my guests, thinking out loud now. “I’m a married woman.” It’s not that Milt hasn’t tried to catch my eye, but I am not interested in such nonsense. My Jack will put that man in his proper place when he hears about the flirting.

  The visit lasts a few sentences longer. Enjoyable, cordial, even loving, but I sense a great deal of tension between the couple.

  “What do you want for Christmas?” Jack asks when he slips into his tan overcoat.

  What do I want for Christmas? Haven’t they just brought me flowers and a new gown? My mind is blank. I have a bed, a closet, and a chair. A bed tray. Tall windows and fancy drapes.

  Maybe stamps. Everyone in the facility has their own stamps. I don’t know of a soul to write to, but I probably need stamps.

  “How about clothing?” Missy offers. “Perhaps a new dress—shoes?”

  “No,” I refuse politely. I have a closet full of pants that hang like gunnysacks on me, and the blouses stretch across my bosom like shrink wrap. The last thing I need is more clothing that doesn’t fit.

&n
bsp; “Just stamps,” I say and know in my heart I will get another pair of saggy slacks. Heavenly baking scents drift from the hallway. It surely must be a special day. “Are you going to stay and eat dinner with me?” If I had known they were coming I could have reserved the special room.

  “Can’t today, Mom.” He lifts his shirt cuff and consults his fancy gold watch. “Wow. Look at the time. I have to be going.”

  “So good to see you, Mom.” The woman gives me a little hug. “You have a wonderful dinner with your tablemates.”

  “Gwendolyn’s sick. She won’t be at the table.”

  The man appears surprised. “Wasn’t she sick this time last year? What a shame.”

  “But there’ll be others at your table, won’t there?” Missy adds.

  Now they are confusing me. The woman’s prompting smile makes me sorry I’ve hinted at disappointment. There are others, the same old tired faces that I see day in and day out. I latch onto the woman’s coattail. “You will come back and have dinner with me some night? Meet Una?”

  “Of course we will.” She pats my hand. “Soon, I promise. And tell Una hello for us. We can’t wait to meet her.”

  The man bends and gives me a kiss that leaves my cheek smelling like a brisk autumn rain shower. “Take care of yourself, Mom.” His voice lowers. “I love you—you know that, don’t you?”

  “I love you, too.” I want to add his name. I had it a minute ago, but it’s slipped out of reach again.

  The woman reaches for the big red satchel. Long, bright red nails flash. I walk the couple to the doorway and eye the woman sideways, longing to ask about my Jack but sensing the subject is off limits.

  “You have a good day.” The man gives me one last peck on the temple, and I stand in the doorway, the smell of his aftershave fading as I watch the couple walk down the hallway, greeting staff. In many ways they remind me of Jack and me in earlier days. Happy. Confident. So very busy and important.

  But so very cold to each another. That wasn’t Jack’s way or mine.

  I turn and walk back to my bed and sit down, staring at my hands. There’s a lovely diamond, not overly large, on the third finger of my right hand. It’s very pretty, but the hands aren’t my hands. These are old hands. Red and dry. I have lotion in my bedside table but forget to apply it. Someone comes to polish nails weekly—one young woman or another who chews bubble gum and giggles a lot. The effort is appreciated. They try, but often the polish globs in the corner of my nails.

  A sigh catches in my throat. I’m sure that if Melissa is bent on buying me clothing, she will at least try to find something that fits.

  Suddenly I sit straight up. bareMinerals. That’s what I want for Christmas.

  Drat. Getting out of bed, I scribble a note: bareMinerals. Melissa.

  Climbing beneath the covers, I relax, glad to have that over.

  Thank goodness makeup doesn’t come in sizes.

  Chapter Eleven

  Coffee, Arlene?”

  I turn when the stout, friendly lady holding a coffeepot breaks into my woolgathering. “I believe I’ll have tea this morning, thank you.”

  “I’ll get that right away.” The lady smiles and moves on to pour her offering to a couple, who nod and greet her with wavering smiles. There aren’t many smiles in this place. Pitiful few are firm and confident; most are mere wisps, hesitant and given like money from a stingy banker.

  After a while, I amble to my table. Unfolding my napkin, I am reminded that it will be awhile before my dining companions join me. Even as the thought passes through my mind, Gwendolyn shows up, looking a bit shaky on her feet. The back of her silver hair has a large pillow crease, and my hand automatically comes up to check my appearance. She makes a big deal of seating herself, scraping chair legs, rattling glasses.

  “Well,” she notes, her eyes pinpointing me. “Are you going to ask how I’m feeling?”

  My mind might as well be a blank sheet of paper. “Should I?”

  “I’ve been sick again.” She jerks the chair free of the table and lowers her bulk into it.

  “You have?” Well, now I feel awful. I should have visited her. I have nothing else to do. Images of birds and snow-white napkins come to mind but make no sense. I don’t know what I do with my time. “I’m sorry.”

  She stares at me and shakes her head. I hope she isn’t going to remind me that I can’t remember squat. I’m getting a little tired of that allegation. “I hope you’re feeling better?”

  Her striking blue eyes have yet to regain their earlier fiery intensity, but her tongue can still pierce marble when she wants, and if she isn’t reprimanding she can break out in tears and give a warm hug. Unlike Frances, who has fangs and bites and doesn’t care who gets bitten. The former librarian is English. Stiff upper lip, she likes to remind when anyone at the table complains about a minor ache or pain. “Life isn’t a carousel in an amusement park,” she repeats.

  As if our dreary group isn’t reminder enough.

  Eleanor is ninety-one and the oldest of the group. She rarely contributes to conversations. The occasional nod or poke if she wants more butter covers her requests. When she does speak, her voice is so low I have to bend to catch her words.

  Gwendolyn’s voice, on the other hand, ricochets like heavy thunder and slices through the drapes, blathering on and on about her knitting, the sheer brilliance of great-grandchildren, her seven daughters who never come to see her, and a no-good, cheating husband who had taken their prize horse and left her twenty-seven years ago, shortly after her last child’s birth, for a woman half his age.

  Her blue eyes narrow, and I can hear her teeth grind. “I still miss that horse.”

  I am halfway through my cup of tea when Eleanor arrives, cheerful as a songbird this morning. “Just got the word,” she says in low tones, “the Christmas tree is going up today.” She hooks her cane over the back of her chair and sits down. “Have you been asked to help?”

  “It’s Christmas again?” I shake my head. It seems I’ve decorated that tree fifty times since I’ve been here.

  Frances joins us and shoves her empty coffee cup to the side. “My stomach won’t tolerate mud this morning. I want citrus tea.”

  Ha, I think. Citrus tea. Here? But moments later, a lady is holding a box open for Frances’s inspection. The librarian smugly glances my way and plucks a bag from the box.

  Shaking my head, I admit that I don’t recall being asked to help decorate the tree.

  “Shame.” Eleanor opens her napkin and creases it flat in her lap. “There’s so little enjoyment around here.” Her faded brown eyes graze the filling dining room. “A few get to do everything special, but occasionally—if you’re standing up there when the tree goes up—you can help.”

  Vermont was never lovelier than during the Christmas season.

  I glance out the window and wonder why the… bordering on blistering, at times. I haven’t witnessed a large snow in… well, I couldn’t recall the last time.

  “Do you ever wonder why it doesn’t snow?”

  “In Georgia?” Frances spoons oatmeal into her mouth. “You’re plain off your rocker, lady.”

  “Georgia?”

  “You’re in Atlanta, Georgia, girl. Been here for what—more than four years? We can get some big snows, but it’s rare; nothing like where you’re from.”

  Anger flares. I’m not the irritable sort, not like some around here, but the idea that Frances would deceive me and tell me that I am in Georgia floors me. Has the woman lost her mind?

  Eleanor lays her spoon down. “Well, look who’s crabby.”

  Clamping my mouth shut, I sit back and refuse to finish my tea.

  Frances motions toward the butter dish. When I pass the item, I ask, “Do you work today?” I have my disagreeable side, too.

  Eleanor laughs, catching a speck of toast that flies from her mouth.

  Word around the facility is Frances is making a big pest of herself, going to “work” in the office every day. She
’s a plain nuisance, I hear. The nurses cannot get her to understand that she doesn’t work there and she’s under no requirement to show up bright and early every morning. This has been going on for a month.

  “None of your beeswax.” The librarian’s chin juts out like a billy goat.

  I decide to keep quiet and just sit here and make both tablemates feel uncomfortable.

  Eleanor doesn’t notice the sudden chill and chats away. Blah de-blah, de-blah. Someone please hand me a rope so I can hang myself.

  Finally the meal is over, and I head for my room. Una will be there by now, and we can have a civil conversation. Before I reach my destination, I spot the nurse’s cart, hoping the torturer won’t see me. But she glances up, motioning me over. I automatically slide the sleeve of my blouse past my elbow.

  If they don’t want me to eat pie, why do they offer it?

  A soft prick and then, “There you go, sweetie.” The nurse smiles and disposes of the paraphernalia.

  The words are on the tip of my tongue to ask why I am singled out to be poked, but I’ve learned, don’t ask why. Just accept.

  By the time dinner rolls around, Frances is singing a different tune. I’d almost decided to confront her over her outrageous and delusional statement that I am in Georgia when I spot her at her self-appointed “work” station. I pause to watch the fiasco.

  A nurse kneels in a pile of folders spilled to the floor. I look closer. Are those tears in the RN’s eyes? Frances stands over her, peering through thick, horn-rimmed glasses. “Did I do that?” She snags a tissue and hands it to the nurse.

  “It’s fine… Frances.” Sucking in air, the nurse gets to her feet with an armful of folders stacked to her chin.

  “Think I’ll tackle those medical charts now.” Frances turns when the nurse drops the stack of folders.

  Frances’s drawn-on brows narrow. “It’s going to take all day tomorrow to sort those out, you know.”

  “Frances dear.” The nurse takes her by the arm and sits her down at the desk. I ease closer, not wanting to miss a word of this. “In my line of work, I am called upon to do many unpleasant tasks.”