Blame It On The Mistletoe - A Novel of Bright's Pond

Other Bright's Pond Tales by Joyce Magnin

The Prayers of Agnes Sparrow

Charlotte Figg Takes Over Paradise

Griselda Takes Flight

Blame It on the Mistletoe: A Novel of Bright's Pond

Copyright © 2011 by Joyce Magnin

ISBN-13: 978-1-4267-1162-6

Published by Abingdon Press, P.O. Box 801, Nashville, TN 37202.

www.abingdonpress.com/fiction

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form,

stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website,

or transmitted in any form or by any means—digital,

electronic, scanning, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without

written permission from the publisher, except for brief

quotations in printed reviews and articles.

The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction

are the creations of the author, and any resemblance

to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Cover design by Anderson Design Group, Nashville, TN

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Moccero, Joyce Magnin.

Blame it on the mistletoe : a novel of Bright's Pond / Joyce Magnin.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-4267-1162-6 (trade pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Trailer camps—Fiction. 2. Nursing homes—Fiction. 3. Weddings—Planning—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3601.L447B53 2011

813'.6—dc22

2011015915

Printed in the United States of America

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 / 16 15 14 13 12 11

For my mother, Florence Magnin

We found the dimes, Mom

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

I can hardly believe this is the fourth Bright's Pond novel. As always, novels are not written without a village, and I once again need to say thank you to all the folks who stuck by me so faithfully through the writing: Pam Halter, the CRUE, the folks at Springton Lake Presbyterian Church who have supported and prayed me through from beginning to end, Abingdon Press for keeping Bright's Pond on the map, and my agent for taking care of business and being an encourager. And, of course, these books would never get written without the support of the readers who keep asking for more Bright's Pond. Thank you.

It was the tricycle parked outside of eighty-seven-year-old Haddie Grace's room at the Greenbrier Nursing Home that gave me cause for concern. I first saw it when I had brought Ivy and her dog, Mickey Mantle, to the nursing home for the pooch's weekly Visit of Convalescence. It was a candy-apple-red tricycle with colorful streamers hanging from the handlebars and a note taped to the seat: "Do Not Touch." A round, silver bike bell—the kind you operated with your thumb—was attached to the handlebars, although just barely.

Mickey Mantle loved to visit with the old folks. Ivy said he enjoyed making them smile, and she enjoyed watching their eyes light up when he let anyone scratch behind his ears. And the fact that Mickey Mantle only had three legs on account of an unfortunate bear-trap accident seemed to endear him even more to the residents, a few of whom were missing limbs themselves.

"The best part," Ivy had said, "was when Mickey Mantle was able to help that nasty, cranky Erma Crump find her nice side. Too bad she died just a week after. Only a week to be nice— imagine that."

Ivy Slocum was a good friend. Never married, she was bit on the plump side and was prone to wear oversized sweatshirts to disguise her more than ample bosom.

I've gone on three or four of these visits with Ivy and watched how Mickey Mantle sits and lets the folks pet him and converse with him just like he's a person. I think he would sit there all day long if he could, soaking up the attention and returning the love. The pooch had become privy to many a family saga and secret. But nursing homes have their rules, and Ivy was only allowed to bring Mickey Mantle one day a week—usually on a Wednesday unless otherwise decided. And that particular Wednesday was no different—except for the tricycle and giggles coming from Haddie's room. Haddie Grace weighed all of ninety pounds it seemed to me, a tiny slip of a woman with nearly translucent skin.

"Would you look at that," I said. "Now what in tarnation is a tricycle doing at a nursing home?"

Ivy scratched her head. "Beats me, Griselda. Maybe it belongs to one of Haddie's grandkids."

"Haddie never had children. Never been married as far as she remembers."

"Then I reckon this is strange," Ivy said. "Maybe someone else's kids left it there."

I asked Nurse Sally about the little red trike when I saw her at the nurses' station. Nurse Sally was head nurse at Greenbrier, and we had become quite friendly since Agnes went to live there.

"I just don't understand it," Sally said. "Haddie Grace has been riding that thing down the hallways like she was three years old again. Scares me half to death. She can't afford no more broken bones. I think she slipped her rocker but good this time around."

"No fooling?" Ivy said. "That's odd, don't you think? Why do you let her?"

"Well, here's the thing about that," Sally said. "The residents can pretty much do whatever they want, and Doctor Silver thought that taking the tricycle away might be more harmful. You know, up here." She tapped her head.

"Maybe she should see that head jockey, Doctor Julian," I said. "I think that's his name. The doctor they made Agnes talk to."

"She has an appointment later on today. But I'm worried it might be something serious like a brain tumor making her act like a child. It can happen you know."

"Oh, I know that," Ivy said. "Brains ain't made to have growths growing inside of them. Delicate instruments they are. Why I remember when Bubba Knickerbocker got his. Made him fall down and lean to the left like one of them telephone poles out on the highway."

"That's right," I said. "Poor Ruth had a dickens of a time keeping him upright."

"He was much larger than her," Ivy said. "Kind of like a Chihuahua and a Saint Bernard going out for tea."

"I hear that," Sally said. "Funny thing is that every time I check Haddie's vitals she's sound as a Swiss watch. Can't find a thing wrong—even her blood pressure is good. It's almost like she's getting healthier."

Mickey Mantle let go a low, grumbly growl. Not a fierce, angry growl. He was only letting Ivy know that they had rounds to get on.

"Guess we better be on our way," Ivy said. "Mickey Mantle gets upset if he misses seeing his regulars. Gordon Flegal always has a Milk-Bone for him and that nice Mr. Tracy let him chew on a lollipop last week."

"That's fine, you go on without me this time," I said. "I need to stop in and see Agnes. Why don't you bring Mickey Mantle by her room when you're done?"

"Okeydokey." Ivy gave a slight tug on her dog's leash. "Come on, boy. We better get to Gordon before he conks out for the day."

I lingered by the nurse's station a minute. "How's Agnes doing these days?" I asked.

She fussed with some papers on a clipboard. "Agnes? She's doing quite well. I wish she'd get out of her room more, but she seems content."

My visit with Agnes was not what you would call "usual." I found her sitting in her wheelchair staring out the window. I loved my sister, dearly. Everyone knew that—even Agnes. Although to look at her you might wonder about us. Agnes weighed nearly seven hundred pounds when she checked herself into Greenbrier. Life had gotten too hard for her. Just getting from her bed to the bathroom was chore, and I usually had to be home to help her. But looking at her now I can see how the nursing home was helping. They estimate that she had dropped almost sixty-five pounds in the past several months and was well on her way to losing another sixty-five. I wish I could say her clothes hung on her like the skin on a hound dog after losing so much weight. But no, she still wore muumuus and housedresses—sometimes with pretty flowers and other times just white or pink.

She was wearing a beat up pair of slippers with the heels bent in, and her brown hair had been cut short for ease of handling. Her right arm rested on the arm of the wheelchair and the skin kind of dripped off the edge like expanding foam. But I noticed a sweet smell, like magnolia, wafting around the room, and it did my heart well to know that she was being cared for.

"The leaves are pretty this year," I said from the doorway. "All that rain and then that blast of sunshine and heat in August really helped."

Agnes turned. "Griselda. I'm glad you're here."

I moved closer. "Really? Why? Is something wrong?"

Agnes pushed her chair closer to me. "I'm not sure. I'm not sure at all, but something is strange."

I thought of the red tricycle. "You mean like Haddie Grace's trike?"

"You saw it then."

"Yeah, Ivy saw it too. She came with Mickey Mantle. I asked Nurse Sally about it. She says Haddie has been riding it through the halls like she's three years old."

Agnes slapped her knee. "Land o' Goshen, I know! She rides that trike and rings the bell. If it ain't a sight to see."

I sat on the visitor's chair. "Sally said they're having that psychiatrist check her out."

"I know, I know. Thing is that I don't believe that Dr. Julian will find anything more than simple elderly senility stuff going on."

"Well, Sally did mention something about a brain tumor."

"Brain tumor?" Agnes slapped her thigh. The fat under her housecoat rippled like sea waves. "I doubt that. I get the feeling what's going on around here has nothing to do with tumors or diabetes or senility. Because it isn't just Haddie. It's other folks also. There's something more going on. Something stranger than all that."

"What are you talking about? You mean there're more tricycles? More strange happenings?"

"Look out that window and tell me what you see."

"Grass, trees, a gazebo—when did they put that in? I hadn't noticed it before." It was a large octagon-shaped building with a crooked railing and a cedar-shingled roof with a crooked cupola on the top, and on top of the cupola was a rooster that seemed to be crowing to the west. "It's nice, a little cockeyed but nice."

"Never mind the crooked. Look at what, or I should say, who is in the gazebo."

I stood and moved closer to the window. "Who is that?"

"That, my dear sister, is Clive Dickens and Faith Graves. They've been out there swaying around and dancing with each other like they was sixteen years old again. I tell you, Griselda, it's like that scene in
The Sound of Music."

"Ah, that's OK. Old people can fall in love too."

"I suppose so, but those two? I hear that old man hasn't been out of his room in three years except when they make him go to the barber or the doctor, and Faith Graves is, well, let's just say she has one foot in and one foot out. We've had more code reds on that woman in the last six weeks than anyone. But now, all of a sudden she's up and dancing like a teenager."

"Code reds?"

"Well, yeah, that's what we call it when someone walks into her room and can't tell if she's dead or alive on account of she lays there still as an ironing board and just as stiff. She is, after all, ninety-two years old."

"I guess it does seem strange, come to think about it. What do you suppose is causing this?"

Agnes shook her head and clicked her tongue. "I'm telling you. It's like a magic spell has fallen over Greenbrier. A spell of rejuvenation."

"Is it really such a problem? Maybe it's a good thing."

"But why? What happened to all these people to make them start acting like they were sixteen years old again, or in Haddie's case, three?"

I patted Agnes's hand and filled her water glass from the pitcher. "All what people. You're talking about three people."

"Then explain that." Agnes pointed to the window.

I looked in time to see Jasper York, who was Greenbrier's most recent reluctant resident, shimmy up a tree—or at least try to. He slid back down and sat on the ground.

"OK, that's weird," I said. "Jasper York would never act like that."

"What do you suppose is causing this?" Agnes asked.

I couldn't begin to imagine. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about it. It's autumn. The holidays are coming. Maybe folks are just feeling the holiday spirit. Maybe it makes them feel young again."

"I suppose that could be it, except I have this gut feeling that something ain't right around here. Not right at all."

"Try not to worry about it. You'll make your blood pressure go up or trigger an asthma attack."

"Oh, don't worry about me. I'll be fine. I just kind of wish a little of whatever virus bit them would bite me."

"Um, no, let's hope not, Agnes. That would not be fun."

But I had to laugh when I heard Haddie Grace whiz past Agnes's room singing her ABCs and ringing her bell. "Or you might be right. It could be something more than the holidays."