Ruby's Slippers (4 page)

Popcorn. The smell of buttery popcorn peels back layer after layer of darkness, like shucking corn one section at a time. The odor is wispy like corn silk, difficult to grasp or make sense of. But I follow the scent, sniffing, feeling a deep emptiness in the pit of my stomach.

There’s movement. A grayness. But a heavy weight presses me down, pulls me back. I’m certain that even one eyelash would be too heavy to lift, so I burrow back into sleep.

* * *

SWEET, TENDER VOICES—the voices of children— penetrate the cloud that enfolds me within its dark crevices. The voices seem far away, just out of reach. For a moment they grow stronger, as though marching toward me.

The words punch out,
“My God … big, strong, mighty!”
It’s a song I recognize from teaching Sunday school.
“There’s nothing my God cannot do”
—the voices become shrill on the final notes—
“for you!”

My skin contracts. My ears vibrate. I try to pull inward once more, but the safe cocoon has disappeared. My eyelids flutter and light explodes through the darkness. Colors bloom around me, revealing surreal shades and textures.

Is this heaven?

Somewhere over the final rainbow?

A bridge to Ever After?

“Hey!” a rough-and-tumble voice blasts in my ear. A hand grasps me with a firm, steady grip. “You awake for real now?” It’s a grating voice, deep and gravelly, which makes the face of the tiny woman more startling.

I blink, squint at her animated features. For a moment her face looks pink, too pink, as if rouge were applied with a heavy hand to her rounded cheeks. Red lipstick is slashed across thin lips, missing the lip line and bleeding outward in tiny dashes. The light in the room reflects off tiny blonde hairs along the woman’s lip line. But her short-cropped hair has been dyed a color that borders on maroon.

She can’t be more than four feet tall.

I shrink back from her.

“You’re awake!” She states the obvious, then
humphs
, shaking her head, her mouth turning down at the corners.

I close my eyes and see stars twinkle across my eyelids. Prying them open again, I look around the room awash with colors vibrating and shimmering. It’s as if I’ve entered a new world. Green plants with spikey and rubbery leaves surround me. A few are accented with flowers of all shapes, sizes, and
colors. Their brilliant hues of red, yellow, and orange captivate me as if they’re lit from within.

I open my mouth but can’t think of how to answer, what to say. Is she even speaking to me? But with her face so close to mine, she couldn’t be speaking to anyone else. She stares at me. And then it’s as if a switch clicks in my brain. I remember who I am, as if I’m only a dream I forgot.

“Where?” my voice croaks. My throat feels dry, caked in sand. My eyes ache and water from the harsh light.

“They say you’re from Kansas.”

I nod, or think I’m nodding. Maybe I’m only blinking.

“Well, you ain’t there no more.”

My brain feels sluggish, like it needs a good jolt of coffee.

“Me, I’m from all over. But don’t know where exactly. Traveled all my life.” She leans forward and whispers, “Carnie.” Her stale, caffeinated breath puffs against my face—cigarettes mixed with peppermint.

Words fail me, as if I’m digging through a bag searching for some lost item yet can’t even remember what I was looking for.

“Worked carnivals all my life. And circuses. Born in a circus. My ma didn’t remember which state I was born in.” She slaps her leg and laughs. “Heck, being the fat lady, she could’ve been in two states at once.” She throws back her head and laughs so loud my head begins to throb. Finally she sobers, leans close again, and studies my face.

I try to push up but am too weak, like my limbs weigh more than they should. There’s a pinch in my arm, my side. Plastic straws … no, tubes … wind around and connect to me. There’s a murmuring sound. Musical notes. The sound draws my attention to the corner of the room. A box … a television … is mounted high on a ledge. There’s a face
I recognize but cannot name. She’s a girl. Bouncy. She smiles and sings about summertime.

“Better just lie there till Gloria comes.”

My throat aches with effort. I look around at the unfamiliar yet cheerful room. I don’t recognize the bright curtains, a mixture of blues, greens, and reds in a sort of swirling pattern that makes my head dizzy if I stare at it too long.

“Where am I?”

“Depends on who you ask.” She laughs, a caustic tittering that grates on my nerves like a saw over metal.

“I don’t under—”

“Oh, don’t matter. You’re in the Santa Barbara Retirement Center.”

I push up on my elbow to get a better look around, and the room starts to spin again. I flop back onto my pillow, which is full and puffy like a giant marshmallow. “Tired.”

“Don’t you worry, hon. Thing is, it’s a multiple living complex. Everything from the comatose to the just-need-help-with-medication.”

What kind of medication is
she
on?

“The ads say ‘Rainbow’s End.’” She stretches her arm wide like a rainbow arcing through the sky. “Has a nice ring to it. Gives it a positive spin. ‘There’s no place like
our
home.’ Get it?
Our
home.” She winks. “Well, that’s what the ads say anyway. Course, we know where this road ends. Well, not for
you
. You’re young. But the rest of us are just waiting …”

I blink again, rub my hand against the rough sheets, and realize I’m wearing some sort of a gown. A papery thin gown. “How … ?” I can’t seem to locate the words. Or maybe I’m simply too tired to finish. “How long … ?”

“How long have you been here? A week or so. Don’t worry, you didn’t miss much. Not much goes on in this
place. Except for maybe a dance every now and then. Do you dance?”

I shake my head. It’s easier than speaking.

The tiny woman huffs out a breath. “What? Guess you’ll have to learn how with that purty pair of shoes sittin’ there waiting for your tootsies.” She waves toward a table by my side.

Scrunched up between two potted plants is a pair of shoes. A glittering red pair that I’ve never seen before. Or have I? I
have
seen them somewhere. My gaze drifts toward the television.

The woman beside me places a hand on my arm. Her skin is sweaty and coarse. “You can bet you’ll have old men flirting with—”

“Maybelle, what are you doing in here?” A woman in a pale blue polyester uniform has entered the room.

“She’s awake!” The odd woman points at me with a fat, stubby finger so close to my nose that it makes my eyes cross.

“I see that.” The woman with sky-blue eyes and a crown of yellow curls smiles at me. “Hello.”

I stare at her, my eyelids suddenly heavy as thick curtains. All I want to do is sleep. And so I do.

I’m not sure if I just doze or sleep for a long time, but when I open my eyes again, the same woman is there, the one with yellow hair and a bright, toothy smile. The other woman, the small, garish clown, is gone.

“This is good news!” She takes my hand, places a finger over my pulse point. Her hands are slim, soft, gentle. “That Maybelle, she’s a character. She wasn’t bothering you, was she? She wanted to come in here the first day you arrived. We didn’t think it would hurt if she talked to you. And we
thought it might give a break to some of the other patients who listen to her all the time.” The woman bends closer and whispers. “Don’t get me wrong. She’s very nice, but she does talk a lot. You’ve had lots of visitors from the center—some curious, some wanting to pray for you.”

I feel as if I’m pulling myself up out of a deep well. Part of me wants to just let go, fall back into darkness, and sleep some more. Another part of me scrambles, trying to latch onto something solid, a word or phrase.

“Do you remember your name?”

“Dottie.” I touch my throat. “Hurts.”

Sympathy makes her eyes darken. “It says ‘Dorothy’ on your chart, but I’ll change it if you like ‘Dottie’ better. You haven’t used your vocal chords in a while. It’ll take a little time. How about an ice chip?”

I nod.

“Good. I’ll be right back.” She touches my arm as if to reassure me. “Don’t go anywhere now.”

My eyes droop closed, but when I open them again, she’s back pressing a plastic spoon with ice chips to the seam of my lips, which feel dry and cracked. I open my mouth. The pleasure of cold, wet ice on my tongue makes my nerves tingle all over.

“Glen?”

She tilts her head as if trying to figure out what I want. “Oh, Gloria. I’m Gloria. And I’m here to take care of you.”

“How long … ?” I can’t seem to finish a sentence or thought. They’re in my head, but getting them out takes more effort than I can muster.

“How long have you been here? A week.”

I rub my temple, trying to remember. A flash of rain,
lightning, hail. The wind roaring. The window broke. “Storm?”

“No, sugar. It’s been three months since that storm. You’ve been in a coma. At first the doctors thought you might come out of it pretty quick. But then you didn’t. You were hit in the head by flying debris. That storm made national news.”

“Otto!” the name explodes out of me. My throat burns.

The woman’s kind blue eyes soften. “Who?”

“My dog. He …” My throat tightens. I can’t speak the unthinkable.

She pats my arm and squeezes my hand. “We can ask your sister. Don’t worry. We’ll find out—”

“Abby?”

“That’s right. You’re doing excellent remembering. A very good sign. The doctors didn’t think you’d have any permanent damage, but then you didn’t wake up when they thought you should have. Your sister moved you here. She comes . . . or calls.” Gloria takes a remote control from the side table. “
In the Good Old Summertime
,” she says, then turns off the television.

“Here?”

“California. It was too far for her to travel back and forth to Kansas. We’re just a bit north of Los Angeles. When you’re feeling better, you can go outside and look around. It’s really a beautiful area. I’ll call your sister right after I alert your doctor. She’ll want to know that you’re awake.”

I clutch the nurse’s hand. That tiny effort zaps my strength. “Home. Help me?”

Gloria sits down on the bed next to me and cups my hand in hers. “Don’t you worry about a thing. You just concentrate on getting well.”

I lean back into the pillow. I want to sink back into darkness but can’t block out the truth. The house. Farm. The picket fence shredded by the wind. The roar pounding in my ears, the wind beating the shutters. I remember soft fur, a quivering body, my sweet little companion. Where is he? Dead? Lost? I close my eyes, too tired to think anymore. I curl inward. A song floats around my head, the notes just out of reach, the words forming rabbits that morph into an image of Otto sitting on the porch, waiting to be let inside.

* * *

THE DIRECTOR OF the facility has come to welcome me. “We didn’t know if we’d have room for you until—”

“Until that ol’ bat who lived in your room croaked,” Maybelle interjects. She apparently follows the nurses around, entering whatever rooms she wishes. The brutal truth of nursing homes, I’m told, is that someone has to die to make room for the next resident. Die or get well enough to go home. Most don’t go home. And I’m not sure what’s left of mine.

“Well, anyway.” The director coughs, her cheeks bulging and turning red. “We’re glad you’re here.”

My mind drifts along with my gaze toward the window and the light. Colors play about like dust motes. Beneath the window, that pair of sparkly shoes waits patiently, as if encouraging me to get up and get moving.

A day or two later—I’m unsure of how many, as I sleep often—the feeding tube is removed. I overhear doctors saying to each other, “It’s a miracle.”

A miracle I’m here at all. A miracle I woke up. But do miracles really happen today, in Kansas? Or California? It feels more like a punishment to be here, alone, without Otto.

I’m unsure what day it is. I’ve lost track of time. Mornings and nights, afternoons and evenings are switched around like mismatched pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. My thoughts are often fuzzy around the edges. I’ve been moved into a new room since I don’t require constant care.

I’ve become the novelty of the facility. A charity case actually. A number of the residents bring bits and pieces of clothing, a book or magazine. An older gentleman gives me the apple from his lunch tray every afternoon.

“Can’t eat these,” Harold tells me, his dentures shifting in his mouth.

I don’t have the heart to tell him I’m only allowed applesauce at the moment. So I line the apples in the bottom drawer next to my bed, their deep-red skin shiny and inviting.

A hodgepodge collection of elasticized waistbands, flannel shirts, sweats, and orthopedic shoes gathers in my new closet. At least I don’t have to wear a hospital gown any longer. A group of women who shop weekly together at a local mall collected a donation and bought me some underwear, workout bras, and a nightgown. “We weren’t sure of your size, dear.” The woman tried not to look at my chest.

“This is fine. Great. Thanks.”

“And here are some socks with little rubber pads on the foot so you don’t slip or fall.”

Moved by their kindness, I’m reminded of my friends and neighbors back in Kansas who would have brought me these things if I were still there. It’s then I wonder if any other farms or homes were damaged in the storm. But there’s no one to ask, no one with the answers.

Gloria isn’t my nurse anymore, but she comes to see me before and after her shift. She’s not one to sit still, reminding me of Momma. Gloria tends my plants, snipping brown leaves and wilted blossoms. She’s so young and yet purposeful in everything she does. Watching her makes me wonder if I’ve wasted my years. Life, I realize, is short.

“Why do you work here?” I ask. “With all these old people.”

She straightens the covers at the end of my bed. “Oh, goodness, I don’t know. I love what I do. I like helping people.” She cocks her head to the side. “Maybe because I was raised by my grandparents. Maybe it’s my way of giving back to them. Sometimes I just think it’s what I was made to do. It’s my purpose. Does that make sense?”

I remember Granny brushing my hair, tying it back with a ribbon which usually slipped out before the day was through. She had such capable hands, nimble fingers. When
she spotted a rip in my jeans, she’d find a cheerful patch and whip-stitch around it in less than a minute. She hated the T-shirts I preferred and once stitched scratchy lace around the neck and sleeves of my favorite one.

Gloria turns on the television and finds a movie playing. “Have you seen this one?”

I stare at the screen, recognizing faces but unable to recall any names.

“You’ll like it. Can’t go wrong with Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse. Have you seen
Brigadoon
? They wake up from a long sleep. Every hundred years.”

“Sounds like my own life.”

But the movie can’t hold my attention, which acts like a kite on a string, hooking right, dipping low, soaring among the clouds, crashing into a tree of confusion. Yet it stirs up glimpses of times past—Granny sitting next to me on the sofa on a Sunday afternoon, an old movie playing on our bunny-eared television. “Look at the stitching on that bodice,” I remember her saying. “That took some work, I’m telling you.”

“Oops!” Gloria gasps. “Too much water.” She tosses something onto the bed to save it from a dousing. The base of the potted plant overflows. She grabs paper towels near the sink and starts sopping up the mess.

My hand reaches for the shoe lying on my bed, the red hue vibrant against the white sheets. I touch the little round sequels … no, sequins. Granny made our Christmas stockings with bright-colored beads and sequins sewn on to spell our names. Abby liked to pretend they were her name in lights. I cup my palm around the short heel of the shoe. “Where did these come from?”

“A visitor. Did they get wet?”

“No. They’re fine. But who—?”

“A gentleman, I believe. Signed in at the front desk, I’m sure. I can check for you.”

I nod and balance the shoe on my palm. “These remind me of …” I can’t locate the right words.

“The ruby slippers,” she prompts.

“That’s it.”

She smiles. “I thought maybe they might mean something to you. Kind of an odd gift.” She walks over and touches the red sequins.

“Momma,” I manage. “No, my grandmother. Granny loved the movie.” I look to Gloria for help.

“
The Wizard of Oz
.”

I nod. “She helped with it.”

Gloria sits beside me on the bed, looking at me curiously.

I rub my forehead. “Maybe I’m remembering it all wrong.”

Momma was prone to quote from the movie. “Your father’s following his yellow-brick road” is how she explained our father’s absence. “Abby is seeking her somewhere over the rainbow” described Abby’s acting career. When we’d head off to school or church or the doctor, she’d sometimes warble, off-key,
“We’re off to see the wizard!”
When I was sick and in bed, Momma would dab my forehead with a cool cloth and say, “There’s no place like home, is there?”

“No place like home,” I repeat now, giving the shoes to Gloria.

She smiles. “Movies are such a part of our lives, aren’t they?”

“Frankly, my dear …” My smile feels a bit hollow at the moment.

She laughs. “You’re really doing so well. You’ll be out
of this place in no time.” She gives my arm a gentle squeeze, then carefully places the shoes back on the table with all the other gifts, cards, and plants. “They’re a nice imitation. Don’t you think?”

* * *

“DUNCAN MEYERS,” GLORIA tells me later that week.

I’m in the middle of eating one of the many small meals I’m allowed throughout the day. Small, mushy, and pretty much tasteless. At the mention of my father’s name, my insides turn to mush.

“Do you know him?” she asks. “He has your same last name.”

I can’t speak for the tightness in my throat.

She rushes forward. “Are you okay? Choking?”

I manage to push down the lump of scrambled eggs. “He’s my father.”

“Oh! Of course. I wish he’d told us you were related. I remember he was very quiet.” She touches a couple of envelopes on my side table. “Mail today?”

I nod, turn my head to the side, and stare out the window at the late-evening sun. It’s a wide, flat orange circle.

“You okay?” she asks.

When I blink, the room around me turns psychotic … psychedelic … the colors in the room merging, everything haloed by that orange glow. “Sure.”

I’ve waited thirty years for my father to come home, and when he does—well, not home, but here to see me—I’m not even awake.

“Did the physical therapist see you today?”

“Yes,” I answer automatically.

“And the speech therapist?”

“Sure.” I stare at the shoes that seem to glitter from across the room. “I have to go.”

“What’s that?” Gloria studies me. “The restroom, you mean?”

I shake my head. “I’ve wasted so much time.”

My recovery becomes more purposed. I begin pushing harder, forcing myself further with each exercise. I concentrate during stretching exercises, my muscles straining, my limbs shaking and quivering, and I stare at those shoes, focusing, focusing.

When weariness overwhelms me, I think of Otto, what I must do, and I grow stronger. I force myself to breathe, in and out, in and out. A song floats out of the mist of my brain and wraps around me. The crazy sounds warp and fuse. One day, I remember Momma playing that album late at night after Abby and I went to bed. The cover was black with a prism of light. The haunting sounds wrap around me, and I focus on what I must do to get out of here.