I Like You Just Fine When You're Not Around (11 page)

“Depends on which daughter you ask.” Tig stared through the window into the grounds. The grass shone in the sun, and Tig suddenly longed to be outside.

Fern said, “You can wait in here if you like. I have a few minutes before my next pressing engagement. Sit for a minute.”

Tig slid her lips into a polite smile, started to refuse, changed her mind, and sat in the ugly faux-leather armchair. “She never remembers me, which has been hard for sure. But my sister hasn't been around for almost two years and she recognized her immediately.”

“I'm sorry about that.”

“It's not right.”

“That's dementia for you. Nothing right about it. You know what they say: it ain't personal, it's business? Alzheimer's is all personal.”

Tig examined Fern's face again. “It's funny you should use that phrase,” she said, thinking of the radio show for the first time in twenty-four hours. “It fits a lot of situations.”

Fern nodded. “My husband died of Alzheimer's. Well, no, he died of liver cancer, but he had Alzheimer's, too. During his last years, he called me Patty. He and I were married fifty-two years. He went to his high school senior prom with Patty.”

Tig shook her head. “How did you handle that?”

Fern smiled shyly. “When he talked about her, I called her ‘Peppermint Fatty' and ‘Fatty McFatty Pants,' my granddaughter's favorite, and I pinched him when he called me Patty. I was hoping for a negative feedback loop. A little nursing home Pavlov.”

Tig laughed. “How did that go for you?”

“Not well. The nursing staff told me I had to stop. He was on a blood thinner and bruised easily. Oh, don't look so shocked. Tell me you don't feel like shaking your mom now and then.”

“I'd rather punch my sister. But you can't hit old ladies or pregnant women. It sucks.” Then, looking at Fern, she added, “No offense.”

“None taken.”

“I'm feeling better now. I guess I should go.” She stretched to shake Fern's bony, soft, bird of a hand and in the doorway said, “Can I get you something from the outside world next time I come?”

“Let me think a little. I guess I could use an economy-sized pack of condoms.” Fern laughed and said, “Just kidding. By the way, I believe you saw my son a bit ago, dark hair, attractive. He takes care of all my external worldly needs. He comes in after dinner a few times a week. He's single. Said he thought you were pretty.”

Distracted, Tig said, “Okay,” because at the far end of the hall, she spotted Wendy at the nurse's desk, looking impatient. She turned back to Fern and said, “I'll stop in the next time I come,” then moved quickly down the hall.

“What's up? Why are you out here?”

“She was getting tired.”

With dripping sarcasm in her voice, Tig said, “Yeah, those ten-minute visits are a real endurance event. Next time, we'll give her a PowerBar.”

“Look, I just thought the first visit shouldn't be too long. From what you've said about her, I didn't know if she could handle more.”

“Did she seem like she couldn't handle more?”

Wendy said, “She's better than I expected. Let's bring her home.”

“You spend ten minutes with her, and my two years mean nothing.”

“Maybe I remind her of home. Of living outside this sterile hospital.”

“It's called having a good day.” Tig walked through the exit, shaking her head, leaving Wendy to catch up.

“I'm just saying.”

“I didn't just throw her in this nursing home without talking to a host of gerontologists, physicians, and other counselors, as well as seeing several other places. You'd know what a huge process it was if you'd been around.”

“Now who's being a bitch? I'm just trying to have a discussion. Maybe we could move her back home now that I'm here, just until I find something better. Save some money.”

“This place is free, moneybags.” Tig wrenched open the car door.

“Why is it free again?”

“I don't know why. Mom had it all taken care of and paid for years ago.”

“Don't you think you should figure out why? And it'll be free for how long?” Wendy walked to the passenger side, looking at Tig over the roof of the sedan.

“Listen, big sister,” Tig said icily. “You think because she remembers your name that means something? It means nothing! None of it means anything. The only thing that means anything anymore are the memories we have of Mom, and keeping her safe. Leave the finances to me. I'll figure it out.”

Tig dumped herself into the front seat of the car and took a breath. She grasped the steering wheel and, white-knuckled, yanked it ferociously. The effort seemed to tap her stores and she sat breathlessly.

Wendy tapped on the window. “Tig. Unlock the door.”

A golf cart inched across the path just in front of the car. A nursing assistant in scrubs and a shrunken stub of a man sat in the front seat, unaware of the temper tantrum happening to their left.

Wendy knocked again on the window and pointed to the door handle. “Unlock the door.”

Tig popped the locks and Wendy quietly entered the car.

“I liked it better when I was the big sister.”

Tig said, “You can step up any time.”

“There's not room at the top. You'd have to move over or step down.”

Tig started the car and the two women buckled their seat belts. She heard her sister sigh quietly. Wendy said, “She did say one thing that was odd, you know, besides treating you like you were the bellboy.”

“Yeah? What was that?”

“She said the daisies were from Daddy.”

• • •

In her mother's old room at Tig's house, cardboard boxes, black garbage bags, and plastic bins cinched the bedroom, with the only open space in the center of the room. Old manila files, scarves, and photographs lay on every horizontal plane. A twin bed with a seafoam green chenille bedspread occupied a windowless wall. “There's hardly room for a person in here,” Wendy said, pulling on her tennis shoes.

“When Mom moved in, I didn't store everything she owned. She loved to sit and sort through her files from the clinic. Sometimes she'd talk about her favorite animals. I thought it might stimulate her memories. Our school files are in here, along with her wedding pictures and old letters. We'll make room for your stuff this week. The only thing I've got going on is practice for the show.”

“I saw a promo in the newspaper.”

“Jesus, I'm a nervous wreck about it.” Then, changing the topic, Tig said, “Did you call Phil? Tell him to send your stuff?”

“Did you call Pete?”

“The one who gets left doesn't do the calling.”

“Did you learn that in counseling graduate school?”

“Yes, in the master class,” Tig said with a grunt, hefting a plastic bin and uncovering a ruddy stain on the carpet. She bent, ran her hand over the stiffened patch. “This is what finally convinced me to move Mom. I came home to several bloody handprints and wads of paper towels, starting in the kitchen and leading like a breadcrumb trail to Mom. I found her asleep here on the floor, a half-eaten apple in her wounded hand, and Thatcher pacing nervously. It was like a scene in a Hollywood slasher movie that ended in a nap and a snack for the victim.”

“God, poor Mom,” said Wendy. “She'd hate to know this was her life.”

“I know.” A glimmer of metal in the indentation where the bedpost met the carpet caught Tig's eye. “What's this?” She lifted a tarnished silver ID bracelet from the floor. “This isn't mine. It must be hers. There's an inscription. It says,
If I could tell you
.”

Wendy took it from Tig. “I've never seen her wear this.”

“Me, either. Maybe she dropped it and that's why she was on the floor.” Tig looked at the bracelet for a long moment and then tucked it into her pocket. “I'll bring it to her; maybe she'll have a moment.”

Wendy pulled a sweater over her shoulders. “I'm going for a walk. Maybe stimulate labor. You should call Pete.”

“Leave it, Wendy.”

“What's he doing in Hawaii, anyway?”

“He's studying ultra-endurance athletes. Male and female. He's not waiting around for a call from me. He'll be surrounded by fat-free, gorgeous triathletes. He'll find someone who can run the Andes Race with him.”

“You could go to Hawaii.”

“Could you just stop? I'm moving on, Wen. You're here now; the show starts tomorrow.” Tig sighed. “When he was here, I was so often irritated with him. Now, I miss him, but if he came back, I'd probably be irritated again. It was the same when Mom lived here.”

“Sounds like a pattern.”

“What pattern?”

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Except where your sister and boyfriend are concerned; absence and presence are both irritating.”

Tig blinked at her sister. “It's weird, you know, because I miss you when I don't see you.”

“No, you don't.”

After a minute Tig said, “No, I don't.”

Jean Harmeyer bent in front of Tig and fiddled with her padded headset, trying to catch Tig's gaze as it nervously flitted from the acoustic tiles, to Macie at the telephone console, and to the note cards in her lap. Jean finally grasped Tig's shoulders.

“I don't know about this, Jean. What if I say something that makes me lose my license? I've been so stressed. I can't be trusted verbally. What if I choke and get a kind of counseling Tourette moment?”

“You are going to be fine. You're rested. We've been practicing for two weeks. This is the same, only in real time, on the air, and with an audience.” She smiled, gesturing to the smattering of people in the airy, well-lit auditorium.

Tig glanced out into the space and counted roughly twenty-five fidgety people in a room that could easily hold two hundred and fifty. She tried on her most winning smile, then forgot it upon seeing a man in the front row painting his nails blood red with the concentration of an eye surgeon.

“What if no one calls in? Do we have to go the full hour and a half, or can we go to music or something?”

“Tig, I've been at this for a long time. People will call, if the promos did their job.”

“If?”

“The billboards, radio announcements, and bus spots have been out there for two weeks. We've had calls already. Trust me.”

“That's easy for you to say; you don't have a mic on you.”

“I may not be actually on the radio, but I do have people I answer to. A lot depends on this for me.” The briefest skittering of anxiety flashed across Jean's face. “But I'm not nervous, because I have you in this chair. I may be a terrible judge of character in romance, but I have killer instincts where radio is concerned. You're going to be great.” She squeezed Tig's shoulders and added, “This is your calling.”

Tig noticed Macie with her thumbs up, dressed optimistically in a kind of goth fräulein costume complete with knee socks and platform Mary Janes.

Jean said, “This is your chance to kick some counseling ass.”

“I told you, I'm not going to do that. I can only do this if it is a professional thing.”

“Just remember, there are a lot of words in Webster's dictionary. If I know you, you'll have a good balance between the colorful ones and the professional ones.” As Jean walked away, she tossed over her shoulder, “Make sure you stray in the direction of the rainbow, Tig. Radio is entertainment, you know.”

In the minutes before the final sound check, opening music, and first caller, Tig made a list in her head. Things that precluded being a relationship expert included:

Losing the love of your life.

Not realizing you were losing the love of your life.

Jean picked up her own headset and said, “Okay, everybody, we're about to go live. Best behavior, now. Watch the
On the Air
and
Applause
lights.”

Tig brushed her sternum with her fingertips and waited for the lights to go up.

The theme song blasted from the overhead speakers; “I Can't Go for That (No Can Do),” vintage eighties Hall & Oates. The music faded away, trading places with a prerecorded announcer's voice.

“And now, under special arrangement, unedited and unrated, the show where you step up to the plate and swing, and we decide if it's fair or foul—it's
Is That Fair?
Sitting in the ultimate relationship-umpire seat, in her debut performance as the voice of sanity and reason, please welcome Dr. Tig Monahan!”

An ovation of canned applause from the speakers was joined with a smattering of studio audience clapping. Earlier in the day, Jean had sent the interns and technicians outside to round up pedestrians returning from the downtown farmers' market, promising them doughnuts and coffee if they came in for the show. Now the stragglers who had traded their free time for fried dough sat with faint white powder on their lips, looking for the relationship dynamo so enthusiastically guaranteed. Skepticism clouded their faces as they watched Tig fidget.

Tig immediately regretted the skinny cigarette pants and sleeveless top she'd chosen to seem nonthreatening. She should have borrowed Wendy's stilettos. She opened her mouth to greet her mostly unseen listeners, but before she could clear the cotton from her throat, a voice arrived in the studio.

“Okay, can you hear me? Am I on the air?”

A loud screech of feedback filled the studio. Tig jerked her head up and pulled the headset away from her ears.

Macie, all business and refined diction, belying her Halloween getup, said, “Yes, please go ahead, caller. You are on the air with Dr. Monahan. Please turn your radio down and continue.”

“Oh, yeah, okay. Yeah, the radio's off now. Yeah. I've never done this before. Called into a show. You know, like, live and all.”