| |
ERIC ZUMSTEIN MARCHED robotically from the parking garage into the lobby of Ludwig Memorial Hospital. With afternoon visiting hours about to begin, the needed elevator quickly filled with other family members eager to see their loved ones. Breathing in short, tense breaths, Eric stared ahead as if he was completely alone. Breaking free of the cluster at last, he focused on the checkered tiles of the third-floor hallway, glancing up only to check the passing room numbers.
Which Gram would it be today? The Maisie who greeted him as her one and only grandson, or the banshee who blamed him for her fall? Enough talk like that and people would take her seriously. Then what would he do?
The soft-blue single room possessed a framed pastel print of a flower garden and one sizeable window darkened by a thin-slatted Venetian blind. Nestled in crisp white linens, scowling in her sleep, its elderly occupant looked like a wrinkled, fuzzy troll.
Eric recalled one of the days he and his childhood playmate, James, had been parked at Gram’s while their mothers worked. The two of them played Go Fish on the floor while Maisie watched “The Price is Right” on TV. Something Bob Barker said struck Maisie funny, and her raucous, staccato laugh scared the bejeezus out of James. Eric found his friend sobbing into his sleeve in the powder room under the staircase.
“What you blubbering about?” he demanded. Gram was the woman who baked peanut butter cookies and let him win at checkers. Whenever she laughed, he laughed even harder.
Now he finally identified with what James felt all those years ago—except with a significant difference. The threat Maisie posed was not in his imagination. It was in hers.
Convincing the old woman he loved her was crucial now, not only because of her wild claims about her fall. If she lived (as it appeared she would), and if he remained unemployed a while longer (as it appeared he would), some adjustments needed to be made. He could scarcely sleep, for one thing, and he itched from cat dander nearly all the time. Also, the house smelled like old skin, and he hated Gram’s cooking.
Not much he could do about most of that, but some improvements could, and should, be made. The clutter, for instance. Easily half of Gram’s possessions were overdue for the dumpster. Unfortunately, Eric feared suggesting even a modest cleanout might anger his grandmother so greatly she would toss him out.
Stalling, he sought out a nurse for an update. The white board under the wall clock identified the person on duty as “Shawna.”
"She's with a patient,” the woman at the central desk reported, "but I can ask her to come speak with you."
As an afterthought, Eric requested an extra blanket. Gram was always cold.
The woman waved to her left. "There's a warmer around the corner. Help yourself."
Two of the hospital’s thin cotton sheets seemed just thick enough to kill the chill of the air-conditioning. Eric lay them across his grandmother as delicately as he could, but her eyes sprung open with alarm.
"Lonny," she almost screamed. "Get away from me!"
"It’s Eric, Gram. Your grandson."
Maisie’s gnarled fists gripped the edge of the flimsy covers. "Nurse!" she yelled. "Nurse! Get him out of here!"
"Lonny’s gone," Eric assured her. Decades divorced, in fact. Five years dead. You can stop now, he wanted to shout. Let it go. Move on. But no. Maisie’s hate had a life of its own.
"Liar," she snarled.
He tried a concerned smile. "How you feeling?"
The troll face narrowed into another scowl. "What do you care?"
"I care, Gram. Are you warm enough? Are you in pain?"
No reply.
When the silence began to stretch, Eric realized he would simply have to ask his question and roll with the consequences.
"About the house,” he opened. “I’d like to get it ready for when you come home, but the first floor is already jam-packed. If you’ll be sleeping there, and I’m already sleeping there...”
No way would he trade beds with her. If she couldn’t do stairs, maybe her insurance would spring for a rental.
“How about getting rid of a few pieces of furniture? Maybe the burgundy sofa?” He had stumbled into it many a morning when he woke up on the adjacent sofa bed. “Whadaya say? Can I sell it, donate it? What do you think?"
"No!" Maisie gathered a wad of blanket to her chin. "Greedy pig," she added with hot, narrow eyes. "Greedy pig." She lifted her head as if she were aiming to spit.
"Now Gram," Eric responded reasonably. "Who are you talking to, me or Lonny? I moved in to help you, remember?"
"Nurse!" The old woman’s voice lacked punch, and she hadn't pressed the call button. Maybe they wouldn't be interrupted just yet.
"I'm Eric," he tried again. "Your grandson. And I'm cleaning up the downstairs so you can get around easier when you come home. Help me out here, Gram. Tell me what you want to keep and what I can move out of the way."
"Leave my stuff alone. It's for my grandson, not you."
A young black woman in bright pink pants and a loose shirt printed with colorful flip flops tapped on the door jamb.
"Thief," Maisie barked at him. "I'll have you arrested. You hear?"
"Hi." The nurse greeted Eric as if she hadn't heard a thing. "I'm Shawna. You must be Maisie's grandson."
"Deadbeat!" Gram shouted. "Greedy bastard!"
"That's me," he said with an uncomfortable shrug. "Eric, the greedy bastard."
The nurse nodded. "When she's lucid, she asks for you."
"Thief! Rotten sonovabitch!"
"Let's step into the hall. You’d like an update, right?”
“Yes.”
When they were safely out of Maisie’s hearing, the nurse filled him in. "Aside from her arms and the hip, her blood pressure's up, and she's a bit dehydrated. Neither is unusual in the elderly. Easy fixes, both of them, although you should see that she drinks more fluids when she gets home."
Eric nodded. "I don’t suppose she’ll be doing stairs for a while, right?"
“Correct.” The nurse tilted her head. "You know she'll need rehab first?"
"No, I did not know that. What do you mean rehab?"
"In a specialized facility. At her age hips take a long time to heal, and with her mental ups and downs she needs close supervision. Might be several weeks before she's ready to resume her everyday life. Even then, she may not have the mobility she had before."
Eric glanced through the open doorway. "She thinks I'm her ex-husband. What's with that?"
"She's in a weakened state. Traumatized, medicated. She's getting a neurological consult tomorrow. We should know more after that."
"What if her mind doesn't come back? What then?"
Folding her arms, the nurse stole a glance at her watch. "One day at a time," she answered. "No different from the rest of us."
She pivoted toward the next room and smiled her goodbye.
“Wrong!” he wanted to shout after her. Who else would be spending all day every day being mistaken for Gram’s loathsome ex-husband?
For a second, a mere heartbeat, he imagined what life would be like without Maisie Zumstein in it.
The sky was blue.
***
ERIC DROVE home in a fog of emotions—regret, worry, confusion, loneliness, and more, but especially loneliness.
He considered calling Graham, his best friend back in Brigantine, New Jersey, but Graham was riding high on his internet marketing company success, and sharing his present woes would have made Eric feel pathetic in comparison.
There were others—Danny and Earl, Frogman, Patrick—but Eric had met them when he borrowed a bottle opener at an Eagles tailgate, and thereafter it was sports, sports, sports. He was pretty sure the guys had no idea he had attended a high school for the performing arts, and he certainly couldn’t picture any of them sitting through a recital of his present predicament.
Yes, Gram’s suburban neighborhood was the sort of place where those friends would settle down soon enough, but Eric was already there. The eclectic houses lined up like antiques on display, the park where little kids learned to climb and run and share, the sound of basketballs bouncing in a driveway at twilight, car doors slamming as the neighborhood hurried off to work in the morning. To Eric, this was already home.
He parked his old Pontiac next to the junky garage where he kept his voice in shape, although at this moment singing was the farthest thing from his mind. Right now he needed somebody to hear him, everything he could put into words, and everything else, too.
So compelling was his need that when he reached the front of Gram's old gray mare, he kept walking. Past Gram’s property line, past the newlyweds place, straight up to the Voight's house two doors down.
Mounting the steps onto the porch, Eric hoped—make that prayed—that Cissie would be there, and that she would let him in.