NOW THAT KATHERINE was gone, if I took a morning stroll, I did it mostly alone. Iris sometimes joined me, but she wasn’t really interested in whether Mr. O’Neill and Miss Baxter were flirting with one another or if Mrs. Schwarz’s son was really as big a shot as she claimed. But when Katherine was alive, we used to make a perambulation around the facility and notice things. Gather impressions. Then we’d spin our theories about our neighbor’s activities over coffee. But if I tried this with Iris, I never got very far. She said it wasn’t like me, that I was becoming a busybody in my old age. She was right, but I found I had enjoyed being an occasional busybody. What else did I have to do?
But since she returned from her trip, Iris seemed determined to spend time with me at Ridgewood, maybe to convince herself that I’d be okay when she moved, or perhaps to take advantage of her proximity. Fortunately, the huge upside of walking in the morning with her was that I could simply relax and enjoy her company, because neither Evan nor Lottie or Geri, and certainly not the judge, were ever seen before lunchtime.
One morning after our stroll, we landed in the front sunroom. It was the perfect place to observe the world of Ridgewood. From there, we could watch the comings and goings in the lobby and hear almost everything as well. Including Thomas buttering up his boss, Mr. Alfred, the supersized executive director. They were standing outside the door to the office. As usual, Thomas wore an ingratiating expression. His body was pitched forward, looking up at Mr. Alfred’s chin. Alfred pointed and nodded at the patio, visible through the lobby windows, where a number of residents were sitting. I had noticed a similar exchange yesterday. When Alfred went back into his office, Thomas immediately reached for his phone and made a call, his face a stern mask.
“Mom? Mother?”
I realized Iris had been talking to me.
“Earth to Mom. What in the world is so interesting? What are you are looking at?”
“Let’s go out to the patio.” I pushed myself up off the bench. “I want to sit outside. It looks beautiful out.”
“Great idea!” Iris said with too much zest. There seemed to be a lot of intentional enthusiasm lately. She stood and put her hand under my elbow. “Let’s get some fresh air.”
As we headed past Thomas, I offered him my brightest hello. He was frowning into his phone, looking out at the patio, but he gave me a fake smile and a thumbs-up sign. I leaned on Iris as we stepped outside, and lifted my hand against the sun to let my eyes adjust. Chevron paving stones outlined a dappled courtyard lined with benches. Pots of begonias and impatiens hung all around. At the far end, past the flowers, a trellis framed a path to the wide lawn, which sloped down to the preserve—the same preserve I saw outside my window.
Next to the trellis was a folding table with a paper sign taped to the front: “Nature Walks and Critter Watchers.” Iris and I looked at one another and headed toward it.
As we neared the table, Marta, the activities director, appeared, looking flustered. She slipped her phone into her pocket and smiled at me. “Francine! Nice to see you again.”
Shoot. I hadn’t talked with Marta since I’d stopped attending the book group. I had to head her off before she announced my lack of attendance, because I wanted Iris to think I was super busy and engaged. I replied loudly, “Yes. We missed you while you were away.”
She looked at me, confused. “I wasn’t …”
I picked up the clipboard that was lying on the table and interrupted her, “What’s this about? Looks interesting.”
She switched gears immediately and leaned forward. “Would you like to sign up for a Nature Walk? Be a ‘Critter Watcher?’ You would love it. Last week we saw deer, a raccoon, and an egret.” She pushed a pen toward me eagerly. Nervously. Her eyes flashed for a moment to where Thomas stood in the lobby.
So he was making her jittery too.
Iris jumped in. “Mom! That’s a great idea. You’ve always loved the outdoors.”
I’ve always loved cheeseburgers too, I thought, but that doesn’t mean I want a behind-the-scenes tour of MacDonald’s. But I did not want to alienate anyone. Instead, I smiled. “Thanks for asking.” I patted Iris’s arm, upon which I was leaning, “but I don’t think I could handle the uneven terrain. Even on this patio, if Iris weren’t here with me, I’d need to use my walker, or at least my cane.”
“Oh, no need to worry about that,” Marta said. “We’ve put in a special path for wheelchairs and walkers, and we always have plenty of staff and volunteers on hand.”
Iris was enthusiastic. “I was just reading in the newspaper about how we’re all suffering from ‘nature deficit disorder.’” She turned to me. “Mom, sign up! I’ll try to come along, if it works with my schedule.”
Marta held out the pen. “Francine, I think you’d be a wonderful example for some of our other residents who aren’t as active as you. Or as curious and informed.”
I knew she was trying to flatter me. At Ridgewood, there were several areas the residents got competitive about. A big one was health: either how much pain they were in or how bad their rheumatism/heart palpitations/knees were; or, conversely, how great they were feeling, how they still golfed or swam or power-walked. Another arena for bragging rights was how fabulous their kids and grandkids were, or how much the younger generation ignored them or sponged off them.
But Marta was trying to engage me in a different sport, a competition about acuity: reminding others—and ourselves—how good our minds, memories, and hearing still were. This was a weirder competition and more ambiguous, since the gradual erosion of memory and cognition was not always recognized by the people who were affected. Perhaps that was a mercy. Being “still sharp” was harder to brag about, since it wasn’t necessarily connected to getting old. Some people have been idiots their whole lives, and in my experience a lot of stupid people don’t know they are stupid. In fact, for some people a symptom of their stupidity was that they were proud of their own faulty thinking.
But clearly, it was in this arena of competence and intelligence and memory, of having capacity and wit to think and put two and two together, that Marta figured I was vulnerable to flattery. And she was right.
Iris saw the crack in my resistance. “Mom, come on. You should do this.” Then she lifted a brow and got a glint in her eye. “Remember all those hikes you and Daddy used to make us go on?” Her voice was teasing, but I knew she’d be relentless. “I seem to recall you harping about how important getting out in nature was and how good for us it would be.” Iris had always complained about those hikes. Her grin told me she was enjoying this. Turnaround is fair play, I guess.
I sighed. It wasn’t like I had anything better to do, and I had the sense signing up would help Marta. She was obviously trying to placate Thomas.
“I suppose I could give it a try. When is the next outing?”
Marta’s face radiated approval. “Tomorrow morning, as it happens.” She offered the clipboard, and Iris handed me the pen. Clearly, I was not going to get out of at least signing up. I took the pen and put down my name.
Iris winked at me. “I wonder how many of those chickens you’ll see?”
Marta said “Chickens? I don’t think—”
Iris ignored her and continued to grin at me. “You know. All those ‘you need to get out in nature’ chickens, coming home to roost.”
I groaned. “Your father always said you were the family champion of bad jokes.”
Later that evening I sat by my window and looked out at the preserve, feeling my old resistance kick in. My impulse has always been to avoid participating in group events, even in activities I consider pleasurable. But why? After all, these sorts of opportunities are why I pay rent here rather than living in some dark institution with no access to nature or staff to help one experience it. Was it because I thought it meant I was somehow giving in—drinking the “old person Kool-Aid”? That doing organized activities with my peers signaled I had lost self-awareness, that I had become just like all the other old folks following along and giving in to some sort of groupthink? Couldn’t I plan my own outings, thank you very much?
Right. Because I had so many other options. I was holding myself apart because of my vanity. “Bloom where you are planted, Francine,” my mother’s voice came in dimly.
So, I could pretend I was not really an old person living at Ridgewood because I had fallen too many times in my condo—the condo I moved into to begin with after the stairs in my old house got too tall. Or I could try to find enjoyment even here, even now.
The knock came at my door early, but I was ready for it. I had on sunglasses, bug spray, and a wide-brimmed hat. Ridiculous, perhaps. I wasn’t going to the equator. Still, I figured, “in for a penny, in for a pound.”
I pulled open my door and was happy to find Jannah, wearing a smile and sunglasses. I hadn’t seen her since the night I’d overheard her conversation with Graciela.
“Seeing you makes me happy that I let my daughter talk me into this,” I said.
“Good morning! The feeling is mutual. I was surprised to see your name on the list, but I was glad.” Sweet. The way she said it made me think maybe she really meant it. “Do you want to use a wheelchair, or do you think you can manage with a walker?”
I considered. “How long is the trail?”
“Maybe a half mile, all told. But we go only as far as you want. What do you think?”
Suddenly I was unsure of my strength. It’s one of the worst parts about getting old. I find myself second-guessing my own abilities, constantly having to balance my sense that I can still do anything with the fear of embarrassment if I fail.
“I think you’ll be good with your walker,” she said. “If you get tired, we can stop.”
I really liked Jannah.
We made our way through the lobby and joined a small group on the patio. Most of them were in wheelchairs. Marta was there in a yellow hat and with her omnipresent clipboard. She grinned as she saw me. “Glad you could make it.”
Then she turned to the others and spoke loudly, “Welcome everyone. Today we have a special treat. We have a guest from the local Audubon Society. He says there has been a sighting of a Cooper’s hawk in the area.” A short-legged man dressed in a green “Birders Are Beautiful” T-shirt and khaki pants a smidge too tight stepped in front of us.
“Good morning!” he boomed. “I’m so happy to be here! We’re going to see some exciting things today!” He canted forward on his toes like a kindergarten teacher.
I thought, Uh-oh. Here it comes. This is why I avoid joining things: I hate being treated like a child. He spoke loudly and enunciated as if we were tourists just learning English. He held up a laminated photo of a hawk. “Can anyone guess what this is?”
Let me think. A Cooper’s hawk?
“No one wants to venture a guess?” His head rolled on his neck like he was a toy figure. “It’s a Cooper’s hawk! This pretty boy has been seen in your woods, like Marta mentioned. Isn’t he something?”
By now even Marta looked uncomfortable. She stepped in, clearing her throat. “Yes. Well. Thank you.” She eased the man to the side. “Perhaps we should set off and try to see it.”
“You don’t want me to give my presentation? I brought visual aids—”
“I think it’s better if we get going before the day gets too warm. If you don’t mind?” Seeing the man’s crestfallen demeanor, she added, “Perhaps you could walk along with us and let us know if you spot something?”
I sent a quick “oh God, rescue me” glance to Jannah, and to my great relief, I saw her smile twitch and her eyes signal understanding. She mouthed, “No worries.”
We set off. After the group crossed the side lawn, we came to a path that sloped gently downward, into lovely, dappled shade. Jannah let the others, along with Marta and the Audubon volunteer, go in front of us. After we crossed into the wood and let our eyes adjust to the filtered sunshine, Jannah slowed even more, and the group got further ahead. They passed out of sight when the path curved around a small rise. By unspoken agreement Jannah and I stopped and took in the green light and smell of moss and leaves and moist soil. A small white butterfly danced by.
Jannah had her arm looped under my elbow, supporting me. She said, “It’s beautiful here. Just steps from the lawn and it feels like an enchanted forest.” Then she seemed to be embarrassed. “I guess that sounds childish. It is what I used to think whenever I played in woods when I was a kid.”
We started walking again, slowly. I asked, “Where did you grow up?”
“Right by here. In fact, I remember when they built this place.”
I turned to her in surprise. I had always taken her to be an immigrant because of her slight accent and patterns of speech. “You’re from here?”
She stiffened. “My family is from Jamaica. But we came here when I was young.” Her voice had lost its warmth.
Embarrassed, I flattened my hand against my chest in a gesture of apology. “Oh, please don’t think badly of my question.” I added, “My parents were immigrants too.”
She pressed her lips together and nodded. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just some here aren’t very nice.”
I spoke deliberately. “People are being difficult?”
Her eyes flicked away. “It’s fine. Please, I shouldn’t say anything.”
I thought of what I overheard between her and Graciela. “Do you mean Thomas?”
She stopped and there was concern in her eyes. “I’m not complaining. They pay okay, and most of the residents are sweet.” She inhaled and put on a professional face. “Like you!” Then she added, “Besides, it’s a great job while I’m in school.”
“For nursing? Like Graciela?”
“Maybe. I’m in night school now. I have to see if I get decent grades in chemistry before I can apply to the program.”
We proceeded slowly along the path. It was packed crushed limestone, easy enough to negotiate with my walker, and not slippery. As the sun filtered through the trees, Jannah and I fell into a comfortable silence. I had to admit it was pleasurable. Feeling the green all around me and smelling the earth was better than watching from my window.
Suddenly Jannah tightened a grip on my arm and stopped me. She held her finger to her lips and motioned her head to the left.
There, more still than the trees surrounding them, froze a doe and her fawn. Jannah and I were perhaps fifteen feet away. For a charged moment, neither of us moved. The doe stared at us and seemed to be weighing her options. Then, from far ahead of us on the path, someone cried, “Hawk!” The doe sprang away, bouncing off into a thicket with her fawn.
We both exhaled. Jannah said, “I loved how she looked at us. Do you think they were afraid?”
“Probably. Although I’ve seen deer become unafraid when they learn that no one hurts them. In the forest preserve I used to go to, the bucks got to be so brazen they wouldn’t even get off the road when I drove up to them.”
“You mean they were tame? Did you feed them?”
“No, not at all. It seemed almost the opposite of tame … it was like they were in charge. Like they knew nothing would happen. In fact, there were so many deer, they were destroying the wood. Too many animals eating the plants.” I hadn’t thought about it in years. “It really bothered me, the first time I had to honk and honk to get a deer to move off a roadway. Something about it made me think of all the ways we have altered the world, how messed up the balance is. It wasn’t right.”
We proceeded a few moments. Then Jannah asked, “Where did you grow up?”
“On a farm. Way up north, near Canada.”
“Is that where the forest preserve was?”
“Oh no. The forest preserve I was referring to is around here. I used to take my kids. The deer where I grew up acted a lot different. Up there, the deer were definitely afraid of people. They were right to be. There was a lot of open land, and everyone hunted.”
As we rounded a curve, there was a bench discreetly placed next to the path. We could hear the enthusiasm of the Audubon volunteer echoing through the leaves ahead of us. We glanced at each other, and instinctively we both sat down.
Jannah sighed. “It seems sad for the deer, in a way. So hemmed in. Their lives are controlled, even if they are safe.”
I sensed she was going to say more, to explain. But in a moment she asked, “Where were your parents from?”
“My mom’s family was from Czechoslovakia. My dad was Sicilian. My mom got in a lot of trouble for marrying him. He had dark hair and a dark complexion, and people where they lived called him a WOP.”
“A what?”
I looked at her. “A WOP. You mean they don’t use that expression anymore?”
“I’ve never heard it.”
“Good. It’s an insult. It means ‘without papers,’ but it was only used against people who weren’t considered quite as good as others.” I swallowed. “People would use that term to imply they didn’t belong here.”
Jannah met my eyes, and there was a wordless exchange.
I tried to raise the topic again. “At one hospital where I worked, there were people who took advantage of immigrants. Asked them to do things others didn’t have to do, gave them the worst shifts, and didn’t promote them or give them raises. I know it happens.”
She turned away and wouldn’t look at me. I decided to risk it. I cleared my throat. “Jannah … I-I overheard you talking with Graciela the other night. About her son, and I wondered, I mean, I don’t know, of course, but …”
I was blathering. Jannah lifted her eyes to me, her expression unreadable. I knew it was none of my business. But I also knew that sometimes people could stop unfair things if they were willing to stick their nose outside of their own business once in a while.
So I bit my lip to stop yammering. I sat up straight, looked her at her directly and said simply, “Please forgive me if I’m out of line. But I wanted to tell you that if there is anything I can do for either of you, please let me know.” I could hear the rest of the nature walkers drawing near us: they must’ve turned around after seeing their hawk. Jannah had still not answered, but she now shifted her gaze up the path toward the sound of them coming.
She stood. “It seems like we’re returning.” She leaned down to assist me to my feet. But she still wouldn’t make eye contact. She helped me up, holding my elbow. I cleared my throat and said, “Jannah?”
She kept her face turned away for another second. Then she turned to me, consternation in her expression. “I understand you mean well. But it’s complicated. Please. It’s better if you just keep out of it.”
We had only a moment before the others arrived. She still was supporting my elbow, and I pressed her hand with mine and spoke so she couldn’t mistake my meaning. “Okay. But if I can ever help, please just ask. Really. I may be old, but there is freedom in that. It means I can say what needs to be said. I’m not intimidated by bullies.”
Her solemn eyes held mine for a moment. Then her mouth became soft, and she nodded.