Right Back Where We Started Page 5

  “Crash.” His father’s voice startled him, and he turned to see him still dressed in the same gray suit he’d left the house in that morning. Harrison gestured him down the hall, and Carter followed him into his father’s bedroom, which was not also his mother’s bedroom. They hadn’t slept in the same room for several years, and he didn’t want to know what that meant.

  “What did Dr. Rose say?”

  “Oh, nothing, really,” Harrison said, waving a careless hand. “Empty promises. We’ll look into a better neurologist.”

  “No, I like Dr. Rose, and he’s close by. Since I’ll be the one getting her to her appointments, I’d like to have some say . . .”

  His father held up his hands, as if in surrender.

  “Why were you there before us?”

  “Ted and I had lunch together. Turns out we’re members of the same golf club.” He put a heavy hand on Carter’s shoulder. “That’s how you get things done in the world, son. Take notes.”

  Carter crossed his arms. “When do you leave?”

  “Tomorrow morning. And I still need to pack.” He gestured toward the music room. “See if you can get her to keep it down, will you? I’d hate to have to get rid of the piano. The movers are outrageously expensive.”

  Never mind that it’s the one thing that makes her happy . . . Carter shuffled back to the music room . . . she’d shifted to “Clair de Lune,” an homage to the moon, which happened to be almost full, lighting up the white carpet with its glow.

  “We played this song at our wedding,” she said, her fingers still moving steadily over the keys. “Sometimes I wonder if he married me just so he wouldn’t have to pay me to watch you boys.”

  Carter went over to the black, padded bench and sat down next to her, facing away from the piano. “He’s a jerk. Always has been.”

  “I didn’t think so. Not back then.”

  “Why didn’t you have kids with him?” That was probably too personal, but she seemed so present tonight, and he’d always wondered.

  She smiled at him. “Oh, but I did. I had you. You three were more than enough for me. You filled up my heart. Still do.”

  He returned her smile, nudging her with his shoulder. “It’s late, Mom. You should go to bed.”

  “I can’t sleep. When’s he leaving?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Good.” She kissed the top of his head. “I’m sorry, I’m keeping you awake. I’ll stop.”

  He hadn’t even gotten back under the covers yet when she started up again, and he wondered if she’d forgotten or if she just needed it that much. He recognized the song, and he grinned; his question was answered. Carter fell asleep to the muted sound of “Brahms’s Lullaby” coming through the wall.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “ALL RIGHT, FIRST THINGS first,” Martina started. They sat at the kitchen table on Friday morning, papers spread out in front of them. “Do you have medical power of attorney for your mother?”

  “No, but I was wondering if I should,” Carter answered. “My father hasn’t been around much lately. Do you think I should?”

  “I don’t know what the situation is with your father, and I’m not trying to probe, but if she’s hospitalized, it would be good to be able to make decisions without having to consult him. A medical power of attorney would solve that problem.”

  “Right. Yeah. I can contact our lawyer.” He pulled out a leather journal and made a note. Martina tried not to be impressed that he was so organized; he’d always blown off his work in the past. Clearly, High School Crash and Adult Carter were two different people.

  “I’d also discuss with her sooner rather than later if she’d want a DNR or DNI and what her wishes are for her remains. And while we’re on the subject of legal documents, did you receive a copy of our contract?”

  He nodded, still writing. She’d sat down with Cindy yesterday at the office to go over it, and some of the language was still on her mind. Signatory agrees that their behavior will be professional toward the patient and their family at all times. This includes not entering into intimate or romantic relationships with patients or those residing with the patient. Such behavior will be grounds for immediate dismissal. She really needed to get Greg’s number and give him a call. Getting fired was the last thing she needed.

  Martina slid him one of the handouts she’d prepared. “Here’s a list of online classes and seminars about Alzheimer’s, if you’re interested. Since she’s so young, some of it won’t apply to her, but it would still be good information for you and your family to have.”

  He looked at the paper, wide-eyed, still silent. Martina hesitated; this was her first meeting with a patient’s family. Maybe she should’ve asked Cindy to come with her. “Would it be possible to get me a copy of her schedule?”

  He grimaced. “I don’t have one. I know she kept a Google calendar; I think she shared a link with me once, but I don’t think I ever opened it up. Mrs. Sánchez would probably have one; she always seems to know when to have dinner ready.”

  “Okay, I’ll ask them both. Are there more of her affairs you’d like me to help manage?”

  He was looking at the handouts again, his expression tense and defeated. “I mean, if you can get her to her hair appointments and stuff, that’d be really helpful.”

  “Of course. Does she know she’s not allowed to drive anymore?”

  “Is that necessary?”

  Martina nodded. “I’m afraid so. Since Alzheimer’s patients have a tendency to wander, we want to make it as difficult for them as possible. Not having wheels slows them down so we can catch up more easily.”

  “Okay. I’ll explain it to her . . .”

  “No, I can talk to her about it. We’ll blame it on me; you don’t have to be the bad guy all the time. I’m sure you’ve done plenty of that.”

  His lips were pressed together. He looked so much older than twenty-seven.

  “Now, as far as patient-proofing the house, how much latitude do I have?”

  Carter waved a hand. “As much as you need. Make it Fort Knox.”

  “Okay. There’s some sensors we can put on the doors to alert us on our phones when they’re opened and closed.” We. It felt so very strange to be in a “we” with Carter Carpenter again, of any kind. “I’d like to at least get all the medications under lock and key, including the ones in your bathroom. Do I have your permission to go through your medicine cabinet?”

  “Um, yeah. That’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll also be putting her on a schedule for exercise, showering, stuff like that. Her bedtime will be pretty early, probably no later than 8:30. Patients do better if they know what to expect most days.”

  “She’ll also have a night nurse . . . but she reports to you. Cindy hasn’t found anyone yet, but . . .”

  “Okay, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” She shuffled the papers until she found the next one. “I would also like to make a visual cheat sheet for her, with people’s names and roles. Can I get a picture of you?”

  He looked up at her. He didn’t smile, his face tense and stoic.

  “Okay, but it’s not a mug shot, so could you maybe smile?” He snorted quietly, and she could tell he was trying, but the forced smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  As soon as the camera was off him, Carter sunk his fingers deep into his hair and went back to reading the page in front of him. The one entitled ‘late-stage Alzheimer’s,’ that depicted the end of the disease, when patients could no longer do things like swallow or use a toilet. It was hopefully a few years off, but it was coming.

  “Let’s put that away for the moment,” she said gently, flipping it over. “It can be pretty overwhelming, getting so much information about what’s to come.”

  Carter said nothing, still staring at the table. That’s when she noticed the wet spots, tears that had fallen like polka dots on the paper, letting the letters on the other side show through. Crash was broken. And if there was anything Martina couldn't stand, it was
watching someone she cared about be broken.

  “Mr. Carpenter . . .” She felt like such a terrible person, calling him that, just watching him cry. She leaned forward across the table, extending her hand toward him as a show of sympathy. “This is really hard for everyone. But I promise, it’ll get easier. You’ve got help now. That’s a good first step. Once we get her on some medications, get her on a routine . . . it’ll help.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Lopez.” To her surprise, he reached out and took her hand, the one she hadn’t realized she was offering. That small connection; it assuaged her conscience. She gave him a small squeeze as she continued.

  “I know some of her favorites, but it would be helpful to have a list of favorite activities, foods, scents, etc. Can you get that to me? Doesn’t have to be today, just sometime this week.”

  “Yeah, that shouldn’t be too hard.”

  “Well, take your time. We don’t have to push this. These are just things that’ll help as we all get used to each other again.”

  “Thank you again for doing this.” He pulled his hand back, turning his head to wipe his eyes, as if she wouldn’t see. “I have to get to work.”

  “Of course. See you tonight.”

  “Right.”

  FOR A FIRST DAY AND with no medication yet, it had gone pretty well. Martina had tried to start Willow on some herbal supplements that she thought would help, but she wouldn’t take them. Willow had gotten a frustrating phone call from someone that she didn’t want to talk about or let her handle. Martina was just sitting at the kitchen island, writing out her report to Carter when a soft voice interrupted her.

  “Martina? May I speak with you?” Mrs. Sánchez was dressed to go home, her tan raincoat buttoned, her hair under her plastic bonnet, her shiny black purse over her arm.

  “Of course, Mrs. Sánchez.” She gestured for her to sit, but the woman shook her head, glancing around. She turned and disappeared down the dark hallway toward the back door. Martina followed her, curious. Why all the secrecy?

  “Is everything all right?” she asked her in Spanish. Mrs. Sánchez stopped by the back door.

  “I need to know: can you fix her?”

  “Fix her?” It dawned on Martina slowly, what she meant. “Oh, Mrs. Sánchez . . . it doesn't work like that. Her mind, it's failing her. She most likely has Alzheimer's.” Had Carter not talked to her about this? She'd gather the staff tomorrow and make sure they understood. “There's no cure. She will be sick for a long time, years maybe, forget all of us, then die.”

  Mrs. Sánchez put a hand on her arm. “Mrs. Carpenter, she is a nice lady. But this lady? She slaps my hand. She curses me. Says I steal things. I don't know her. Not the same lady I worked for these thirty years. Not the same lady who sponsored me when I became a citizen, helped me learn English, helped me when Diego passed away.” A tear fell on her soft cheek, running through her mascara. Martina closed her eyes, trying to keep herself together. Mrs. Sánchez could've quit. She could sue them. Instead, here she was, asking for hope.

  “Mrs. Sánchez, what’s your first name?”

  “Yesenia,” she said softly.

  Martina took her hand. “I'm so sorry that happened, Yesenia. You should not have had to go through that. Did you tell Carter?”

  “How can I? He is crushed with grief. I see it. He carries too much alone. I did not want to burden him.”

  “But Carter cares about you. He would want to know.”

  Her lower lip trembled, but she nodded. “And sometimes, she doesn't know me. She asks me, what am I doing in her house? Me!” she said, thumping her chest indignantly. “Like we're strangers.”

  “It hurts, doesn't it?” Martina murmured, squeezing her hand. “She treats me the same way. This morning, she thought I was you, twenty years ago. Then some moments, she's fine. She's here.”

  Mrs. Sánchez nodded vigorously. “When she's here, it's good. Like before.”

  “There will probably be more good days once she starts her medication. But I can't promise it.” She took both Yesenia’s hands. “What I can promise is that if she's violent or abusive, I can keep her away from you. You don't have to endure that.”

  “Endure?” Her confused stare told Martina it was a vocabulary issue. She hadn’t meant to switch back to English; it was harder to speak Spanish when she’d been thinking all day in English. Some days, they both felt like second languages.

  “Um, put up with. Live with. Suffer through.”

  “Ah, sí. Of course.” Her lower lip trembled and another tear fell. “But Mr. Carter. I don't want to leave him. He is losing her. He loses me, too? He is alone. His brothers, they have big problems. His father, he's too busy for everyone. Mr. Carter needs me.”

  “It's a hard choice. We would hate to lose you, both of us. But we would understand. You must do what is right for you. If you can't work here anymore, we will support you, help you find another job, if that's what you want.”

  “At my age?” The woman laughed, wiping her tears. “It would not be easy.”

  “No. There is no easy way now. For any of us.”

  “I want to be here. Mrs. Carpenter, she . . . she needs me.”

  “That’s incredibly generous of you,” Martina said. “But do what’s right for you. I mean it. We’ll find our way through.”

  “And that is why I will stay for now; you are in our corner now.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ALMOST ONE WEEK IN, things were going pretty well. The night nurse was running thirty minutes late, citing a 'personal emergency.' Martina didn't like to judge; she loved it. And this gal had a lot of personal emergencies. Martina wondered how long she was going to last in this job if she couldn't commit to being on time. It's not like she could leave Willow alone . . . she wouldn't be alone alone, Mrs. Sánchez and the others were there, but still. What if something happened? Martina was also concerned that the girl wasn't that qualified for the work. She, on the other hand, was very overqualified. Maybe that's why this gal's qualifications seemed lacking . . . everyone’s did, by comparison. But lots of nurse practitioners were doing more personalized care now, and that's what Carter had said he wanted at the bar. He wanted her expertise.

  She'd just helped Willow take a shower, and when her hair was done she'd either call Cindy for a relief nurse or maybe the other gal would've arrived by then; the other gal never did a good job with Willow’s hair anyway. Martina felt like a Victorian-era maid, combing and drying Willow's thick blonde hair as she sat on a cushioned stool in front of her vanity, watching her in the mirror. Her hair was pretty, but Martina could see that her highlights were growing out. She made a mental note to make her an appointment with Farrah Durand at Shear Brilliance.

  “Your hair's so pretty,” Martina called over the noise of the hot air, spinning it around the round brush so it would curl under at the bottoms.

  “What?” Willow called back.

  Martina turned down the hairdryer. “Just said your hair's pretty, that's all.” She smiled at Willow in the mirror, and Willow smiled back. “Doesn't it feel good to be clean?”

  “Yes. I feel more like myself when you help me.” Willow put a hand over the hand that held the brush and gave it a light squeeze . . . a wordless thank you. Carter did that, too, she remembered. Martina could see the way that it calmed Willow. Was it the feeling of connection to another person? The older woman didn't get much physical affection from anyone but Carter, and even he was hardly ever around. Martina felt a little puff of anger flicker to life; he should be here more. Willow needed him. Who knew how much time she really had left before she didn't remember who he was?

  And yet, selfishly, when Cara finally showed up, puffing out apologies, Martina breathed a sigh of relief as she walked down the front steps, because she hadn’t seen him again today. But yesterday, he’d left her a note: Thanks for this. Appreciate you. – C. Not appreciate it, meaning her work. Not appreciate that, meaning her report. Appreciate you. And he’d signed it just like he’d signed the
ir love notes, passed back and forth in AP Chemistry behind the back of a particularly clueless teacher. The fact that she hadn’t trashed the note, tucking it instead into her back pocket, meant it was definitely time to find that stay-out-of-trouble temporary boyfriend. And she knew just who to ask for help.

  Martina: Hey. What are you up to tonight?

  Winnie: Just finishing up at the hospital. You want to come over?

  Martina: No, let's go out. Let's go to Annie's. Bring Greg and Daniel.

  Winnie: Greg who?

  Martina: Greg Trout, the resident.

  Winnie: Oh, that Greg. Sure, I can ask him. Is this a double date, then?

  Martina: I'll explain later.

  Winnie: Okay . . . no backing out this time.

  Martina: I won't. I swear on my stack of Cosmos.

  Winnie: LOL, that is pretty serious. Okay.

  Winnie: Annie's, half an hour?

  Martina: Fabulous. Can't wait.

  Wait, if this was a date, she needed to go home and clean up. She was about to start her car when Carter pulled up in his black Tesla. Even in her Corolla, they were more or less at eye level. He stopped next to her and rolled down his window, so she cranked hers down as well.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “How'd today go?”

  “It went fine. I left you a report on the kitchen island.”

  “I saw that yesterday; thank you.” It wasn't for him, really. She felt it was good to have records of the things that happened with her patient, and she didn't want to have to talk to him. That limited her options. She particularly didn't want him to have her phone number . . . he could probably get it through the agency, but it felt like protection, the way it was now. That extra layer of effort was valuable. She couldn't do any late-night texting if she didn't have his number, either.