Thirty Happens (17 page)

Decision made.

“Go fuck yourself, Brenda.”

Click.

chapter twenty-two.

“
W
hat do you mean, you are discharging her to a rehab facility?”

“Karyn, your mom is medically fine. All of her vitals are where they should be. There’s no internal bleeding to monitor for. She just needs to heal now.”

“I know, and we are in the hospital. This is where people heal.”

Liv sat down with me in one of the private consultation rooms that they had. She gave me a sad smile that somehow was filled with understanding.

“I understand, Kar. I get that you’re really worried still for your mom. But now that she’s woken up, there’s no medical reason to keep her here. The insurance won’t allow it, and honestly, we are always operating at pretty much full capacity.”

Mom woke up yesterday, finally. She was sleeping most of the time, still, but was able to communicate with us. The pain was being kept at bay with morphine at this point in time. It had been a week since she’d been in her accident. A week of sitting, waiting and worrying. A week of running home at the end of the day for a shower and fitful sleep, only to turn around and come back for more the next day. A week of living off of stale hospital coffee and more green gelatin than any person should have to eat in a lifetime.

“Where will she go?”

Fear had crept into my voice. I’d been strong this whole week. I’d been in touch with human resources after pretty much throwing my career away, and found out that I had about five weeks of vacation stored up, so I’d get paid for that long, anyway. But we were one week in, and I had no idea what was next. My dad wasn’t in the picture, and up till now, mom was the one who made the big decisions in life. Not me.

So now, I had to be the adult. I had to stand up for my mom, and make life changing decisions for her.

That scared the hell out of me.

“Your mom lives in Wareham, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, I did a little research, and there is a nursing facility in Buzzards Bay that we have referred patients to before. The Bourne Nursing and Rehabilitation Center.”

I thought for a moment, trying to picture the place.

“Wait a minute, that’s a nursing home.”

“It’s a skilled nursing facility.”

“Nursing home, where families send their old people to die.” My voice was rising. Mom was only fifty two years old. She was not supposed to be in a nursing home.

“Karyn, that’s
not
what nursing homes are. Yes, the elderly go to live when they are no longer safe to live on their own. But there are registered and licensed nurses who work there, and physical therapists and occupational therapists. A team of specialized caregivers would always be on site twenty-four seven, giving your mom and the other patients,
including
the elderly residents, the attention and care that they need.”

I felt slightly ashamed for my outburst.

But still.

“What about all of the stories I’ve seen about abuse in nursing homes? What about them being understaffed all the time?”

Liv sighed.

“In any situation, there will be a few bad apples spoiling the bunch. The stories of elder abuse are perhaps not overstated, but statistics show that residents are more likely to be harmed by other residents than by the staff. There are very strict regulations in place by the state, which help protect the residents. As far as your question about their staffing levels? Well, yeah. That’s the case at every facility. Nursing home staff are vastly underpaid, and yet provide vital services. It’s a labor of love for these nurses, I think you will actually be very surprised.”

I sighed.

“Karyn, it’s going to be okay. Your mom will heal, her bones will get stronger. She’ll get the help she needs to physically and mentally recover from the accident. And the two of you will go on with your lives.”

“So, when does the move happen?”

“I have a call in to the facility. I expect to hear back shortly to find out if they have a bed available.”

I pulled back in horror.

“Does that mean someone has to
die
for my mom to go there?”

The thought of mom lying in a dead person’s bed skeeved me out.

Liv just openly laughed at me.

“No, no. They have a certain number of beds open for rehab patients. It’s not that dramatic, Karyn.”

“Oh, okay. Well, let me know when you find out, I’ll fill mom in when she wakes up next.”

We hugged and parted ways. Me to go tell mom she was going to a nursing home, her to go help save the lives of the other patients.

I walked back into mom’s room. Funny how a week ago the sound of the blood pressure machine and heart monitor seemed deafening. Now, it was mere background noise, and almost oddly soothing.

I noticed that her eyes were opening as I entered.

“Hey, Mom.”

She gave me a weak smile.

“Hey.”

Her voice was raspy.

“Need some water?”

She nodded.

I held the straw up to her lips and she took a sip.

“Mom, I just spoke to the doctor.

Her eyes showed nervousness, but she simply nodded at me, silently urging me to go on.

“You’re medically fine. Strong heart, perfect blood pressure, nothing internal that is going to harm you, no bleeding or anything like that.”

I saw a small smile and a look of relief.

“There’s a ‘but’.”

She croaked the words out.

“Excuse me?”

She sighed.

“You gave me everything that’s good. That means there’s a ‘but’. There’s always a ‘but’.”

I smiled at her.

“Yes, there’s a ‘but’. It’s not really a bad one, though. The ‘but’ is that you’re being discharged.”

She looked panicked, her eyes darting around the room, taking in all the machines she was hooked up to, her arm, her leg.

I held up my hand to stop her.

“Mom, you’re being discharged, but not to your home. They are sending you to a rehab facility
near
your home so that you can get the care you need in order to be back up on your feet.”

She relaxed.

“That’s a very good ‘but’.”

I held up the water for another sip.

“We’ll know more soon, she’s waiting to hear back to make sure they have a spot. Once they do, they’ll transport you down there.”

“Which place?”

“I think she said it was called Bourne Nursing and Rehab or something like that. It’s in Buzzards Bay.”

“I know that one, really beautiful place. On the water, too. That will be a perfect place to recover.”

I smiled at her. The fact that mom knew the place and was okay with it put me more at ease. I was still on edge and all but had to keep my problems away from her. She didn’t need to know everything that was going on behind the scenes of my messed up life.

“When do you need to get back to work?”

I shook my head.

“Not something you have to worry about right now, mom. Turns out I have a lot of vacation built up, so you’re not going to get rid of me that easily.”

She brightened up.

“As a matter of fact, I think I’ll spend my vacation time at your house while you’re at the rehab place. It will be a nice change of pace after the speed of sound style of living here in Boston.”

Meanwhile, it will give me the time I need to notify the apartment management company that I would be moving out at the end of the month, get a rental van and move my meager belongings to my childhood home. By the time mom was released from rehab, hopefully, I will have figured out the next steps of my life.

“Everything’s going to be great, mom, you just wait and see.”

I really wasn’t sure who I was reassuring, her or me.

chapter twenty-three.

I
stood outside of the somewhat rundown clapboard building on Union Street in Onset. The words on the sign in the window said Onset Live.

Mom had told me about this paper, it was a free weekly paper that covered the news that was pertinent primarily to the Onset Village area. I guess there was one in Wareham and Mattapoisett as well.

Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

Four weeks ago, I had been the up and coming reporter at The Beacon, a highly regarded newspaper that was revered nationally. Four weeks ago I had a front page story, the effects of which were still rippling through city government.

None of that really mattered much at all, though. Because four weeks ago I almost lost my mom. I didn’t regret walking away. It hurt, I couldn’t lie, but I didn’t regret it. Fortunately, so far my mom had no idea that I had blown up that bridge. She thought I was still using up all my vacation for her.

Which, in a way, I was. However, that was coming to an end.

I needed to find work, and fast.

Which found me standing outside of a rundown building, about to knock. About to walk in with an impressive portfolio and beg for work. From a free paper.

Inhale.

Exhale.

I turned the knob and walked in, pleasantly surprised at how tidy the small office was. I saw three desks, crammed pretty close to each other, and a wall of file cabinets. That was everything that made up this office.

Well, if they took me on, I guess I wouldn’t get lost looking for the coffee.

“Hi, can I help you?”

A scruffy looking guy in a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and about a two days’ growth of beard looked up at me in confusion.

“The coffee shop is next door.”

I had noticed that while standing outside. Good to note that there was a legit coffee shop here.

“Yeah, I am aware of that. I am here to see the editor of the Live.”

He leaned back in his chair which creaked impressively, and ran his hand through his hair, causing it to stand up just a bit.

“Well, you found him. What can I do for you? Birthday? Anniversary? Obituary?”

Kill. Me. Now.

“Reporter.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m a reporter, most recently for The Beacon up in Boston. I’ve relocated to the area to help out my mom, and as such, find myself looking for a job. I was hoping that I could work for you.”

He raised an eyebrow in confusion.

“Lady, I don’t know what you’ve heard of our paper, but this is where reporters retire, not start out.”

“Karyn. My name is Karyn Jensen. Not ‘lady’. And I am well aware that the Live is not a fast track paper that a young reporter would normally gravitate towards. However, my mom needs me and my family is more important to me than my ego.”

I raised my chin in defiance.

He looked at me, hard. His eyes were squinted almost as if he was trying to see through me.

“I’m assuming you brought a portfolio for me to review, Karyn Jensen Not Lady.”

Freakin’ jackass.

“Of course.”

I laid it down in front of him and sat down when he gestured the seat across from him.

I couldn’t figure out why I was nervous as he opened the cover and started reading the first article, my ‘big break’ article from last month.

I was trying to read his body language, trying to figure out if he was impressed, not impressed, irritated that I just showed up, anything.

He finished the article and turned the page.

I sat.

Waited.

Leaned back.

Stretched my legs.

Looked around the room at the sparsely decorated office.

He continued to read.

What seemed like a day later, he turned the final page of the portfolio, and sat back, once again squinting at me.

“Seriously, why are you here?”

That was
not
what I was expecting to hear from his lips after looking through my portfolio.

“I need a job. I am a reporter. This is a newspaper.”

Sighing, he leaned forward on his desk.

“Karyn, this is a weekly free paper. This would be the type of job I’m sure that you have made fun of in the past. This-“

He waved his hand over the portfolio.

“This shows me that you’re good. You’re
damned
good. You went to Reese, one of the best for journalism. You probably graduated top of your class. I imagine you sat there, on the day of graduation thinking about your amazing future and the hard-hitting stories you would be churning out. You did
not
for one second consider writing about summer traffic every May and the benefit that the tourist dollars had for the local economy every September. The Beacon is where you rise. The Live is where you retire. I’ll ask again, why are you here?”

“Honestly? You’re right. I had my life mapped out. College, where yes, I was the top of the class. Awesome job offered at the top paper in Boston right out of college thanks to an internship my senior year. My plan was to rise up the ranks, do some investigative work, and have my impressive career culminate with a Pulitzer Prize. I had the dream that everyone has when they start out. Life has a funny way of throwing up the middle finger at you when everything is going great, though, doesn’t it? Right on the heels of a career accelerating opportunity, my mom almost died in a car accident. I was given a choice, stay with her or stay at The Beacon. I chose family.”

He nodded, slowly, silently, while looking directly at me. It was an unnerving stare, one where you felt as if there was some way he was reading your soul.

“Okay, here’s the deal. Ninety five percent of what you would write for us would be feature-style articles, not hard investigative work. Every once in a blue moon, something big will happen in the area. I need to see that you’d be able to do this, it’s a hard switch. This weekend is Memorial Day Weekend. For the last three years, a volunteer group has been placing flags on the graves at the National Cemetery in Bourne. It’s sort of a big deal around here. Go, be a part of it, and then write a story. Have it to me no later than Sunday evening. We’ll see where we go from there.”

He pushed me his card, so I had his contact info.

Flags on cemeteries.

I managed to keep my cringing on the inside as I pocketed his card.

“Thanks, uh…”

“Will. Will Botelho. Editor of the Live.”

“Thank you, Will Botelho Editor of the Live. I’ll have the article to you no later than five o’clock Sunday evening.”

He smirked at me, appreciating the response.

I had a story.

God help me.

***

I parked along Connery Avenue, which led up to the National Cemetery. I would have tried to get closer, but there were hordes of people walking towards the gates, parking alongside. I pulled the rental car my mom’s insurance provided into a tight space, pleased that I’d chosen the compact car over an SUV.

I grabbed my camera, my notebook, and three pens, and set off towards the front. It was a really sunny day, which was nice, and I was glad I’d worn comfortable clothing and shoes considering it was about a mile hike from where I parked to the front entrance. I took in the families that were walking together, holding hands.

The roar of motorcycles nearly made me jump out of my skin, as it was in sharp contrast to the still quiet of the occasion. Various groups of motorcycles would pass by every few minutes, American Flags and POW flags waving at me from behind their bikes. They had patches on their leather vests showing the branches of the military where they had served. I saw all branches represented, and got a little choked up when I finally got past all the trees and saw a large clearing past a stone wall to my right.

If I didn’t know where I was, I would think it was a lovely field.

The thing was, at the National Cemetery all the stones were flush to the ground. So what looked like gently rolling hills were actually the final resting places of fallen heroes and their spouses.

I walked in through the gates, pausing to take a picture of the entrance sign with the row of flags showing in the background. I continued following the crowd up Bennington Boulevard, which was lined with flags on both sides. I stopped to take another quick picture and then joined the crowd up by the large flagpole and memorial.

By the time ten o’clock rolled around, the crowd had grown to the thousands. There was a low, respectful murmur of conversation that ran through the masses, talk of the fallen, talk of what was going on this weekend at their homes and with their families. One little girl pleaded with her dad that she wanted to go home now. I turned and watched as he bent down and gently explained why they were there. She clutched a small American flag in her hand, her red pigtails waving in the gentle breeze. She quietly stood there, waiting for it to start.

A man that I could barely see through the crowd stood with a microphone and two speakers that amplified his voice enough to carry. He probably could have spoken to us without it, everyone was respectfully quiet. He spoke of the importance of the day, how it was not a day to be celebrated with cookouts, but a day to remember those who had been lost.

I ducked my head a little because I had been a little sad that I didn’t have a cookout to go to this year.

Although he was a riveting speaker, my mind wandered to the task at hand. What was the story here?

I realized the obvious answer was the over sixty thousand flags that were going to be placed, but anyone could report on that.

“Everyone, so that each volunteer who came today has the opportunity to place flags and honor our military, please take only one pack of twelve flags. You will be centering them on the back of the headstone, please push five inches into the ground. Do
not
let the flag touch the ground.”

With that, the crowds disbursed quickly to start their task.

I looked at a map of the grounds.

Holy crap, this place was huge.

It seemed that the majority of the crowds went to the right, so I followed suit, when I found a bin of flags at the entrance of cemetery section five, I leaned over and picked up a bundle, and just held it as I looked around, watching people work swiftly. Some came prepared with screwdrivers, which helped break the ground so that they could easily place the flag.

And then, there were people who lingered. Those that crouched down, brushed the dirt off of a headstone, weeded around it a bit, and then placed a hand on the name engraved and closed their eyes.

That was my story. Not necessarily the placing of the flags, but the people who come here and why they do this.

I nodded and walked forward to a young guy who I had watched place flags on several graves, much slower than the rest, but spending time at each plot.

“Excuse me.”

He turned and looked at me, and I noticed his eyes were filled with unshed tears.

“I’m not trying to be intrusive, and I do apologize if it comes across that way. I’m on special assignment from the Onset Live, and we’re doing a feature on this event. I was hoping I could ask you a couple questions.”

He smiled sadly and stood up, brushing the dirt off of his knees.

“Sure, no problem.”

“Why are you here today?”

“Uh, to place flags on graves.”

He gave me the, ‘oh, the poor girl is a little special’ look.

I chuckled.

“I mean, why are
you
here? What is your personal connection to this moment?”

He nodded slowly, comprehending what I was really asking.

“I come from a family where multiple generations were in the military. My great grandfather served, my grandfather was in the Navy, my dad was in the Coast Guard. My brother is currently serving in the Marine Corps.”

His chest puffed out proudly.

“I was not meant for the military, not everyone is. Part of me is ashamed by that, like, I should do more. I should be out there protecting our country and my loved ones, but, it was not my calling. So I come here twice a year and honor them.”

“I noticed that you were tidying up the stone and spending a little more time than everyone else here, are you looking for specific people?”

He shook his head.

“No, not at all. For example, I had never met Staff Sergeant Holmes here. He passed in 1982. But he has family somewhere. People who loved him. People who knew him. I see a spot reserved to the left, which could be his spouse. I do this because he was a real person, with a real life. He passed at the age of only fifty eight. He didn’t die in service, but he served his country and deserves a few extra moments of my time, thanking him for that.”

I nodded.

“Thank you so much, I really appreciate your time.”