Unravelled

 Frannie gave an annoyed sigh as she pulled the stitches off the knitting needle and began to unravel her work.  Fortunately, she had only done a few rows of the neck band before noticing her mistake.  At this point, it was easier to rip out and start over than it would be to try to unravel only a couple of rows, pick up the stitches, and correct the problem.  Her pattern began at the neck with a knit, purl, knit, purl ribbing for an inch.  She must have become distracted and accidentally done a knit, knit or a purl, purl.  She chastised herself for her lack of focus.

A sitcom was droning on the television, but usually Frannie was able to focus on her knitting.  She used the TV for background noise that made her feel less alone.  Being a widow in a retirement community was a rather solitary existence.  She felt fortunate that she still had adequate vision and coordination to make the yarn travel rapidly on her circular needles.  She always had a project in progress. 

Her grandchildren were too old to care much about handknit sweaters any longer, but she belonged to Knitters Anonymous at her church.  The knitters in this group created sweaters, hats, scarves, arm warmers, and lap robes for various charities.  Frannie contributed as much as anyone.  She often prayed for the person who would receive her handknit item.  She wanted to wrap them in warmth and love…especially the babies and children who would wear her creations.

Frannie was finding it difficult to watch the news on television these days.  There was just too much news of children being harmed.  They were left in hot cars, or abused by the people who should be protecting them, or they turned up missing.  When that happened locally, her cell phone would make a sound that could not be ignored, and an Amber Alert would arrive on the screen.  Frannie decided she must be turning into her mother, who had, as she aged, become agitated by news of children being in peril or harmed.  Her mother had stopped watching the news.  Frannie still watched and grieved over many of the stories.  It made no sense to her that anyone would harm a child.

One of the highlights of the week for Frannie was the get-together with other knitters.  On a Thursday morning, her friend Carol would pick her up and drive her to the church for coffee and conversation.  Knitting was the excuse for the gathering, but it was really much more about the friendship.  Frannie didn’t drive anymore, so she was grateful for a younger friend who was also interesting in knitting and coffee. 

On a September Thursday, Frannie packed up her knitting supplies and waited anxiously at the window of her small home for a sight of Carol’s car.  As it came into view, Frannie locked the door and hurried down the sidewalk as quickly as she dared to move without risking a fall. 

Carol greeted her warmly.  “Good morning, Frannie.  How are you?”

“I’m doing well.  What about you, Carol?”

“I have been really busy getting back in the fall routine.  I’m looking forward to just relaxing this morning.  It will be a relief to sit quietly and visit with friends.”

Frannie thought, “I do too much sitting quietly.”  But she replied, “I love these times to socialize a bit.  So, what project did you bring today, Carol?”

“I’m knitting a sweater for my 10 year-old.  He is really into soccer, and I found a pattern that has a soccer ball design knit right into the sweater.  I’m going to need some help with changing the yarn colors.”

“I’ve done a lot of that,” Frannie replied.  “I’d be happy to help you!”

Some of the ladies in the group routinely knit items with cables or other fancy stitches.  Frannie had a favorite pattern she had used dozens of times.  It only required knitting and purling, but she had made some interesting sweaters by using a variety of colors to create hearts or stars or images of cartoon characters.  That involved drawing or printing the design on graph paper and then following line by line to create the image on the sweater. 

She loved her basic pattern, because it included directions for all sizes and two different weights of yarn.  It was knit from the neck down with the sleeves being created by increases until she was down as far as the underarms.  At that point, the stitches, which would become the sleeves, were placed on stitch holders.  The body of the sweater was completed before going back and knitting the sleeves.  The beauty of the pattern was that there was no need to sew pieces together.  Once the knitting was done, the garment was done except for tucking in loose ends and adding a zipper or buttons if it was a cardigan.  Sometimes she used the directions for a pullover, and then the finishing work was even less.

About a dozen women had gathered at the church.  Men would have been welcome, but no one happened to know any men that knit.  Needles clicked and conversation flowed.  Some ladies shared their knitting mistakes and were reassured by others that they all had made similar errors and shared the frustration of having to pull out several rows and figure out how to pick up the loose stitches or begin again as Frannie recently had done.

 Frannie showed Carol how to avoid holes when changing colors by placing the yarn for the new color under and over the previous yarn color.  Some ladies were proficient enough and doing something simple enough, that they could make great progress and simultaneously carry on conversation.  Others required total focus, but everyone seemed to enjoy themselves.  The time went by too quickly for Frannie.

On the way back home with Carol, Frannie’s cell phone screeched an alarm.  “Another Amber Alert,” she sighed to Carol.  “A three year-old girl is missing in Lancaster County.”  A wave of nausea washed over Frannie at the thought of a three year-old alone or worse, with someone evil.

The days became cool and the air more crisp.  Time passed quietly for Frannie during September, October, and November.

The time did not pass quietly for Rosie Langston and Pete Kravitz, who were detectives with the state police based in Lancaster County.  The body of three year-old Missy Madden was found in a wooded area by deer hunters.  She had been strangled, but not sexually molested.  Nothing was found at the scene that would help in the investigation.  Examination of her body and clothing yielded some material under her fingernails and one strand of hair that did not belong to her or her mother on her clothing.  These were sent away for DNA analysis.  As they waited for results, they talked with family members, including her distraught mother, neighbors, and friends.  They canvased the area in which her body was found, but no one was able to give them any information.  No one had seen anything suspicious in the vicinity.

The DNA testing of the material under Missy’s fingernails indicated the suspect was a male, and he was in the DNA database.  The problem was that he was believed to be dead.  He had escaped along with a cellmate from an upstate New York prison.  Three years ago, Joe Newcome and Lemuel Josh had broken out of Raybrook together.  It was believed that it was Lemuel Josh’s body that had been found charred in a burned-out cabin in the Adirondack Mountains.  Joe Newcome was never found, and authorities believed he had slipped over the border into Canada.  How did Lemuel’s DNA end up under Missy’s fingernails? Was there a chance that the charred body had been Joe, and Lemuel was on the run and in the area?  Lemuel had been jailed for previous atrocities committed against children, so his guilt in Missy’s murder would have made sense.

The analysis of the hair took longer.  Rosie and Pete wondered if it would net anything, but new techniques did often come up with possibilities even when the root was not on the strand of hair.   Eventually they learned that the hair DNA was that of a female, but she was not in the criminal database. 

“So” Rosie asked, “What do you want to do now?  Do we try to track down this female?  We have no leads as to the whereabouts of Lemuel.  If we could find the female, maybe she is an accomplice, and we could get to him through her.”

Pete paused a bit before responding, “It’s a long shot, but we could try to get the identity of the woman through one of the commercial databases.  Lots of people these days are spitting into tubes and entering their information into Ancestry.  We’re getting nowhere anyway.”

Frannie spent Thanksgiving at the Community Center in her housing complex enjoying a typical turkey dinner with all of the usual side dishes and a choice of pumpkin or pecan pie.  Frannie loved pumpkin pie and enjoyed every bite.  What she enjoyed even more than the food was the chance to be out among friends for companionship.  The knitting group at her church had been cancelled this week but having the holiday meal with a congenial group made up for that loss. The volunteer servers at the community meal were teens from a nearby church.  Frannie was thrilled by the chance to interact with young people.  She was looking forward to Christmas as her grandson Will was planning to visit for a few days between Christmas and New Years.

On the Monday after Thanksgiving, Frannie sat on the sofa with the TV on as usual and her latest project humming along row by row.  This sweater was for a baby.  She had already completed the cap.  The sweater was in a variegated yarn with the neck band, button band, bottom edge and cuffs in a solid coordinating color.  She was sure she would complete it this week…perhaps even in time to take it to the Knitters Anonymous donation box later this week.

Her concentration was broken by the doorbell ringing.  She was not expecting anyone.  She peered out through the peephole in the door.  She could see two well dressed individuals…a man and a woman.  Although they looked pleasant enough, she opened the door with the chain in place.

“Good morning, Mrs. LaRoux.  I am Detective Langston and this is my partner Detective Kravitz,” said the woman as each held up an ID badge.  “May we come in and talk with you?”

“Of course,” said Frannie as she removed the chain and opened the door.  She led them into her living room and pointed to two chairs opposite the sofa on which she had been seated.

“How can I help you?”  Frannie couldn’t think of a single way in which she could help them as she knew nothing about any crime, but it seemed like the appropriate thing to say.

Rosie and Pete had discussed previously what their approach should be.  The DNA match they had received was for this elderly woman.  She seemed an unlikely person to be involved in the murder of a young child.   They had agreed that an initial meeting with her should be low key…no pressure…this time.

Rosie began, “You have a lovely home here.  Do you enjoy living in this community?”

Frannie nodded, “Yes, it is very pleasant.”

“Do you have friends here?”

“Oh, yes.  I also have friends at my church.”

“That’s nice,” Pete said and then continued, “Do you happen to know someone named Lemuel Josh?  A friend, a relative, perhaps someone goes to your church or who works here in the community?”

Frannie thought for a moment.  “I don’t know anyone by that name.  Should I?”

Rosie responded, “We thought you might.”

“Well,” said Frannie, “I don’t know all of the people who work here in the complex.  There are people who do lawn care, and now that winter is coming, there will be people who sand and salt the sidewalks or do snow removal.  I certainly don’t know all their names.  I suppose there might be a Lemuel Josh that works here.  Lemuel isn’t a common name though…so I think I would remember if I had heard it.”

Pete inquired, “Mrs. LaRoux, do you know the name Missy Madden?”

“That sounds vaguely familiar.”

Rosie looked intently at Frannie.  “She was a three-year-old who went missing and whose body was later found in a wooded area.”

A look of incredible sadness swept over Frannie face.  “Oh, I receive Amber Alerts.  I must have seen one about her on my phone.  I didn’t know the outcome of that.  It makes me sick to think about it.”

Pete and Rosie both noticed the change in Frannie’s facial expression, but neither knew how to interpret it.

“Are you sure you have never met Missy or her family?” Rosie asked gently.

“No, no.”  Frannie voice was shaky as she replied.

Rosie and Pete stood to leave, “Thanks anyway, Mrs. LaRoux.  We can see ourselves out.”

Frannie followed them, locked the door, and put the chain back in place.

“How odd,” she thought. “I wonder who Lemuel Josh is and why the police are interested in him.  I certainly don’t know.  Why did they think I might know him?  I should have asked that question.  And, oh, that poor little girl.  I suppose that was on the news sometime when I had the volume turned low.  It hurts my heart to think about it.”

Back in the car, Rosie and Pete discussed the encounter. 

“She seems genuine,” Rosie remarked.

“Yeah, but her hair was on the kid’s clothing.  How do you explain that?” grunted Pete.

“I don’t know, but let’s give it a few days and take another run at her.  We can keep an eye on her and see if she tries to contact Lemuel.”

Over the next two weeks, Frannie had a feeling that something was wrong.  It was almost a feeling of impending doom, but she shook it off.  “Don’t be a foolish old woman,” she chided herself.  She lifted her mood by thinking of past Christmases…the happy times with her children, the excitement on Christmas mornings.  She got out a few decorations, so her home would look festive when Will arrived.

When the two detectives showed up again, she quickly invited them in and offered them tea or coffee.  It was nice to see someone and have them see her decorations.

They declined the beverage offer and seemed less friendly this time.  They asked again about that guy named Lemuel.  She felt they didn’t want to believe that she didn’t know him.  Again, they mentioned Missy.

She inquired, “Is there some connection between Mr. Josh and Missy Madden?”

Rosie and Pete exchanged glances.

“You mean you don’t know?”  Pete said, “I would have thought you would be curious after our last visit and try to find out on your own.”  He paused.  “Unless you already knew.”

Frannie puzzled over this.  “I do not follow news closely.  I try to avoid details on children who have been harmed, because it upsets me so.”

“Really?” said Rosie. “So you didn’t know that Lemuel Josh was a suspect in Missy Madden’s murder?”

Frannie’s voice shook as she replied, “Why on earth would you think I would know anything about this?  I have already told you I don’t know that man, and I don’t know Missy or anyone in her family.”

Pete’s voice was harsh. “So you have no explanation for why your DNA was on the body along with Lemuel Josh’s?”

“My DNA!?”  Frannie choked back tears.  She felt as though she had been punched in the stomach.  She finally regained her composure enough to ask Pete and Rosie to leave.  She sat in her chair shaking as they showed themselves out.  It took her thirty minutes before she felt strong enough to stand up.

The idea that she was involved somehow in a child’s death pretty much spoiled Christmas for her.  The lights twinkled on her small tree, but she didn’t see beauty as she normally would have. She attended the Christmas eve service at her church and did her best to enjoy the carols, but there was a heavy feeling in her core.

Frannie’s son and daughter called on Christmas Day.  They later talked to each other and warned Will that something seemed wrong with Grandma.  Perhaps he could try to find out when he visited.

When Will arrived and hugged her, Frannie began to cry.

“Oh, Grandma, what’s wrong?”

He walked her over to the sofa, carefully moved the ever-present knitting project, and sat down with his arm around her.

Frannie had not told anyone else about the detectives’ visits and seeming accusations, so telling Will was very emotional for her.  She would say a few words and then sob before saying anything more.  Eventually, she was able to describe both visits.

 Will was dumbfounded.  How could anyone think this sweet and frail old lady was involved in anything so horrible?  After Grandma was in bed and sleeping, he got online and began to read whatever he could find on the Missy Madden case.  Will, as it happened, was a law student.  He had no intention of being a criminal lawyer, but the case interested him because of poor Grandma.

The next morning at the breakfast table, Will inquired, “Grandma, would you mind if I called those detectives and asked some questions?”

“Do you think it will help the situation?”

Will thought before responding, “I don’t think it can hurt.”

Will did not like to see his grandmother in her current emotional state.  He was determined not to leave her until there was some explanation and resolution.

On their way to see Frannie and Will, Pete and Rosie discussed their surprise at hearing from her grandson.  Did he know something about his grandma that they hadn’t discovered?

Will met the detectives at the door and ushered them into Frannie’s living room.  She was already seated on the sofa with her knitting in her lap, although she felt like it was a prop at this point in her life.  She often held her project without knitting a single stitch.  She simply couldn’t focus.

Pete and Rosie were somewhat amused by the fact that Will took charge of the conversation.  After minimal pleasantries, he began, “I understand that you have been here twice asking my grandmother questions about a case involving a murdered child.  You are claiming that her DNA was found on the child, and that has led you to believe she was involved in this horrible situation.  I know my grandma, and I know she is incapable of harming a child.  We need to figure out whether there is a mistake in the DNA, because you are mistaken about her involvement.”

“Well, there isn’t much doubt about the DNA,” said Rosie.

“Where was the DNA?” asked Will.

“I don’t think we need to tell you that,” replied Pete.

“Are you going to make me hire a lawyer for Grandma?  You certainly can’t tell me it was under the child’s fingernails, can you?”

“No.”

“Well then, where?  On her clothing?”

“Yes.”

Will continued, “Do you have a picture of the clothing where it was found?”

Once again, Pete hedged.  “I don’t think I need to show you that.”

“If you charge my grandmother with something, you are going to have to reveal that, so how about, you do it now.”

“uh…it was on a sweater.”

Will held his breath for a second.  “Do you have a picture of the sweater.”

Rosie pulled out her cell phone and took a few swipes.  She turned the screen for Will to see.

 Frannie gasped and began to sob.  She reached to the shelf under the coffee table in front of the sofa and retrieved a small photo book.  She flipped through the pages.  Finding what she was looking for, she turned the book toward Pete and Rosie.

Between sobs, she managed to get out, “I keep a photo of every sweater I knit and give away through Knitters Anonymous.  I knit that sweater.”

The room was silent for nearly a minute as the old clock on the bookcase ticked off the seconds.

Finally, Will spoke, “If a hair belonging to Grandma was found on that sweater, it was because it fell out while she was knitting and ended up caught in the stitches.  She never knows to whom the sweater is donated.  I’m betting if you ask Missy’s mother where she got the sweater, you will find she got it from a charity to which Knitter’s Anonymous donates.  Grandma is telling you the truth when she says she does not know Missy or Mr. Josh.  Just the suggestion of her involvement has been terribly upsetting to her.”

Rosie and Pete nodded and mumbled some apologies.  Rosie promised they would follow up with Missy’s mother as to the origin of the sweater.  In the car, they sighed as they realized they had to go back to the beginning in this case.  What they thought was a lead with Frannie had turned out to be a dead end.

After seeing the detectives out, Will returned to the sofa and put his arm around GramFran.  He had come up with that pet name for her when he was a toddler.  She sank into his shoulder and cried quietly.

“Oh, Grandma, why are you crying?  It’s over.  They won’t trouble you anymore.”

“Dear Will, thank you so much for your help.  I don’t know if I am crying in relief or in great sadness.”

“Why would you be sad?”

“When I knit those sweaters, I try to put love into them.  I want the child who wears one of my sweaters to feel something more than physical warmth.  I want them to feel as though someone cares for them.  It breaks my heart that harm came to a child I was trying to wrap in love.  Someone evil touched the sweater and the child who was wearing it.”

Will could feel Frannie trembling, and he held her tighter.

Frannie continued, “There is so much evil in this world.  I pray every day that you and your sister and my other grandkids will be protected from evil people.  I pray that even if some of you want to put yourself in harm’s way, God will build a wall around you and not let evil people touch you.  But the world is full of children who are in harm’s way…who live with or near evil people…it makes me so sad.  I can hardly bear it.”

Will did not know what to say.  He just held his GramFran. 

Soon it was time for supper.  Will would be leaving the next day.  They went out to eat and had a wonderfully pleasant evening together.  Will thought surely it had taken Grandma’s mind off her concerns.  Before he went to bed that night, he called his Dad and his Dad’s sister Sally.  He told each of them about what their mom had been through in the past few weeks, and that it was resolved.

In the morning, Grandma was up early to fix a good breakfast for Will.  She knew he liked blueberry pancakes.  He lingered at the table in his pajamas regaling her with stories about his quirky professors and friends and adventures at school.  As he excused himself to shower, shave and pack his suitcase, Frannie went to the living room and picked up her knitting.

When he reappeared with his suitcase in hand, he found her sitting on the sofa holding her knitting.  She was motionless.  He knew instantly from her color that she was gone.

Will tapped his father’s number in the contact list on his phone.  He choked a bit as he said, “Dad, Grandma decided she had had enough of this world and the pain it causes.  She checked out and went to a place where there is no evil.”

After talking with his Dad, he called 911.  While he waited for someone to arrive, he went over to Frannie and wiped away the last tear that had trickled down her cheek.

Dancing with Mr. Grim

“How long has he been stalking me?”

Ginger shuddered with the thought that she may have been oblivious to his presence for years.  On the other hand, if one has a benevolent stalker, maybe it is best to be unaware.  Is there such a thing as a benevolent stalker?  She shook her head in defiance as she sat there in the chemo parlor.  If she was going to indulge her imagination, it should be in visualizing those drops of chemo killing the cancer cells.  She would convince herself that the stalker was a fantasy.

In fact, Ginger’s stalker had been present and biding his time since the beginning when Ginger’s head emerged covered with red fuzz that promised to be curls.  She cried before she was fully born, and as they appeared, all four extremities began to flail vigorously.  The doctor pronounced her “a force to be reckoned with.”  Keeping up with this child, who approached life exuberantly and brought much amusement and joy to her parents, was a daily challenge.  Her parents were much too busy with Ginger’s antics to notice the stalker’s presence, but as she grew, Ginger herself gradually became aware of him.

He was there on the day when she was two and rode her little car off the porch and down the front steps managing to hang on for the bumpy ride.  He watched her pitch over the handle bars and hit her head on the concrete sidewalk, but she did not see him.  He hid behind the large maple tree and sighed with relief when she began to cry.  He saw her father scoop her up.  He knew it wasn’t his time to touch her.

On the day of her grandfather’s funeral, she rode from the church to the cemetery in one of the undertaker’s limousines.  She had never been in a heavy car with great suspension before and was impressed with how smoothly and quietly the car moved.  It gave her a strange and eerie feeling, but there was something else going on which she struggled to understand.  None of the family members in the vehicle spoke.  In that silence, Ginger felt weightless and encompassed by a strange presence.  Suspended in sadness and loss, something or someone tugged at her heart.  She was ten years old, and this was perhaps her first conscious but vague awareness of him.

As Ginger grew into her teen years, she excelled in her classes and volunteered in the community.  She was always busy racing from one activity to another.   She was far ahead of her time in her enjoyment of physical activity.  In that era, girls nearly always wore skirts, and no equality of opportunity existed regarding sports.  So, Ginger’s peers thought her strange, because she enjoyed running and biking.  She was exhilarated by the feeling of the breeze rushing past her as she pedaled or jogged.

The multiple bee stings she got while riding her bike back from a visit to her grandmother’s house did not slow her down until the intense itching started and her tongue began to swell.  She had not known she was allergic to bee stings.  She stumbled in the door of her home, and her parents rushed her to the emergency room. As she lay on the stretcher, people and objects began to dim and spin.  She recognized the feeling of weightlessness.  She thought she might drift out of her body, and she felt a presence brush against her arm and her face.  She was being lured toward a cloudy figure, but she insisted that she was too busy to follow him.  As soon as the epinephrine kicked in, her heart raced, and the cold gray cloud slipped silently away.

Ginger did not give much thought to these incidents assuming they were the product of her active imagination.  At that point in her life, the notion of a stalker never entered her mind.  She graduated from high school and then from college and married her college sweetheart.

Ten years later, she was a young mother driving home at night in the dark of a winter evening.  The roads were slippery, and she was driving cautiously, but the on-coming truck wasn’t.  She saw the headlights coming straight at her.  She screamed, “No….not yet.”  Those were the only words she got out audibly before the crash, but in her mind she had added, “My kids need me!”

Milliseconds before the impact she jerked the wheel to the right and plowed into a snowbank.  The truck smashed into the back driver’s side of the car, but she escaped without injury.  Ginger stood next to her car and shook in the freezing air.  As she waited for the police and tow truck, she watched a shapeless gray shadow slither off through the trees.  She realized that it was not only the freezing air causing her to shiver. She was beginning to think that the shadowy presence was not her imagination.  Later, she felt foolish to think she had seen something in the trees and never mentioned it to anyone.

When Ginger was in her fifties, the doctor saw a spot on her routine mammogram.  A biopsy was quickly ordered, and when the results came back the next week, she was told the mass was malignant.  She went home and cried.  The gray specter sat next to her on the sofa in her living room and slipped his arm around her.  Her children were grown, but her husband still needed her, and she had no grandchildren yet.  She certainly wanted to live to see them.  She was still working; still active in community organizations.  She had hobbies to pursue.  She was finishing a quilt to enter in a competition and another one to donate for a silent auction.  She was much too busy to die.  She told Mr. Grim that she had every intention of fighting off his seduction.  She had no time for such foolishness.  She was enamored with life and would not be unfaithful to it.  

When her husband arrived home and she shared her sad news, he thought that her diagnosis was the reason she clung to him so tightly.  He never knew about the “other man” pursuing her.  Ginger could not verbalize her concern about the strange presence.  She felt that speaking about him out loud would make him more of a reality, and she preferred to believe he was a foolish fantasy.

 Surgery and chemotherapy followed.  Everyone who knew Ginger marveled at her strength and resolve.  She embraced the pain of living through the experience, because she refused to embrace her stalker.  She repeatedly ignored his whispers and shook her red curls in defiance.  As she sat in the chemo parlor and visualized her body and the chemo fighting the cancer cells together, she also visualized herself running away from Mr. Grim until he faded into non-existence.

When she was seventy-four, Ginger’s husband died slowly of cancer.  Many times as she cared for him, she felt as though the stalker was wrapping his arms around both of them.  As much as she loved her husband, she did not want to run away with him.  She recognized his need to be relieved of pain and be whole again, but she still felt well and did not wish to go on the journey with him.  There were days when she was exhausted caring for him and felt as though a hand was wrapped around her ankle trying to pull her into the grave along with him.

Only about a year after her husband passed, Ginger sat on the kitchen floor in a heap trying to reach the phone.  The pain in her left chest, jaw and arm, along with nausea, had caused her to be so weak, that her legs buckled under her when she was just steps away from making the 911 call.  She could barely catch her breath and felt perspiration on her brow.

She was alone in the house, since her husband’s death.  Her children and those precious grandchildren lived miles away.  No one would miss her until she didn’t show up for her routine hair appointment.  She had refused to go gray and still had her flaming red tresses….although they were now artificially created.  Would her hairdresser Sally suspect there was a problem, or would she just think Ginger had forgotten the appointment?  With her busy schedule, she had, on a few occasions, missed an appointment and later called with profuse apology. There was a retired teachers’ luncheon she was supposed to attend at noon, but would anyone miss her there and think to check on her?

She could see him standing in the doorway…..the gray specter seemed more formed than when she had seen him on previous occasions.  He was less cloud-like and more human in shape.  He still wasn’t the least bit attractive.

For the first time in her experience, he spoke.  “You really should have signed up for one of those emergency call systems,” he said in a soft mellow tone.  Her children had encouraged her to do so, but she had felt she was too young and vigorous to get a device for “old people.”

Ginger growled at her stalker.  “I am still too busy for you!  Go away and leave me alone!”

He shrugged and nodded toward her cordless phone.  The base unit was out of her reach on the table, but it was plugged into an electrical outlet near the floor.  She managed to reach the cord, and jerk it hard enough that the handset shot off the table and fell within her reach.  She dialed 911 and a soothing voice assured her that help was on the way.

Her impertinent companion hopped in the back of the ambulance with her.  The EMTs didn’t seem to see him.  He followed her into the Emergency Room and right up to the bed in the Coronary Care Unit.  He tried to hold her hand, but her mind remained strong, and she repeated within herself, “Go away!  Go away!  GO AWAY!”

The pain medication gave her some disturbing dreams.  The gray human shape floated in and out of strange scenes.  Someone was throwing a dark blanket over her face, but she startled and awakened in time to toss it aside.  A gray fog crept under the bed and rose up around her.  She forced her eyes open, and it was gone….just a nightmare.

Later, she noticed tendrils from a gray mass like wisps of smoke creeping up the sides of a bed within her view.  Eventually the patient was enveloped and was soon carried off on a stretcher covered with a sheet and encompassed by the ashen fog.

After spending a few days in CCU, she was moved on to the PCU.  Then, since she really wasn’t quite strong enough to go home to an empty house, a couple of weeks in a skilled nursing facility to start some cardiac rehab seemed to be in order.  She had no specific evidence that he had followed her, but after she arrived in the rehab facility, she did see him occasionally.  He was now in the shape of a muscular young man, and he roamed the halls passing her door dressed in slate colored scrubs.  She wondered which patients he was courting and felt sorry for them.  He seemed to be avoiding her and did not even glance into her room.  Apparently there were others more in need of his attention.

Every day, Ginger went to physical therapy and tried to build up her strength.  About three weeks after the heart attack, she was on the treadmill feeling pretty good about her increasing speed and stamina.  She was talking cheerfully with a therapy aide, when without warning, her right side suddenly refused to cooperate.  The aide caught her and lowered her to the floor as she slumped.  Ginger said, “Hep…hep…..whas wrawn?”

She was lifted to a stretcher and hurried through the tunnel connecting the rehab building to the main hospital.  She found herself in the Emergency Room again.  The orderly dressed in gray scrubs stood in the corner shaking his head.  She was annoyed by his presence there and yelled, “NO!” over and over again.

As doctors and nurses tended to her, she heard the word “stroke,” but she didn’t understand what they were talking about.  She did not know that her speech was slurred, and that she was saying nonsense words.  She kept calling for her daughter “Oodie” thinking she was saying “Judy.”  She was sure Oodie would understand her, and these other people were just fools. 

She was hustled off for a CAT scan and MRI.  When she returned to the ER room, Judy was there.  Ginger was greatly relieved to see her and tried to explain to Judy that her legs had just become weak on the treadmill.  Judy didn’t seem to comprehend.  She looked at Ginger sadly and made a circular motion around her mouth, as though mixing something.  She said, “Mom, your words are all mixed up.”

The enormity of what had happened hit Ginger, and she began to scream.   A sedative was hastily given to alleviate her agitation.

Later she awakened to some lucid thoughts.  Her right side felt numb and was immobile.  She tried to move the fingers on her right hand without any success.  She reached over and picked up her right hand with her left one.  She released her grip and watched her right hand fall to the bed.  She slid the toes of her left foot under the back of her right ankle and tried to lift it.  She struggled and the right foot dropped to the bed.

Ginger tried to recite the alphabet and count to ten.  What she said made perfect sense to her, but the gray clad orderly standing in the corner shook his head and smiled.  She took note that he had a pleasant enough face, and that his expression was indeed a sympathetic smile and not a mocking smirk.  She realized that she had never seen him as hostile to her.  His presence had at times scared her, but he had never seemed to frighten her intentionally.

After a few day in the hospital, Ginger was returned to the rehab facility.  As days, weeks and months passed, she made no progress in speech therapy.  She did not regain the use of her right hand or leg in spite of therapy.  Sometimes she cried in frustration at the betrayal of her body. 

It was bad enough that she could no longer control her right arm and leg, but the worst of it was that she no longer had control of her bladder and bowels.  A catheter kept her from lying in a puddle of her own urine.  She tried to call the staff when she needed the bedpan or commode for a bowel movement, but they did not always arrive on time.  Soiling herself and having someone else wipe her backside was a huge indignity for Ginger. 

No one thought about her hair.  They brushed it and braided it so that it did not become matted, but no one thought about the color.  She could not bear to look at herself in the mirror as the gray roots grew longer and the red locks began to disappear. 

Ginger saw the orderly in the gray scrubs pass her door nearly every day, but he didn’t come in to talk to her.  She considered calling out to him, but she wasn’t sure how to address him….perhaps, Mr. Grim?  She had come to think of him that way, but she wasn’t sure that was actually a name to which he would answer.

Ginger had great difficulty feeding herself.  Picking up a utensil with her left hand, getting food on it, and having it successfully reach her mouth was usually an exercise in futility.  Aides would come in to feed her, but the food was often cold before they got around to her.  She lost her appetite and lost weight.  Poor nutrition effected the health of her skin, and loss of weight meant she was not as well padded.  Poor staffing of the facility resulted in her position not being changed frequently enough.  Eventually with all these factors conspiring, Ginger developed painful bed sores.

In her misery, she started to call out, “Pleash, pleash, Missergim.”

The staff discussed what she could possibly mean, but no one thought of Mr. Grim.  Certainly, they were aware that he lurked around in the corridors, but they could not see him and did not know him by that name.

Ginger tried to think it all through in her mind.  She had always been too busy for him.  Was he now too busy for her?  Were there others who went with him cheerfully the first time he appeared?  That didn’t seem likely.  The desire to survive seems to be innate and powerful. 

She saw him pass occasionally.  Each time he seemed more handsome, his physique more toned.  She tried to call to him, but he didn’t answer.

Her children “Oodie” and Jim came to visit her each week.  Sometimes the grandchildren came with them, but teenagers are involved in lots of activities, so she did not see them often.  Neither Judy nor Jim knew what “Missergim” meant.  They were grieved when their mother seemed agitated, but could not figure out how to help her, other than asking the staff to give her a sedative to calm her down.

Ginger could not speak coherently, but she could still think.  To pass the time, she wrote a poem in her mind:

Mr. Grim all dressed in gray,

Won’t you please, come my way?

Oh, how I greatly long,

To be wrapped in arms so strong,

With my head upon your chest,

Gently carried to my rest.

I may have spurned you yesterday,

And pushed you far away,

But now I am ready,

Please come without delay.

She repeated her poem every day.  Eventually she began to sing it in her mind.  She had never written a song before and was quite pleased with herself.  After several days, she began to hear a full orchestra playing soaring music to her words.

She awoke one night and heard her song playing.  Mr. Grim was sitting at the foot of her bed.

“Hello,” he said most tenderly.

Ginger managed a “Hi.”

“Ginger, I’ve been wondering,” he continued, “if you have some time in your schedule for me.”

“Yes, oh, yes.  I have no pressing engagements,” she said very clearly.

“I thought not.”

He took her by the hand and lifted her to her feet.  Her right side did not fail her.  She stood strong, feeling young again.

Mr. Grim placed his arms around her.  “Would you care to dance?”

Ginger put her head on Mr. Grim’s shoulder.  As her long red hair cascaded across his chest, she realized his scrubs were now glittering with specks of silver. 

She glanced back toward the bed where a wizened, gray-haired shell of a person lay motionless.

Then Ginger and Mr. Grim waltzed away together.

A Tragic Accident

Jacob walked out of Marie’s room and down the corridor to the exit of the Compassionate Care Nursing Home.  He was glad the hall was empty.  He would not have to greet anyone.  He was choking back tears and knew if he had to speak, he would risk the dam breaking.  Marie had once again had no clue who he was.  He, of course, knew exactly who she was….his beloved wife of 45 years, his best friend in the world, the mother of his children, the other half of himself.  He made it across the parking lot and collapsed into the driver’s seat of his car.  Grasping the steering wheel with both hands, he leaned his head against the wheel and began to convulse with sobs that came from the very core of his being.

Jacob was not only sad; he was also angry.  How could it be that a disease could steal away his wife’s mind, her personality, her ability to respond to his loving touch?  It was wrong.  Things like this should never happen to anyone.  Jacob had never been a deep thinker.  He was a practical man and had left the philosophical questions of life to Marie.  Now, if Marie was capable of complicated thought, it wasn’t obvious.  She couldn’t even figure out how to open the milk carton or sugar packet on her dinner tray.  Jacob was left to work out the strange unfairness of life on his own.

Fortunately, he did not ponder the sameness of each day.  He did not balk at what life had become or consider its meaning.  He got up from his half of the double bed, went to a donut shop where some men his age gathered for breakfast, and headed to Compassionate Care Nursing Home every day.  He would arrive in time to watch the staff bathe Marie, comb her hair and help her into a chair.  After he fed her lunch, he would go back to his little senior apartment and take a rest before returning to make sure she got her supper.  The nurses and aides at Compassionate Care were, indeed, compassionate, but it broke his heart to leave the needs of his sweetheart to someone else.

Jacob had cared for Marie in their home for as long as he could, but then, she began wandering at night.  He became exhausted, never quite sleeping soundly, lest she should leave the house and become lost.  He finally resigned himself to this arrangement.  He sold their home in order to have the funds to pay the nursing home cost.  He knew he could have bled his resources dry, and then Marie would have qualified for Medicaid, but he didn’t want her in just any nursing home.  He wanted her in the best.  Compassionate Care was not posh, but its reputation for quality care was well-known in his community, and it was close enough for his daily commute.

Disposing of the remnants of their wonderful life together in order to downsize into his small and lonely apartment had broken his heart.  Marie would never know that he had sold and given away the linens she had carefully embroidered and the tablecloths she had crocheted.  He had kept only what was necessary for his Spartan existence.  He determined that all of his resources must go toward Marie’s comfort.  Lately, however, he had begun to realize that his resources would almost certainly run out before Marie passed away.  Over the years, during prior financial crises, they had been able to discuss challenges and face them together.  Marie always asked discerning questions, as they worked through problems.  He sighed as he thought of her most recent questions which had been delivered in an accusatory tone; “Who are you? Why are you sitting here in my room?”

That evening after feeding Marie her supper, Jacob was driving home when he heard an annoying rattle coming from under the car.  He had spent his working years as an auto mechanic, so his diagnosis was swift.  “Huh….sounds like a muffler bracket isn’t doing its job anymore.”  He made a mental note to look at that later.  The mundane but fixable problem of a muffler bracket took his mind off the unfixable problem of Marie’s mental state, and the looming problem of how he would continue to pay for her care in about two months.

Jacob had a sudden impulse to stop at the convenience store he passed on the way home and buy a pack of cigarettes.  He had not smoked in twenty years.  Marie had been proud of him for quitting, but his nerves were shot, and he remembered the comfort of holding the cigarette, manipulating it, and inhaling the calming vapor.  He chastised himself for the idea.  He shouldn’t spend the money, but he found himself pulling into the parking lot and making the purchase.  He told himself that he would limit himself to just one after dinner each evening, but he lit up as soon as he got home.

After his smoke, he lay on the driveway next to his car and examined the source of the rattle.  He could see the rusted bracket that needed to be replaced and determined he would stop at the auto parts store on the way to the nursing home tomorrow.

Jacob never had much of an appetite at suppertime.  Eating alone is one of the saddest and loneliest of activities.  Tonight he just made himself an egg and toast.  Marie had been a wonderful cook and served balanced and attractive meals.  Jacob sighed and lit another cigarette.

After eating his meager meal, Jacob got out his checkbook and paid his bills for the month.  He would need to transfer some money from his savings account soon.  He and Marie had been careful to save for their retirement, so that they would not be dependent on Social Security alone, but her dementia and need for continual care had not been factored into the equation.  The savings would soon be gone.  Jacob pondered this and possible solutions, but decided against robbing a bank.  If Marie had to move to a less expensive facility, maybe she wouldn’t know.  But maybe, in some subtle way, she would sense the change and be less happy.  He would feel he had let her down.

Later, he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.  He could hear a couple arguing in a nearby apartment.  Foolishness, he thought.  Most arguments he had had with Marie were so foolish.  He couldn’t even remember what they were about. He tried to focus on the “to-do” list for tomorrow.  He would stop and buy that bracket in the morning, and do the repair before he went back to feed Marie her supper.

It was good to get up with a specific purpose in mind.  After his shower, Jacob took off for the coffee shop.  He ran into Ted, who was also a retired mechanic, and chatted with him about that darn muffler bracket and his plan to stop at the auto parts store.  At least it was something to talk about other than Marie’s depressing and worsening condition.  He knew the clerk at the auto parts store and exchanged a bit of banter with him also.  It was a good start on the day.

The memory unit, where Marie now lived, was locked, a fact for which he was glad.  He didn’t have to worry that she would wander off in her nightie and die of exposure.  As he was buzzed in and entered today, the first sight that greeted him was Mr. Jackson running down the hall in only his pajama top.  One of the aides was in hot pursuit.  Mrs. Jackson stood in the doorway of Mr. Jackson’s room watching his bare buttocks hustle down the hall and looking like she might die of embarrassment.  She was dignified and well-dressed.  She looked at Jacob sheepishly and said, “I’m so sorry….he doesn’t know any better.”

Jacob nodded and replied, “I understand.”

All of the spouses of the residents here understood.  Each one had occasion to feel embarrassed by the behavior of their previously rational loved one.

Jacob entered the room and put a kiss on Marie’s forehead.  She looked up and said, “A quarter and a dime in the machine.”  She was crinkling up her nose as though she smelled something unpleasant.

At first Jacob was totally puzzled, but then he remembered.  Although he had showered this morning, he had put on the same shirt he was wearing yesterday.  He had rationalized that he would only wear it for a few hours before changing into work clothes to replace the muffler bracket.  He had smoked in this shirt yesterday, and that was the reason for the crinkle in Marie’s nose.  Fifty years ago, he could get a package of cigarettes from a vending machine for thirty-five cents.  What a strange thing for Marie to remember, when she didn’t recognize her husband.

Jacob took Marie for a walk, and they watched some TV together before lunch.  While he was feeding her, she said, “He never comes to see me anymore.”

“Who?” He inquired.

“The nice man with the dark hair.”

Jacob rubbed his bald pate.  He had once had a very thick head of dark hair.  He hoped she was remembering him.  Perhaps she was thinking of the days when they were young.  He tried to explain to her that he was the young dark-haired man, now grown old, but she had totally lost interest in that topic and seemed unaware of what he was saying.  She stuck her finger in the bowl of soup, twirled it around, and then licked it off.

As Jacob left that afternoon, he passed Mr. Jackson’s room.  He was now fully clothed, and Mrs. Jackson sat next to him holding his hand.

When he got home, Jacob tried to take a little rest, but he kept thinking about Marie and about the muffler bracket.  He got up, changed into work clothes, gathered some tools and headed for the driveway.  He put the car up on a jack and crawled underneath.  “This job shouldn’t take more than half an hour, even if the screws in the bracket are rusted and hard to remove,” he thought.  “I will shower again and put on a clean shirt before I go back to see Marie.”

As he worked on removing the screws, a wasp flew under the car and buzzed by him.  He waved it off, but an image flashed across his mind.  If the wasp were to sting him and he moved abruptly, he might accidentally kick the jack and be crushed under the car.  He shuddered. 

Then, he pondered.

“I have a $500,000 life insurance policy.  That should be enough to pay for Marie’s care until she dies.”

“I have a will.  My lawyer knows what to do for Marie in the event of my death.”

“If that wasp were to sting me, there might be a tragic accident.”

Marie would never know…it would cause her no grief.  In a semi-lucid moment, she had grieved the loss of the young man with the dark hair.  She would never miss the old bald guy.

He had discovered the perfect practical solution to his dilemma.  Marie was not there to ask the deeper questions regarding the long range implications and morality of such a decision.  She was at Compassionate Care trying to pull the button off her sweater.

He lay motionless under the car.  The wasp buzzed back, but did not sting him.

He repositioned himself so that his chest was under the lowest part of the car’s undercarriage.

He sighed deeply and whispered, “I love you, Marie.”

Then he kicked the jack with every ounce of strength he possessed.

A few hours later his son and daughter, who lived several states away, each received a call from the police, that there had been “a tragic accident.”

Marie died six months later.  She never mentioned the old bald man who had visited faithfully, but each day she shuffled the food on her lunch tray around and never ate any of it.