You Only Get So Much (3 page)

The pile of projects
waiting for me back in Montana is huge. The outbuilding needs repainting. There
is a set of woodworking tools that I've been meaning to learn how to use. There
is some writing to do too, but that is always the case. The writing never ends.
It never leaves the cabin either.

I'm feeling a strong
draw to just go home.

I set my beer down on
the kitchen table and leave the house through the side door. I catch a glimpse
of Kendall sitting alone on a swing in the backyard. Her back is to me. I don't
say goodbye. As far as I know, nobody notices me leave and nobody cares either.

Chapter 3

When I first met my late
wife Jane Redmond—or Jane Holland, as she went by then—I thought she
was the most beautiful creature God had ever created. I was completely
speechless. Literally. Most people say literally, when they really mean
figuratively, but in this case, it was true—literally. When I first met
Jane she stuck her fingers in my mouth. That sounds creepy out of context, I
know.
 
Jane was a dental hygienist
and I was in the chair for a sore tooth.

I came back the next day
for a cleaning and then the next day when I almost mustered up the courage to
ask her out.

She had this jet-black hair
that framed her face perfectly and wore those light blue scrubs that only look
flattering on people who they should look flattering on. She was very fit. She
came in the room wearing a mask and all I could see where those eyes. Green
eyes and black hair. And then fingers, but they didn't exactly have the same
lasting emotional connection on me as did her sparkling eyes. But her fingers
were nice too.

There was something
about her—this nameless dental worker who put me at ease. I'd never been
a great dental patient in the first place, so I was a little on edge going in
there anyway. But it was this woman who made me feel like I was the only person
in the world. She moved quietly and seemed to float around me. I later figured
out that the floating was more of a reaction to the gas they gave me than her
ability to actually float anywhere.

Ironically she never
said a word to me. Not while she was doing the pre-check work on my pesky toothache
for the dentist. And not while she scraped and scrubbed every little crevice in
my mouth. I yearned for her to speak but she didn't. She smiled though and she
knew I was watching her.

So it was a bit of a
surprise to me—on day three of my sojourn into the office—that she
actually addressed me by name.

"Mr. Redmond,"
she said. I'll never forget that's what she called me. "If you don't ask
me out now, the window will be closed forever."

So there I was, standing
in front of the receptionist's counter, pretending to make yet another
appointment—for some reason a teeth whitening treatment seemed like a
good way to get inside the office again. Every female in the place, including
those who didn't look so great in those light blue scrubs, was staring at me.
The keyboards stopped clicking and, I swear to you, so did the drills and
hydraulic chair lifts that make you feel like you're
levitating—especially when you're loopy. It was deadly quiet and all I
could see was her.

"I, uh…"

Yep, that's what I said.
I'm surprised she didn't jump me right then and there. So smooth.

Just as she turned to
walk away—ostensibly ending any chance that I would have at finding a
woman and a love like no other—I managed to croak out a few words.

"I don't even know
your name," I said while the world stopped spinning.

"I've had my hands
inside your mouth for the last two days," she said. "Does it
matter?"

"Well, I guess
not."

And that's how it
started.

I haven't been back to
the dentist since that day 20 years ago. The thought now—12 years after
Jane's death—of going back to a dental office scares the hell out of me.
When I see a woman in blue scrubs I practically freeze in place. A few years
back I actually walked into a garbage can while a woman in blue scrubs walked
toward me from the other side of the street. She had blonde hair though. And of
course, it wasn't Jane. Just my imagination screwing with me.

*
* *

There's this thing that
older people say when they find love for a second time. They say it's
better—regardless of how their previous relationship ended. It's just
better. You know more. You know you and what you want and expect from a person.
You aren't dealing with whatever it was that made your last relationship go off
track.
 
It's just better. Or so
they say.

With Jane it was better
even if I didn't have a past "something" to compare it too. Sure, I'd
dated before, but it was mostly when I was in high school or college when I
wasn't seriously in the market for a long-term relationship. When I didn't really
know who I was as a person either. The women were great, but they all faded
away. Not with Jane, though. We moved fast. Lightning fast, but at the same
time at just the right speed.

Our first date—if
you don't count that floating dental chair—was to the Fourth of July
parade at this tiny lake resort at Deer Lake. I was so taken aback when Jane
called me out in the office that I hadn't actually planned on what I was going
to ask her to do. Yet, I'd planned to go up to the resort the next day anyway
to fulfill an obligation to a friend to help install the outboard motor on his
fishing boat. Bringing along this beautiful woman with me was just a bonus.

From the moment I picked
her up—through the 30 minute drive up to the lake, throughout lunch,
outboard-motor tinkering, a spat of fishing, some sunbathing, dinner, drinks
and walking in this goofy little parade around the resort holding American
flags—we never stopped talking. She loved fireworks, so we watched them
together, holding hands on the beach. Never was there that uncomfortable lull
in the conversation that made you wonder about your list of chores at home or
when you needed to leave to get back and watch the ball game.

It was natural. And
awesome.

I think saying that you
fell in love at first sight is stupid. Stupid because how can you possibly know
that this person has everything you need to make you happy? How can you know
that she will be there for you when you are down or that she won't be afraid to
put you in your place when you're a jerk? How can anyone know that the person
they just met—despite those green eyes and jet-black hair—will be
anything more than just a desire? How can you fall in love at first sight?

Beats the hell out of
me. It defies all logic. But we did. And it was great for years until I
torpedoed it. And it all started when I finally wrote something worthwhile.

*
* *

Fourteen years ago my
novel
Isolated
Highway
reached number one on the New York Times Best Seller list and
stayed at or near the top for 16 weeks. I earned-out on the small advance
payment I received from the publisher in the first six months; meaning that I
started making money on the sales right away. This isn't typical of unknown
authors. Sure, every author has to start somewhere in order to make a name for
themselves, but my friends and family didn't even know I was writing or even
that I had the mental capacity to craft a story somewhere in the depths of my
brain. Jane knew, of course, but assumed that it was just a
hobby—something that would go away at some point.

When I decided to major
in history in college, my father told me I was in trouble. "
People won't pay
you to talk about old stuff
," he had said. Indeed that was true. My
career selling real estate and insurance, then a stint as a financial planner
hadn't exactly set me on the path to riches. My history degree sat in a file
somewhere. Useless, until I decided to start writing.

What I wrote was crap.
And I don't say that to earn pity or in a weak attempt at modesty. It was crap.
No getting around it. Bad stories that never really ended. Or more accurately,
stories that I never finished. Thus the endings didn't exist anyway. I took up
the genres of the times—code books where mysteries were uncovered in
ancient texts somewhere. Da Vinci books flooded the market. Then I took on
vampires—hell, why not? Everyone else was doing it. Then I tried
erotica—way before those Fifty Shades books came out. That stuff just
gave me the creeps.

I couldn't get a sniff
of attention for my writing. Probably because I was aimless and following the
current wave of popular books; which meant I was about two years behind people
who actually knew what they were doing. Not having a crystal ball, I said
forget it and decided to write what I wanted. It turned out that people liked
it. I also stopped writing with a computer. I decided to go longhand and fill
up blue notebooks with my story using a pen. It slowed down the
process—especially for editing, but it also made me pause before putting
the words down. And it worked.

Isolated Highway
was a family saga about
an American Army soldier who returns home after being a prisoner of war in
Germany during World War II. He struggles to settle into his old life while
reliving the torturous experiences he endured during his internment. He
marries, has kids and lives out his days fighting his past demons. I loosely
modeled the novel on a story my grandmother once told me, but the story was
mine alone. I finally used that history degree for something, if only providing
color for the details of my plot.

The agent that agreed to
represent me had rejected my earlier works three times already. Rightfully so.
Like I said, it was crap. She worked at a big firm in New York City and sent
out dozens of rejection emails every day. But for some reason she liked this
WWII book and we sold it.

For two years I became
the darling of the literary world—as much as an author can be considered
a darling of anything. The money came rolling in. We sold the movie rights to a
big name producer. I traveled to literary conventions and met with people in
Europe. The book was translated and sold in 14 countries. It was actually used
by some universities to teach WWII history and its impact on soldiers. I gave
speeches about it and lectured classes.

It was fleeting and I
was so full of shit.

*
* *

You know when you wake
up after a good night of sleep and for a few minutes you can totally remember
the dream you just had? The vivid, wonderful dream slowly slips away; but
before it does you think to yourself that maybe this dream could be a good
story. Maybe I could write it out and make it a novel. Yes, I should do that,
you say. But then life gets in the way. The lawn needs mowing. The kids need to
do their homework and need you for something else. The in-laws are coming over,
so we need to clean. I'll write when all that stuff is finished, you say.
 

Well, that's my story. I
wrote out my vivid dream in between my living, breathing life. But dreams like
that don't come often. Even if you sleep all day in the vain hope that it will
come again. My dream came once. All the others were crap.

This one good thing I
wrote has left a trail of destruction up and down my life.

Chapter 4

The GreyHawk Sage
Retirement Community houses both assisted living residents, as well those who
need long-term care. My mother wouldn't have qualified herself in either
category; but then again, nobody really asked her opinion because they were
likely to get it—a punishment befitting the crime. I can only imagine the
hassles she caused the staff for herself or on behalf of her husband.

The building was a
13-story high-rise near Spokane's Deaconess Hospital. Several floors consisted
of apartments where mobile seniors could maintain a sense of freedom, while
still benefiting from dining room meals, group outings and nurse visits. They
could decorate the place with their own furniture and hang pictures on the
walls. It wasn't exactly home, but no one was under the illusion that anyone
was meant to stay long-term. Everything had an expiration date. When it became
clear that a patient could no longer live independently—or if sudden
illness struck—the GreyHawk had a fully staffed assisted living facility
available too.

The difference between
the retirement home residents and the assisted living residents was pretty
clear, and my parents—Vera and Charles Redmond—proved the rule. The
two couldn't be more different.

* * *

Emanuel
Sanchez—the man who had called and informed me of my brother's
passing—is the GreyHawk's director. I now sit in a small waiting area
outside Emanuel's office. I had a few hours before the reading of the will, so
I called ahead to see if the man could meet and give me an update on how my
parents are doing.

While I wait, I watch
the patients amble by in the hallway, sometimes with grandkids in tow, but more
often without. The place isn't as sad as I had imagined in my head. The walls
are cheerfully adorned in pastel colors. Large murals line the walkways with
words like "Thankfulness" and "Perseverance" written large
enough that the residents can read them without their glasses.
 

I felt the need to meet
with the director because my mother was never one to discuss her well-being, or
that of my dad, with family. Thus it was my only chance to get an update before
I skipped town. Mom wouldn't tell just anyone about her medical needs.

Even as a doctor, Trevor
was only a modest exception to that, but as "just a plastic surgeon"
how was he expected to understand all that was happening with their aging
bodies? At least that was my mother's sentiment years ago when they moved into
the home with much protest.

My father had been on
the decline before I left Spokane, showing early signs of dementia, which had
always been laughed off as forgetfulness or senior moments. His medical care
was more than Mom could manage alone, something she only realized after he
collapsed at the house and she could only wait for help to arrive. She was
unable to do anything for him. To hear her tell it, the EMTs stopped for coffee
before getting to the house. In truth, it took about six minutes. It was all
perspective, but Mom's perspective wasn't always shared with others. This is,
of course, part of the reason I'm at the GreyHawk now. I need to know how my
parents are doing because I won't get the full story from them.
 

*
* *

Charles Redmond enlisted
in the US Army in 1965. His draft number was low—11. Knowing that he was
sure to be drafted anyhow, he decided to enlist and just get it over with. He
rarely, if ever, spoke about his time in the war and all of us Redmond children
knew it was best to avoid the topic with our father. Trevor once asked him to
answer a few questions for a high school paper about Vietnam. "Tell them
we should have used the nukes," was all he said.

After the war, my father
took advantage of his GI benefits and enrolled in a community college, where he
met my mom. He couldn't sit still in his classes, a result of his time in
Southeast Asia. He just couldn't concentrate. Today it was likely that he'd be
treated for posttraumatic stress disorder or PTSD, but in the late 1960s he was
just another guy having trouble readjusting after the war. He wasn't alone. He
spent so much time looking out the window that one of his professors told him
he should just go outside.

So he did.

He quit school and
started mowing lawns. Soon a few lawn-mowing jobs became a full-blown
residential and commercial landscaping business. He liked being outside in
nature. He taught himself how to build irrigation systems for sprinklers and
eventually had to hire help to keep up with the demand. His military efficiency
made him an ideal contractor. Redmond Landscape was born. He had dozens of
employees under his watch, including Trevor and myself, when we were old
enough. April was too young and never got the chance, if she ever wanted it.

Dad sold the company
when Trevor and I were in college and his body could no longer take the
physical labor. He could have directed the company from a desk, but that would
have taken away the one thing he really loved about the business—being
outside.

From the waiting area
outside Emanuel Sanchez's office I can't help but think of how much my father
would hate it here.

*
* *

"They are wonderful
members of our community," Emanuel says. "Simply a joy to have
around."

I raise my eyebrows to
show my disbelief.

Emanuel was in his
mid-50s with gray hair and deep wrinkles around his brown eyes.

"You don't have to
B.S. me," I say. "I'm not looking to move them. That's not a decision
for me to make. I would just like to know how they are holding up, since I'm
unlikely to hear anything resembling the truth from them directly."

Emanuel lets out a long
sigh, which I assume signals relief or possibly disappointment.

"I understand,"
Emanuel says. "Your mother helps lead our group outings to parks or the
mall, helping the paid coordinators find the right mix of activities. If
residents could form a union, she'd be the shop steward. You see, she's quite .
. . I'm not sure of the right word? She's resourceful. The residents tend to go
to her before they even come to me."

I nod. This is no
surprise at all.

Emanuel continues.

"I don't easily
admit this, but she's got quite a fan club here. The residents hold her in very
high regard."

"What about
you?" I ask.

"We've had our
disagreements, but we all want the same basic things."

"And my father,
how's he doing?"

"The Multiple
Sclerosis continues to advance—"

"Wait, he has
MS?"

This was the first I had
heard of it, but of course, I've been away for a while.

"You didn't
know?" he asks.

"No."

Just one more thing I'd
missed over the years.

"As I was saying,
given his age, the MS has advanced to the point that he doesn't have many
treatment or therapy options."

"That's why he's
confined to the wheelchair?" I ask.

"Partly, yes."

"Does he have a
window?"

"I'm sorry?"

"A window. In his
room."

"Well, yes, of
course," Emanuel says. "He's been down in the long-term care center
for the last eight months or so. His room is on the first floor. But he doesn't
spend a lot of time there. Your mother comes down each morning to get him. They
have breakfast in the dining room, and then she'll bring him up to her
apartment for the day. The nurses come check on him, just as they would if he
were in his own room."

"She parks him in
front of the window, doesn't she?" I ask.

"I'm afraid I don't
know anything about that," Emanuel says.

"I'm sure Mom knows
what he wants."

She always has.

"I wanted to offer
my condolences at the loss of your brother and sister-in-law," Emanuel
said. "Dr. Redmond was a frequent visitor here and we got to know each
other fairly well over the years. He was a wonderful man and I will miss
him."

I should have said
me too
. But
I'd been missing him for a long time already. So I simply nodded.

"Now that Dr.
Redmond is gone, will you be my point of contact for your parents care and
their account?"

"I'm not sure I
understand," I say.

"Your parents' care
was paid for by your brother," Emanuel says. "I just assumed that you
would take over that responsibility."

I was under the
impression that my parents were taking care of their own expenses. Redmond
Landscape had been large enough that its sale should have brought in a pretty
penny. Certainly they had some sort of Social Security or military assistance
too.

"I'll have to get
back to you about that," I say. "Otherwise my sister April is still
in town; she can handle anything here if need be."

"Do you think
that's wise?" Emanuel asks.

Obviously, he had
already met her.