When You're Expecting Something Else (6 page)

Just like my sister to think about all the outside responsibilities.
 
Me, I was also thinking that maybe he had a cat or a bird or some kind of pet that might need tending. Suddenly, I’m anxious to go. I want to know who Jared really is, to help him as soon as possible. I look at the address again. He lives in Palo Alto. I type the address into Map-find on my computer and instantly I have directions.

Serena drives. Map-find is so good that we don’t even bother to program the navigations system. I’m so tired of listening to that lady’s voice in the car telling me where to go, and this way Serena and I can talk while I read the street signs. Serena is telling me about four year old Alan’s last T-ball game, how he slipped into a mud puddle when he ran to third base when we pull up to Jared’s house. I can hardly believe my eyes. This is no small apartment.

“Do you think he really lives here?” Serena asks.

“Maybe he lives with his parents,” I say, feeling disappointed at the thought. “This looks like a rich man’s house. Jared’s too much fun to be a rich man.” The house is huge and old, perfectly restored, and with moist gardens and trees that look to be ancient.

Serena parks the car on the street in front of the house. We walk to the front door where I ring the doorbell and wait, expecting his ancient, white-haired mother to answer. I look at the name and address on the key ring again and compare the house number and street with what they say. I notice that the mailbox attached to the wall of the house near big double doors is stuffed full. I shrug to my sister and pull an envelope out from the mailbox. I know she thinks that I’m committing a felony offense, but surprisingly, she doesn’t say so.

“It’s addressed to Jared,” I tell her. “A bill or something from a bank.” I ring the doorbell again and wait some more. I glance at the quiet street. There are no neighbors outside, no cars driving by.
 
Serena surprises me by going around the side of the three -car garage and sticking her face up high to look over top of the backyard fence. All the houses in the Bay Area seem to have fences separating them from their neighbors. I think of the Robert Frost poem about how “good fences make good neighbors.” At least I think that poet was Robert Frost. I’ve never been good about authors and quotes, but I wonder if Jared is a good neighbor.

“There’s a huge swimming pool, and it looks like tennis courts way in the back,” she whispers as if she’s a robber casing the place. I jiggle the keys and look into her brightly made up eyes, with green eye shadow highlighting her face, a shade to compliment the silk green blouse she wears. It’s an odd time to keep contrasting myself to my sister, but I think about how sweet she was to bring me a comfortable pair of jeans and casual top to the hospital rather some fancy, stylish outfit that she would have preferred. I do have some stylish clothes. It’s just that I like to save them for special occasions.

“Should I use the key?” I ask, expecting Serena to deny my request. I’m not quite sure myself if it’s the right thing to do, but my sister nods, surprising me again.

“Wait, look!” She points to a sign pasted on a side window. “The house has a security alarm.”

“We’re not robbing the house,” I remind her. “This is a good thing. When the security company sends someone out, we can get information from them, explain that Jared’s in the hospital and we need to know who his contacts are.”
           
“Oh, okay,” Serena says as I stick the key into the keyhole and hold my breath.

Chapter Seven

The touchpad for the security system is mounted on the wall to the right of the door. “It’s not on,” I tell Serena. “Alex contracts with the same company back in Connecticut. I know how it works.” Assured that we aren’t going to be immediately arrested, I reach back through the open door and pick up the rest of the mail from the mailbox. Then I pull the front door closed tightly behind me. I feel like a secret operative on a covert mission.

“Why do you think the alarm was left off?” Serena asks.

“Maybe somebody’s in the house?” I murmur, glancing around.

“Hello! Hello! Is anybody here?”
 
Serena’s melodic voice sings a greeting. “We’re looking for anybody related to Jared Wise.” I have to smile. Serena is so darn correct, all the time, always trying to do the right thing. I can’t believe how endearing her previously annoying habits have become to me.

Nobody answers. Stealthily we slink our way through the marble entranceway and into a large living room with high ceilings, expensive paintings on the walls, leather furniture, and heavy wood tables arranged on a beautiful Persian carpet. A black cat appears from behind the couch, meowing softly.

“Oh, here kitty,” I call gently, squatting low so as to appear less intimidating. I extend my outstretched hand. She nuzzles right up to me, so I pick her up. She purrs when my fingers stroke her furry softness, and I notice fine specks of white scattered in with her otherwise all black coat. She wears a thin lavender collar with a metal tag. I say her name as I read it, “Isabella.” A phone number is engraved on the other side of the tag. “Are you hungry, Isabella?” I ask, still petting her.

“Her bowls are empty,” Serena says from around the corner. I follow her voice into a large, country kitchen with all industrial sized, modern appliances in stainless steel. The massive gas stove looks big enough to prepare foods for an entire army. The countertops are thick, dark granite and extend on three sides of the kitchen even though a workstation island is situated in the middle of the room, making it clear that some serious cook lives here. On one corner of the ceramic floor I see a tray that holds two empty bowls for Isabella alongside a larger bowl with a scant eighth inch of water left on the bottom.

Serena searches through the cabinets until she finds a bag of dry cat food, which she shakes into the empty bowl. Isabella scrambles from my arms when she hears the kernels tinkling into the bowl. Serena fills the water bowl, moving almost reverently in this unfamiliar kitchen. Next, she finds a can of wet food and sets it onto the counter. “Nobody’s been here for days. The mail hasn’t been brought in and nobody’s been here to feed the cat,” Serena whispers as if afraid of being overheard.

I think about poor Jared, lying in his hospital bed all broken and alone. The thought justifies my action, so I glance through the unopened envelopes from the mailbox. But Serena is slinking from the kitchen into another part of the house, distracting me from my own snooping. I’m really not a good snoop. I’d rather stick with Serena and try to find somebody or something in another part of this big house, preferably somebody who knows Jared and can take care of his business.

Surprisingly, there are several empty rooms in this stately home, totally empty, unfurnished, and undecorated, devoid of all personality. The master bedroom is complete, decorated in manly colors; browns, reds, and blues that all seem to flow tastefully together highlighting a tall, impressive looking king size bed. A fleeting image of Jared asleep in my small rental bed flashes through my mind. Again I wonder, who is this man?

 
A large, brown office, a real man cave, is located next door to the bedroom. It holds a large desk, what I recognize to be an ergonomically correct desk chair, several tables loaded with computers, (actually electronics of all kinds,) and hardly any paper clutter. I wonder if Jared keeps his address book and date book in computerized format. If so, his information may be hard to retrieve. I’m computer literate, but I still keep my address book in hard copy. I rustle through the desk drawers still feeling like an invader until I come across a small black book with names, addresses, and phone numbers.

“I’ve got it,” I tell Serena, and she stops searching. I peruse the book looking for last names ‘Wise’ to find a relative to call. Instantly, the name Jared Wise, Sr. pops up, listed first under the W’s. There are no other Wise names, making me think that Jared doesn’t have a lot of relatives. “Here goes,” I say as I press the phone numbers, for who I surmise is Jared’s father, into my cell phone, which is answered immediately.

“San Francisco Geriatric Center, this is Cassandra, how may I help you?”

“My name is Connie Harrison, and I’d like to talk to Mr. Jared Wise, Sr.” I hold my breath waiting for Cassandra to respond.

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Wise is unable to talk,” she says.

“Can you ask him to call me back? It’s important. It’s about his son, Jared Jr.”

“No, I mean that Mr. Wise is unable to talk. He’s been in a coma for four years. You must mean his grandson, Jared the Third. His son, Jared Jr. died a long time ago. Jared, the grandson, usually sees to his care,” she tells me.

In a coma! My mind races while I try to think of what I should say next. I finally settle on the blunt truth. I know she can’t give out a lot of information because of patient confidentiality and all, but as Jared’s advocate, I don’t have those same restrictions. If I tell her about Jared, she might know where to turn, where to find other relatives.

“Well, Jared Wise, probably the grandson, is in the hospital, and I’m looking for his next of kin. I found the name Jared Wise, Sr. in the grandson’s address book. Can you help me determine whom I should call next? Nobody knows he’s even in the hospital.”

“Who did you say you are?” The voice is crisp and businesslike, not unkind, but definitely not friendly.

“My name is Connie Harrison. I’m a friend of Jared’s. We were on a date when we were involved in a car accident. I’m trying to find Jared’s next of kin to notify about his condition.”

“We can’t give out that kind of information, but if you tell me where Jared is hospitalized, I can call there and verify his condition and then notify a relative,” she says.

“He’s in ICU at Pacific West Hospital in Mountain View,” I volunteer.

“I’ll take care of it,” she says, and hangs up before I have a chance to leave my phone number with her.

“Okay,” I say to the dial tone. “I guess that’s that,” I tell Serena. I shrug off the feeling of emptiness that washes over me. I can no longer justify snooping into Jared’s affairs knowing that his family will be informed and able take over now.

“Let’s get out of here,” Serena says.

“Wait, what about Isabella? What if Jared’s family doesn’t know they have to come to feed the cat?” My eyes search frantically to find where Jared’s little pet has run off to in this great big house. “I think I should take her to my apartment for now. We can leave a note on the kitchen counter for someone to call me when they want her back.”

“That’s wise,” Serena says, and we both chuckle. I’m thinking like a Wise.

I call “kitty-kitty” in my softest voice until I find her in the living room, sleeping in a sunny corner on top of a side table. Meanwhile, Serena bags up the two kinds of cat food, a giant box of kitty litter, and we clean the kitty litter box for travel. I find a cat carry case in a storeroom behind the kitchen. Then I scrawl a note and leave it with the mail on the kitchen counter.

“You’d better leave the keys, too,” Serena advises. I’m not sure about that, but she convinces me that our job is done and it would be wrong for me to keep the keys to Jared’s fancy house. After all, I’m not his girlfriend, or his family member. I’m really nobody to Jared, she reminds me.

“Serena! How can you be so cruel?” I cry at the insensitivity of her words, but the truth is, she’s really right. I’m nobody to Jared. I set the keys down on the granite counter alongside my note, and feel a piece of my heart fall out onto the counter next to them, comforted at least by Isabella’s softness in my arms, and the knowledge that I can still visit Jared at the hospital where I’ll soon be working as a nurse.