The Shortest Way Home (21 page)

“Dr. Krantz? Did he run any blood work?”

“He did. He died two weeks later. Lovely man.”

“Did he find anything?”

“Not a thing. It’s likely Alzheimer’s or some similarly ruinous cousin thereof. Certainly not Huntington’s. There’s no known case of onset at my age. But whatever it is, there’s no cure.”

“Auntie, there are new drugs now that can slow the process.”

“Sometimes they can, sometimes they can’t.”

“For the love of God, won’t you at least
try
?”

She put her teacup down and steadied her gaze at him for the first time that afternoon. There was a gentleness to it that bordered on sympathetic. Sean had no idea of what to expect.

“Did you have a plan?” she asked simply. “If the symptoms came?”

“A plan . . . you mean . . .” he stammered.

“Suicide. Were you planning to kill yourself? Or does your faith preclude that option?”

Catholic doctrine was pretty clear. Suicides are said to share no reunion with their loved ones in the afterlife, no communion with Jesus or the saints. They drift alone for eternity. But Sean could never buy the idea that a loving God would actually cut loose the most desperate of his children. He suddenly felt so weary. “Tierra del Fuego,” he said. “I was going to do it there.”

“Ah,” she nodded approvingly. “Parts unknown. Very fitting.”

“You?” he asked.

“When I was at risk for Huntington’s, I always thought I would have a nibble at some garden chemicals under the red maple.”

“Also fitting.”

“Yes, but then all of you children came here to live, and I couldn’t very well let you find me foaming at the mouth in the backyard. I never did devise a satisfactory alternative. But as the years passed, it became less and less likely I’d need one.”

Until now.
Neither of them said it, but Sean knew she was thinking it, too. They sat quietly as the drone of the lawn mower rounded to the front of the house. It seemed terribly unfair—how much was one family supposed to handle? And yet he’d seen families decimated by disease and violence, mothers watching their children die from something as preventable as dysentery, children orphaned with no relatives left to care for them. He reminded himself that at least his family had a roof over their heads and food to eat, warm beds and clean water.

And one hell of a godawful gene pool . . .

Aunt Vivvy did something completely unexpected then. She reached out and covered Sean’s hand with her own, the grip of her gnarled fingers surprisingly strong. And he felt sure he knew the reason she was taking his hand for the first time in their entire history together.

“Please don’t ask me to kill you,” he said.

She sighed. “You’re certain?”

“Yeah, I’d really rather not.”

“You may change your mind when things get worse.”

“I know. Still.”

“Let’s consider it an open invitation, then. You’ll do as you see fit, with my blessing.”

Her blessing. Another first. Had she ever given such glowing approval of any of his past efforts? Apparently in her book, of all his good deeds, murder would be the high point.

She released his hand to bring the teacup to her lips again, but the feel of her tight grasp lingered. Would he change his mind eventually, when she became so lost, so hard to handle, that her death would seem like a gift to them both? He’d seen dementia before, but not very often. In the places he’d stayed, most people didn’t get the chance to outlive the functionality of their brains. How bad would it get? And how could he possibly find someone willing to care for an increasingly demented old lady and her slightly odd, orphaned great nephew?

“Sean,” she said, interrupting his ruminations. “Is it possible that your father was in the yard today fixing the lawn mower?”

“No, Auntie,” he said, startled that her delusion so closely shadowed his thoughts earlier in the day. “It was Mr. McGrath, Cormac’s father.”

“Brigid McGrath’s husband?”

“Yeah, from the Garden Club.”

“Hmm,” she said. “I might have sworn it was Martin.”

* * *

S
ean waited for Deirdre to get home. He desperately hoped that they could come up with some sort of plan. More than anything he just needed to talk to someone.

When she didn’t show up after her shift at the diner, he called her cell phone. She was in her car, headed to Worcester. He could hear the rumble of rush hour traffic on the Mass Pike.

“I’m going straight to practice,” she said, sounding slightly annoyed at his intrusion. “What’s the issue?”

“Jesus, pretty much freaking everything, Dee.”

“Okay, well, I’ve got a show going up in two short weeks, and it’s a part I got ten days ago, Sean, so I can’t really deal with
pretty much freaking everything
at the moment. In fact, I can’t deal with anything other than this performance, aka the basis for my entire
future
.”

“So I’m just supposed to handle all this shit myself.”

“Welcome to my world,” she said. She honked her horn and muttered, “Asshole!” before hanging up. Sean assumed she was referring to another driver, but he wondered if she’d meant for him to have a small share in the epithet, too.

CHAPTER 23

“H
ey, any chance you feel like grabbing a bite?”

“Oh, uh . . .”

“It’s all right if you’re busy. I just thought I’d give it a shot.”

“No, I’d like to.” But Rebecca was clearly hesitant. “I just need to . . . there’s some stuff I have to do first. How’s seven?”

“Great! I’ll swing by and grab you then.”

She seemed about to say something, but then there was some sort of commotion in the background, and she muttered, “Okay,” and hung up. Seven would give him plenty of time to pick up groceries, prepare dinner for Kevin and Aunt Viv, and make sure no one needed anything before he headed to Rebecca’s. He’d become increasingly aware of checking things like stove burners, reminding Kevin to brush his teeth, and seeing his aunt safely ensconced in her room with her henchman-dog before he left the house these days.

Still, seven felt like a long time to wait to unload his mounting anxiety about Aunt Vivvy and Kevin, his aggravation with Deirdre, even his unaccountably mixed feelings about Chrissy. He wished he could head to The Pal with Cormac and get it all off his chest. But it wasn’t Tuesday, and he was hesitant to bother Cormac. Sean could still see the look of despair on Barb’s face when Chrissy had asked if they were planning to have kids.

He had a sudden inclination to fire off a letter to his old friend Yasmin Chaudhry, the doctor he’d befriended in Kenya. They had sat countless times discussing just this sort of thing—her family’s dismay over her decision to go to medical school instead of submitting to an arranged marriage, his father’s disappearance, both families’ inability to understand the choices they had each made to spend their lives among the poorest of the poor. Yasmin had an astute eye for the absurdity of trying to make anyone understand it, and they shared the comfort—now so starkly missing in his life—of mutual commiseration.

The last he’d heard from her she was in Haiti. Who knew if the mail even got through these days, and if so, whether she was still there to receive it? Nevertheless, once Kevin and Aunt Vivian were seated at the kitchen table with their barbecued chicken and baked potatoes, he took a pad of paper and wrote a few lines to Yasmin.

* * *

W
hen he drove over to meet Rebecca, her house was dark. After fifteen minutes, he was about to drive to the nearest gas station and call her when she pulled into the driveway, her car coming to an abrupt stop just before hitting the garage door. She didn’t get out immediately. Sean waited a moment, then he opened her passenger-side door and got in. “What’s up?” he said.

She pushed a clump of wavy brown hair back off her face. “I don’t think it’s going to work out tonight, Sean. I’m sorry.”

“What happened?”

Rebecca stared out the windshield. “Eden came in.”

“Your boss?”

“Yeah. We were locking up, and she wanted a massage.”

“Man, that must have been annoying—you said she’s pretty awful.”

“She’s Satan.”

“Oh, Beck, I’m sorry. That sucks. Let’s go grab a beer and some food and you can relax.”

She closed her eyes for a second, then looked over at him. “I need to meditate.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry. I would’ve been done by the time you came if she hadn’t shown up. And now I really
need
to. She’s a completely destabilizing person.”

“No, it’s fine. Should I come back later? Or I could just hang out till you’re ready.”

“Well, I usually do some yoga first, so it might be a while.”

“Yoga.”

She smiled. “Yeah, Sean,
yoga
. Maybe you’ve heard of it? Like half the world does it.”

“I’ve heard of it, smart aleck. I’ve even done it a couple of times.”

She surveyed him skeptically. “Really.”

“Yeah, really. Maybe I’m not one of those guys who says
‘Namaste’
in casual conversation and owns his own mat, but I did live in India for a couple of years. Can you top that, little miss yoga girl?”

She laughed her clear melodious laugh. “Nope,” she said. “I cannot top that. So, you want to do some yoga with me?”

“Oh, ah . . . okay. I mean, it’s been a while. You’ll have to tell me what to do.”

They went into the house, and Rebecca put her wavy hair into a short ponytail and changed into a pair of stretchy black leggings and a tank top. Sean would have preferred running shorts to the khaki shorts he was wearing, but they were loose, and he felt he could manage.

She took him down to the basement, which was cool and dark, the waning summer light sifting in through small casement windows near the ceiling. There was an old Ping-Pong table folded up against one wall next to an enormous teak entertainment center. A couch and a rolled-up rug had been pushed to one side.

“Hey, we used to play Ping-Pong down here. Is that the same table?”

“Of course it is.” She smiled. “You don’t replace things in a shrine. The only new thing is the rug.” It was a flat, pale Berber with flecks of tan. “Yoga on a shag carpet is just so
wrong
.”

They lay down on their backs, hands palm-up by their sides, and began by concentrating on their breathing. “Now, as you inhale, arch your back. As you exhale, curl your back, pelvis tipping upward.” Her voice was quiet and soothing. He arched and curled, happy to follow her lead, the anxiety of the day’s events slipping away as he concentrated on her simple instructions.

He kept her in sight so he could see the positions she described. In the simple, stretchy outfit, her shape was more evident. She was petite, as she’d always been, but there was a muscularity to her now. Her upper arms were firm and defined—from years of giving massages, he supposed. Her legs also seemed strong, and she could balance on one leg in the Tree pose without quivering at all. Sean fell over immediately. He let out a grunt of annoyance.

She glanced over at him. “There’s a saying in yoga: ‘Find the
repose
in the pose.’ Don’t try so hard. Let your body find its own balance in its own time.” With a little grin she added, “And stop competing with me.”

“I’m not!”

“Oh no, not in the least.” She came around behind him and placed her hands on his hips. “Shift your weight onto one foot. Okay, now slowly, slowly raise the other foot and rest it against the inside of your opposite thigh. Keep breathing. Let the breath calm your muscles.”

He did as she said, and though he was still quivery and unstable, he got his foot planted against the other leg, her strong hands buttressing him from either side. As she guided him to raise his arms upward, his mind remained focused on her hands gripping his hips. He was used to the feel of her touch from the massages she’d given him, but this seemed different somehow.

“You’re doing it,” she murmured near his ear. “You’re a tree.”

“Yeah, well, my roots are pretty shallow. A light breeze would blow me over.”

“Your roots are fine. You just have to believe in them a little more and let them do their job.” She let him go, and he held it for a few seconds before tipping again.

They continued on, his muscles straining to hold him in precarious positions. And when he realized he
was
competing with her, he was able to relax and simply marvel at her gracefulness. When they had finished and were lying on their backs again, Sean still breathing a little harder than he liked, she said, “Meditation?”

“If it doesn’t involve being a downward dog or a proud warrior, I’m in.”

She laughed. “For a guy who’s spent most of his life living in squalor, you’re kind of demanding.”

He looked over at her and grinned. “Sean Doran, Diva Bush Nurse.”

As they gazed at each other and laughed, Sean felt a surge, like his nervous system had just gone turbo. A strange array of impulses crackled across his brain in a mental ticker tape: kiss her . . . squeeze her hand . . . laugh uncontrollably . . . run like hell . . .

“Gotta pee,” he said, and rose and went to the bathroom.

When he came back she had put a cotton sweater over her tank top. She didn’t look at him. “Ready?” she said.

“Yup. What do I do? Just sit quietly?” He lowered himself onto the carpet several feet away from her.

“Um, yeah, basically. Wait—you said you’ve done this before.”

“Yoga, not meditating.”

“Oh. Well, do you want me to do a guided meditation, sort of helping you along?”

“Sure.”

She began to talk quietly about clearing the mental chatter, focusing only on each breath coming in and out, counting them to guide attention away from thought. He tried to do as she said, but Sean could not make himself focus on his breathing for more than about six seconds. He wondered momentarily if it was an early sign of dementia, an uncontrollable mind. By the count of four he was starting to see images between each number—Kevin
chtching
at George, how had he learned that so fast? And then five—where was the tape Hugh had given him, had it gotten thrown out with the tape player? Sometimes he got to six but he never got to seven. He was a meditation failure.