January 13, 2019
THE RAIN FALLS in icy sheets as I run across the parking lot, avoiding the larger puddles. The cold bites through the dampness spreading across my thighs. I put a hand in front of my face, protecting the exposed skin, but I do not slow. I run until I reach the large canopy over the entrance to the assisted-living facility in Dover, Delaware.
Water drips from everywhere as I walk slowly to the receptionist’s desk. A middle-aged man in a flannel shirt and thickly lensed glasses stares at me until I stop a pace away.
“Can I help you?” he asks with a touch of suspicion.
“I’m here to see Carla Ross.”
His brow lowers. “Are you that fellow that …”
He trails off. But I nod, knowing what he means. He looks like he would say something more but doesn’t. Instead, he leads me down the hall to the dining area. It is empty but for a single resident. She sits in a padded chair by a lit fireplace. The logs crackle, and the light from the flames dances across her deeply lined face. She turns, looks at me, and I see her son’s eyes, sharp and focused.
“Ms. Ross, the gentleman’s here to see you.”
“Thank you, Clarence,” she says.
She has Jasper’s voice, too. Or he had hers. As I stand there, unsure how I will proceed, Clarence does the same. With a smile that disarms me, Carla assures him that everything is okay. He leaves, slowly, and she leans forward and pats the seat across from her. I sit.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I say.
She nods. “Don’t feel bad about what you did.”
Her statement comes so suddenly, I have no response. She smiles again, this time at me, and I may never have seen something as gentle in my life.
“I’m glad he’s at peace now,” she says. “I’ve had time to think since he’s been gone. I miss him, very much. He used to come see me once a week. And everyone here loved him.”
Tears fill her eyes. Without really thinking about it, I reach out and place my hand on her forearm. It feels frail and birdlike under my fingers.
“I didn’t believe it at first. I can imagine no one believes that. But here they do. Because they met him. And they saw how he treated me. We talk about it some. It’s hard to understand, really. How someone can be two people at once.”
“I’m sorry,” I say softly.
“But that’s not why you’re here, is it? You mentioned that you had to ask me something. Go ahead.”
I pause. Suddenly, I don’t really care about the answer. Instead I feel a very deep urge to just sit by the fire and listen to her voice. Let her fill the time with her stories.
“Go ahead,” she repeats. “It’s okay.”
“You’re nothing like how he described you,” I say.
She laughs. “Jasper just loved making up stories. Since he was a little boy. He would sit in front of the television all day. He’d watch shows that I knew he’d seen a million times. He’d recite the lines, sometimes even before the actors said them. And how he loved movies.”
“Hitchcock?” I ask.
“Oh, yes. That one with Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly.”
“Rear Window?”
“Yes,” she says, and she claps her hands together, just as Jasper did that first time we met. “He used to write, too. Screenplays. He sent one off once, and they said he wrote very much like that Hitchcock. Oh, how he loved it all. Even when he was just a little boy. When he was ten, he had me get him a subscription to this little magazine from all the way out in Hollywood. I think it was called Variety. He’d read each one a hundred times over.” She shakes her head. “I really thought he’d do something with all that. I imagined he’d make movies one day. Guess I was wrong.”
“Maybe you weren’t,” I say softly.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, nothing. He told me about his father, too. Is he—”
She puts up a hand. “Stop right there. Jasper never knew his father. But he always made up stories. Told everyone. Even his teachers at school. They’d believe him, too.”
“He never met his father?” I ask.
“Nope. Not once.”
We continue to talk, she and I. At first, she tells me more about Jasper and his love of movies. Eventually we move on to her life. Lower middle class. Rural. Two-bedroom track house. Career at the local library. I listen, but I’m lost in my own thoughts. Maybe an hour passes before she mentions that she has to leave for therapy. We both stand, and I find myself giving her a warm hug.
“Can I come back and visit again?” I ask.
She nods. “I’d like that very much.”