Electric Blue (21 page)

I now understood her great reluctance to admit that they were involved. Ernst wasn’t exactly regular boyfriend material. His being an employee was only part of the problem. I would bet nothing good could come out of this, certainly nothing long term. But then, I suppose it’s whatever you’re looking for at any given time that matters. Honestly, I would find going to bed with him repellent, like cuddling up with a reptile.

My gaze slid toward the nasty bear painting. But then Cynthia’s tastes ran a different path than my own.

We made some small talk. Very small, as we had absolutely nothing in common. I told him I liked to drink cheap wine and deliver eviction notices to deadbeat lessees; he said he liked sex.

When I heard the door open and saw Cynthia enter, I turned to her in relief. She took one look at Ernst and something flickered across her face. I swear to God it looked like anxiety. Cynthia? Who’s always in such control?

“So, you got a chance to meet,” she said.

“Sure did.” I sounded bright and fake, as if I were hiding some big secret, but I couldn’t help myself. Ernst made me feel dirty and sneaky.

Cynthia’s gaze slid from me to Ernst. She was wearing a dark chestnut colored pantsuit that showed off her slim body. Her hair is short, dark and spiky and she always looks feminine-tough. I sometimes yearn to be more like her, but today Ernst was putting the kibosh on that big time.

“You have a lovely face,” Ernst suddenly said to me. “So natural. And your body is athletic. Very firm and supple.” His dark gaze rippled over me. “You would make a good subject, but you should really be more careful with your skin.”

He reached a hand toward me and I pulled back automatically. “Oh. My cheek. Yeah, I bruised it.”

“No, this.” He touched the side of my neck. “What have you been doing?”

Damn curling iron. At least my burn apparently didn’t look like a hickey any longer. “It’s the beautification ritual I engage in each morning. Sometimes it’s hazardous.”

“Don’t you think she would make a good subject, Cyn?” he asked.

We both looked to her for her opinion. Now, I was the one feeling anxious. Ernst was wormy and icky. I could sense that he could ruin my friendship with “Cyn” without even trying.

“Oh, leave her alone.” Cynthia went behind the massive, baroque, carved oak desk and picked up some receipts. My anxiety level diminished a bit. She was on to his ways. “I’m glad you’re here, Jane. I’m dying for lunch. Let’s grab something around the corner. Have you got time?”

“Absolutely.”

“Ernst, Mrs. Clooner’s picking up the Suji painting. She said she’d be here at one.”

“The Suji’s amateurish,” he sneered.

“Don’t piss her off. We’ll be at Zen and Now,” she added. Cynthia grabbed my arm and steered me out the door and down the street to a pan-Asian restaurant known for its sushi. I was so relieved Cynthia seemed to realize I had no interest in Ernst that I let myself be dragged to the restaurant without protest. Sushi and I aren’t on the best of terms. It’s something I’m learning to like, but apart from California rolls, I’m highly suspect of the ingredients.

“What’s the deal with Ernst?” I asked as Cynthia and I were guided to a wooden booth at the end of a row of such booths. Above our heads red sailcloth partitions divided us from the customers dining on either side of us.

“I’m losing my mind. Why do I like him? Why do I do it? I don’t know. I really don’t.”

“So, things aren’t going any better than before?” A waitress passed by carrying a fish with head and tail still attached. The fish gazed balefully at me though dull, puckered eyes.

“I don’t have an explanation,” Cynthia went on, snapping open her menu.

“Maybe you like him.”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Maybe he’s fine for now.”

“Jane, he’s never fine.”

I shrugged. “All right, I’m out of options.” I was also a little horrified by the prices. If I’m going to pay that much for food it better be damn good.

“I’m going to have to let him go. I can’t work with him. It’s not fair, I know, but it can’t go on this way. He makes me crazy.” The waitress came by and looked at us expectantly. I chose the California rolls and Cynthia ordered eel and a rainbow roll, which was beautiful when it arrived—red, watermelon, green, white—but I could tell it was layers of raw fish and avocado. “Here, have some,” she said, dropping a pale white section of fish wrapped around rice on my plate. She was distracted, lost in her own personal dating hell, so she didn’t notice my lack of enthusiasm. I smothered the thing in as much wasabi as I dared, soaked it in soy sauce, then chewed carefully. I gotta say, it was okay.

Cynthia nibbled on dark red raw tuna. I retreated to my California rolls—rice, crab, a little avocado. Safe. “I’m going to break it off soon,” she decided at the end of the meal. “This week.” I was digging in my purse for some change, but she threw down her credit card, and said, “On me. Thanks for listening.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I’m just glad you’re here, offering support.”

I didn’t see that I’d said anything that could qualify as supportive. “This was pretty good,” I admitted, pointing to the empty plates.

“Better than good. Great.” She gazed at me seriously. “What do you think of him? Honestly. I know he’s not the usual, but I could never go for a Barbeque Dad. It’s not my style.” It was uncomfortable to see how much my answer mattered to her. Momentarily, I seesawed, wishing I could duck the question. Though at times I’m an accomplished liar, I just can’t do it with my friends.

Still, there’s no reason to be harsh, so I said with a light shrug, “He doesn’t do it for me, but what do I know?”

“Has it just been too long for me? I’ve always been sure of what I was getting into, but now this. I’m really struggling to give him up. I know I have to. It’s really not good for either of us.”

“Maybe you’re pushing too hard. Let it run its course.”

“I wish I could. Boy, do I wish I could. But sometimes things get toxic.” She shook her head. “When we first started I was reluctant. Careful. I told myself I’d be sorry right from the get-go.” She gazed off into the middle distance. “There was this other guy a couple of years ago. I didn’t give him enough of what he needed. I should have, but I didn’t. I really wasn’t sure what I wanted. I was so focused on my career, I just quit paying attention to him, us, everything. He slowly stopped calling, and I never picked up the phone and tried to resurrect anything. I’ve always been sorry.”

“What about now? Is he still reachable?”

“He’s married.” She signed her name to the bill. “Lives in suburbia. Probably owns a riding lawn mower. I’m sure she’s either pregnant or will be soon. A Barbeque Dad.”

We got up to leave. There wasn’t much else to say, as I knew better than to try and tell her what kind of man to choose. Her dilemma made me consider my own dating situation. I felt if I pushed Jazz a little that he would eagerly turn us into a “couple.” Sometimes you just know.

“You do look great, by the way,” Cynthia said, gesturing to my outfit. “What’s all this for? I’m glad to see you out of those jeans and black shirt for once. And the boots are working for you.”

“I’ve got a mission this afternoon.”

“Work related?”

“Yep. Can I ask you something, as an artist?”

“Sure.”

“What do you think of knives as a subject?”

“Knives?” She gave it some serious thought.

“Sexual, right? Phallic…plunging…whatever…”

“It’s also a symbol of power,” she said. “Dominance.” She must have seen something on my face, because she asked, “What?”

“It’s just that the guy who painted all the knife paintings isn’t domineering in the least.”

“Maybe someone dominated him.”

As I thought that over, she asked, “Can I come by the cottage later tonight? I’m going to break it off with Ernst this afternoon, and I may need support.”

“Sure.”

“Do you have wine?”

“Not anything you’d drink.”

A smile broke across her face. “If I get through this afternoon, I’ll be happy to drink axle grease, if that’s what you’ve got. I just don’t want to
dread
my life anymore.

“See you tonight.”

“Thanks, Jane.”

“
De nada.
”

A
n hour later I was on I-5, heading south to River Shores Sanitarium, feeling slightly nauseous. Probably psychosomatic, but I couldn’t get that fish’s eye out of my mind.

The day was chillier, no rain but not much sun, either. Gray clouds filled the sky reminding everyone that October was autumn, folks. No more fooling ourselves it was late summer. The fields alongside the freeway were full of tan stalks, dried grasses, stiff and hollow. There was a damp, smokey smell hovering in the air, the remnants of field burning somewhere out of my range of vision.

I probably should have asked Dwayne if he needed help on his robbery job. All he’d said was that the client didn’t want to report it to the police for reasons that were unclear. But if Dwayne had really wanted me, I reasoned, he would have said so. The fact that he hadn’t meant I was faced with free time, and in the interests of putting some questions of my own to bed, I was on my way.

So, I was driving down the freeway, attempting to shrug off a sense of dissatisfaction, of a job left half-finished. Maybe I would learn something from River Shores, maybe not. Either way I was doing something, and it felt good. I could never work in an office all day. And I could really never be able to do those jobs like casino work where you’re stuck inside in an artificially bright room, and there’s no telling whether it’s day or night, or winter or summer, or if we’re even still on planet Earth. Though driving can often be a pain in the ass, if the traffic’s okay it can be therapeutic, too. I drove down to Salem in forty-five minutes, and I was at the gates of the sanitarium in another ten.

And gates they were. I looked through my windshield at ten-foot-high wrought spikes, the kind with fancy little arrowheads across the top. Gazing down the fence line, I could see it turn into an equally high chainlink. And yes, a strand of razor wire could not be discreetly hidden behind the laurel hedges, though River Shores sure gave it a hell of a try. Once you were admitted there might not be any easy way of getting out.

What fun.

There was a kiosk at the gate with an attendant wearing a sage green uniform. I hadn’t expected to encounter this first line of defense and it must have showed on my face because he said, “You’re here for the birthday party.” He was already pushing a button as I offered him a grateful smile.

“I was worried I wasn’t going to be admitted.”

“No problem, ma’am.”

It occurred to me that if I were in my jeans and T-shirt, I might have been questioned more thoroughly.

Note to self:
proper camouflage is important in the animal kingdom.

The hospital drive was a ribbon of asphalt. It swept around in a large horseshoe, like the Purcells’ entrance and exit lanes, but here you could see both ends across an expanse of lush, carefully tended grass. Zinnias and chrysanthemums bobbed heavy heads at me in oranges, yellows and purple. They looked about to fall over from their own weight, but they were cheery. The building itself was a massive brick monster. It looked nearly a century old, though I learned later that this was not the truth. Most of the sanitarium was newer, spoking back from this imposing facade, long halls of concrete that connected mazelike around several inner courtyards.

I parked in a visitor lot on the side painted with fresh white lines. There were half a dozen cars taking up space, and two spots over stood a van with its cargo doors open. It was filled with a variety of party supplies: helium balloons, pink tablecloths and napkins, gaily wrapped presents, noisemakers—the kind that every parent wants to rip from the lips of their kids—several sprays of flowers studded with pink carnations, and a banner that I couldn’t make out beyond “–ppy birthd–.” A family had already tumbled from the van: dad, mom, three children of varying ages, maybe an aunt and uncle or two. As I watched the little boy blew a noisemaker at his older sisters, who turned toward their parents with that long-suffering “Could you make him stop, please?” look. Junior took this as an invitation to blow the damn thing harder, over and over again. I was glad when dad jerked it from his mouth because I might have stepped in myself and screamed
STOP IT
in the kid’s ear. Dad’s actions caused Junior to squawk about how unfair it all was and he didn’t want to see great-grandma anyway because she
smelled
. This earned Junior a whack on the butt as mom swooped in with a rolled-up magazine of some kind. I passed by close enough to see it was a brochure extolling the wonderful amenities offered here at River Shores Sanitarium.

Junior held one of the Mylar helium balloons aloft. Both sides depicted a big pink cake groaning beneath candles stacked upon candles. The caption read:
MORE CANDLES MEANS MORE FUN
!

Junior bitched and whined and dragged his feet as mom pulled him by his arm to the front doors. Oldest sister used the time to gaily trip along beside dad, slipping her hand within his, a little goody-two-shoes I would have liked to whack as well. Middle sister stolidly walked behind them. She cast a look back at aunt and uncle who seemed to lag behind on purpose.

I didn’t get the feeling this birthday was going to be loads of fun, but as they were my ticket inside, I kept just a couple of steps behind the reluctant couple. The middle girl eyed me with a grave, unabashed stare. I stared right back. If it was a silent game of who’s gonna flinch first, I was taking her down.

I don’t think I have the right attitude for motherhood myself. Children annoy me and I worry I might not feel any differently about my own.

Except I do have a serious soft spot for my dog.

We all entered the reception area together. I’d passed the lagging couple by this time, and I held the door for them. They smiled at me and I smiled back. One big happy family.

It was 2:30
PM
by the clock behind the crabby-looking receptionist. She had a permanent frown line dug between her brows. I didn’t want to gaze at her too directly, inviting questions, so I pretended to wait while Mom and Dad checked in with her, my attention on the reception area. The place was done in tones of yellow and chocolate with a highly polished dark wooden floor expanding from one end to the other. An ecru lisle carpet delineated a square in the center around which were grouped boxy chairs and a dull, brick-red leather couch. All very welcoming. But my nose detected a faint antiseptic scent. I’m not a huge fan of hospitals of any kind. Putting lipstick on this pig didn’t make it anything but what it was.

The fifty-something receptionist behind the counter now turned her smile, if you could call it that, my way. There was something about her attitude that sent warning signals along my nerves. I leaned down to the middle girl as if we were the best of friends. Her serious gray eyes widened slightly.

“Think Great-Grandma will remember me?” I asked. “I haven’t seen her in so long. I’ll bet she’ll remember you, though.”

“Which courtyard is it?” Mom asked. She already seemed frazzled.

The receptionist was diverted. “Just past the orange wing. Go straight back, past the double doors. Take the first left. That’ll take you to Blue, and you’ll see the double glass doors. You know the code to get out?”

“1 2 3 4,” Dad said. “I think I can remember.” He and oldest daughter shared a smile and a laugh.

And I thought my code was bad.

“1 2 3 4, opens up the door!” Junior sang. “1 2 3 4, opens up the door!”

We all trundled through to the orange wing. Aunt and uncle were falling farther and farther behind. I swear one of them, or both, smelled of gin. Junior kept right on singing and by the time we made it to the double glass doors, I was close to asking them if they’d brought the bottle with them.

The family seemed to accept me without question. They were wrapped up in their own dynamics, too busy and distracted to care who the hell I was. We pushed through the glass doors to five concrete steps and a wheelchair accessible ramp that led to a back patio area. Great-Grandma had been wheeled to a spot of honor at the edge of the patio. She’d been turned to face the group, of which there were maybe thirty to forty people. Another helium balloon said, “Ninety-nine years young!”

Junior and company were lining up to wish her well and I tagged along. What I really wanted to do was dig through administrative files and learn about past patients, but I was at a loss on how to accomplish this task. It would be just lovely if I could ask somebody for Lily Purcell’s records and have them hand them over to me, but people in the health care profession are notoriously loath to impart personal information about patients to complete strangers, more’s the pity. Several days earlier I’d refilled a prescription for some allergy medicine that keeps me from serious pollen attacks and I’d had to stand ten spaces back at the pharmacy, behind a line of blue tape stuck to the floor, so I supposedly couldn’t hear or see what was happening to the man at the counter. Of course he was deaf as a post and shouting everything anyway. Also, he dropped his vial of pills and couldn’t reach them, so I’d leaned down to pick them up for him. He’d taken the opportunity to give me the once-over. “For the old ticker,” he said, leering. “Don’t need no Viagra, though. You wanna find out?”

“Sure thing,” I answered. “Let me pick up my genital wart medicine, and I’ll meet you outside.”

He blinked a couple of times. “You’re a funny lady.” But he didn’t stick around to see if I was putting him on.

Now, a table on wheels was rolled over in front of Great-Grandma. It held a huge sheet cake smothered in white frosting and red and pink confectionary roses with green leaves and stems.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
,
GERALDINE
was laid out in lovely gold script. Little clusters of candles were tucked all over its face. There actually could have been ninety-nine. About six dozen cupcakes, all with candles, were nestled in groupings around the cake.

The courtyard opened to a large expanse of grass that ran from the back of the main complex and disappeared over a slight hillock. Apart from the razor-wired fence, out of sight from where we were, it was a decidedly pastoral view. Shafts of sunlight drove like beams from heaven through a gray cloud cover, glittering the placid surface of the Willamette River about a quarter mile away. Serenity abounded. But I tried to imagine a sixteen-year-old managing in this setting, no matter what her problems were, and failed.

Everyone was in party attire, though jackets and sweaters had been broken out against the cold bursts of wind that would suddenly whistle around the corners of the buildings. The women were hugging themselves tightly and the men had their hands in their pockets. The kids ran around chasing each other.

Geraldine was swathed in layers of sweaters and blankets. She had the shrunken, creased look of old age, and her skin was a mottled design in differing tones of brown and beige. Her hands and neck were wrinkled into knots of flesh. People were leaning close to her and wishing her well. A man in front of me, not of my little “family,” said, “Hi, I’m Jim Paine. Are you with the Kirkendahls?”

“Mmmmmm,” I said. “Doesn’t she look great?”

“Fantastic,” he agreed enthusiastically. “Who knew she’d last this long? With that asthma? I thought she’d die long before Uncle Ralph.”

“We all had bets on it,” I improvised.

“No kidding. What’s your name? I’m sorry I can’t remember.”

“I’m Jane. It’s hard to remember everybody, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah.” He was relieved I felt the same.

We moved up to Geraldine and Jim had to break off from me to greet her. He leaned down and said a few words, then moved to one side, waiting. I could see he was going to be a problem. I had plans to break away and do some exploring of my own and I didn’t want company. Maybe this wasn’t the fortress the razor-wire would lead one to believe. It’s not like this was a home for the
criminally
insane. It was merely a place to improve mental health.

I leaned down to Geraldine. “Congratulations. Ninety-nine. Wow.”

“How old are you?” she asked in a thin, raspy voice. It was the first time I’d seen her speak to anyone, and it kinda took me aback.

“Thirty.”

“You’re not getting any younger, are you?”

I squinted at her. Well, now that was kind of calling the kettle black. “I guess not.”

“Better find yourself a husband before it’s late.”

“Before what’s too late?”

“The end of your looks, honey. And don’t give the milk away before he buys the cow.”

I moved away from Geraldine to make room for the next well-wisher. Okay, she was an inmate at River Shores. Was I really supposed to listen to her?

Jim hovered by me. “That’s her favorite line. She says it to all the women, even the married ones.”

“Hmmm…” I hadn’t seen her dispensing it to anyone else. I glanced around for escape. Someone had propped open the door to the main building.

One of the party guests was cutting thick slices of cake with a wicked looking knife. Junior was jostling older sister for position in front of the food line. Older sister stomped on his foot and he screwed up his face, turned it toward the heavens and screeched like a banshee.

I made a bathroom excuse and headed back inside, walking up the handicapped ramp as birthday party guests had taken over the stairs. I wondered vaguely if I should shut the facility’s doors, but nobody seemed to care. Glancing back, I saw Jim watching me and I sketched him a wave before disappearing inside.