Too Far Under (20 page)

He took a drink of his coffee, then said,
“Now it’s your turn. How did you go from artist to therapist?”

I tried to condense ten years into fifteen
minutes, telling him about my realization that art was never going
to support me, about getting my doctorate in clinical psychology
and becoming a grief therapist, and about how Gramma got
Alzheimer’s and Grampa died a few years after that. I left out any
mention of the Contact Project or contacting spirits.

He drank his coffee, munched on his muffin,
and listened intently without interrupting. When I finished, he
said, “So is that why you’re involved with Mirabel’s family?
Because you’re a grief therapist?”

I thought back to what I’d said to him about
the Townes family. Last night I’d told him I knew Lacey and that
Lacey had told me her mom had left money to Scientology. But that
was it. Other than that, I hadn’t said anything about the Townes
family. “What do you mean ‘involved’?” I asked.

“I mean the way you’ve had meetings with them
this week—not just Lacey, but Shane and Derrick and even Mirabel’s
dad, Vernon. Are they all having grief therapy?”

What? Did Scientologists have a big spy
network all over Boulder? I took another long drink of my coffee to
keep my anger from boiling over and thought about what I wanted to
say. My first instinct was to demand he tell me where he was
getting his information. How did he know I’d had those meetings?
Had he been following me since I ran into him a week ago at Faye’s
gallery? Or had he been following members of the Townes family? I
didn’t want to show my anger or fear about being spied on. And I
didn’t want to give him any more information than he already had.
So I kept my cool and sidestepped into therapist mode.

“Brian, you must know that I can’t talk to
you about confidential issues like who is or isn’t my client,” I
said. “When you said you wanted to hear about my therapy practice,
I didn’t know you meant you wanted private details about
clients.”

I noticed a quick flicker of anger pass over
Brian’s face, but he pushed it under right away. It was almost like
a shade coming down over a window. In the old days he would have
exploded like fireworks on the fourth of July. I figured he’d
learned this control from his years of scientology training. He
leaned forward and gave me what probably passed for a sincere look
among his current friends—but I recognized the old Brian phony
I’d-never-lie-to-you look. “I’m sorry, Cleo,” he said softly. “I
didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that the Townes family has been
through so much and I wondered how they’re doing. I hope those kids
are okay.”

I believed that he was wondering about them
in some way, but doubted that he was concerned about their welfare.
I said nothing—a well-known therapist tactic to keep the other
person talking.

After about thirty seconds went by, he said,
“Okay, I get that you can’t talk to me about the Townes family. But
I can still talk to you about them. You don’t have to answer.
Here’s the thing. I knew Mirabel pretty well and I know she didn’t
trust Derrick. And for good reason. He’s not a nice person. Maybe
you know that now that Mirabel is gone, we own the building the
Scientology offices are in. Mirabel left us the building in her
will, but Derrick has been saying she made a new will that left us
out altogether. I don’t think she did that. She never told me she
was making a new will and as far as I know, no one has seen a new
will. Our lawyers are investigating.”

Mirabel’s will again? Brian was the third
person who’d mentioned it to me. First Shane—who said that Mirabel
had left bunches to Scientology. Then Derrick—who said she had
changed the will to leave out the Scientologists. But Derrick also
said he couldn’t find the new will. So why are the Scientology
lawyers involved?

“Mirabel talked to you about her will?” I
asked. “She was only in her forties. Why was she talking about a
will? Was she expecting to die young?”

“Scientologists are encouraged to make
wills,” he said. “I’m sure you know Mirabel was a wealthy woman.
She was also a socially responsible woman who wanted to be sure her
money would go where it would do the most good.”

“So are you afraid Derrick’s right and she
did change her will?”

Brian leaned close and put his hand lightly
on my arm. “I don’t think she did,” he said, dropping his voice to
a familiar intimate tone. “But Derrick’s been spreading that story
all over town. Cleo, I know you’re a person who cares about truth
and justice. I’m asking for your help here to expose some
destructive lies. Do you know whether or not Derrick actually has
found a new will? Do Mirabel’s kids know?”

Amazing! He really thinks I’m so naïve that
he can pump me for information and I’ll just dump it in his lap?
His manipulative charm may have worked on me when I was in my
twenties, but I am more mature and way beyond that now. I displayed
my hard-won maturity by keeping my temper as I responded to him
calmly but firmly as I pulled my arm away from his grasp. “I really
need to go. Thanks for the food.”

Brian looked shocked. I guess his tactics for
winning people over usually worked better for him. “Hang on, Cleo,”
he said, reaching for my arm again.

But I yanked my arm away as if from a hot
radiator. “Enough, Brian,” I said quietly as I stood up and pushed
in my chair. “Let it go. You’ll have to find another source to
answer your questions.” I turned and walked off toward my house.
Brian didn’t follow me.

By the time I got home, I had put Brian and
his questions out of my mind, replaced by my concerns about finding
a place for Gramma to move. I had my list of nursing homes to check
out that afternoon and I set out on my tour as soon as I got home.
Visiting nursing homes isn’t on anyone’s list of favorite ways to
spend a Sunday afternoon. Stepping into that setting is a quick and
uncomfortable way to face your own mortality.

I went to see three places on my list that
afternoon, each more depressing than the last. There’s no mistaking
that these places are the last stop in this life. You can almost
smell death in the air. You see it in the frail twisted bodies of
residents slumped in wheelchairs, staring vacantly into the
distance or perhaps looking inward at their past lives where they
were young and happy. They seem to have nothing to live for, yet
they continue to cling to life, some reaching out to touch any
visitor who comes close enough, others calling out, “Can you help
me?” to anyone who walks by.

To be fair, I reminded myself that Shady
Terrace had its share of residents like this as well. The
difference was that I knew them, knew details about their lives and
families, knew who they were before they ended up in their current
state. I saw them as individuals who I could empathize with, and
that made all the difference.

So I tried to tour the nursing homes as an
objective observer of the conditions, care and comfort level of
each place. I tried to envision Gramma in each place, but I
couldn’t do it. When she entered Shady Terrace, I was in graduate
school, totally swamped with work. It was Grampa who visited places
and made the choice. He loved her so much, yet he knew he couldn’t
take care of her at home anymore. Looking back, I realized in a new
way how hard it must have been for him. But he made it easy for me
after she moved to Shady Terrace, going with me to visit her,
pointing out the positives for her being there, until I got
familiar with the place and her living there. This time I was on my
own and way out of my depth.

By the end of the afternoon, I needed to
reconnect with Gramma, hoping I could somehow absorb from her some
feeling as to what would be the right choice for her. So I headed
for Shady Terrace. It was nearly five when I got there, so the
residents were already lining up outside the dining room. I found
Gramma sitting on a couch in the hall next to a man named Clyde who
had taken a fancy to her lately. Clyde listed drastically to one
side when he walked and generally seemed to be in danger of taking
a major fall. But sitting, he looked almost normal. He could sound
fairly normal too until you realized he said the same things over
and over.

They were holding hands when I walked over to
their couch. “Hi, Gramma. Hey, Clyde.” I said, reaching down to
give Gramma a hug. “You two look comfy.”

“I’m ninety-seven-years-old, you know,” Clyde
said, starting in on one of his recurring themes. “Wait till you’re
my age. Then you’ll know about aches and pains.”

“If I look as good as you do when I’m
ninety-seven, I’ll be happy,” I said, playing along with his game
the way I always do.

“That’s too old. You’re not ninety-seven,”
Gramma said. Hard to know if she was addressing Clyde or me. My
mind wandered a bit as I began wondering where Clyde was going to
move to and whether she’d miss him if they ended up in different
places. Good thing I’d come over to see her. Now I realized I’d
completely overlooked finding a way to keep her with the friends
she’s made at Shady Terrace. Yet another factor to consider in my
search.

Aides were ushering the residents into the
dining room, so I helped Gramma and Clyde to their feet and walked
with them slowly. I kissed Gramma goodbye at her table and headed
off down the hall toward the door.

As I passed through the main entryway, I saw
Tim Grosso at a table over in a corner talking to a couple. I
decided to sit down and wait a few minutes to see if I could get a
chance to talk to him about the nursing homes I’d visited.

Sure enough, the couple stood up and gathered
their things to leave. I walked over and stood nearby so I could
get Tim’s attention as soon as they left.

“Do you have a few more minutes?” I asked.
“I’ve visited several places and I’m kind of discouraged about
what’s out there.”

“Of course, Cleo.” Tim said, pulling out a
chair at the table. “Have a seat and fill me in on what you’ve seen
and what you’re thinking.”

Naturally, the conversation I’d overheard
that morning between him and Faye jumped into my mind. But I
couldn’t bring that up, so I put it to the back of my mind and told
him about my reactions to the nursing homes I’d visited ending with
my qualms about moving Gramma to any of them. “I just can’t bring
myself to put her in any of those places. I’m starting to think
about bringing her home and hiring someone to take care of her when
I’m not there. She has money, especially if we can find a way to
sell more of her paintings. Faye says it might be harder than I
thought to sell the paintings, so I need to have a better idea of
what home-care might cost. Do you know?”

Tim had been sitting quietly listening with
an air of concern, which I noticed was looking more and more like a
look of deep worry. “It is expensive—usually $18 to $25 an hour—so
you have to figure on at least $7500 a month, and that’s just for
twelve hours a day, which means you have to do the night care. And
from what you’ve said about her wandering at night, you probably
would need someone at night as well.”

“That would be pricey, but it’s possible that
she might be able to afford it,” I said. “If I did decide to go
that way, would you recommend using an agency or hiring someone
privately?”

“It depends,” he said. “It’s not easy to find
good reliable people and you can have problems either way.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “I remember you telling
me the other night at the gallery that your father was ripped off
by his housekeeper. Do you mind telling me what happened?”

Tim looked embarrassed, almost furtive. “My
father never trusted me with his finances,” he said. “Never let me
know how much he had or how much he spent. Then unfortunately he
met a sexy, charismatic young woman who completely beguiled him.
She was a massage therapist who moved here from Texas, apparently
unaware of the oversupply of massage therapists in Boulder. When
she had trouble making a living giving massages, she went to work
for an older couple my dad knew. Later they moved into assisted
living, and my dad inherited the housekeeper. As soon as I met her,
I was wary. She didn’t fit my idea of a housekeeper. I tried to
warn Dad about her but he said he was entitled to the pleasure of a
gorgeous housekeeper if he could afford it. Then he accused me of
putting my future inheritance ahead of his comfort.”

I didn’t know what to believe. Had Tim been
looking out for his father’s best interests or was his father right
about Tim’s priorities? I waited for him to go on.

“Here’s where it gets sticky,” he said. “I
assumed Dad was paying her well, but I had no idea how much. After
he died I found out he had transferred the title of his condo and
his car over to her. It was all done legally, so there was nothing
I could do. I tried to find out how much more of his money she
might have gotten away with. But it was hard because he had added
her name onto his bank account. Again perfectly legal. And talk
about being blind to reality, Dad’s lawyer was an old friend of
his, nearly as old as Dad. He arranged all that and apparently
didn’t think anything of it. But here’s the punch line. After Dad
died, his lawyer grabbed Glenna—the housekeeper—for himself and now
she’s living with him. Probably ripping him off just like she did
Dad.”

Omigod! Wait a minute—Glenna? Could this be
the same Glenna who is living with Vernon Evers? Images of him
signing over assets after several bourbon-on-the-rocks came to
mind. “Was your father’s attorney Vernon Evers by any chance,” I
asked.

“Yes, Mirabel Townes’ father,” Tim said. “You
know him?”

“He’s been my grandparents’ attorney
forever,” I said. “And I had the dubious pleasure of meeting Glenna
last Friday when I went over to talk to Vernon about Gramma’s trust
to find out more about her financial situation and how it affects
this move. Glenna seems to be kind of volatile. Did you warn
Mirabel about Glenna?”