In a Dark Season (5 page)

She stood staring out the window, watching the huge pale circle float above the treetops. As the sky darkened, the shadowy globe seemed to shrink and solidify till it was the familiar yellow moon, soaring high above the dark mountain range.

A feeling of vast loneliness swamped her—Molly and Ursa were gone, tempted, no doubt, by the moonlight to prowl the woods till dawn, and James was fast asleep on his wintertime bed in a snug corner of her closet.

And Ben, who for the past few years had been in and out of her house several times a day, was now preoccupied with his new love.
And that’s as it should be. Amanda’s ideal for him and they’re turning his cabin into a real home.
Briefly she thought of calling over to invite the pair to share her dinner, then remembered:
it’s the full moon, you idiot, this is the night they were going for that special raft trip with the crew from River Runners—wet suits and all. And Phillip’s in Weaverville. Well, hell.

As she scrambled a few eggs for a quick supper, her mind turned restlessly to Nola Barrett.
She must have been lonely too, living alone in that little cottage for all these years, with just her books for company.

“So, what was the niece like? And what did you find out about your friend’s condition?”

Elizabeth was stretched out on the sofa, Nola Barrett’s laptop resting on a pillow in front of her, the telephone cradled to her ear. The feeling of desolation brought on by the rising moon had dissipated with her supper and vanished entirely when Phillip called.
Even if he insists on staying in Weaverville during the week, at least we can talk every night.

She became aware that Phillip was repeating his question and hurried to answer him. “Apparently there’s been no change in Nola’s mental condition. She’s conscious but not…I guess
lucid
’s the word I want. Tracy—that’s the niece—said that Nola was just babbling most of the time, didn’t know where she was or what had happened. Anyway, I’m going to go see her on Wednesday. Tracy said that the facility requested that Nola be given a few days to, quote, ‘settle in’ before anyone other than family visited.”

She sighed unhappily and Phillip’s warm, reassuring voice filled her ear. “Lizabeth, maybe your friend will improve…they’re probably running tests and looking for some organic cause for this—”

“I don’t know, Phillip. The niece is in such a hurry. She says the doctor can’t explain the cause of Nola’s sudden dementia, if that’s what it is, and doesn’t think there’s likely to be any improvement. Tracy and her boyfriend are hell-bent on getting Nola’s stuff packed up so that the cottage can be rented or sold.”

“Seems like they could wait a while.”

“Which is what I hinted, but evidently they’re looking at long-term care for Nola and they need the money now. They’re in such a rush that I’m afraid they’re tossing out important stuff.”

Elizabeth allowed herself a grim smile as she ran her hands over the lid of the little laptop. She had asked Tracy what she planned to do with Nola’s notes and partially completed novel.

“Well, it’s not going to get written now, is it?” had been the brusque response. “Stone looked at that laptop of hers and he says it’s worthless—completely outdated. I told him to take it across to the garbage bins along with that stack of paper she’d scribbled on.”

Elizabeth patted the computer again and let her thumb riffle the sheaf of paper beside it, a mass of pages covered with notes in Nola Barrett’s precise, minuscule script.

“I did manage to salvage a few important things. I offered to buy some of the books, mainly ones about the county, and I convinced Tracy to let me bring the quilts here so that I could go over them and see if they need mending.”
And when I picked up the pile of quilts and saw Nola’s laptop and her notes were underneath them…

There had been a small struggle with her conscience, but Elizabeth’s determination to hold on to something of her friend had won. She had asked for a box or garbage bag to put the stack of quilts into, and when Tracy went to the kitchen in search of something suitable, Elizabeth had hastily slipped the laptop and notes between the folds of one of the quilts.
They were going to toss it anyway,
she argued, overcoming the small still voice that nagged in vain.
And I was honest about the quilts.

Chapter 6

In Hell

Wednesday, December 6

N
oise. There was always noise. Rattle, clang, clank, loud meaningless voices, shrill mirthless laughter, hoarse whispers. And always the hopeless sound of someone crying. There was no night—night with its blessed concealing darkness and the silence that she had once wrapped herself in like a familiar garment. There was always light. There was always noise. The overheated air smothered her and the dark odor of despair clung to everything.

I am in hell,
thought Nola Barrett.
I am in hell for my sins.

Hands plucked at her, pulling at her nightgown. Metal rings slid across a rod. “Nola honey, company’s coming today. You want to be a clean and pretty young lady, now don’t you? We got to wash you up good.”

The thin cotton nightgown was twitched away and there was a spatter of liquid and a sloshing sound. The moonlike face of the attendant grimaced at her and wheezed a smoky laugh. “Like I always say, first we wash down as far as possible…”

A rough cloth, cold and wet, scrubbed at her face, her breasts, her belly. She tried to protest but her tongue, thick with the bewitchment of hell, turned the words into a garble of meaningless sound.

“And then we wash
up
as far as possible.”

Nola flapped futile hands at the invasive washcloth that swabbed her feet, then worked its way up her trembling and jerking legs.

“And
then…
we wash
possible!”
The braying voice was loud in her ears and the foul breath of her tormentor made her gag as the relentless hands thrust the wet rag into her most private parts.

They had tied her into the wheelchair, for her own good, they said, and set her in front of a television where mindless people did mindless things. The colors whirled and blurred as her eyes filled with tears.

I should have died…I wanted to die…I deserved to die…

Abandoning the hopeless litany of guilt, Nola Barrett concentrated on turning her head to look at the door. The bewitchment of her tongue seemed to extend to the rest of her body: she could
think
an action, but movement, it seemed, was restricted to creaking, shaking slow-motion. As her eyes passed from the flickering screen, over the built-in cupboards and sink, past the open door of the bathroom and so to the second bed with its huddled and silent occupant, there was time to study it all.

Even without her glasses—“You won’t be needing these, now will you, sweetheart?”—even though shapes blurred and quivered, the limits of her world were clear.

O there’s none; no no no there’s none

Be beginning to despair, to despair,

Despair, despair, despair, despair.

Nola Barrett’s head slumped forward as the leaden echo of the poem learned in her youth filled her consciousness, drowning out the chatter of the television and the endless, eternal noise of the nursing home.

“No one’s there—that Tracy and what’s-his-name left a little while ago, hauling off a load of Nola’s things. I heard them saying they’d have to make one more trip at least.”

Elizabeth turned from Nola Barrett’s front door to see a pleasant-looking woman pulling a wheeled bin toward the garbage collection site just a few steps across the road. Sharp blue eyes under a red knit hat studied Elizabeth. “You must be the new friend Nola told me about. I’ve seen your car here quite a few times. It was here Monday, so I guess you know what happened. Were you looking for that niece of hers?”

“Yes, I was.” Elizabeth left the porch and started back toward her car. “I was going to visit Nola at the Layton Facility, and I thought I’d see if there was anything I could take to her. That white car was still parked behind the house, so I thought…”

The other woman abandoned her garbage bin on the side of the road and came across, smiling and obviously ready to chat.

“Those two borrowed a truck from somewhere. If they were taking Nola’s things in to one of the secondhand places in Asheville, they won’t be back for several hours—probably eat lunch in there. It’ll be two…say two-thirty before they’re back.”

The gray-haired woman stuck out a gloved hand. “I’m Lee Palatt. That’s my place over there.” She nodded toward a house just beyond Nola’s cottage. A glistening white picket fence with an arched gateway surrounded a white frame house set in a yard that, even in bleak December, was obviously the creation of a dedicated gardener.

“It’s good to meet you, Lee. I’m Elizabeth Goodweather. I live—”

“I know; you have that herb farm on Ridley Branch. Nola told me about you and back in the spring I read that write-up in the paper about you and your wreaths. I kept thinking I’d try to get over and look at your herb gardens, but I just moved here last year and all my energy’s gone into fixing up the house and the yard.”

Lee cocked her head to one side and her brow wrinkled. “Now, I wonder…what do
you
think about all this carrying on? I would have said that Nola was as sane and well adjusted as they come—this whole thing is just unbelievable. Of course, even though we’re neighbors, I haven’t seen much of Nola recently.”

She flashed an engaging grin and brushed at her blue fleece jacket. A sprinkling of short pale hairs clung to the fabric, resisting her attempts to dislodge them. “I’m a cat person, as you might guess—four of ’em. And Nola’s one of those folks who’s funny about cats—cat phobia or something. She’s never set foot in my house because of the kitties. And that house of hers is so tiny that I haven’t felt right dropping in since her niece arrived.”

“Nola seemed just fine when I last saw her.” Elizabeth looked toward the little stone cottage, remembering the cozy living room piled with books and the quick wit and acute perceptions of the woman who had lived there. “But…something must have happened—”

Her new acquaintance gave a disgusted snort. “Phooey! I don’t believe Nola would try to kill herself! That Tracy tried to tell me that Nola jumped from the roof of the old house down by the river. Do you believe that story?”

A nice woman,
Elizabeth thought as she drove away,
if a bit nosy.
In the rearview mirror, she could see Nola’s neighbor maneuvering the wheeled bin through her gate. Several cats twined about her legs, complicating the task.

She never went to the collection center!
The realization spread a grin across Elizabeth’s face.
The garbage bin was just an excuse to check me out—to see what I was doing and what I knew. I’ll bet Lee Palatt knows everything that’s going on in Dewell Hill, not unlike our own Miss Birdie on Ridley Branch. She doesn’t seem to like Tracy—that much was obvious. And she sure had a lot to say.

“Nola never mentioned a niece—never talked about any living family at all. Someone told me there was a sister over in Leicester, but I don’t know if that sister’s still alive. I suppose Tracy
could
be her niece…” She had frowned and fixed Elizabeth with a troubled gaze. “What I don’t like is that Nola was just fine and then this alleged niece and her bald boyfriend come to visit and all of a sudden, Nola starts acting weird.”

“How do you mean?” Elizabeth had asked, curious at the vehemence in the other woman’s voice.

“You may well ask.” Lee had held up her hand to tick off the reasons for her concern. “First of all, the very night those two arrived, I saw Nola, sitting out behind her house on the bench under the apple tree. It was bitter cold and sleeting a little, but Nola just sat there. It looked like she was crying and I started to go over and see what was wrong. I got my jacket and boots on and was walking through my backyard to the little gate between our properties. Just then Nola’s back door opened and Tracy called out, ‘You won’t make things any better by getting pneumonia,’ in just the
meanest
tone of voice, and Nola stood up real slow and went inside.”

Lee had paused, remembering the scene, then had added in a troubled voice, “Nola’s always been so straight and elegant in the way she moves, but that night she was walking like an old, old woman.

“Two,
when I called Nola the next morning, Tracy told me she was sleeping in. Well, I’d seen Nola through the window at her laptop, not ten minutes earlier when I took my trash across. I’d waved but she hadn’t looked up. And I’d seen that she was fully dressed, so how could she have been sleeping in? When I called again later, Nola answered but she sounded kind of
distracted
and said she couldn’t talk just then.”

A third finger had been thrust out. “And three, why
did
Nola slam the door on Pastor Morton the afternoon of that same day?”

It was a short trip to the Layton Facility, but there had been enough time to decide that the questions raised by Nola’s neighbor probably all had some plausible, as well as innocuous, answer.
And if they don’t, what can I do? Maybe once I see Nola, it’ll all make some kind of sense.

The one-story complex sprawled on a knoll just off the Ransom bypass, long narrow wings reaching out from the central entry area. A line of pine trees bordered the drive, imperfectly blocking the view of the convenience store and carwash below.

Leaving her jeep in the visitors’ parking area, Elizabeth made her way past an inflatable snowman, sagging incongruously on the brown grass by the walkway. To her right she saw the identical windows of one long red brick wing of the building. A few winter-browned shrubs were planted haphazardly along the foundation, and here and there bird feeders provided entertainment for the residents behind those windows.

“Room 167—down the hall, right at the dining room, left at the nurses’ station. It’s on the left.” The receptionist flashed a perfunctory smile and went back to her computer screen. Sitting in a wheelchair by a sparsely decorated artificial Christmas tree, a withered little woman in hair curlers and a pink robe cuddled a worn baby doll. She nodded several times and said something unintelligible. Elizabeth summoned a cheerful expression and stopped. “Hello. How are you?”

“My baby,” was the slurred answer as the toothless old woman bent her head over the doll. “This is my baby.”

Down the hall, past the dining room, a bingo game was in progress, led by a buoyant, youngish man whose cheerful patter was keeping most of the participants awake. The nurses’ station was ahead, with a gaggle of pastel-garbed aides—some pushing carts of cleaning supplies, others assisting frail residents to totter or roll toward the dining room. There was a pervasive smell of disinfectant with an undertone of human waste, and Elizabeth began to feel very depressed.

A heavy man wearing a shiny black helmet lurched toward her, partially restrained by the aide who clung grimly to the belt of wide webbing that circled his jiggling girth. A growing stain of wetness ran down the left leg of his gray sweatpants.

Elizabeth stepped aside as the pair continued their stumbling progress down the narrow hallway. The heavy man’s face was expressionless and his eyes were blank.

Oh, my god, this is a dreadful place. Poor, poor Nola.
A memory of one of Hieronymus Bosch’s paintings flashed through her mind.
This is Hell and these lost souls are here for the unforgivable sins of poverty, illness, or old age.

The door of 167 was open. Under the number were two names: Ronda Mills and Nola Barrett. A beached whale of a woman occupied the bed just inside the door. Her eyes were shut, her mouth was open, and she was snoring loudly. The outline of the coverlet revealed that she was an amputee—half of her left leg was missing. Just beyond this bed the flimsy green privacy curtain was drawn. Two figures were silhouetted against it.

Elizabeth hesitated, not wanting to interrupt whatever was taking place,
visit? care procedure? Should I knock on the door?
A muttered conference seemed to be taking place on the other side of the curtain.

“This is bad, Payne. After all this time—”

A man’s hand grasped the edge of the curtain and tugged it back, rings rattling on the metal rod. His dark eyes widened at the sight of Elizabeth. “Yes? Were you looking for someone?”

“I’ve come to see Nola.”

The slumped figure in the wheelchair coughed as the second man lowered the paper cup he had been holding to her lips. He reached into the pocket of his suit jacket, withdrew a pristine white handkerchief, and carefully wiped Nola Barrett’s trembling lips as she slowly turned her head to look at Elizabeth.

“I hardly recognized her. Her hair’d been cut—standard procedure for long-term care, the doctor said. And she didn’t have her glasses on, or the makeup I’d always seen her in. Her face looked so naked. And her eyes…it was as if she was pleading with me, but when she tried to talk, it was just garble. Phillip, I hope I drop down dead before I find myself in a nursing home.”

She stretched out luxuriously in her bed, holding the phone close to her ear. Phillip’s voice was a pleasant antidote to the bleak memory of her visit to the Layton Facility.