FICTION |
Unsafe Harbor - The Grand Princess Arrives - Mar. 9, 2020 - Edward Lebowitz
Escape from Safe Harbor
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Chapter 3 |
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Louise Levin had moved into Safe Harbor two years after her husband Saul’s death. She’d cleared the house they’d lived in for 45 years in less than a month, donating clothing, kitchenware, and furniture to Goodwill, the Salvation Army, and Little Sisters of Hope, keeping just the bare essentials for setting up housekeeping in Safe Harbor. For years, she’d maintained a home, raised her family, and run a private school, which she had founded. Enough was enough. It was time to be taken care of, for a change. Although Rowena and Duncan had invited her to live with them in their small house, she’d thought better of that. She and her daughter had a good relationship that she intended to keep that way. Besides, she’d never get used to their haphazard habits and clutter. She liked order for its own sake, while Rowena seemed to thrive on disorder. And Duncan was no better. Just look at the books and papers stacked on every surface! No wonder the place was so dusty. Not that Rowena was much of a housekeeper anyway. No, she’d decided she’d be better off maintaining her distance and independence for as long as possible.
Since her hip fracture a year earlier, Louise had slowed down. Her recovery had been long and difficult. She was still using a walker when she remembered it and moved much more cautiously around her apartment. She was glad someone else was doing the cooking and cleaning, and she usually looked forward to eating with other residents in the dining room. She was beginning to make friends.
Until the virus. Now, they were all in quarantine, meals brought to their doors, temperatures taken morning and evening, and a hush settling over the residence. As if they were already in mourning. No one was sick at Safe Harbor, but it was only a matter of time, she knew. She watched the news and read the disinfected newspaper delivered to her door with her lunch.
Louise had always been a reader and had her own stack of books on her night table and in the old oak bookcase from Saul’s office. She was tackling her books, one by one. She also did daily crosswords and Sudoku puzzles to keep her brain nimble, although she struggled with the latter, having never been as good with numbers as words.
She kept busy, but she was lonely with too much time for rumination. She looked forward to Rowena’s calls, and Rowena knew that.
Since her hip fracture a year earlier, Louise had slowed down. Her recovery had been long and difficult. She was still using a walker when she remembered it and moved much more cautiously around her apartment. She was glad someone else was doing the cooking and cleaning, and she usually looked forward to eating with other residents in the dining room. She was beginning to make friends.
Until the virus. Now, they were all in quarantine, meals brought to their doors, temperatures taken morning and evening, and a hush settling over the residence. As if they were already in mourning. No one was sick at Safe Harbor, but it was only a matter of time, she knew. She watched the news and read the disinfected newspaper delivered to her door with her lunch.
Louise had always been a reader and had her own stack of books on her night table and in the old oak bookcase from Saul’s office. She was tackling her books, one by one. She also did daily crosswords and Sudoku puzzles to keep her brain nimble, although she struggled with the latter, having never been as good with numbers as words.
She kept busy, but she was lonely with too much time for rumination. She looked forward to Rowena’s calls, and Rowena knew that.
5
“Hi, Mom. How are you doing?”
“Same old, same old.”
“Are they still taking your temperature every day?”
“Yes,” Louise sighed, “Ninety-eight six . . . same old, same old.”
Rowena laughed, “Be grateful for that. We don’t want variety. Boring is good. How’s your appetite?”
“How should it be?”
“Mom, don’t go Talmudic on me. Don’t answer my question with a question. That’s so Dad.”
“Yes, he was a bit that way, wasn’t he? My appetite? It’s not what it used to be. I don’t eat nearly as much, but that’s good. I could lose a few pounds.” She was trim and looked younger than her years. People always thought she was in her 80s--a point of great pride. She had always watched her weight and her grooming. Her silver hair was cut in a stylish bob. She liked looking young.
“What did you have for dinner tonight?”
“I don’t remember. That was hours ago. They bring it at 4:30. Who’s hungry at 4:30?”
That had been Louise’s “snack” time for years--cheese and crackers and a vodka and tonic. An ounce of vodka precisely, a slice of lime, tonic water and ice in the same 10-ounce tumbler. Louise liked her rituals. She’d ended her vodka ritual when she began taking medication for arrhythmia.
Rowena wondered if her mother missed the alcohol. She never mentioned it, but she did talk about missing her cigarettes. “Rowena, do you have a cigarette? I’d really like one.” Louise had smoked from age 19 to 87, denying any ill effects despite a diagnosis of COPD, which finally compelled her to quit “to satisfy my family. Such worrywarts.”
“Mom, I’m so sorry I can’t visit you. This is so difficult.” Rowena’s voice threatened to break.
“I know. I know. Lotte Turbin’s daughter tried to visit yesterday. They made them sit more than six feet apart in the lobby, I hear. With masks. Lotte couldn’t hear a word her daughter was saying. She started to cry.”
“Same old, same old.”
“Are they still taking your temperature every day?”
“Yes,” Louise sighed, “Ninety-eight six . . . same old, same old.”
Rowena laughed, “Be grateful for that. We don’t want variety. Boring is good. How’s your appetite?”
“How should it be?”
“Mom, don’t go Talmudic on me. Don’t answer my question with a question. That’s so Dad.”
“Yes, he was a bit that way, wasn’t he? My appetite? It’s not what it used to be. I don’t eat nearly as much, but that’s good. I could lose a few pounds.” She was trim and looked younger than her years. People always thought she was in her 80s--a point of great pride. She had always watched her weight and her grooming. Her silver hair was cut in a stylish bob. She liked looking young.
“What did you have for dinner tonight?”
“I don’t remember. That was hours ago. They bring it at 4:30. Who’s hungry at 4:30?”
That had been Louise’s “snack” time for years--cheese and crackers and a vodka and tonic. An ounce of vodka precisely, a slice of lime, tonic water and ice in the same 10-ounce tumbler. Louise liked her rituals. She’d ended her vodka ritual when she began taking medication for arrhythmia.
Rowena wondered if her mother missed the alcohol. She never mentioned it, but she did talk about missing her cigarettes. “Rowena, do you have a cigarette? I’d really like one.” Louise had smoked from age 19 to 87, denying any ill effects despite a diagnosis of COPD, which finally compelled her to quit “to satisfy my family. Such worrywarts.”
“Mom, I’m so sorry I can’t visit you. This is so difficult.” Rowena’s voice threatened to break.
“I know. I know. Lotte Turbin’s daughter tried to visit yesterday. They made them sit more than six feet apart in the lobby, I hear. With masks. Lotte couldn’t hear a word her daughter was saying. She started to cry.”
6
“That’s why we’ll keep our visits to the phone,” Rowena sighed. “You can hear me, can’t you?” Her mother wore hearing aids when she could find them.
“Most of the time. Call anyway. It doesn’t matter if I hear every word. Just so I hear your voice.”
Rowena was always the one to make the calls to her mother, because sometimes Louise lost track of which day was which. Rowena had suggested marking days on a calendar, but Louise had dismissed that suggestion as “too much fuss.”
So, Rowena was surprised the next afternoon to pick up the ringing phone and hear her mother’s voice.
“Rowena, is that you?” Louise’s voice trembled like a feather in the breeze. “Rowena, can you hear me?”
“Yes, where are you?”
“In my apartment. I’m calling from the bedroom.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“So no one can hear me. It’s happened. I just heard from the lunch lady. They have two cases . . . on this floor. It’s coming to get us.” She began to cry.
“Mom, calm down. Two cases? You mean of Covid-19?”
“Don’t get so technical. You know what I mean. The virus that’s killing people, shooting them like fish in a barrel.”
In panic mode, Louise sounded more like her mother, Vera, a Russian immigrant, who’d spoken a mix of Russian, Yiddish, and American slang.
“Momma, calm down. Take a breath. It doesn’t help to panic. You’re washing your hands and sanitizing any packages or papers you handle, right? You’re staying in your apartment. If you have to go anywhere, you’re wearing your mask, yes?”
Louise’s voice stopped trembling. “Yes,” she whispered, “I’m doing all that.”
“Then, you don’t have to worry and you don’t have to whisper. I’ll call Ms. Garber in the office there and find out what’s happening, and I’ll call you back, okay?”
“Okay,” Louise whispered.
“Most of the time. Call anyway. It doesn’t matter if I hear every word. Just so I hear your voice.”
Rowena was always the one to make the calls to her mother, because sometimes Louise lost track of which day was which. Rowena had suggested marking days on a calendar, but Louise had dismissed that suggestion as “too much fuss.”
So, Rowena was surprised the next afternoon to pick up the ringing phone and hear her mother’s voice.
“Rowena, is that you?” Louise’s voice trembled like a feather in the breeze. “Rowena, can you hear me?”
“Yes, where are you?”
“In my apartment. I’m calling from the bedroom.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“So no one can hear me. It’s happened. I just heard from the lunch lady. They have two cases . . . on this floor. It’s coming to get us.” She began to cry.
“Mom, calm down. Two cases? You mean of Covid-19?”
“Don’t get so technical. You know what I mean. The virus that’s killing people, shooting them like fish in a barrel.”
In panic mode, Louise sounded more like her mother, Vera, a Russian immigrant, who’d spoken a mix of Russian, Yiddish, and American slang.
“Momma, calm down. Take a breath. It doesn’t help to panic. You’re washing your hands and sanitizing any packages or papers you handle, right? You’re staying in your apartment. If you have to go anywhere, you’re wearing your mask, yes?”
Louise’s voice stopped trembling. “Yes,” she whispered, “I’m doing all that.”
“Then, you don’t have to worry and you don’t have to whisper. I’ll call Ms. Garber in the office there and find out what’s happening, and I’ll call you back, okay?”
“Okay,” Louise whispered.
7
Chapter 4
Rowena hung up the phone and went to find Duncan, who was digging in their small garden patch, humming “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” She tapped his shoulder, startling him. “It’s happened,” she said, “The virus has hit Safe Harbor.”
“How do you know?” Duncan pushed himself up from the ground and stretched his back, pushing against it with his gloved hands.
“My mother. She just called in a panic. You should have heard her. She was so frightened.”
“Okay, don’t you panic, too. The first thing to do is verify what she told you. Call that place and speak to someone in charge. You know how rumors fly there . . . even through closed doors.”
Rowena made two calls, first to the office at Safe Harbor where she spoke with Ms. Garber, the administrator.
“Yes, Mrs. Stone, we have two confirmed cases, but we’re pretty sure we have the situation under control. We’re trying to keep this quiet to avoid panic, you understand. I don’t know how your mother heard this.”
“Apparently from an accurate source,” Rowena snapped. “I don’t know how you can say you have the situation under control. You know who you sound like, don’t you?” Rowena felt her temper and blood pressure rising. She closed her eyes, trying to breathe more deeply. “When were you going to tell us?”
“Now, Mrs. Stone, we’re taking all the necessary measures and precautions to ensure this doesn’t spread. Only one of the cases is a resident on your mother’s floor. The other is a staff member who’s now quarantined at home.”
“This is supposed to be comforting? How exactly? It’s bad enough a resident has been infected, but a staff member? How many residents has he or she infected?”
“I understand your concern, and we’re doing all we can. There’s nothing to be accomplished by telling families at this point. What can you do?” Ms. Garber’s voice simmered.
“That’s not for you to decide, is it?”
“How do you know?” Duncan pushed himself up from the ground and stretched his back, pushing against it with his gloved hands.
“My mother. She just called in a panic. You should have heard her. She was so frightened.”
“Okay, don’t you panic, too. The first thing to do is verify what she told you. Call that place and speak to someone in charge. You know how rumors fly there . . . even through closed doors.”
Rowena made two calls, first to the office at Safe Harbor where she spoke with Ms. Garber, the administrator.
“Yes, Mrs. Stone, we have two confirmed cases, but we’re pretty sure we have the situation under control. We’re trying to keep this quiet to avoid panic, you understand. I don’t know how your mother heard this.”
“Apparently from an accurate source,” Rowena snapped. “I don’t know how you can say you have the situation under control. You know who you sound like, don’t you?” Rowena felt her temper and blood pressure rising. She closed her eyes, trying to breathe more deeply. “When were you going to tell us?”
“Now, Mrs. Stone, we’re taking all the necessary measures and precautions to ensure this doesn’t spread. Only one of the cases is a resident on your mother’s floor. The other is a staff member who’s now quarantined at home.”
“This is supposed to be comforting? How exactly? It’s bad enough a resident has been infected, but a staff member? How many residents has he or she infected?”
“I understand your concern, and we’re doing all we can. There’s nothing to be accomplished by telling families at this point. What can you do?” Ms. Garber’s voice simmered.
“That’s not for you to decide, is it?”
8
Rowena hung up, wondering what she could do. She called her mother again.
“Mom, pick up if you hear me. Mom? Listen, I’ll call back later. In the meantime, you’re not to worry. I spoke with Ms. Garber, who reassures me they have everything under control. It’s all being handled. They’re scouring and disinfecting and taking every precaution. Do not worry. Okay? Love you.”
She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. Face to face, her mother always knew when she was lying. She wasn’t much of a liar. Her eyes or something about her expression gave her away. Her mother, on the other hand, was skilled at deceit. Something about growing up eldest in a family ruled by a Victorian autocrat who tolerated no opposition. Louise, strong-willed and spirited, had found ways around her tyrannical father, even if it meant telling an occasional lie or omitting an occasional relevant fact or two. She hadn’t raised her children to use the same techniques. They were never let in on her secrets.
And Louise had never been a worrier. This anxiety was new. It had surfaced in the last few years. Rowena thought it must have to do with feeling less in control. Her mother, used to doing things her way, had been the first to achieve a college degree in her family. She’d gone on to earn a doctorate in linguistics, had founded her own preparatory school when she was dissatisfied with the philosophy and curricula of schools that had employed her. “I can do better” was her driver. She was rarely unsure of herself, certainly not timid or anxious.
Now, she was frightened. Rowena picked up the phone, calling her mother’s number again. Still no answer. Should she call Ms. Garber? She’d wait until after lunch. Maybe her mother was napping.
Rowena prepared a spring salad for lunch, adding a ripe avocado to the bowl of tomatoes, cucumbers, and greens. She and Duncan could eat outside in the sunlight, enjoying their garden and the quiet. She poured iced tea, placed the lunch on a tray, and carried it onto their small patio. She could smell the fresh earth Duncan had been digging in. How lucky they were. She mustn’t forget that. Here they were, the two of them, still enjoying each other, most of the time, in their dear Victorian cottage. She called it a cottage because it was a small, one-story house with only two and a half bedrooms, if you counted the den, and one and a half baths, a cozy living room with a fireplace, a dining alcove, and an updated kitchen with French doors out to their patio and garden. Just right for them.
“Mom, pick up if you hear me. Mom? Listen, I’ll call back later. In the meantime, you’re not to worry. I spoke with Ms. Garber, who reassures me they have everything under control. It’s all being handled. They’re scouring and disinfecting and taking every precaution. Do not worry. Okay? Love you.”
She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. Face to face, her mother always knew when she was lying. She wasn’t much of a liar. Her eyes or something about her expression gave her away. Her mother, on the other hand, was skilled at deceit. Something about growing up eldest in a family ruled by a Victorian autocrat who tolerated no opposition. Louise, strong-willed and spirited, had found ways around her tyrannical father, even if it meant telling an occasional lie or omitting an occasional relevant fact or two. She hadn’t raised her children to use the same techniques. They were never let in on her secrets.
And Louise had never been a worrier. This anxiety was new. It had surfaced in the last few years. Rowena thought it must have to do with feeling less in control. Her mother, used to doing things her way, had been the first to achieve a college degree in her family. She’d gone on to earn a doctorate in linguistics, had founded her own preparatory school when she was dissatisfied with the philosophy and curricula of schools that had employed her. “I can do better” was her driver. She was rarely unsure of herself, certainly not timid or anxious.
Now, she was frightened. Rowena picked up the phone, calling her mother’s number again. Still no answer. Should she call Ms. Garber? She’d wait until after lunch. Maybe her mother was napping.
Rowena prepared a spring salad for lunch, adding a ripe avocado to the bowl of tomatoes, cucumbers, and greens. She and Duncan could eat outside in the sunlight, enjoying their garden and the quiet. She poured iced tea, placed the lunch on a tray, and carried it onto their small patio. She could smell the fresh earth Duncan had been digging in. How lucky they were. She mustn’t forget that. Here they were, the two of them, still enjoying each other, most of the time, in their dear Victorian cottage. She called it a cottage because it was a small, one-story house with only two and a half bedrooms, if you counted the den, and one and a half baths, a cozy living room with a fireplace, a dining alcove, and an updated kitchen with French doors out to their patio and garden. Just right for them.
9
Every time she spoke with her mother, the news was worse. The number of infected residents was mounting. Feeling helpless, Rowena struggled to console Louise. Their despair deepened until Rowena began to imagine an eclipse blocking the sun forever. She had to force herself to make those phone calls, holding her breath until she heard Louise’s voice, reassured by the sound despite the occasional tremble.
The litany was the same each time. “Mom, did they take your temperature? Was it normal? How are you feeling? Are you still eating? Doing your exercises? Not watching too much news, I hope. You know how they sensationalize everything. Not good to dwell on that. Are you still doing your crosswords? Are you sleeping okay?” The list of questions grew with Rowena’s anxiety until Duncan suggested he call Louise on alternate evenings to relieve both women.
Duncan dutifully asked a few questions and then described his garden, telling Louise about the plantings he’d done that day. “Today, I planted beets, carrots, and radishes.”
Louise sighed, “I can’t eat radishes any more. Too gassy. What about your flower garden? How does it grow?”
“Some of the perennials are blooming--purpose and rose-colored pansies, snowdrop anemones and dahlias. Of course, the nasturtium is running wild. Our cherry tree is blossoming, too.”
“I wish I could see them.”
“Soon, I hope. When this . . . ”Duncan realized he was skating too near the edge and pulled back. “We also planted cosmos, Rowena’s favorite, and some anemones. You’ll get to see those, for sure.”
The litany was the same each time. “Mom, did they take your temperature? Was it normal? How are you feeling? Are you still eating? Doing your exercises? Not watching too much news, I hope. You know how they sensationalize everything. Not good to dwell on that. Are you still doing your crosswords? Are you sleeping okay?” The list of questions grew with Rowena’s anxiety until Duncan suggested he call Louise on alternate evenings to relieve both women.
Duncan dutifully asked a few questions and then described his garden, telling Louise about the plantings he’d done that day. “Today, I planted beets, carrots, and radishes.”
Louise sighed, “I can’t eat radishes any more. Too gassy. What about your flower garden? How does it grow?”
“Some of the perennials are blooming--purpose and rose-colored pansies, snowdrop anemones and dahlias. Of course, the nasturtium is running wild. Our cherry tree is blossoming, too.”
“I wish I could see them.”
“Soon, I hope. When this . . . ”Duncan realized he was skating too near the edge and pulled back. “We also planted cosmos, Rowena’s favorite, and some anemones. You’ll get to see those, for sure.”
10
Chapter 5
Rowena and Duncan alternated preparing dinners and cleaning up after dinner. It had been Duncan’s turn to prepare the meal--an ahi tuna steak, Brussel sprouts, and a brown rice concoction with sautéed mushrooms and leeks. Duncan thought he’d overcooked the tuna, which seemed dry to him. Rowena agreed silently but was grateful, because she disliked and mistrusted raw fish. Not a sushi fan.
If it was warm enough, they ate on the patio, but it had begun to rain heavily that afternoon, a little unusual for mid-April. They ate indoors and lingered over their decaf before they cleared the table. Duncan went into the den to catch up on “what’s happening in the swamp,” while Rowena stacked the dishwasher and put away leftovers.
At first, neither of them heard the doorbell, muffled by the roar of the aging dishwasher and din of the TV. But the ringing persisted. Rowena wiped her soapy wet hands on her dish towel and went to the door, grabbing her mask from the hall table, jamming it on around her glasses, trying not to catch it in her hair, but that seemed inevitable. Nuisance! Dexter, always alert to bells and considering himself an exemplary watch cat, followed her. She wondered who’d be on their doorstep this time of night in this weather.
When she opened the door, she saw two rain-sodden, masked figures, huddled together under a green-and-white striped golf umbrella. It took her a moment to recognize the smaller figure.
“Mother?!” Rowena swung open the door and pulled her mother in out of the rain. “What are you doing here? How did you get here? Oh, my god!!”
“I brought her here, Auntie.”
Rowena turned to look at the other figure, who stood dripping onto her oriental rug. The voice was familiar, but the figure was shrouded in a gigantic, hooded raincoat.
“It’s me . . . Carrie, your favorite niece!”
“Duncan!” Rowena shouted, “Come here. Come help!”
With Duncan’s help, Rowena removed her mother’s raincoat and boots. Louise’s wool dress was damp, and she shivered at Rowena’s touch.
“We’ve got to get you out of these wet clothes. Duncan, please help Carrie and find out how in hell this happened.”
If it was warm enough, they ate on the patio, but it had begun to rain heavily that afternoon, a little unusual for mid-April. They ate indoors and lingered over their decaf before they cleared the table. Duncan went into the den to catch up on “what’s happening in the swamp,” while Rowena stacked the dishwasher and put away leftovers.
At first, neither of them heard the doorbell, muffled by the roar of the aging dishwasher and din of the TV. But the ringing persisted. Rowena wiped her soapy wet hands on her dish towel and went to the door, grabbing her mask from the hall table, jamming it on around her glasses, trying not to catch it in her hair, but that seemed inevitable. Nuisance! Dexter, always alert to bells and considering himself an exemplary watch cat, followed her. She wondered who’d be on their doorstep this time of night in this weather.
When she opened the door, she saw two rain-sodden, masked figures, huddled together under a green-and-white striped golf umbrella. It took her a moment to recognize the smaller figure.
“Mother?!” Rowena swung open the door and pulled her mother in out of the rain. “What are you doing here? How did you get here? Oh, my god!!”
“I brought her here, Auntie.”
Rowena turned to look at the other figure, who stood dripping onto her oriental rug. The voice was familiar, but the figure was shrouded in a gigantic, hooded raincoat.
“It’s me . . . Carrie, your favorite niece!”
“Duncan!” Rowena shouted, “Come here. Come help!”
With Duncan’s help, Rowena removed her mother’s raincoat and boots. Louise’s wool dress was damp, and she shivered at Rowena’s touch.
“We’ve got to get you out of these wet clothes. Duncan, please help Carrie and find out how in hell this happened.”
11
When Rowena had towel-dried Louise and taken her temperature, which, by some miracle was normal, she dressed her mother in her warmest flannel nightgown, gave her a honeyed cup of tea, holding the cup to her mouth and urging her to drink the warm liquid. Gradually, Louise, who had been silent and shivering, began to draw deeper breaths and regain color in her pale, drawn face. She drank the tea slowly and then yawned deeply.
“Mother, do you want to go to bed now? We can talk in the morning.”
Louise nodded gratefully and was asleep before Rowena had lifted the covers over her weary body.
Rowena turned on the nightlight near the door, left the door slightly ajar, and walked toward the kitchen to confront her niece.
Duncan and Carrie were sitting at the kitchen table, sipping their hot tea. Carrie’s wet raincoat was draped over the back of her chair, dripping onto the parquet wooden floor that had been recently installed. Rowena snatched the coat and carried it into the small bathroom off the kitchen where she hung it in the shower. Scowling, she returned to the table.
“Well?” she muttered.
“You’re not going to believe this,” Duncan responded, glancing from his niece, who smiled tentatively, to his wife, who grimaced. “Carrie, tell your aunt what you told me.”
“Oh, my gawd! It was awful! Grandma called me in a panic. She was crying . . . you should have heard her. She said people were sick and dying all around her and she had to get out of there. I told her, ‘Grandma, you have to stay there. You’re in quarantine.’ She asked me if I wanted the next time I saw her to be at her funeral. I didn’t know what to say.”
“So, what did you say?” Rowena prodded, glaring at Duncan who shrugged his shoulders.
“I tried to get her to stop crying, to calm down, but she wouldn’t. She was . . . hysterical. 'You’ve got to come and get me out of here!’ was all she kept saying. So, that’s what I did.”
“Just like that? What do you mean, ‘that’s what you did?’ No one there would let you take her out just like that. How did you even get in? The place has 24/7 security.”
“Mother, do you want to go to bed now? We can talk in the morning.”
Louise nodded gratefully and was asleep before Rowena had lifted the covers over her weary body.
Rowena turned on the nightlight near the door, left the door slightly ajar, and walked toward the kitchen to confront her niece.
Duncan and Carrie were sitting at the kitchen table, sipping their hot tea. Carrie’s wet raincoat was draped over the back of her chair, dripping onto the parquet wooden floor that had been recently installed. Rowena snatched the coat and carried it into the small bathroom off the kitchen where she hung it in the shower. Scowling, she returned to the table.
“Well?” she muttered.
“You’re not going to believe this,” Duncan responded, glancing from his niece, who smiled tentatively, to his wife, who grimaced. “Carrie, tell your aunt what you told me.”
“Oh, my gawd! It was awful! Grandma called me in a panic. She was crying . . . you should have heard her. She said people were sick and dying all around her and she had to get out of there. I told her, ‘Grandma, you have to stay there. You’re in quarantine.’ She asked me if I wanted the next time I saw her to be at her funeral. I didn’t know what to say.”
“So, what did you say?” Rowena prodded, glaring at Duncan who shrugged his shoulders.
“I tried to get her to stop crying, to calm down, but she wouldn’t. She was . . . hysterical. 'You’ve got to come and get me out of here!’ was all she kept saying. So, that’s what I did.”
“Just like that? What do you mean, ‘that’s what you did?’ No one there would let you take her out just like that. How did you even get in? The place has 24/7 security.”
12
“I pretended I was delivering her drugstore order, and the security guard barely looked up from his paper. He let me in. I went to her apartment, helped her grab a few things, and we went out by the patio door.”
“What?! What about the alarm? If you open that door, it’s supposed to set off an alarm!” Rowena shouted.
“Calm down,” Duncan chided. “The alarm doesn’t sound until nighttime. They expect residents to use their patios during the day and early evening. Remember?”
Rowena remembered. Before this virus struck, she and Louise often sat on the patio when the weather was warm enough. They both enjoyed the touch of afternoon sunlight sliding gently through the leaves of the Japanese maples. And the whisper of an afternoon breeze. She sighed.
“Sorry, Carrie. Please tell us the rest. How on earth did you get Grandma here? Not on your motorcycle!”
“Auntie, it has a sidecar. Grandma was perfectly safe. And she had the umbrella.”
To say Carrie was young for her 20 years was a gross understatement. Rowena had always suspected her sister’s youngest child was more than just “slow to mature,” as the family put it, but this was too much.
“Carrie, Grandma can’t be exposed to the cold and the rain that way . . . and on a motorcycle! What were you thinking? What about the slippery roads? What about this pandemic? What about the quarantine?” She knew she shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t carry on this way, but she couldn’t help herself. She began to cry, bringing Duncan to his feet, hugging her in his large, protective grip.
Carrie, bewildered, also began to cry. “But I couldn’t leave her there. The virus would’ve gotten her!”
So many things Rowena wanted to say, but she was weary and just wanted to hide. “I can’t talk about this anymore. We’ll talk more tomorrow. You’re staying here tonight, I assume. Why do I assume that? Where are you living these days?”
“Nowhere . . . on friends’ floors . . . my parents kicked me out.”
“Later,” Rowena mumbled. “Too much for tonight. Duncan, can you settle Carrie in the den for the night?”
“Sure. I’ll call Safe Harbor first. They must be missing Louise by now.”
“Who knows.” Rowena shook her head, kissed the top of Duncan’s head, and headed for the stairs. Bed was where she had to be.
“What?! What about the alarm? If you open that door, it’s supposed to set off an alarm!” Rowena shouted.
“Calm down,” Duncan chided. “The alarm doesn’t sound until nighttime. They expect residents to use their patios during the day and early evening. Remember?”
Rowena remembered. Before this virus struck, she and Louise often sat on the patio when the weather was warm enough. They both enjoyed the touch of afternoon sunlight sliding gently through the leaves of the Japanese maples. And the whisper of an afternoon breeze. She sighed.
“Sorry, Carrie. Please tell us the rest. How on earth did you get Grandma here? Not on your motorcycle!”
“Auntie, it has a sidecar. Grandma was perfectly safe. And she had the umbrella.”
To say Carrie was young for her 20 years was a gross understatement. Rowena had always suspected her sister’s youngest child was more than just “slow to mature,” as the family put it, but this was too much.
“Carrie, Grandma can’t be exposed to the cold and the rain that way . . . and on a motorcycle! What were you thinking? What about the slippery roads? What about this pandemic? What about the quarantine?” She knew she shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t carry on this way, but she couldn’t help herself. She began to cry, bringing Duncan to his feet, hugging her in his large, protective grip.
Carrie, bewildered, also began to cry. “But I couldn’t leave her there. The virus would’ve gotten her!”
So many things Rowena wanted to say, but she was weary and just wanted to hide. “I can’t talk about this anymore. We’ll talk more tomorrow. You’re staying here tonight, I assume. Why do I assume that? Where are you living these days?”
“Nowhere . . . on friends’ floors . . . my parents kicked me out.”
“Later,” Rowena mumbled. “Too much for tonight. Duncan, can you settle Carrie in the den for the night?”
“Sure. I’ll call Safe Harbor first. They must be missing Louise by now.”
“Who knows.” Rowena shook her head, kissed the top of Duncan’s head, and headed for the stairs. Bed was where she had to be.
13
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Elinor Gale has been a writer, observer of human nature, and lover of the English language since childhood. An inveterate eavesdropper, she has woven her curiosity about human behavior into her work as writing teacher, editor and creator of humorous yet poignant fiction and poetry. Her first novel, The Emancipation of Emily Rosenbloom, was recently published, and she’s at work on a second. Her essays, poetry and articles have been published in print and online. Elinor moved to the Bay Area from New England over 20 years ago and still marvels at flowers and green grass in February.
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