I Wish You Happy: A Novel Read online

  “Cole talked to you.”

  “Nancy Weathers. I mean, yes, Cole was here to talk to Nancy. We’ve got her on a watch of sorts. She’s been talking about dying all weekend, and today we found a little hoard of pills in her bedside drawer. Poor thing. She just broke right down and wept when we took them away from her, said she didn’t want to spend another day in this horrible place and why won’t we just let her go home? We’ve got her on watch. Everything sharp has been cleared from her room, and when Chris hands out meds, make sure the old dear hasn’t cheeked them. Oh my. Look at the time. I have got to get out of here. Let’s do report, shall we? Mostly there’s nothing new, but . . .”

  I lose track of her voice as she goes through the report book, staying just tuned in enough to register a shift in tone when she mentions something important. Cor is a wonderful human being, but if I try to listen to everything she says, meaning gets lost in an ocean of words. Besides, I’m busy trying to sort out how I feel about a party commemorating Oscar.

  Shared grief is a novel idea. Who knew Oscar had so many friends? I’d thought of him as mine. This infusion of Cor’s sympathy, the idea that the rest of my coworkers might feel sad, punctures a little hole in my dark bubble of grief, shifting it from something that was mine alone into communal property. I feel lighter. I also feel a loss.

  Corinne slaps the report book closed and plunks it down onto the desk beside me. “Well, there you have it. Nothing new, apart from the thing with Nancy, so you’re all set, and I’m off home to the grandbabies. We’ll bring things we can roast over a campfire, okay? That was Cole’s idea. Marshmallows and such. I wonder if Oscar would have liked marshmallows? Probably not good for rats, but who knows? Seems like it doesn’t hurt the wild ones any. I was in Seattle once, and two of them ran right past my feet. Big as my cat, can you believe it? And sleek and shiny. Life’s just not fair, at all, with those nasty things living forever and probably carrying plague, and poor little Oscar taken so early. All right, then, I’ll just be going. I’ll see you tomorrow. Take it easy tonight, if you can. The CNAs can do almost everything.”

  She’s already down the hall and into the lobby before this speech is over, and she turns to wave at me before heading for the door.

  Despite Corinne’s parting advice, there’s no taking it easy. The pace here is always hectic. A lot of the residents need help with the most basic daily living activities, so there’s a round of getting dressed and cleaned up and pointed toward the dining room, for starters. I help with this when an extra pair of hands is needed, besides dressing the wounds that so easily develop on fragile skin, checking blood sugars, doing assessments, and a myriad of other tasks.

  When I run out of legitimate excuses, I drag myself into Nancy’s room, determined to do a safety check and get away clean without any conversations about death. I’ve had my fill of that topic for the rest of my lifetime.

  Although I know Tia got her up and put her in her wheelchair, Nancy is lying on top of the bed, flat on her back, hands loosely clasped on her breast with a single red rose placed artistically between them. She doesn’t move when I call her name.

  “Nancy!”

  Not so much as a twitch.

  Her eyes are open, staring up at the ceiling. I can’t tell if her chest is moving.

  Shit. Is she a code or a no code? I can’t remember. I shout for help and dash toward the bed. Just as I reach out to put a hand on her chest, she sucks in a breath and turns her head in my direction. Her angular face cracks into a grin.

  My heart stumbles over itself, trying to figure out what it’s supposed to do, and I can’t quite catch my breath.

  Nancy sits up, laughing so hard the tears run down the grooves life has carved into her cheeks. “You should have seen your face!” She slaps her thigh with a blue-veined hand. “Priceless.”

  “You’re trying to kill me,” I say, sinking down in the wheelchair parked beside the bed.

  “No, I’m trying to kill myself.” She adjusts her face into a mournful expression, droops her shoulders, transforming from gleeful old vixen to a poor pitiful crone in a matter of seconds. “No hope. No point. Why won’t you people let me die in peace?”

  When I continue to stare at her without response, she lays the back of one hand across her forehead dramatically and drifts back onto the bed, emitting a tremulous little moan. She’s the perfect picture of a lady suffering an attack of the vapors, and I remember, a little late, that she was an off-Broadway actress before the stroke that confined her to a wheelchair a few years back.

  I get up from the chair and pick up her untouched dinner tray. “I guess you won’t be needing this, as you’re actively dying. I’ll just take it back to the kitchen.”

  “Hey, I want that!”

  I turn around and glare at her.

  “You’re no fun.” She sits up and smoothes her hair, disheveled by the theatrics. “Bring me my tray. It smells amazing. You took forever to come in, and there I was, knowing all of that good dinner was getting cold.”

  Leaving her sitting on the side of her bed, I pull over a table and set up the tray.

  “Want to tell me what this is all about?”

  “I’m bored,” she says, diving into the food. “This is delicious. Although, what I really want is a good restaurant meal, you know. Mexican, maybe. Why do they never do Mexican?”

  “Because everybody gets heartburn.”

  “And gets the shits,” she says, grinning at me. Her eyes in her wrinkled face are dark and clever, still sparkling with laughter at her own prank. “Is there even Mexican in town? Because somebody could bring me some. I’m not given to getting the shits.

  “That was a hint,” she adds, when I don’t answer her. “No reason you couldn’t stop by and bring me some enchiladas or some such. Is there? Death by cheese would be infinitely preferable to me overdosing on pills.”

  “You weren’t ever going to take those pills, were you?”

  “Are you crazy? Here? That would be the stupidest thing ever. A body is barely allowed to breathe without somebody watching. I’ve had my stomach pumped once before—I’m not bored enough to do that again.”

  She waves her fork at me. “I don’t blame you, dear. Bureaucracy, that’s what it is.” She shoves another bite into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “I heard about the demise of the rat. Can I come to the memorial thing?”

  “I’m not sure there’s going to be a memorial thing.”

  “Oh, my dear, you can bet your sweet bottom there will be a memorial. It’s not a thing anymore, either, it’s an Event. Taken on a life of its own. I’ve heard about it from the bath aide, the janitor, Tia—oh, and Corinne, of course.”

  She’s crazy, I tell myself. Faking suicide. Why am I going on as if this is a rational conversation? I’ve checked on her. I can get up now, leave the room with a clear conscience.

  My butt stays firmly planted in the wheelchair. “They can’t possibly all care about Oscar.”

  She looks at me like I’m the crazy one. “Of course not. I told you, it has become an Event. Events have a life of their own. Same reason some people go to church services or like to attend funerals. They don’t give a rat’s ass about God or the deceased; they just want to eat good food, see what everybody’s wearing, and dish out some gossip.”

  “You are a piece of work,” I say, getting to my feet, but I can’t help my lips quirking up into a smile.

  “Did you like what I did there? The rat’s ass thing?”

  “Brilliant. I’ve got to get back to work.” I’m trying with all my might to hang on to the heaviness of my grief, but my heart feels almost buoyant as I head for the door. I have an unreal sensation, as though my feet are barely touching the ground and I might lift off and float down the hallway.

  “So can I come?” Nancy calls, just as I reach the door.

  I turn around to look at her. “Maybe. I don’t know. It depends where it is. Your chair has to be able to get there.”

  “I’ll conti
nue to be suicidal if I don’t get to go.”

  “You’re not suicidal.”

  “Nobody knows that. You can’t prove it. I’ll say you didn’t check on me, and they’ll find me in a heap on the floor, oh-so-pathetic. Your word against mine.”

  “Blackmail, now? Isn’t that a little beneath you?”

  “I’m a desperate woman, Rae. Come on. I never get out.” She tips her head to one side, and her eyes go dreamy. “Although, being suicidal has its perks. That Cole is a beautiful man, don’t you think? Almost worth a stomach pumping to spend another hour with him.”

  “Oh my God. You are incorrigible.”

  “So I can go?”

  “If there’s a thing. If. I’ll try. No promises.”

  “Oh, there’ll be a thing,” she says, mimicking my tone. “An Event is not a thing. Two very different creatures, I’m telling you.”

  Outside the door I very nearly collide with a slightly built man, shorter than my five foot six, with a kind face and tired eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.

  “How is she?” he asks, helping me steady the tray. “I heard all about it. Poor old dear. Life can be so hard for the elderly. I’m beginning to have some aches and pains myself. Slowing down a little, but there are miles on the old rig yet.”

  He’s got to be seventy, minimum, and he’s in for trouble if Nancy heard him refer to her as a poor old dear. But his age and manner make him the perfect chaplain for Valley View.

  “She’s fine, really,” I tell him, starting off down the hall. “But I’m glad you’re here to talk to her.” I raise my voice, using distance as an excuse. Nothing wrong with Nancy’s ears, and I want her to hear me. “I’m sure she’d be delighted if you would pray with her, maybe read from the Psalms.”

  “Oh, Rae?” he calls after me. “I’m sorry to hear about Oscar.”

  He’s got his sympathy face on, the one I’ve seen him wear when he’s consoling the family after a resident’s death. He clears his throat. “If you’d like, I’d be happy to say a few words at the memorial. Even rats are God’s creatures, after all.”

  “That would be . . . great. Thanks so much.”

  See? Nancy says inside my head. An Event. Not like a thing, at all.

  Chapter Six

  Where Monday was all bright light and sharp angles, Wednesday is shaped like an amoeba—an amorphous, gelatinous sort of day full of guilt and inertia. It’s eleven o’clock before I finally climb out of bed, and even then I feel sluggish and heavy. By the time I’ve managed to get ready for the day, I have just enough time to go see Kat before heading off to work.

  I’d meant to bring flowers, but there’s no time for that. By the time I drag myself into the ICU guilt might as well be my middle name. There’s not a nurse in sight at the desk, so I bypass checking in, relieved not to have to speak to anybody, and let myself into Kat’s room.

  She’s not alone.

  A man sits in the chair beside her bed, one ankle crossed over his knee. His shoes are black and polished to a mirror shine. The socks are black and long enough to cover the expanse between the shoe and a pair of black slacks. His head is bent over a magazine in his lap. I can’t see his face.

  Her husband, I think. Tom. Come to comfort her, encourage her, take her back home. Whatever drove her away, he’s here to make it right. A whole romantic movie episode plays through my mind, complete with full orchestra scoring and a sunset over ocean waves in the background.

  The imaginary camera zooms in.

  “I’m so sorry, my darling,” movie Tom says, cradling Kat in his arms as if she weighs no more than a child.

  She wears a dress, something flowing and white. Her head rests on his broad chest. “I’m the one who’s sorry, my love. I’ll never leave you again.”

  “Here, you can have the chair. I should be going, anyway.” A man’s voice jars me out of the daydream. It does not belong to the Movie Husband of the Year. Instead, Mason stands looking at me, one hand resting on the back of the visitor’s chair, the other gesturing toward it. My eyes flow over him and then past to the woman lying on the bed.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, the tone of his voice shifting to alarm.

  “What’s wrong with her? What happened?”

  The bruises on her right cheek are ghastly today, a dull greenish black. Her eye is swollen shut, the lid purple and grotesque. That’s to be expected. The oxygen mask is gone, replaced by a nasal cannula. The suction tube is no longer taped to her nose. These are good things.

  What’s bothering me is her hands, bound to the railing with soft restraints.

  Her good eye flickers open.

  She tugs at the restraint closest to me. “Please,” she croaks through dry lips.

  “What the hell?” I ask Mason, my hands already undoing the release. I glare at him, as if he’s the one who has tied her up.

  “Now you’ve done it.” He reaches out to stop me, but it’s too late. Restraints are easy to undo if you know the trick.

  Kat flexes her fingers, as if they are stiff, and detaches a strand of hair that has stuck to her lower lip. “Thirsty,” she says.

  There’s a carafe of ice water beside her bed and beside it a half-filled glass with a straw. Between that and the absence of the tube into her stomach, I assume they’re allowing her liquids.

  “Just a sip,” I say, holding the cup and putting the straw between her lips. She holds it with the free hand, lifting her head a little from the pillow and sucking down water.

  “Easy,” I tell her. “You don’t want to be sick.”

  Restlessly, she gropes for the release of the other restraint.

  Mason grabs her hand and holds it back. She fights him a little, grunts with pain, and gives in, letting her arm flop back onto the bed. The beep of the EKG monitoring her pulse accelerates. With each breath she gives a tiny moan, as though it hurts her.

  I glare at Mason and he releases his hold, raising both hands, palms up. “Hey, don’t shoot me. There was a sitter here when I showed up. She asked if I’d watch while she went out for a smoke. She specifically said not to undo the restraints.”

  “That’s crazy.” Still, I hesitate to undo the ties on Kat’s other hand.

  “Not so much. Apparently, Kat pulled out all the tubes—the one from her stomach, her catheter, something in her chest. So they sedated her and put her in restraints. They’re waiting to see if they need to put any of them back in.”

  He’s overdone the cologne, and it smells expensive and demanding, taking control of my olfactory senses whether I like it or not. I don’t like the way we’re talking about Kat as if she’s inanimate, so I turn my attention back to her.

  “Lots of people get confused on pain meds. That must be what happened to you. I’ll talk to them about the restraints.”

  Her gaze sharpens, lasering in on Mason. “Why are you here? Go away,” she whispers. “Please.”

  Her free hand drifts to the broken place in her ribs, splinting them to ease her breathing.

  I glare at Mason. “You heard her.”

  “She’s not making sense . . .”

  “Does it matter? You’re disturbing her. You need to go.”

  “Fine. But let me tell you something.” He beckons me to the door of the room. I sidle after him, crab-like, reluctant to take my eyes off Kat.

  Mason stops in the hallway. He drops his voice to a whisper, but it’s still too loud. “What I told you the other night . . .”

  “Right. You told me so. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “That’s not what—”

  “Look. I have just a few minutes to visit with her, and then I have to go to work. Can we have this conversation later?”

  A light dawns on his face, and I see my mistake. He’s not a man to accept a brush-off. He’ll hold me to that.

  “Sure,” he says. “Maybe over coffee or dinner.”

  “Right. Some time when I’m not working.” I back into the room, drawing the curtain behind me to shut him out.


  “I don’t know why he comes here,” Kat says as soon as he’s gone. “What does he want?”

  And as irritated as I was with Mason a minute ago, now I find myself defending him. “It was hard to watch, you lying in the road like that. He wants to see that you’re okay.”

  “He didn’t run over me. What’s he feeling guilty about?”

  “I’m not here because I feel guilty . . .” I begin, but stop on the lie. There are other emotions to sort, but guilt tops the list. When—if—I go to see Bernie next week, she’ll make me tease them out, one at a time. “What color is this emotion?” she’ll ask me. “What does it feel like?”

  No color at all. Not white, made up of all the colors but black. Raven’s wing black. That should be a crayon color. Maybe another shade called “bruised.” Bloodred probably already exists.

  With a little sigh that goes straight to my heart, Kat lets her eyelid drift closed. She lays the back of her hand across her forehead, as though it aches. “I remember him. From the accident.” She licks her lips, and I hold the water for her again. “I bet he’s the one who talked to that crisis guy.”

  “A crisis guy? What crisis guy?” I’m sure she can hear the guilt in my voice. I make a point of wiping up the ring of water on her nightstand left by condensation.

  “Maybe I dreamed him. But it seemed real. He came in here, asking all these questions, like he thinks I did this on purpose. The nurse made him go away.”

  Her hand drifts back down to her side. Her eyelid opens, and she pins me with a direct question. “Was I dreaming? Was he here?”

  I pull up a chair to the bedside, using the motion and the time to avoid her gaze. I don’t want to tell her that I’ve spoken with Cole. Just the fact that I was civil to him now feels like a betrayal.

  “He might have been here,” I say, cautiously. “What do you remember?”

  “He was here,” she says. “He brought my backpack from the hostel. He thought I might have done this on purpose. This!” Her hand hovers over her bruised cheek, the fractured ribs, bandaged belly, broken pelvis. “Who would do a thing like that?”