(Author’s Note: The boy was in Grandma’s bedroom when she died in a fire. Now he has to sleep in the room where Grandma died. He remained under the control of his parents, living at home and working for his father. When he was a middle-aged man, his father had a stroke.)
“Your husband had a major stroke but I think he’ll survive. He will require constant care,” the doctor explained.
I put my arm around Mom. “We can do that, can’t we, Mom?” My grip tightened around her frail shoulders. “It’s the least we can do for Dad after all he’s done for us.”
“I suppose so.” She glanced at me and then the doctor. “Yes, I suppose we must.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. Nothing bad’s happened. Just a little stroke.” I plastered a smile on my face. “Dad will get his reward while he’s still on this earth. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Mom had that scared, little animal look in her eyes, just before she usually said something incredibly stupid. This time she couldn’t make anything come out.
“Of course, you can have home care. We have a practical nurse team that will help you out. Someone will come out every day,” the doctor explained.
It turned out to be the same nurse every day. Exactly at six o’clock every evening she knocked on the door. I had just come in from a plumbing job smelling none too nice so I just looked inside my parents’ bedroom.
The nurse smiled at me like I was an old friend called out, “Hello, Eddie.”
How she knew my name I couldn’t figure out. Even our customers just referred to me as George’s son. One afternoon she came out into the hall to give me a hug and acted like my smell did not bother her at all. The caress felt familiar. Her scent brought back pleasant feelings. I could not place them. That would require emotions I had not used in years. When it was time for her to leave, I walked the nurse to the door. It seemed to be the right thing to do.
She smiled and pulled out her business card. “My name is Floey. If anything comes up call me at home.”
I noticed she had dimples. After that I made an effort to come home about five so I could take a shower before she arrived. I joined them in my father’s room. Most of the time Floey was chatting cheerfully with my mother.
“I’ve been thinking,” I began, “my bedroom is bigger than this one and has much more light. The front window is huge and lets in so much sun.”
Mom’s eyes widened. “Oh no. That’s your room.”
“You and Dad need it more than me.” I tried to say it sympathetically but failed.
“Oh, that would be so much better for your husband’s recovery,” Floey said as she stood, came to my side and patted my shoulder. “That’s so nice of you.”
“No, no,” Mom weakly repeated.
“Nonsense,” Floey said. “I can have someone in here tomorrow to change out the furniture and move your husband.” The nurse gave me a hug.
Again I smelled her cologne which was like an inviting door to happier times in days long ago.
“You have such a wonderful son,” she told my mother.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” she said as I walked her to the door. She waited for a response but I remained soundless. “We used to go to school together,” she explained. “You wrote those wonderfully sad stories.”
I laughed, ducking my head. “Don’t say that too loud. My parents always hated my stories.”
“I can’t believe that.” A shadow crossed Floey’s face before she smiled again. “And I had you and your father come by my house to fix leaks all the time.”
For the first time in years a genuine smile broke out on my face. “And you gave me a hug every time.” After a pause I added, “And you gave me a hug one day in school. After the class laughed at my story. Thank you. I should have said something back then, but I was so upset that day.”
“I know. I understood.”
As I remained in the front door and watched her drive away I felt emotions I had not felt since grandma died, and I didn’t know what to do with them. Just as grandma’s bedroom reeked of desolation, Floey’s scent spoke of contentment.
One night as we sat by Dad’s bedside, I asked, “Mom, don’t you think Floey is nice?
“Yes, she is so sweet to your father.” She giggled nervously. “You think she’s nice too, don’t you?”
“Yes, everything is nice now.” Again I found myself having a hard time sounding sincere. “Like you’ve always said. Everything is so nice. Nice nurse. Nice house.”
Floey came every day of the week. That was not normal, but was comforting because we did not have to get used to someone else on weekends. One Sunday afternoon while Floey tended to my father, she told me that the clinic’s financial office somehow had deleted from its file my father’s Social Security and Medicare information.
“Do you have that somewhere?” she asked my mother.
I knew exactly where they kept their important papers. In a drawer of a desk in the hallway. “I know.” I was up and out the door as I heard my mother behind me.
“No! Let me get it! You might get lost,” she sputtered.
“Get lost? Oh, ma’am, you say the funniest things!” Floey said with a giggle.
Opening the drawer, I saw the Social Security and Medicare cards on top of a large envelope from the lawyer’s office. My mother’s protest, as silly as it was, echoed in my mind. Every time I had opened the desk drawer, she was by my side and had nervously pointed to whatever we were looking for. She always slammed the drawer shut as soon as my hands pulled out. That odor which had haunted me all those years returned.
Opening the envelope I saw my grandmother’s Last Will and Testament. I scanned it quickly. Then I saw what my mother hid from me.
“I leave all my earthly possessions, including my home, to my loving grandson, Edward….”
Dad said the house was his, and I should be grateful he was letting me stay in it. The odor intensified as my thoughts coalesced around the frightening truth. The hulking figure in my dream was my father. He had pretended to be some awful intruder when he came through the window. Grandma struggled. The lamp caught her on fire. Dad killed his own mother so he could have her house, but the guilt kept him from wanting to sleep in her bedroom. My mother knew all the time but she made me think I was the crazy one for having all those nightmares.
I walked back to Grandma’s bedroom with the insurance cards in one hand and the will in the other. Floey took the cards.
“I’ll return these tomorrow after I make photocopies for the office,” she chirped. When I did not reply, she mumbled, “I suppose I should go now.” She gathered her things.
My habit was to escort Floey to the door. I just stood there staring at my mother as Floey left. Mom’s eyes widened with fear.
I waved the will in her face. “Why did you keep this from me?” Each word exploded with anger and frustration.
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Yes, you do.” I thrust it so close it almost touched her nose. “It’s the will. This house belongs to me.”
“Oh, you can’t believe anything you read,” she replied, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Why did you let Dad kill Grandma?”
Animal-like fear enter her eyes and I waited for a fraught irrational explanation.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t know your father then. You’re being a silly little boy. You always have been. I didn’t even know your grandmother. I think that nurse is putting ideas in your head. She’s the one who wants this house. I never liked this house. I….” Her voice trailed off as her eyes filled with tears.
Mom’s expansive absurdity was no longer tolerable; in fact, it enraged me. All my life was spent trying to make sense of what she said and to find logical responses. There was no intelligence in her eyes. Never had been.
“You know you can be charged with being an accessory to murder?” I watched her mouth open. “Don’t bother. I don’t want to hear anything else stupid from you.” My attention moved on to my father who was snoring.
Moving to his side of the bed, I closed his mouth with one hand and pinched his nostrils shut with my fingers. His head twitched and his eyes opened. Yes, inside that inanimate body still lived a brain. He knew what was going on. Removing my hands from his face, I held the will before his face.
“You know what this is, don’t you, Dad? This is Grandma’s will. This is my house, not yours.”
Tears filled his eyes. He knew he was totally helpless, no way to lash out in anger. He expected me to unleash the same kind of violence on him that he had used to torture us. For the first time in his life he experienced fear. His cheeks flushed.
“Now what am I going to do with the two of you?” I asked in a voice one would use with a naughty child.
Before I answered my own question, I heard the front door open.
“I left something here, I think,” Floey said as she entered Grandma’s bedroom. She stopped short when she saw the three of us, each paralyzed by our own unique form of despair. “Ah, there you are.” She took me by the hand and led me out to the porch. “Now there, doesn’t it feel better in the fresh air?’
“Did you know?” I could not say any more.
“I know you are the most tortured man I have ever known. And, whatever caused it, you don’t deserve it.”
The wicked smell finally went away, never to return. For the first time since Grandma died I cried. I could not stop crying. Floey took me in her arms. I had not felt so protected since the days when Grandma hugged me. Just feeling safe made me cry even more.
“You don’t have to live in this house, you know,” she whispered. After caressing my back for a while, she continued. “I have loved you since we were children. You don’t have to love me. I just want you to be happy.”
I did not know what to say. Just cry. Nothing came from my mouth. After a moment I recognized her fragrance.
Jasmine or lilacs.
Love–warm, safe and free from anger and hatred—surrounded me.