Maryanne’s professional tact, pointed to her face, adding, “It was an accident. I’m here to have some work done at NYU. Thought, while I’m in the neighborhood …”
“You’re a doll,” said Maryanne. “Mrs. Eldridge is lucky to have you.”
“We all are,” I said, giving her waist a husbandly squeeze.
Jackie returned a glowing but not entirely sincere smile. She built on her rapport with Maryanne as we moved down the hall toward the patio where Lillian was reportedly taking in the late morning sun.
“I think they’ve done a wonderful job keeping Lillian stabilized,” I heard Maryanne tell Jackie. “I just wonder,” she added, turning down the volume of her voice so I could barely hear.
“What do you mean?”
She hesitated, maybe for dramatic effect.
“I mean, Mrs. Eldridge is seventy-eight years old. At this point, how can you tell mental pathology from simple aging? I wonder if something different should be done. But it’s not up to me. It’s really the family.”
“We’ll be talking to Arthur,” said Jackie.
“See him tonight. Just got in from LA,” I added, trying to get in on the act.
As Maryanne escorted us to Lillian’s room, I wondered if Jackie had worked up a plan for the unlikely event we’d get this far. Based on a sidelong glance, I guessed she hadn’t.
I knew it was Lillian Eldridge before we were halfway across the patio, the resemblance to Butch was so strong. Slender, but a little paunchy, long narrow face and weak jaw, curly dyed-brown hair recklessly shaped by hairpins into the type of hairdo makeup people on movie sets conceived to represent the mentally ill. Everything but the harelip and manic eyes. Instead her eyes were a bland milky gray, distant and tired. Dissociated.
She wore matching pale lavender sweatpants and sweatshirt and clean white Nikes, cleaving to the fashion standards at the Sisters of Mercy home.
Maryanne strode up to her and put her arm over the old lady’s shoulders.
“Hey Lillian,” she said, looking back at Jackie as she approached. “Do you remember Lillian?”
Mrs. Eldridge looked up at Maryanne, annoyed.
“Why of course I remember Lillian. What kind of a question is that?”
Maryanne was obviously pleased.
“Well, she’s here to see you. Isn’t that nice?”
Lillian was still frowning as we walked up to her. Jackie leaned down and kissed her check.
“Hi, Aunt Lillian. It’s Lillian.”
“Of course it is,” said the old woman. “Lillian’s right here. Ridiculous.”
“Lillian and her husband are going to visit for a while, okay?” asked Maryanne, the way parents do with their children.
Lillian looked at me as if to say, “What the hell is that woman talking about?”
Maryanne plowed ahead.
“I’ll be back in a little while,” she said, still in the same sing-song voice. “You have a nice visit.”
Lillian had her eyes on us intently until we pulled up a pair of chairs, at which point her gaze shifted to the rhododendron bush beside her park bench. She was shaking her head.
“Sorry to bother you,” said Jackie. “I really am.”
She looked up at us, surprised.
“You’re not bothering me. It’s that idiot nurse who thinks I don’t remember myself. What is wrong with these people?” she asked, more as a genuine question than an accusation. She looked more closely at Jackie. “Do I know you?”
“No,” said Jackie, moving her chair a little closer and resting her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “We pretended to be your family so we could talk to you. I hope that’s okay.”
Lillian’s attention had drifted off again by then, but Jackie moved closer to the bench to stay in her line of sight.
“Okay?” Jackie repeated.
“I’ve got nothing else to do,” said Lillian, then laughed a self-conscious little laugh. “I’ve got nothing to do all day. Not bad work if you can get it.”
“Can I call you Lillian?” asked Jackie.
“I don’t think she’ll mind.”
“Who?”
“Lillian. You’re sitting on her, you should know.”
Jackie, who was now sitting on the park bench stroking the old lady’s shoulder, involuntarily sat up part of the way.
“I am?”
“It’s okay. I just keep her over there. Sometimes I keep her in the room. She’s not a lot of bother.” She leaned closer to Jackie. “Not terribly bright,” she said, confidentially.
“You seem awfully bright.”
“I do? Really. Interesting. Who’s Prince Charming?” she asked, looking at me.
“A. friend of mine.”
“Doesn’t say much.”
“He would if he could think of something to say. Not terribly bright.”
Lillian seemed satisfied with that.
“Not much to look at, either,” she said.
“So,” said Jackie. “How’re you doing? Everything okay? Food okay?”
Lillian picked at her sweatpants as she thought about the question.
“I don’t know. I think it’s okay. I think so.”
“You getting visitors? Arthur, Jonathan?”
“Jonathan’s with his father,” she said quickly, her attention drawn again to the fat white rhododendron petals. Jackie rubbed her arm some more, pulling her back.
“He’s there now?”
“He’s always with his father.” She held her hands up defensively, and shook her head. “I don’t argue, it’s up to them.”
“And where’s Arthur?”
“I don’t know. With his wife. He’s married. You could tell him to come see me more often. I don’t like to prod, but I’m not going to be around forever.”
A nun in a pure white outfit rolled a cart out of the building and across the patio’s brick pavers. The noise and the sight of a tall chrome coffee percolator killed my interest in the conversation. I almost broke an ankle getting out of my chair to queue up with the visitors and residents nimble and caffeine-addicted enough to make the effort. Jackie and Lillian continued their conversation while I was gone.
When I got back Lillian was saying, “I wish there were more trees. I can hardly see any from my room. I like to lie in bed in the morning and look at trees, but that’s not possible if there are none.”
“You had a lot of trees in Shirley?” Jackie asked.
“Arthur’s father loved trees. Wept when he had to cut one down.”
“Jonathan, too?”
“I don’t know,” she looked disturbed by the thought. “I suppose he would, being with his father.”
“So, the boy’s father and you were separated,” said Jackie. “I’m sorry.”
“They go,” said Lillian. “You know that. Everything’s fine, then they go. Just as you please.”
“I do know,” said Jackie, glowering at me, the closest representative of the offending group.
“So, Arthur stayed with you and Jonathan went with his father. That must have been hard.”
Lillian let out another one of her nervous, humorless laughs.
“What’re you going to do? If that’s what the boy wants to do? He can be anybody, anywhere he wants, I can’t help that. I think I could drink some of that coffee,” she said, pointing at my cup. I got her some.
“Arthur was your husband’s name, too, wasn’t it?” asked Jackie.
“I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him in a while. Arthur should tell him to come see me.”
She showed the first signs of agitation, so Jackie slid back and let out a contented little breath, looking out at the gathering on the patio.
