Authors: Paige Farmer
Nan's Story
This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events; to real people, living or dead; or to real locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
Cover photo used with permission from Cheryl Rau Photography and may not be copied or reprinted without the photographer’s permission.
Cover designed by Joline Cloutier, Central Maine Graphics, Lewiston, Maine.
NAN’S STORY, 2012. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Title ID: 3869208
ISBN-13: 978-1477414736
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62111-717-9
This book is dedicated to:
My earliest readers/editors/cheerleaders Mom, Carrie, Heather, Ted, Anne, Sue, Amy, Margie, Renee, Lonna, Kathy & Lisa
My husband Rich, who supported my desire to take the plunge and put up with several years of stops and starts (as well as listening to me moan, groan and plug away)
My children Nathan, Elaine, Noah & Zachary, whose own aspirations, inspiration and bravery kept me motivated
My 8
th
grade English teacher Mrs. D. for convincing me that I actually could write
Finally, to my grandmothers, whose unseen hands have guided me through this process every step of the way
Contents
July, 2006
Machines whirred quietly in the background, the sound broken by the intermittent beep of vital monitors. Nan lay in the bed, silver hair brushed back from her face and hanging loosely around her shoulders. She looked peaceful, which was the only thing keeping Charlie sane.
Her bed took up much of the small room in the ICU. Nan had been here before, but it was clear that this would be the last time. Vibrant sunshine illuminated the room throughout the day, which had filled, emptied and refilled with Nan’s family and friends. The two constants over the prior forty-eight hours had been CJ and Charlie.
The angina she’d battled for twenty-odd years was on the verge of winning the war. She’d fought a good fight, but the pressure that lived in her chest, surrounding her heart and choking the life from it, settled itself in refusing this time to be driven back by the drugs that had always beat it before.
The afternoon of the attack, her granddaughter Margaret had stopped by for lunch with her two children. Nan relished the vitality that the toddlers brought into her house although she was always taken aback when she remembered that they were her
great
grandchildren. Where had the years gone?
She still saw her brothers Arthur and John from time to time, surprised on each occasion at how old they looked. She really shouldn’t have been since she herself was almost seventy-one. They’d lost her mother and Joe back in the eighties and Buddy in 2004. Buddy’s death had torn at Nan badly given how quickly he’d gone. The stroke he had down at the docks had taken him before he’d even reached the hospital. Charlie, Nan’s husband of four plus decades, had been with him though, bringing her a small measure of comfort.
Charlie had given up the idea of being a police officer on a late autumn day in 1960 and instead joined her brother at the docks where they worked side by side for over thirty years. Retired or not, both could be found frequently visiting the place they’d spent so much time, and were there together the day Buddy died.
Nan was thinking of her brother on this Thursday afternoon as she worked on her needlepoint after Margaret and the kids had gone. She was sitting comfortably in Charlie’s oversize leather chair, her legs tucked up under her. The chair was positioned next to a picture window and for a moment she allowed herself to be distracted by the view of the picturesque yard. It was filled with apple trees and flowerbeds and off to the right was a creaky old barn, home to a dozen or so chickens and one ancient, cranky rooster named George. A vegetable garden, greens blooming in neat rows under the bright, warm sun sat adjacent to the barn.
Drawing herself back to her project, it was as she rifled through her thread box looking for a particular shade of purple that the attack started. Despite the ultimate severity of it, it began not too differently from the dozens she’d had over the years. At the first sign of pressure she pulled open the drawer of the end table next to Charlie’s chair, fumbling around for the nitroglycerine she kept there.
Her fingers, though trembling, opened the familiar bottle and shook out two tablets. The days of starting with one pill were some six or seven years behind her. Nan slipped the pills under her tongue and sat back closing her eyes. She counted the pounding heartbeats that thumped in her chest and waited for the heaviness to ease. But after five minutes it not only failed to ease, it began squeezing in an unfamiliar and crushing way.
Charlie had gone with her to the cardiologist the month before where Dr. Leominster made it clear this was an imminent event. While he encouraged her to live her life to the fullest, he cautioned her to pay attention for the signs. She and Charlie only spoke of it briefly that day, each refusing to recognize the truth in the doctor’s prediction.
But here on this glorious July afternoon Nan understood what he meant. She opened the bottle and took out another pill, placing it in the same spot under her tongue. She wondered if it might be futile, though thought it at least prudent.
Nan tried Charlie’s cell phone, but it immediately went to voice mail. She didn’t bother leaving a message. Even if Charlie could figure out how to retrieve it (and she was sure that he couldn’t), what would she say? Something like:
“Hi Charlie, it’s Nan. I think I may be dying, so if you could hurry home, I’d really appreciate it…”
Despite the gravity of the situation, Nan chuckled unsteadily.
There was nothing she hated more than drawing attention to herself. Unfortunately, she realized she had no choice at that moment but to call 911 and invite chaos into her home.
After three pills, the squeezing had reached what Nan hoped must be the pinnacle, but as the operator connected to her call it turned from a squeeze to a punch, preventing air from getting into her and words from getting out.
She could hear the operator repeat three times “911, please state your emergency,” but Nan had lost the ability to answer. As she began to fade out of consciousness, without ever uttering one word to the operator, Nan heard the voice say:
“We have pinpointed your address and emergency personnel have been dispatched. I will stay on the line as long as it’s open.”
The woman’s voice became a little more animated the longer the call went on, urging Nan to hold on. Emergency responders would be there in no time. This was the last thing Nan heard before everything went black.
September, 1960
“Jesus jumped up Christ in a sidecar, what the hell have you
done
??!!”
Her mother’s shriek followed a thunderclap of clanging metal and shattering glass, startling Nan from a deep sleep. She moaned gently as she lay tangled in sweat soaked bedding. Tattered remnants of a dream punctuated by the loud noise left her feeling fuzzy and confused. It hadn’t been a nightmare, for which she was grateful, but no less disoriented.
“Do you half-wits have any idea how much that crystal was worth?”
Her mother’s voice, full of fury, drifted in through the open window on rays of brilliant sunlight. The slant and brightness of the day told Nan that she’d slept far later than intended.
Shit
, she thought, kicking at the blankets wrapped around her.
Nan wasn’t sure who her mother was screaming at, but whoever it was would do well stay quiet. Elsie Hamilton was a take-no-prisoners kind of woman and when you got on her bad side even her voice had the power of a steel blade.
Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Nan closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The briny scent of the river running behind the house was calming and familiar in a way so few things in her life were. Despite the inclination to lie back down and pull the covers over her head, it was time to see what had poked the tiger. She tiptoed across the room to the window, not that stealth was necessary on the thick mauve carpet under her feet.
Her mother was standing in the center of the sprawling lawn below, hands firmly planted on hips and eyes flashing. Dressed in a white silk tunic and black tapered pants, Elsie radiated an air of sophistication that looked out of place in the melee around her.
Two fat perspiring men in blue jump suits stood to the right, one looking down and the other shifting nervously from foot to foot. A jumble of long metal poles lay at the base of an overturned table, surrounded by shards of glass winking in the morning sun. It didn’t take much to figure out that the wreckage had once been Elsie’s set of Tiffany glasses.
“You
imbeciles
!” Nan’s mother hissed, a blonde hair springing from her neat French twist.
Drawing her breath in a way that reminded Nan of the air folding in on itself just before a summer storm, Elsie prepared to unleash. Before it could spew forth in a torrent of rage though, the back door beneath Nan’s window opened and closed. Her mother turned to look, taut jaw and flashing glare softening considerably. Nan knew instantly it must be CJ.
Elsie knelt down on one knee and held her arms wide to the approaching boy as he entered Nan’s view. He melded into his grandmother’s embrace without any fear. Nan wasn’t sure if he’d seen or heard her mother’s outburst, but it didn’t matter. Elsie adored him and had never so much as raised her voice toward him. For a woman who’d kept a wooden spoon to paddle Nan and her brothers hanging from a peg board in the old kitchen, their mother had become decidedly more patient with the next generation.
“Hello my darling,” Nan’s mother said wrapping the little boy in a tight embrace.
“Hello Grandmama,” he replied, his voice muffled by the hug.
Elsie, still kneeling, held him out by his shoulders and looked at him with deep affection. She swept a lock of his rust colored hair from his forehead and cupped his chin.
“Did you finish your breakfast?” she asked.
He nodded.