Peony Street (20 page)

“Why? Wasn’t the last one I signed in force for perpetuity?”

“It’s just a precaution,” Stanley said, and withdrew papers from his inside breast pocket. “You know how cautious we legal-types are.”

“No,” Claire said. “You’re not the boss of me anymore, Stanley. I don’t have to do anything you ask me.”

Claire got up and attempted to walk past the attorney but he grabbed her arm. Claire pulled away and rubbed her arm.

“Keep your hands off me,” Claire said. “You don’t know how pissed off we hairdresser-types can be when we’re bullied, or how apt we are to file assault charges.”

“Don’t threaten me,” Stanley said. “I’m being cordial now. You haven’t seen one sixteenth of what I’m capable of doing.”

Headlights illuminated them and the city police car pulled into the parking lot next to
Stanley’s sedan.

Skip got out and said, “Claire, you alright?”

“I could use a ride home,” she said.

Once in the car she breathed a sigh of relief.

“Who was that guy?” Skip asked.

“The devil,” Claire said. “A product of unbridled ambition, greed, and the lust for material things.”

Scott’s mother was gasping for air as he fumbled with the cylinder of oxygen and attempted to rig up the cannula, the slender plastic tubing that would deliver oxygen to his mother’s lungs via her nose. He then remembered the breathing treatment apparatus called a nebulizer that they’d brought home from the hospital. He helped her use it and was relieved to see her wide-eyed look of panic relax into grateful, deep breaths as it took effect. He turned the oxygen up to the level recommended by the doctor and draped the cannula around her head with trembling hands.

“Call your sister,” she said between ragged breaths.

“I did,” he said. “She’s coming today.”

Doctor Machalvie arrived and let himself in. Scott waited in the kitchen while Doc attended to his mother.

“These crisis events will get very bad very fast,” Doc said when he returned from his mother’s room. “I gave her an injection of Terbutaline to help her breathe and a sedative to help her relax. You’ll notice I elevated her arms on some pillows and turned the heat down. You can wipe her face with a cool, damp cloth, and put a fan in her room; these things may help her breathe easier. When she gets panicked have her breathe through pursed lips. She’s stabilized now, but this is going to be a recurring experience. You need to either get her into a nursing facility or call Hospice.”

“She wants to stay home,” Scott said, “but I can’t call Hospice … I just can’t.”

“Then you’ll need to hire a nurse and get all the necessary medical equipment set up here. Will her insurance cover that?”

“I don’t know,” Scott said. “I don’t even know where her policy is.”

“I’m going to give you the name and number of a social worker I know at Pine County Hospice,” Doc said. “Talking to her doesn’t mean you’re signing your mother up; you’re just getting all the information you need to make an informed decision. You need to know what your options are.”

“I don’t want them to come in here and shoot her full of morphine,” Scott said. “She wouldn’t want that.”

“First of all, no one can do anything without my permission,” Doc said. “Even if you sign her up today I’m still her primary physician and everything they do has to be run by me. Second of all, I’ve worked with PCH for over twelve years and I’ve never seen even one instance of them over-medicating a patient. There are strict guidelines that have to be followed, and they are subject to the same accreditation requirements as the hospitals. Thirdly, your mother will decide how much or how little pain medication she needs. She may want less medication and tolerate more discomfort in order to be coherent longer. It will be up to her, with my guidance. So don’t make that the reason you don’t call for help. That’s a common fear about Hospice, but it’s not a fact.”

“I’ll talk to my sister about it,” Scott said.

“Your mother is the one dying,” Doc said. “It’s her decision to make.”

It was the first time someone had said it so bluntly and to Scott’s embarrassment, he started crying and couldn’t stop. Doc sat with him while he did.

“I’m only a phone call away,” Doc said before he left.

Scott thanked him, put the phone number on the fridge and anchored it with a magnet. He’d never really paid attention to the magnets on his mother’s refrigerator before. In a weird coincidence, he realized the one he’d used was an advertisement for Pine County Hospice.

After a thorough search of his mother’s less than ideal filing system Scott found her will and her insurance policy. He set the will aside and attempted to decipher the insurance company’s explanation of what they would and would not cover. He considered himself to be of average intelligence, but the policy seemed to contradict itself in several instances, and the complicated stipulations seemed like a grown-up math story problem: “If A is true but B is not met, then C will apply, but only if D is also true.” Within minutes he felt the beginning symptoms of a migraine and took some ibuprofen. He called Pine County Hospice and left a message for the social worker. She called him back within the hour and made an appointment to visit later in the day.

There was a knock on the door and Scott answered it to find Sister Mary Margrethe, sibling to Father Stephen, the priest at Sacred Heart Catholic Church. She was carrying a covered dish. Scott took it from her and invited her into the kitchen.

“Mom’s just had an episode and Doc gave her a sedative,” Scott said. “We need to let her sleep.”

“I wouldn’t dream of disturbing her,” Sister Mary Margrethe said. “That’s one of my broccoli casseroles; you can refrigerate it now and heat it up for dinner.”

“That’s very kind,” Scott said, and put the dish in the fridge.

“I came as soon as I heard,” she said as she sat down at the kitchen table. “You must let me arrange for people to sit with your mother so she won’t be alone.”

“Thank you,” Scott said. “You know Rose Hill’s police force is just me, Frank and Skip. There’s an investigation going on and I really need to be working, but I can’t leave her alone.”

“Let us help you,” Sister said. “That’s what your church family is for.”

“The social worker from Hospice is coming over later to help me figure out her insurance,” he said. “Doc says we need to put her in a facility or sign her up for Hospice.”

“That’s a very hard decision to make,” Sister said. “I’ve seen firsthand how much help Hospice can be to families in this situation; you’ll be glad you asked for their assistance.”

“It’s up to Mom, really,” Scott said. “Penny’s on her way; she can stay for awhile and help.”

“Meanwhile, why don’t you let me stay here this morning, and I’ll set up a rota of ladies to take turns sitting with her.”

“Thank you so much,” Scott said. “I don’t know what I’d do without your help.”

“You always were a conscientious child,” Sister said, “albeit a very fidgety altar boy.”

Claire’s mother insisted she was well enough to go back to work at the bakery but Maggie covered her shift instead. Skip came to the house to pick up Ian and take him to breakfast, and told Claire that he would deliver him to Curtis’s service station afterward. He also offered to take Mackie Pea to his mother’s house. Claire knew Mackie Pea would enjoy spending the day at Skip’s mother’s house, where she would probably eat tons of junk food and get fitted for her new sweater. Claire hadn’t wanted to impose yet again, but Skip assured her that his mother loved Mackie, and it gave his mother something to do with her time.

“She’d take her to raise if you’d let her,” Skip said. “She’s gonna cry her eyes out when y’all go back to California.”

With all her dependents taken care of, Claire left for The Bee Hive. As she passed Meredith’s tea room she noticed all the lights were on, but when she tried the door she found it locked. A sign taped to the interior side of the window promised someone would be back in fifteen minutes.

Further down the block Claire unlocked The Bee Hive and turned on the lights. Her first appointment was at ten, which gave her an hour to prepare. According to the barely legible appointment book there were sixteen clients scheduled with only a one-hour break in the afternoon. It felt to Claire as if she was facing a 5K marathon and was completely out of shape. All her muscles were sore from working in the bakery the day before, so she did some light stretches to warm up.

For her new temporary job Claire had assembled an outfit that was more of a tribute to function than form. She wore a large Fitzpatrick Bakery apron over a short sleeved t-shirt and jeans, the better to protect her skin and clothes from the endless stream of water and chemicals she would be applying to the heads of various Rose Hillians during the day. On her feet she wore her mother’s cushiest tennis shoes: big, puffy, white monstrosities with thick rubber soles and a padded interior that felt like soft feather beds for her swollen feet. She wound her hair up in a twist on the back of her head and secured it with a large hairclip she found in a drawer.

“Morning, Sunshine!” Hannah called as she entered the salon with Sammy in tow.

“Thanks for coming,” Claire said. “Hi, Sammy.”

“No problem,” Hannah said with a wink. “I promised him you weren’t going to try to cut his hair.”

Sammy looked suspiciously doubtful that no shenanigans were planned in regard to his hair.

“Sammy, I want to make a trade,” Claire said.

Sammy clutched his treasure box with a look of alarm.

“How would you like this?” Claire asked, and opened her handbag to remove a dinosaur toy that had been Liam’s.

“Delia lets me play with that all the times,” Sammy said. “I gots lots of dinosaurs at my home.”

“Then how about this?” Claire said, and drew out the sparkly necklace with the Chanel emblem that she would likely never wear again.

“They’s for girls,” he said with disgust.

“How’d you get to be such a chauvinist piglet?” Hannah asked him.

“Okay,” Claire said. “How about cold hard cash?”

“You gots dollars?” the small boy said.

“I gots lots of dollars,” Claire said, and withdrew her billfold. “I have American dollars and euros.”

“What you’s want me’s to trade?” Sammy said.

“The key ring Delia gave you.”

“I never stoled it,” Sammy said, clutching his tin tight to his chest.

“I know you didn’t,” Claire said. “I’ll give you all my dollars and all my coins for that key ring.”

He seemed to consider this.

“Whaddaya say, kiddo?” Hannah said. “Sounds like a good deal to me.”

“I want that,” he said, and pointed to Claire’s handbag.

“Pocketbooks are for grownup girls,” Claire said, and then to Hannah, “Please forgive me for perpetuating a sexist preconception.”

“No, not that,” he said, still pointing at the handbag, “That!”

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Claire said.

Sammy reached over and tugged on the essential accessory that distinguished Claire’s Blue Jean Blue Hermes Birkin handbag from the knock-offs sold on every other street corner in New York. It was a long, slender leather leash also called a “cadena.” At one end was a leather clochette that concealed two small keys; at the other end was a small padlock you could use to lock the handbag. This tether wrapped around one handle and dangled down the front of the bag.

“He just wants the dooflotchy,” Hannah said, as if to say, “what a relief; it’s no big deal.”

“You don’t understand,” Claire said. “I can’t do that. It would ruin the value.”

“It’s just a purse,” Hannah said. “I can get you another one.”

“It cost fifteen thousand dollars,” Claire said.

“It did not,” Hannah said. “Really? For a blue leather purse with a dooflotchy hanging off the handle?”

Up until this moment Claire had never been anything but proud to carry the exclusive handbag, given to her by Sloan as an incentive not to quit after a particularly bad trip to France. Now she looked at the bag and saw what Hannah saw: a baby blue leather purse trimmed with some fancy platinum hardware and a dooflotchy hanging off the handle.

“Here,” Claire said, as she removed the clochette, leash, and lock, and handed them over to Sammy.

His eyes lit up. He put his tin down on the floor so Claire could wrap the leash around his waist and secure it so it wouldn’t fall off.

“This is the most expensive belt any three-year-old has ever worn,” Claire said.

“This me’s police belt,” Sammy said. “This me’s jail lock for bad guys.”

“Really?” Hannah said, as she examined the handbag. “Fifteen grand for this? I paid less than that for my truck.”

The door opened and Claire’s first customer came in. Claire stood up to greet her as Sammy grabbed his tin and dashed out the door before it closed.

“That little stinker,” Hannah said, and jumped up to follow him. “Don’t worry, Claire, I’ll catch him.”

Claire picked up her naked-looking Birkin Bag and stowed it in the supply room. The spell had been broken; it was now just an outrageously overpriced souvenir from her former life.

On her break Claire went over to the bank to pay off her parents’ mortgage. The loan officer turned out to be someone named Amy that Claire went to school with. She looked up Claire’s parents’ mortgage agreement and shook her head.

“I want you to know I didn’t write this,” Amy said. “I would never put someone’s residence in a variable interest mortgage with a six year balloon payment. If it was a development property, maybe, but never on someone’s home.”

“I want to pay it off,” Claire said. “I can write a check or arrange a wire transfer from my bank in
Los Angeles.”

“You know your parents only paid twenty-five thousand for that house in 1974?” Amy said. “It’s probably worth six or eight times that now.”

“I didn’t realize real estate values had gone up so much here,” Claire said.

“It’s like beach front property,” Amy said. “There’s only so much ski resort property up at Glencora, so rich folks are buying up anything they can get their hands on within twenty miles. Most of the land in this county and the next is state park property or federally protected. They’re building a new ski resort up at Glencora, and a new highway is supposed to connect it to Interstate 81 in
Virginia within three years. Property values in this area are only going to continue to rise.”