Tomorrow's Vengeance (16 page)

A few minutes later I was seated across from Elaine at a small, round table in the corner of her office, and she'd called out for tea. Sun poured through a picture window that looked out over a small, staff-only parking lot constructed of porous pavers through which grass was already beginning to grow. ‘Why exactly did Jerry's son take him away?' I asked.

‘You'll hear it from some of the other residents anyway so I guess it's OK to tell you. Jerry actually proposed to Nancy and when his son found out about it, well, all hell broke loose. He called Nancy a golddigger. Ridiculous.'

‘Hasn't he heard about pre-nups?' I asked.

‘Well, exactly. And since Nancy's still married to the real Frank, even though she doesn't remember him, it's kind of a moot point.'

‘More to the point, how does
Frank
feel about the relationship?' I asked.

‘Exactly. Have you met our director, Tyson Bennett?'

I nodded. She hadn't answered my question, so I wondered where she was going. ‘We spoke. Briefly. He was making the rounds in the dining room last time I ate there.'

She smiled. ‘That's Tyson. Very hands-on. Progressive. When it was clear that a relationship was blossoming between Nancy and Jerry, Tyson called a staff meeting. He believed that Nancy and Jerry's relationship was beneficial to their well-being and so did our resident psychologist. I agreed, certainly, and thought we should support it. The nursing supervisor, however, recommended keeping them apart, and even suggested prescribing drugs to help curb Jerry's sexual urges. But Tyson is opposed to chemical restraints so that got vetoed PDQ.

‘Anyway,' she continued, ‘Tyson decided to call both families in and talk to them about it. At the time, Nancy's husband, Frank, was totally supportive, whatever makes her happy and all that.'

‘Like Sandra Day O'Connor,' I commented. ‘I remember reading an article in the
New York Times
about it. Her husband, John, had Alzheimer's disease and totally forgot her. He took up with another woman in the long-term care facility he was living in. Justice O'Connor said it was a relief to find him relaxed and happy, holding hands with his sweetheart whenever she visited.'

‘Exactly.'

The tea arrived. Elaine selected a Tazo Cucumber White from a wooden caddy, poured hot water into her cup then dunked the teabag up and down in it. I wasn't really thirsty but selected a spicy ginger one that I hoped would lift my spirits.

‘As for Jerry's son,' Elaine continued, ‘I think he was OK with the relationship as long as it remained on
his
terms,' she said thoughtfully, ticking them off on her fingers. ‘Like, you can eat meals together. And dance. Holding hands and cuddling is OK, but kissing is off-limits, and, for heaven's sake, don't wander off to the privacy of your room and do what the rest of us do.' She took a sip of her hot tea then set the cup down on the saucer. ‘He insisted that his father's heart wasn't healthy enough for sex. Ha! I'm sorry, but if you've made it to age eighty-eight, having sex won't kill you. It may even help prolong your life.'

‘What did he expect his poor father to do?' I wondered aloud. ‘Lie around all day watching reruns of
Gilligan's Island
, waiting for the arrival of Oscar the Death-Sniffing Cat?'

Elaine chortled. ‘We have pets and visiting comfort dogs here at Blackwalnut Hall too, but so far none have demonstrated the kind of supersensory ability that Oscar seems to have. It would certainly make my job easier.'

‘If it's true that touch is often the last sense to deteriorate,' I said, getting back to the subject of physical contact, ‘I can understand why massages, facials and mani-pedis can be so therapeutic, especially for your dementia patients. Massages with Garnelle at Spa Paradiso are my main vice,' I added. ‘They feel so good they ought to be illegal.'

‘I hear her hands are insured by Lloyds of London.' Elaine grinned. ‘Seriously, though, human touch is super critical. No matter how old you are you never outgrow the need for that kind of loving, physical comfort. Tyson believes that the elderly have a right to intimacy,' she continued after a moment. ‘We don't treat it like a behavioral problem. The staff here are trained to monitor developing relationships, particularly among our residents with impaired memory, to make sure they're mutually enjoyable. I don't know about you, but I hope to have another shot at it when
I
get to be ninety.'

‘Even in the short time I've been volunteering here,' I said, ‘it became obvious to me that Nancy and Jerry's relationship was exactly that – mutually enjoyable. As for the sex? It looked entirely consensual to me.'

‘Well, the Maryland Office of Health Care Quality might want to argue with you about that. Seems they have initiated an investigation.'

‘I've heard about it. They've asked me for an interview. But what I don't understand is if it wasn't Tyson, who reported it and why? Was Nancy injured?'

‘Of course not! When you brought the incident to our attention, I grabbed Heather and we went down to Nancy's room right away. Nancy and Jerry were still, uh, involved. It took two of us to separate them, and neither of them was happy about it! Jerry thought we were attacking Nancy and tried to protect her, while Nancy was screaming bloody murder. I haven't heard such language since my husband was working on our tax returns.' Elaine leaned forward and whispered, ‘If anyone needed a doctor, it was
me
. Nancy bites.' She extended an arm where a ragged, red semi-circle confirmed her claim. ‘Thank goodness my tetanus shots were up to date.'

‘Ouch,' I said.

‘After we got Jerry calmed down and settled back in his own room we called the doctor to take a look at Nancy,' Elaine continued. ‘Aside from a bit of redness on her thighs and …' she cleared her throat, ‘you know where, which would be entirely normal under the circumstances, there was nothing at all wrong with her.'

‘So, I don't understand. What is there for the State of Maryland to investigate?'

‘They claim that Nancy's advanced dementia made it impossible for her to give informed consent.'

I recalled, with some embarrassment, the cries of pleasure that I had – albeit unintentionally – overheard; sounds that everyone in America was familiar with thanks to Meg Ryan's famous Katz's Deli performance in the movie
When Harry Met Sally
.

‘What nonsense,' I said. ‘Nancy was a willing participant, otherwise she would have been screaming – and she knows how to scream, that's for sure – or trying to fight Jerry off.' I pointed to Elaine's wound. ‘Exhibit A. But, she was doing none of those things. She may not remember who the president is, or that she already has a husband, or even what day of the week it is, but she definitely wanted to have sex with Jerry.'

Elaine sighed. ‘Honestly, I'm worried. If this lawsuit goes against us we'll be in danger of losing our Medicare/Medicaid certification and that would be a serious blow, financial and otherwise.'

‘You'd think there'd be a clearer policy on this sort of thing,' I said. ‘Isn't anyone paying attention? Think of all the baby-boomers who are rapidly joining the ranks of the elderly and terminally confused.'

‘That's just it, Hannah. The people who brought us the sexual revolution are now living together in nursing homes instead of communes. And, call me a revolutionary, but if they want to smoke pot and shag, I say, let 'em.'

Back in the day, my older sister, Ruth, had been a make-love-not-war, flower-in-the-riot-gun kind of gal. If ever the time came for her to check into a nursing home, I pity anyone who tried to prevent
her
from having sex.

As I drove home to my empty house, I couldn't help thinking that this was going to end up badly for everyone involved.

‘Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us.'

King James Bible
, Hebrews, 12:1.

I
hadn't even rolled out of bed the next morning when the telephone on my bedside table burbled. It was Hutch, getting straight to the point. ‘I thought Mrs Milanesi was going to bring in her mother's scrapbook.'

‘She didn't?' I threw the duvet aside and padded barefoot to the bathroom.

‘No, she didn't. I can proceed without it, of course, but having a copy of that scrapbook could grease a few wheels.'

I promised Hutch I'd follow up with Izzy right away.

Izzy picked up on the first ring, sounding breathless. ‘Hello.'

‘Izzy, this is Hannah Ives. My brother-in-law just called asking about your mother's scrapbook. He's wondering when you're going to bring it in. I'll be happy to drive you into his office, if that's helpful.'

‘Oh, Hannah, I can't find it!'

‘What do you mean, you can't find it?'

‘I always keep it in my bottom dresser drawer. After I showed it to Naddie, though, I put it on the table in the hallway, ready to take to Mr Hutchinson. But it's not there now.'

‘Maybe you put it somewhere else?' I suggested.

‘Maybe, but I don't think so.'

‘When was the last time you saw it, before you put it on the table in the hallway, I mean.'

‘A couple of nights ago. I took it to dinner so I could show it to Naddie.'

I suppressed a sigh of relief. At least Naddie would confirm that the scrapbook existed, that it wasn't simply a figment of Izzy's imagination.

‘Maybe I belong in the memory unit.' Izzy began sobbing.

‘Don't be silly,' I soothed. ‘Most of the time you're sharp as a tack.'

‘No, I'm not. I've lost my best hairbrush. I mislay my reading glasses all the time. I can never find my tweezers. But they can all be replaced. Nothing can replace my mother's scrapbook. Nothing! I'm just sick about it.'

‘What does the scrapbook look like, Izzy?'

‘It's green leather with “Fotografie” embossed on the front. The pages are black, with punched holes, and it's all bound together on the narrower side with a black shoelace.'

Ah. I'd had a smiliar scrapbook in junior high, full of photos I'd clipped out of teen magazines of heartthrobs like Paul McCartney and Davy Jones.

‘I distinctly remember bringing it home from dinner at the colony and putting it on the table, ready to take to Mr Hutchinson. Naddie even brought over a huge Ziploc bag for me to put it in. I didn't know Ziplocs even came that big. We sealed it up and I stuck one of my mailing labels on the outside, just in case.'

‘Don't worry, Izzy. We'll find it. I'm going to call Naddie and we'll come over and help you look.'

Izzy protested, saying she was too embarrassed but, like good friends everywhere, we didn't listen. Twenty minutes later I'd picked up Naddie and we were standing on Izzy's stoop.

‘Come in!' she called from inside when I knocked.

I turned the knob and went in. ‘Don't you lock your doors, Ysabelle?'

Izzy emerged from the kitchen looking surprised. ‘No, why would I? Calvert Colony is safer than Fort Knox.'

Obviously
. I stole a glance at Naddie, who was already poking around among the magazines on the coffee tabletop.

‘I've looked everywhere!' Izzy wailed.

Well, not
everywhere
, I thought, channeling my mother, or you would have found it.

While Izzy sat in an armchair like a lump, quietly sniffling into a ragged tissue, Naddie and I turned her town home upside down, searching closets, under beds and sofas, between cushions and even the trash can and recycling bin Izzy kept under the sink.

‘I'm just sick about this,' Izzy sobbed when we rejoined her in the living room, empty handed.

‘All is not completely lost,' Naddie said, surprising us both. If you remember, Izzy, when you showed me your mother's scrapbook at dinner the other night I took photographs of several pages with my iPhone, including the page with the painting featuring Umberto.'

Naddie slipped the iPhone out of the pocket of her slacks and powered it on. Perched on the arm of Izzy's chair, she leaned over and thumbed through the photographs. I stood behind the chair and looked over her shoulder.

Naddie had photographed six pages in all, each page featuring at least two paintings.

‘Naddie,' I said, ‘you are a treasure.'

‘I just can't understand what happened to it!' Izzy whined.

I finally voiced what I had started thinking ever since I found myself rooting through the newspapers and empty pizza boxes in Izzy's recycling bin. ‘Somebody stole it, Izzy.'

‘But who would do that?'

‘I don't know, but I think it's a much more reasonable explanation than you losing your mind.'

‘Have you had any visitors?' Naddie asked.

Izzy shook her head miserably.

‘A cleaning lady?'

‘I wish.'

Naddie got up from the arm of Izzy's chair and sat down next to me on the sofa. ‘What's your brother-in-law's email address, Hannah?'

I gave it to her and watched while Naddie tapped each photo, selecting it, then emailed the lot to Hutch. With a whooshing sound, they were on their way.

‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,' Izzy said. ‘How fortunate that you took those photos!'

‘Better that than nothing,' Naddie said. Turning to me, she said, ‘So you think the scrapbook was stolen?'

‘It's the obvious conclusion.'

‘But who would do that?' Naddie wondered.

As far as I knew, the list of suspects was short. ‘The only people who are aware of the existence of Letizia Rossi's scrapbook are Hutch, Izzy, Naddie and me.' When I finished ticking the names off on my fingers, Izzy flushed.