All the Single Ladies (8 page)

“Goodness!” I said because it was clear she was waiting for a response.

Then she started to fidget. “I am completely famished. I had tomatoes for lunch, so I think I am going to make myself a cream-­cheese-­and-­olive sandwich.”

Olive. The key word had been spoken.

Suzanne, who returned and handed Miss Trudie her glass, arched an eyebrow and smirked. Carrie nodded.

“My favorite,” I said, adding, “or cream cheese and pineapple.”

“Yum,” Carrie said.

“Do we even own any olives?” Miss Trudie asked, and tossed back her shot of sherry like a frat boy swigging from a bottle of tequila.

“I just opened a new jar,” Suzanne said. “It's on the second shelf in the refrigerator. Do you want a hand?”

“I think I can still manage a sandwich. I am not dead yet.”

Miss Trudie looked from face to face to see if we were horrified, amused, or in agreement. Carrie gave her a smile, Suzanne shook her head, and I thought . . . well, I understood that kind of humor too well.

“You sound like a lot of our patients,” I said, smiling.

“What? Are you a doctor?”

“No, I'm a nurse and I work at Palmetto House.”

“Humph. I have heard that place is more fun than a barrel of monkeys but I like being in my own home. Even if the ser­vice is spotty.”

“Miss Trudie!” Suzanne said in mock horror.

“Well,” I said, “the current wisdom is that you're better off in your own house for a whole lot of reasons. As long as it's safe and you don't have any extraordinary medical needs.”

“Please. Besides, I am not quite old enough for that joint. I still have all my own teeth,” Miss Trudie said.

“Well, who else's would you have?” Carrie said, and then when she realized we were looking at her like she was cockeyed, she added, “Oh.”

“So, well then, I will just excuse myself and my teeth and say good night. I just wanted to check on the young ­people and make sure y'all were behaving.”

I loved Miss Trudie and I wanted a Miss Trudie of my own.

“I'll come say good night before I turn in,” Suzanne said.

We watched her slowly rise, shuffle across the porch, and disappear inside the house. We listened to the rhythm of her footfalls as they faded. Shuffle,
thunk,
shuffle,
thunk.

“She's amazing!” I said.

“
She
is the cat's mother,” Miss Trudie called back to us, in a voice laced with insult.

We burst out laughing.

“Well, the cat's mother is some character,” I said loudly enough for her to hear.

“She's really wonderful,” Suzanne said. “Frankly, I don't know where I'd be without her.”

“I need a Miss Trudie in my life. You know what's really terrible?” I said. Suzanne and Carrie turned to me, waiting for me to impart some new story. “I've made two decisions that have almost wrecked my life. I never thought I could get this close to disaster. I was the careful one, you know?”

They knew all about my yoga studio and remembered how it never quite took off.

Suzanne said, “Me too. Pick the wrong man and whammo! I've got no children, no husband to depend on. Really! And I was the whiz kid in the family. All my sisters did was sleep with the right guys. I didn't. As soon as Miss Trudie closes her eyes for the last time, I'm going to be homeless.”

“Oh, Suzanne. Don't say that. Your sisters wouldn't throw you out,” I said.

“You don't know her sisters,” Carrie said. “They're some tough customers when it comes to money.”

“Carrie's right. Both of their husbands are Wall Street types. One works for a junk bond firm and the other one is a day trader. They'll say, look, what's ours is ours and what's yours is yours and all we want is what's ours. Period. So I have my business, but even that was started with money from Miss Trudie. I'm going to have to repay her estate.”

“Surely your business earns enough to live on,” I said, knowing even in my fermented fog that the answer wasn't one bit of my business, but it was almost dark and we had just pulled a second cork. “My God! You're the best floral designer in town!”

“Thanks. Maybe it earns enough to live on,” Suzanne said. “But not enough to live here. I mean, one of the reasons I'm so busy is that my rates are a lot cheaper than anyone else. So when I close my books each year there's not much left. And beach house properties are worth crazy money even if the house has seen better days.”

“Look, after three husbands, you'd think I'd be rolling in it. I didn't even do that well,” Carrie said.

“Carrie? Marriage is supposed to be more than a business transaction,” Suzanne said.

“I
know
that! Well, theoretically. Seven years I gave that man! Seven years! What did I walk away with besides the trauma of burying another man? I've got this ring, my diamond studs, a four-­year-­old Mercedes that doesn't even have Sirius or an updated satellite GPS and maybe fifty thousand in cash that I had stuffed in shoe boxes. That's it. And I've been down the aisle three times! You want to know why I'm on About Time all the time? I need Mr. Fourth
tout suite
!”

Her assets sounded pretty good to me. Fifty thousand in cash was a fortune in my book. I could live on that for a long time.

“How'd you get that much money into the shoe boxes?” I asked.

“Well, every time John and I did the wild thing, I'd take two twenties out of his wallet and stash them away.”

I wasn't an accountant but a rough calculation in my head meant they had sex almost every other day. That was impressive.

“Which is way more sex than I'm interested in! And, Carrie? I think I'd keep that detail about being widowed three times to myself,” Suzanne said. “Not to mention they were all named John.”

What? I thought.

“You think?” Carrie said. “I'm just saying I need another husband. Preferably one without greedy children.”

“Maybe we all do!” I said. “It sure would be wonderful not to worry about money for once in my life. I'm going to be working until I'm older than everyone at Palmetto House or until I drop dead. Whichever comes first. Remember when everyone was expected to retire at sixty-­five?”

“Who can afford to retire? Listen. I can't even afford to change the oil in my Benz!” Carrie said.

“Now, that is a first-­world problem!” Suzanne said, and shook her head. “I'm going to be working until I do the flowers for my own funeral!”

“Unless something gets us first like poor Kathy,” I said.

We were quiet then for a moment. Was it worse to moan about no end of work in sight for us or worse to face an abbreviated life? Were we as ungrateful or hopeless as we sounded? No, we were just being honest.

“I'd rather work for another thirty years than die from cancer like Kathy did,” Suzanne said. “She worked hard all her life and still never saw the northern lights.”

“But she had really remarkable friends,” I said.

“I hate cancer,” Carrie said. “And I loved that girl like a sister.”

“Me too. Lisa? Do you think processed food causes it? Cancer, I mean.”

“Well, the nitrates in this sausage I'm devouring don't help.”

“I know but I love it,” Carrie said. “So how much of illness is caused by what we eat?”

“I wish I knew the answer to that. I mean, there's evidence to support the impact of diet. But the current thought is that we are what we eat. Not to mention environmental considerations like too much sun or exposure to asbestos and so forth. I mean, the only way to avoid cancer is great genes and raising your own food.”

“That's probably true,” Suzanne said. “If I were going to grow things, I'd grow flowers for my business. As it is, I have enough to do just trying to keep up with my lavender and my rosemary.”

“I'd grow weed,” Carrie said, and we stared at her, slack-­jawed in surprise. “Why not? There's big money in pot. I used to smoke pot with my second husband—­no, wait—­maybe it was my first, and let me tell you sex was never better!”

I wasn't getting too deep into this topic, no matter what.

“I've heard that,” Suzanne said.

“What?” I said.

“The part about sex and smoking weed and how, you know, it's supposed to be amazing,” Suzanne said. “The sex, that is.”

“Oh, yeah, sex. I remember sex. It's true,” I said. “I mean, I'm not an expert on this stuff, that's for sure. But, well, years ago I used to see this guy that was well, really inappropriate . . .”

“What does that mean? Inappropriate?” Suzanne asked.

“He was younger.”

“How many years?” Carrie said.

“More like decades,” I said.

“Whoa!” Carrie said.

“Don't be so judgmental!” Suzanne said. “Your last husband was decades older than you!”

“That's different,” Carrie said.

“Yeah, it actually is. I mean, I'm pretty sure sex with an older man must've been way different than spending the night with Surfer Boy!” I said.

Okay, yes, I had smoked the tiniest bit of pot in my past and as a nurse it wasn't something I was particularly proud of either. But I hadn't touched it in years and never would again.

“Lisa! You bad, bad girl!” Suzanne exclaimed, laughing.

“I told you he was inappropriate!” I said. “I was younger and stupid.”

“Well, darlin'?” Carrie said. “Here's to inappropriate!”

“I'll drink to that,” I said, and thought, Oh, boy, I sense a slippery slope in my immediate future if I continue to run around with these two.

“Kathryn loved pot brownies,” Carrie said.

“What?” I said. I was surprised.

“I know. I had a problem with it at first too. But,” Suzanne said, “she was terminal and she hurt all over. What's the harm there?”

“Honey,” I said, “don't get me started. I'll tell y'all a story another time. Why we don't have medical marijuana for cancer patients is beyond me. But for now? I'm like Switzerland on this one. No judgments.”

 

I went to work on Monday with boxes of Kathy's property and dropped two of them on the back counter of the nurses' station.

“What's all this?” Judy asked.

“Oh, DVDs, books, nightgowns. Kathryn Harper's contribution to our residents.”

“Well, that's awfully nice,” Judy said. “Is there more to bring in?”

“Just a ­couple of boxes,” I said, heading back out.

“Do you need a hand?” Margaret said.

“No, I've got it,” I said. “But thanks.”

It occurred to me then, as it did from time to time, that helping other ­people was one of the things that made the world tolerable. Judy and Margaret were always ready to pitch in. I was too. It was in our nature and it's probably what led us to nursing in the first place. The reward of nursing was that it was satisfying to provide a little comfort or just to let a lonely patient know that someone actually cared about their well-­being. The donation from Kathy's estate would bring hours of enjoyment to a lot of ­people.

I brought the rest of the boxes in, and when I got to the desk Judy and Margaret were already sorting through the books.

“I've been dying to read this,” Margaret said, holding a book close to her chest.

“You're a pervert,” Judy said.

“Yeah, that's me all right,” Margaret said. “That's what everybody says.”

“Oh, right. What is it?” I asked. Margaret showed me the cover and I almost fainted. “
Fifty Sh
—­! No way! How did I not see that?”

“You tell me,” Margaret said. “But I'm taking this home.”

“And don't bring it back!” I said. “Good grief! Kathy Harper read erotica? Our beloved residents don't need any encouragement in that department.”

“Boy, you can say that again!” Judy said.

Margaret and Judy looked at each other and cracked up laughing.

“Okay, y'all. What did I miss?” Something had obviously occurred over the weekend and I was about to hear what it was. “Spill it!”

“All right, so old Mrs. Richards in 317? She's had the hots for Mr. Morrison in 215 ever since Mrs. Morrison was part of a Celestial Recall?”

Celestial Recall was one of many terms we used for those who went to the light, dropped their body, or just flat-­out flatlined.

“I'm aware,” I said.

Mrs. Morrison's passing had been an uneventful surprise. She simply didn't wake up in the morning among the living. And Mr. Morrison's bereavement period had been remarkably brief. He had wasted no time in calling Ben Silver's, a lovely men's boutique in downtown Charleston, and ordering himself a new kelly-­green sport coat and a blue seersucker suit. On Saturday nights, he wore one of these with white buckskins and a pink carnation in his lapel, that carnation being one that he removed from someone's floral arrangement at their bedside when they weren't looking. We called him Marty Robbins for some singer from the fifties who recorded a song about sport coats and boutonnieres. Anyway, among the octogenarians, he was The Dude.

“You're not gonna believe . . .” Judy said, with tears of laughter rolling down her cheeks.

“We caught them in the shower together,” Margaret sputtered between laughs. “One of them accidentally pulled the emergency cord.”

“Tell her what he said, Margaret! Lisa, you're gonna die when you hear this! Oh God! I haven't laughed this hard all year!” Judy leaned over and slapped her leg.

And Margaret, in that deadpan style of hers, said, “He said, ‘Oh! Excuse me, I was just looking for my little rubber duck.' ”

“Rubber duck?” I said, and opened my eyes wide in disbelief.

“Yes. On my mother's grave. His little rubber duck.”

“Oh God! That's crazy! What did Mrs. Richards say?”

“She said”—­Margaret paused to cross her heart with her finger—­“ ‘Michael? I think it's time for you to go home! Here's your duck.' And I will not tell you where it was concealed but it wasn't where you think.”

“Oh, my word! This place is getting wilder all the time,” I said, thinking no matter where the duck was I really didn't want to know. “Does Dr. Black know about this?”

“Of course. The duck has been confiscated, sterilized, and is sitting on Dr. Black's bookshelf with his other trophies,” Margaret said.

“Good grief. So did we lose anyone this weekend?”

“No, other than a rousing game of Hide the Duck, it was pretty quiet,” Margaret said. “Mr. Child appears to be slipping away. His family was here this weekend pretty much around the clock.”

“He's such a sweet man,” I said.

“Yeah, he sure is.” Margaret agreed.

“His wife, Lee, has been by his bedside for weeks. She says she just knows if she leaves the room he's gonna leave the world,” Judy said.

“She might not be wrong,” I said. “How many times have we seen that happen?”

“Too many to count,” Margaret said.

“Personally?” Judy said. “I like the ones that sprinkle their comatose relatives with holy water and read the death psalm.”

“That is so medieval,” I said.

“Oh, hell yeah,” Margaret said. “Let's pray Daddy into the grave! Good idea!”

“Remember that woman who said she saw her sister's soul fly up through the ceiling?” Judy said. “What was her name?”

“I can't remember,” I said. “But hey, it's bad enough to have to go through someone else's illness and death one day at a time. I think ­people tell themselves what they need to hear. You know?”

“Yes, ma'am, I surely do,” Margaret said.

“Hide the Duck?” I said.

“Can you imagine the look on my face?” Margaret said.

“I'll bet you didn't even raise an eyebrow,” Judy said.

“Yeah, Margaret, you're a pretty cool cucumber,” I said, and laughed.

“It was some sight, 'eah?” Margaret said, and shook her head. “You might want to check on a new resident if you have the time. Mrs. Brooks in The Docks. She's not too happy. Her husband has big-­time Alzheimer's and a broken hip, so he's in the SCU and she took an apartment to be near him.”

“Oh Lord,” I said.

“She's not adapting well.”

“Well, let me see what I can do,” I said.

“Her family didn't think she should be driving back and forth from her house west of the Ashley all the way over here at eighty-­six years old. So they took her keys, found this apartment, and convinced her to move in.”

“And Mrs. Brooks didn't have a whole lot to say about it?” I asked.

“You got it. She probably feels like she got robbed of her life.”

“I'm sure. I'll look in on her,” I said.

Margaret gave me Mrs. Brooks's apartment number. Her first name was Marilyn. If she was resentful, I didn't blame her. But the greater truth was—­and I knew this before I even met her—­that she was far and away better off with us than alone at home.

I took all the DVDs to the media room and put them away. Next, I took the books to the reading room and put them on the shelves. Then I started doing rounds, delivering meds. When I came back to the nurses' station, my cell rang and I pulled it out of my pocket to check the caller ID. It was Suzanne.

“You busy?” she asked.

“Nope. I was just going to get some lunch.”

“I won't keep you but a moment. Carrie and I were talking and we decided if we're going to keep eating donuts and drinking wine we've got to exercise. We just have to. My behind is growing at the speed of light. Carrie's on the prowl again and wants to drop some weight. The gym's too expensive. So we're going to walk the beach every morning except when it rains. Would you like to join us?”

“Why not? Sure! Thanks!”

“Bring Pickle too. How's seven tomorrow?”

“See you then!”

Pickle was going to love this. We liked to get up with the birds anyway.

Margaret said, “So, you made a new friend?”

I said, “Yeah, it looks like it. Suzanne and Carrie wanted to know if I wanted to get some exercise with them.”

“Good for you! Those girls were amazing to Kathryn,” Judy said.

“You can't place too high a value on friends like that,” Margaret said.

“Absolutely,” I said. “I think I'll grab a ­couple of turkey sandwiches from the kitchen and pay Marilyn Brooks a visit.”

“Good luck,” Margaret said.

I left the main building through the doors in the dining room that overlooked the swimming pool. There was a walking path that led to the group of apartments we called The Docks. They were surrounded by man-­made lagoons that were visited by egrets and the occasional osprey. It was a very picturesque setting with benches along the banks. The fencing across the front lawns was fashioned of thick rope threaded through large holes in low columns of sun-­bleached wood, giving The Docks a bit of nautical detail. I thought it would be peaceful to sit on one of those benches and read a book. Maybe someday I would. In January. Not in the dead of summer.

I found Marilyn Brooks's apartment and knocked on her door.

“Mrs. Brooks?” I called out. “It's Lisa St. Clair. One of the nurses? I've brought lunch?”

The door opened and there stood a tiny lady with thick white hair cut into a stylish bob. She was wearing a freshly starched white shirt and purple cropped pants. Large purple reading glasses hung from a matching chain around her neck. Her iPad, which was tucked under her arm, had a hot-­pink Kate Spade leather cover. This lady had style.

“Hello. Can I help you?” She gave me a thorough appraisal and decided I probably wasn't there to do her any harm. She opened the door wider. “Come in. Please.”

I stepped into her living room. It was furnished in authentic midcentury antiques, including a large Andy Warhol lithograph of the iconic Marilyn Monroe, a turquoise sectional sofa, and a tangerine velvet pouf. Her taste was the polar opposite of my parents', and frankly, I fell in love with her living room at first glance.

“Thank you! Wow! This is fabulous! It's so optimistic!”

“I've always liked strong colors,” she said. “One should never be afraid to be bold.”

“I see that! And I agree. Anyway, I heard from my nurse buddies that you'd just moved in, so I thought I'd just take a few minutes to welcome you.”

“Well, that's awfully nice. May I offer you some iced tea?”

“Sure. Thank you. I brought sandwiches to share.”

“What kind?”

What kind? Was she allergic or vegan?

“Turkey. Turkey on white bread with a little mayonnaise and lettuce. And cranberry sauce.”

“Cranberries? Who puts cranberries on sandwiches?”

“It's actually pretty good. Are you allergic to something?”

“No, I was just being an old fussbudget. Come sit. I'll get us some plates and some tea.”

“I'll help you.”

“No. Please. Just have a seat. I can still pour a glass of tea. You know, my family thinks I'm an invalid or too decrepit to do anything.”

“Children are deathly afraid of seeing their parents get older,” I said.

She stopped and turned around to face me.

“Do you know what?” she said. “That's the first really honest thing anyone has said to me since I got here.”

“I'm sure. It's a shame but it seems like there are just some things that families don't know how to say to each other.”

“Truly.” She turned back toward her kitchen and opened the refrigerator, taking out a pitcher of tea. Lemon slices and mint sprigs floated in the top. “And you know what else? They're not merely afraid. They're terrified. I thought my son had more spine.”

She filled two glasses with ice, then handed me two plates and paper napkins. She moved back and forth deliberately and then with the halting gait of her years. Uncertain for a moment and then surefooted again. She should probably be using a cane for her balance when she leaves her home, I thought, but that was up to her doctor, not me.

I opened the bag and began unwrapping the sandwiches at her small dining table.

“Well, this is a very big change for you and your whole family,” I said.

“You're telling me. Here's how this started. First my son, Alvin, and his wife, Connie, invited me to this Come to Jesus meeting.”

I laughed at that.

“It always starts with a big talk. Was the car talk first or this place?”

“No, it really started because of Marcus, my husband of sixty years. Sixty years. Can you imagine how long that is? Marcus has terrible Alzheimer's.”

“Yes, I heard that from the other nurses, Judy and Margaret. You'll like them a lot when you get to know them. But back to Marcus. I am so sorry to hear it. I really think Alzheimer's is the meanest disease on the planet.”

“It certainly is. My poor sweet Marcus. Forgive me for speaking so plainly, but I don't like to play games.” She sighed dramatically and sat down across from me. “Who knows? I could go any minute.”

“No, you won't! I don't like to pussyfoot around either,” I said, and smiled.

“Good. Anyway, it was obvious, even to me, that I couldn't take care of him by myself anymore. He'd put on three pairs of pajamas, leave the house, and take off for who knows where. I'd realize he was missing, get all upset, and call Alvin to go find him.”

“And Alvin did what? Called the police?”

“Do you know my son?” She looked at me with an odd expression and for a moment I thought she was serious.

“No, I . . .”

“Please! I'm kidding! Alvin is just . . . well, dramatic. He always jumps the gun. Everything is a bother and a burden to him. He lives out in Summerville and I guess there was just one emergency phone call too many. I took care of my parents in my home for years but they didn't have Alzheimer's. Things were different in my day.” She finally took a bite of her sandwich. “Say! This is pretty good! Cranberries. I'll be darned. I think I might be glad you came by.”