Chapter 3
I put that intriguing conversation with Della out of my mind almost immediately. Typically. It was easier all around not to run through any of this with Doug over dinner, and risk more of his cold logic and skeptical sighs. Easier not to rock the boat, as she had said. Maybe I would mention something to my friend Joan, next time we talked on the phone. We had known each other since our kids were toddlers. We didn’t talk that often anymore, but she was the sort of person you could bounce an idea off of, and she would not laugh, at least not right at you.
I did wonder later if Della would mention any of this to Mags. Or if she had, about her own experiences. The two were pretty tight, in the nursing home context. (The whole thing a bit like junior high for the elderly, I had observed. Bosom buddies and sudden rivalries, giggling nudges and sulky competition for the occasional dapper male guest, often a doctor or specialist of some sort. Men who might be balding or impatient or nearly retired, but clearly the sought after stars there at Hillside.)
They had only known each other for a couple years, having checked in a couple doors apart around the same time and quickly finding common interests. I didn’t think I would mind if Mags heard about my dreams. She had, after all, seen me at my absolute worst, and still stuck by me.
I wouldn’t necessarily want Liza and Curtis to brought up to speed on it though. But I was pretty confident that Della would keep this between herself and Mags at most. She had made it clear that she got it, as far as why one shouldn’t go around discussing premonitions of death. Anyway, maybe it was just my wishful thinking, but I had the impression that Della was not terribly fond of Liza either. As for Mags, I could hardly believe that she would be preoccupied with my personal oddities in the face of conversations with her own beloved children.
So the weekend passed, aside from the memorial service, routine and uneventful. We cracked a bottle of the good wine on Saturday evening, and splurged with ice cream over pie for dessert. Fancy coffee on Sunday, lingering over a homemade brunch. (When did our treats become so food oriented, I wondered.)
Our earlier disagreement set aside, we pleased each other in bed as usual after the good wine Saturday night. There, it wasn’t all about eating and drinking. But a lot more about the body than the mind, it occurred to me. Doug and I used to banter and tease each other more. He used to talk more about his cases. There just wasn’t that much new in them anymore, though. Nor in my work, which spun out in pursuit of such unattainable goals, year after year. Nor in the rest of our lives. Really, the emphasis on the physical made some sense. It was better than collecting miniature dolls or obsessing about civil war statistics or other inane things such as I’d seen take hold of our older relatives.
Sunday afternoon we put on somber dressy clothes and made our way out the avenues to the small church where Yvette’s family held her service. The modest chapel was quite full, from what I gathered was indeed a large extended family. Doug and I weren’t late, but nonetheless sat towards the back. I made a point of saying hello to Mags, Della, and some other ladies from Hillside, who were seated together in their wheelchairs in a pretty little alcove. But they had family members with them, and it wasn’t really a chatty sort of social occasion.
I found myself focusing on small details as the service got underway. The way each speaker seemed to grip the podium, as if straining for balance. The shifting colors on the floor and walls, from sun hitting a stained glass window, pretty but not especially connoting any sort of religious symbolism. How most of the men of her family seemed to be prematurely balding, while the women had great manes of hair. The carefully inclusive way they spoke about her extended family, with nods toward partners, those who could not be here in person, and those who had passed away already.
Doug sat comfortably close to me, his shoulder there for me to lean on. But I had steeled myself numb. I let each word flow past me but purposely did not string them together into deeper meaning. I would rather not be emotionally compromised in public. In any case, this tribute to Yvette was at its core joyful, full of amusing recollections about a life well lived. We should all be this lucky, I thought, to be remembered with such simple pleasure.
Afterward, we briefly paid our respects to her children, but did not stay for the reception. I waved at Mags and her son Curtis, who were way across the room. Della, being wheeled by someone I didn’t recognize, hailed us. “Good to see you both,” she said. She murmured something more, in a soft voice. I leaned forward and she repeated it: “Don’t forget the internet.”
Mondays were my busiest at work. We had a regular staff meeting, plus our deadlines just seemed to fall early in the week. I kept my normal quick and efficient pace, and attempted to prod – without being too annoying – the slower of my colleagues. One young woman in particular seemed to spend much of her time on Facebook, barely thinking to hide the page when someone passed by. She wouldn’t last, I could tell that now, but nonetheless I expected her to get the basics of her job done.
Which made me feel funny jotting a note in my calendar to research the weird phenomena. But I had promised to Della. Plus I was, when I allowed myself to think about what had happened, somewhat curious.
I waited until my scheduled lunch break on Tuesday to even begin a computer search. Even that required effort. Often enough, I work through lunch if I’ve brought a sandwich, or at most just duck out for a quick walk around the campus. Wally likes to schedule lunch meetings that cover birthdays or other little staff get togethers. So we might start with an intensive discussion of upcoming fundraising priorities, then break out our Tupperware and share some cookies, and by the time the thing has ended, it’s mid-afternoon.
But this time, I unwrapped my sandwich and sat forward, facing the colorful google logo and unsure of what to type. I realized I didn’t have a name for it, for whatever I was looking for. Della had called it inknowing, but that query just came up with a suggested spelling correction and a couple pages where the two words had run together.
Was it ESP? Google first wondered if I meant ESPN, but the simple touch of the space bar launched a plethora of options. There were tests, tons of them, with references to paranormal and psychic phenomena. I clicked one open at random, and was presented with five symbols and invited to select from among them to predict what the computer had pre-selected. I tried it a couple times. My correct percentage was 25%, with random being 20. But then I clicked through a few more times and my accuracy shot down, plus I felt absolutely nothing as far as any sort of inner knowledge guiding me.
The thing felt silly. Also addictive. I tried another so called test. This one had numbers, and the option of guessing what was already there or predicting future computer choices. Then I tried this odd site that had me guess what objects were in a pretend box on the screen. All the while, ads for Live Psychic Readings! popped up, along with medium hotlines and workshops to develop one’s telepathic skills.
I glanced down the hall, glad Wally was out for the afternoon along with Mai, the co-worker who sat nearest to my workspace. Fortunately we had little in the way of in-house IT, I thought. I was quite sure that no one ever checked up on personal use of the computers here, or scrolled through our search page history. Good thing, because I couldn’t imagine what someone would think about these items.
Even so, I opened another tab to a bland news site, just to have handy in case. In case somebody walked by and saw a flashing set of stars and moons highlighting the Life Enriching Tarot Reading 800 number dancing across the screen. I abandon the tests and tried “sixth sense” and “psychic ability.” At least one or two sites offered slightly more academic sounding descriptions of such things in addition to the astrology and dream analysis buttons to click.
A half hour later, though, I felt no closer to discovering anything about my self or my abilities from the whole of the world wide web. If anything, clarity felt farther away. Most of the information seemed geared tow
ard “are you psychic? Yes, you’re so special!” Followed by endless opportunities to pay for all manner of ridiculous things (since you’re also obviously a sucker).
The very idea of most of these phenomena seemed absurd to me, they always had. That the alignment of stars at the moment you took your first breath caused personality traits. That some stranger on the other end of a pay-per-minute call would have insight into your problems. That a tarot card reader could do anything beyond tell you, in the manner of Professor Marvel in The Wizard of Oz, what you most needed to hear.
And yet – Della’s soft voice persisted in my head. The combination of her utter confidence in her own belief and lack of concern that anyone else understood it, served to spur me on. The thing itself would not be online, but I could seek out, perhaps, the like minded.
Googling for conferences brought up some odd sounding things that had already taken place. Also – this only two weeks away in Las Vegas! – an international UFO gathering (presumably for the true believers rather than an open invite to the flying objects, although I assumed there would be all manner of items on sale geared toward luring the space aliens there as well).
I tried discussion groups, and came up with several people charging hourly fees for mentoring, plus self-published books for sale. Various words repeated in my scattershot search: clairvoyants, telepathy, empaths, sensitives, psychic, medium. A one sentence definition for Precognition caught my eye: knowledge or awareness of the future, obtained through extra sensory perceptions.
That was pretty much it, when it came down to it. No stars or cards or laying on of hands. No money exchanged. I honed in on some of the key words and tried again. Finally, feeling like I was knee deep in some crazy treasure hunt, I located what seemed like a fairly low key gathering. It was a meeting for people interested in precognition and clairvoyance with a lecture by an academic specialist on brain chemistry about possible paranormal events, to occur next week and right downtown.
After all the cosmic spookiness I’d just read through, this coincidence seemed bizarre – but I quickly understood that this was a monthly gathering for so called open minded adults, sponsored by New College and held at their downtown building. The following month’s would feature theories on hypnosis. There would be evening class information available after the talk; no doubt they were just pushing adult enrollment any way they could.
Feeling a strange guilty pleasure, I printed out the event notice, standing by the printer to snatch it off before anyone else could chance to see it. I set it aside and returned to my work, chastened and anxious to catch up – I’ve never been the type to feel comfortable blowing off my duties like this while at the job. Work felt pretty dull in comparison, though, I had to admit. Yes, I had gotten jaded by this point in the game. Name a middle aged person who hasn’t.
Early in my time here at the Gallagher Center, just coming to work had felt like some sort of victory. In my head I pictured our old office, a somewhat dank and poorly lit set of rooms, on the ground floor, half a basement really. Our computer system was old and crashed randomly, the copier barely functioned, when we had meetings with more people than just the staff we all had to troop over to another building for a table and chairs to accommodate us. Funding had been dicey and we had worked for sub-standard pay, accepting greater vacation time to compensate but rarely using it.
Yet those were the glory days, no doubt. Wally was the only one left of that early group; he had worked with the founding director. But the early enthusiasm had infused every working day. We, working together, could raise the money, could direct the funds and frame the debates, would cure diseases. Would make lives longer and better and more meaningful.
It’s not that I doubted our mission even now. I’d come to the nonprofit from the biotech industry, where making money was the primary goal, never mind the potential of their lifesaving products. Just being more a part of the solution was a daily victory. But back then I did not have quite the sense of how long societal change could possibly take. Nor the outside forces that would mess with all of our struggles. I’d been in my mid-30s, no sweet innocent – but even so, during my first couple years at Gallagher, I could remember actually thinking that our little group could put itself out of business. We’d raise the money, more importantly we’d raise understanding. The government – California’s if not the Feds – would surely get the priorities, make the investments, help the sick and dying.
Shaking my head, as if to unloose all those memories of fresh optimism, I turned back to completing the simple tasks at hand. The sun streamed in on these pleasant spring afternoons, and I needed to focus, not give in to the temptation to daydream, or just lay my head down on the warm wooden desk and take a nap.
The following Friday, I looked forward to talking to Della over at Hillside, to let her know that I had not forgotten my promise and see whether she thought I should attend this meeting downtown. Who was I kidding, of course she would have me go. Her biggest complaint in life was her inability to get out and go places; she’d possibly even want me to check her out and bring her along.
But our time together turned out to be brief – she was scheduled that afternoon for a medical exam downstairs. Della was preoccupied, and stuck in her room waiting for the technician to come for her (“even more immobile than usual,” she quipped).
Still, she expressed interest in the Paranormal Events discussion when I hastily told her about it. “You’ll attend it, of course,” she exclaimed. Not at all a question.
“Yeah, I guess so. I’m not sure I’ll really fit in at something like that,” I added. “You should have seen some of the crazy stuff online.”
Della fluttered her hand. “It’s a world of crazy things, I’m sure that hasn’t changed. But that doesn’t deny the core truth of things as far as I’m concerned.”
An aide appeared in the doorway, and Della gently dismissed me, saying that she looked forward to hearing details next time around.
I went down the hall to Mags. She was who I was here to visit after all; in fact I felt a bit guilty about dropping in on Della first. I wasn’t sure how much they compared notes about our various conversations, whether Della would mention the paranormal thing, or Mags would mind that I stopped in to see her separately.
Mags was a bit out of sorts, in any case. Grumpy in a way she never used to be before her stroke. I pulled my usual chair over to sit across from her. It was not my style to try and jolly her out of it, but I could at least read her the headlines, talk about the outside world, maybe get her thinking about things other than the depressing day on hand.
I could see in her eyes that she was battling pain. But when I asked, just casually, if she wanted me to try and track down a nurse, see about getting a Tylenol or something, she glumly shook her head. Or bobbed the half she could, which made me wince, I hoped not obviously. It’s just that I would forget sometimes, then suddenly remember, that half her body no longer moved. The poor woman.
The best I could do was offer a shawl against the slight chill in the room. This she agreed to, and I went to her small closet to rummage amongst her colorful things. “What about this,” I offered, holding out a vivid green wrap. “I remember this from way back. It sets off your eyes.”
Mags gave a tiny smile, and nodded her ascent. I draped the shawl around her, careful not to muss her hair, and she idly stroked the fringed end of it with her right hand. “I believe your mother had one of these too,” she said. “Way back when. I wonder if it’s been so long that it’s come back into style.”
“I think Mom’s was some kind of plaid though,” I said, smiling, glad to see her mind active. “This one’s simpler. Kind of timeless.”
“It is a pretty shade,” she answered. “I put up curtains a bit like this, paler though, in my bedroom. I don’t know if you’ve seen them.”
I shook my head. But we were off. Mags spoke dreamily of her bedroom. Notwiths
tanding the two years that had passed, she could name every piece of furniture in it as though she had arisen there this morning. She talked about replacing her bed with one of these institutional ones, with the electronic device to raise her partway upright, and the careful railing. She’d have one of those fancy tubs put in the bathroom too, to accommodate a wheelchair.
She choose not to consider that her bedroom and bath were on the second floor of her small house. At least the house was still there, and her bedroom untouched. I had heard stories of people here at Hillside whose families had to sell their homes to afford the place, but kept it a secret from them.
Her son Curtis was living there now, out on the avenues. Or at least staying there on a regular basis – I was pretty sure he had a girlfriend these days and spent much of his time at her place. But the point was, any of us could make reference to the house and not have to lie about it.
The Henleys had bought the place, downsizing from their original suburban home, some 25 years ago at least. Back when the less fashionable but still perfectly nice and safe parts of San Francisco were reasonably affordable. To my knowledge it was paid off, so the taxes and upkeep expenses were low. Less than Curtis would pay in rent, no doubt.
I had heard Liza hint, in that under-the-surface way of hers, that she resented it – that her brother got to live so cheap in their mom’s house while she and her husband paid so much more for their own similar sized place. They were owners, of course. Had chosen to buy down on the Peninsula with their two good sized incomes, concerned about schools when their kids were younger. Their house had appreciated hugely, no doubt. While Curtis wasn’t settled like that. He traveled, sometimes months at a time, for his job, and himself took care of the upkeep that Liza would probably pay someone else to do. He would probably rather live closer to downtown, while she would hate to give up her Junior League lifestyle in the burbs.
I tuned back in to Mags, paying enough attention to put in appropriate comments where needed. Their family dynamics, happily, not my problem. Another reason, I presumed, that Mags would have these conversations with me and not with them.
After awhile, I became aware of clattering in the hall. Fast moving young workers were shoving carts laden with trays around, getting set up for dinner. They started delivering to the most bed-ridden quite early. But the sound was also my cue, that it would be rush hour before too long, and I should get in my car and do whatever final errands I had soon. Get home in time to put my house in order, something Mags understood and approved of.
Mags let her voice fade out, eyeing the hallway. “I shouldn’t keep you, dear. I hope I haven’t been nattering about my decor for too long.”
“Not at all,” I answered. “I just wish I had your sense of design. But I should get going. Groceries and dinner and all.”
Her face suddenly lit up as though from a switch, and I turned to see Curtis in the doorway. “Clarissa!” he exclaimed, wrapping his arms around me in a quick bear hug. “Hey, Mom,” he continued, bending over to hug her as much as her mobility would allow.
I stood near the doorway, smiling. I was far enough away from my mom’s passing to drink in this happy scene without the envious pain it once would have blasted through me. Curtis was like a friendly bear – big and a little clumsy, but always well meaning. Genuine and hugable, a straight shooter who had said what was on his mind since we were children.
“You look like you’re on your way out, but take a look a these pictures I brought for Mom,” he said, rooting around in the large bag he had slung over his shoulder.
Mags pulled herself forward to watch. Curtis, just from his size and energy, made the room seem to shrink around him. But in a good way – I could see how focusing on her son made Mags lose track of the bothersome sensations she had been battling.
He held out several glossy prints, actual photographs, of a wild looking landscape, moon-like and misty. “That’s Hawaii,” he said. “Volcanoes. They’ve closed off a big part of the caldera, but we’ve been down their monitoring. You’ve been to the Big Island, right?” he asked me.
“Awhile ago. But this doesn’t look familiar.”
Curtis shook his head. “It wouldn’t have looked like this – this is gas from fresh eruptions. We had to carry oxygen tanks in our van. Don’t worry, Mom, we didn’t have to use them,” he added. “But the air was something their. Sulfuric, yellowish.” He flipped eagerly to another picture. “They were picking stuff up daily on the seismographs.”
Mags motioned him to bring the pictures into her line of vision. To her credit, she did not even blink at the idea of him driving around an active volcano with an oxygen tank. Curtis was a professional geologist, happiest when out in the field taking measurements of something volatile.
“How long were you there?” I asked.
“Almost a month. See?” He held out his arm, which was tanned a rich bronze. “It was great, although the air was pretty bad. Fortunately we kept finding reasons to go to the beaches away from the worst of it.”
“Is the house okay?” Mags asked, her voice casual though her pursed lower lip showed her tension.
Curtis set down the photos and pulled another chair up to be at her eye level. “It’s fine, Mom. I just came from there. And Liza was by to water the plants a couple times, and I email with the Wangs across the street.”
“Mrs. Wang would have let Liza know if anything was going on,” I added in reassurance. “And she was just here a couple days ago, right?”
Mags conceded that much. “We did discuss her remodeling for awhile. I’m sure she would have said something on the topic of houses.”
Liza would have made a point of it if she had been called upon to take care of some minor problem in Curtis’s absence, I thought. Just as their neighbor Mrs. Wang would be sure to inform everyone of the most trivial neighborhood events.
Funny, they had not been terribly good friends back when Mags lived there. She thought Mrs. Wang spent too much time at her upstairs bedroom window, monitoring the activities of the neighborhood. Mrs. Wang had been offended by the frequent comings and goings of the Henley’s guests, often too late at night, in her opinion. But after a couple decades, they were compatriots by default. And we were all relieved to have such a reliable neighbor keeping an eye on the place. I wished Doug and I had someone so tuned into our street’s activities.
Curtis grinned up at me. He looked on the verge of making some comment about Liza’s remodeling, something to goad me. He and I had commiserated on a few occasions about people who spent money on replacing perfectly good things with slightly different brand new things. As opposed to supporting good causes (me) or investing in green-friendly items or eco-travel (him).
But I knew better than to take the bait with Mags sitting there, eager for his attention and sensitive to slights toward either of her kids. I returned his look, an eyebrow slightly raised, daring him to say a thing.
“Darn it, I missed ‘Afternoons with Austen’ again, didn’t I,” he said mockingly instead.
“Actually you didn’t. We’d love to see you next week. Maybe you’d like to be the voice of Mr. Knightly.”
Mags tittered aloud at this, a delightful sound. I said my goodbyes again, and left the two of them, hurrying down the hall and out to my car. But even as I felt the usual sensation of haste, pleased to be moving fast again, on my own at a good clip, I felt my emotions swell a little bit. For all our teasing, I was very fond of Curtis. He was the best Mags could ask for in a son, and it made me happy to know he was there with her.