Code blue, p.2
Code Blue, page 2
When she approached the security gate, a guard asked if she had an appointment. She did not. He asked the purpose of her visit, and she told him she was checking on her Aunt Dottie. Dottie Carpenter. The man in the crisp white shirt and freshly pressed slacks tapped her name into his tablet.
“I will have to phone the main office.” He tucked his head into the small guard building. Theresa couldn’t quite hear what he was saying, but she could tell there was an issue by the expression on his face.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you are going to have to make an appointment.”
Theresa furrowed her brow. “With whom?”
“Janet Turner. She is the head nurse.”
“And how do I get in touch with Ms. Turner?” Theresa did not like the feeling she was getting. The young man seemed a bit nervous. He pulled out a small card and handed it to Theresa through the driver’s side window. “Visiting hours are from ten to twelve and then three to five.”
Theresa thanked him, turned her car around, and drove to the main highway. It was about a mile to the nearest gas station, where she pulled over and dialed the number on the card.
“This is Turner.” It was one of those voices that could have belonged to a man or a woman with laryngitis. A smoker? Theresa thought to herself. Or someone sang contralto in a choir? She resisted the temptation to laugh.
“Hello. My name is Theresa Gallagher. I am here to visit my Aunt Dottie. Dottie Carpenter.”
“Yes, so I heard.” Not only was her voice grating, but it was also terse. “You cannot simply show up without an appointment,” the woman barked at her. “And we have no record of any family members in her file.”
Theresa was about to give the woman the “long-lost aunt explanation,” but decided to push ahead with a visitation request. “She’s been away for a long time. Her neighbor got in touch. May I please see her this afternoon?”
There was a long pause, and then the raspy voice continued, “Your aunt is in very poor health.”
“Yes, I understand. All the more reason to see her.”
Another pause. “I must warn you, she is not in good health.”
Theresa refrained from saying, I heard you the first time. Instead she simply repeated, “I understand.” Plus, she has no clue that I even exist, Theresa thought. She was glad she brought the photo with her. It could serve as a good introduction.
After another long pause, Nurse Ratched barked into the phone again. “You will have to come back tomorrow.”
“But I am visiting from Virginia. I came out here specifically to see her.”
“Well, you should have phoned ahead. Be here at ten.” And that was the end of the call. Aunt Dottie would have to wait another day.
Theresa admitted to herself that she may have made a hasty decision to come here, but it felt right at the time. It hadn’t occurred to her there would be restrictions or tough regulations just to visit a relative. Accepting that there was little she could do to change the circumstances, she decided to take in some of the local scenery. Sedona was a little over a two-hour drive, so that was out of the question. Instead, she drove to the Desert Botanical Garden, home to over fifty thousand plants.
As she drove west, she marveled at the buttes and Usery Mountains that jutted above the Sonoran Desert in the distance. She engaged her hands-free dialing and phoned her sister to let her know that her trip had been delayed by a nasty nurse, and she would have to stay at least another day. Her next call was to Brian to let him know the same. In the beginning he thought she was going on a wild-goose chase, but after Theresa showed him the photograph, he softened to the idea. Not that he could or would stop her. Considering the current circumstances, she could very well be on a wild-goose chase.
It took about a half hour before she pulled into the parking lot of the gardens. She blinked several times, then swore she saw steam coming up from the asphalt. The announcer on the radio mentioned it was “a record-breaking heat,” which slapped her in the face when she opened the car door. She remembered what one of her friends said: “But it’s a dry heat.” Theresa chuckled to herself. Dry. Wet. It was awful. How did people live here?
Within the first fifteen minutes, Theresa realized she had picked a bad day for walking around outside, even with a hat. She felt dizzy and went into the gift shop to buy a bottle of water. The clerk looked at Theresa’s beet-red face. “Not from around here, are ya?”
“How can you tell?” Theresa practically ripped the cap off and took a long swig.
“Nobody from around here would venture out in this temperature.”
“Don’t you worry about people fainting?” She took another swig.
“We have a lot of people checking in throughout the day. But most visitors come either early morning or evening.”
“I should have called ahead.” Theresa realized her planning skills needed improvement.
The clerk handed Theresa a complimentary ticket. “Next time, come early.”
Theresa thanked the well-tanned woman and drained the bottle. It wasn’t even noon, and she had no idea what to do for the rest of the day. She turned to the woman and asked, “Can you recommend something that I can do that won’t bake or fry me?”
The woman chuckled. “Is there a pool at your hotel?”
Theresa grinned. “Yes, there is. And a spa! But I am going to call ahead! Thanks again.”
Theresa quickly moved across the parking lot and got into her steamy car. How do people live here? she asked herself again. She rolled down the windows, cranked up the air-conditioning, and booked a ninety-minute Himalayan salt stone massage and a deep moisturizing facial. She wondered how much time the woman behind the counter had spent in the sun. You could make a belt out of her skin.
It took most of the entire drive back to the hotel before the interior of the car temperature was below eighty degrees. Everything had a shimmer, as if she were looking at a mirage. Theresa remembered her high school earth science teacher explaining that this optical phenomenon wasn’t the heat cooking the brain, but the bending and reflection of light that passes through layers of air with different temperatures. She smirked. She actually remembered something from high school that she thought she had no use for. At least she wasn’t losing her mind. Not yet.
When she pulled into the hotel driveway, a valet dashed toward her car. He was dressed in red shorts, a white shirt, and a visor with the hotel logo printed on it. “Terrible day for working outside,” she noted.
“It’s like this every day this time of year, ma’am.”
The young man had a point. It was the middle of August; it was hot everywhere. She scooted out of his way and briskly walked into the hotel lobby. It felt like a meat locker. It was wonderful. She went into the café and ordered a light salad and then headed to the spa. That, too, was wonderful.
When she entered, she was greeted by the soothing sounds of Native American flute music and the aromas of sage and lavender. A waterfall gently glided down a red-rocked wall. She could feel the tension slowly release. A petite woman greeted her with a bow. No words were exchanged, but Theresa easily followed her cues. She was led to a private changing room where a soft, plush robe and slippers awaited. This is much more like it. A little pampering could go a long way, especially at that moment. She hadn’t anticipated being stonewalled at Sunnydale, and her quick visit to the gardens did not prove enjoyable. She undressed, donned the spa wardrobe, and retreated to a waiting area with another waterfall and padded teak chaise lounges. Another client was supine with slices of cucumber covering her eyes.
Several minutes passed, and a massage therapist nodded in Theresa’s direction. She wondered if anyone spoke. When they entered the therapy room, the masseuse whispered something to her. Theresa had to bend her head in the woman’s direction to hear her clearly.
“You are getting a Himalayan salt massage, correct?”
“Yes,” Theresa whispered in return.
“Are there any areas of your body you would like me to concentrate on?” Again, her voice was at an almost inaudible level.
My hearing? She joked to herself. “Wherever you think I need it the most.” She climbed onto the table, got situated, and let the therapist do her thing. Theresa let all the tension drain from her body as the woman gently released the knots in her neck. She realized that one doesn’t know they need a massage until they are in the midst of one. She thanked the heat for driving her indoors and drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Two
Welcome to Sunnydale
Tempe, Arizona
Seventy-two-year-old Frida Larsen listened intently to the melodious voice of the thirtysomething woman dressed in a beige linen suit. The young woman was attractive but not glamorous and had a pleasant but businesslike air to her. She stood next to a large screen as she clicked through the slides and explained the advantages in investing money in the Sunnydale Securities Firm.
“We will allocate your monthly expenses and make sure all your bills are paid on time. This is a service I am certain you can appreciate. You don’t have to worry about writing out checks and balancing your accounts. Our service will provide the necessary transactions each month while you experience your retirement playing golf, tennis, or simply enjoying whatever strikes your fancy each and every day, worry-free. In addition, we will also allocate funds into a separate interest-bearing account so you will continue to make money on the money you already have. Our program is seamless.”
Frida raised her hand. “Do you mean you will be investing our money?”
“We can certainly provide that service in a separate account we will set up for you.”
“And what is the fee?” Frida asked.
“We charge a minimal fee of twenty dollars per month, per account.” The woman smiled broadly.
Frida furrowed her brow. “If I am understanding you correctly, if I have only one account, then it’s only twenty dollars per month.”
“That is correct.” The woman continued to smile. “It’s less than a dollar a day to have the peace of mind knowing you will never have to pay late fees for bills you may have overlooked. We take the worry out of it.”
Frida nodded and looked at the dozen others staring blankly at the front of the room.
“I have prepared a packet of information that outlines our simple program. I have also included my business card and wrote my private number on the back. I want my clients to be assured they have a direct line to me at any time.” She looked around for more hands. “You don’t have to worry, because all of our conversations are strictly confidential.” She checked the room one more time. “Thank you very much for your time, and I look forward to working with each and every one of you. Have a lovely evening.” The woman walked to the door, her quiet assistant at the ready with the brochures. As people were leaving, the well-manicured woman clasped each attendee’s hand in both of hers, intimating a personal connection.
Frida was still befuddled. She had recently moved to Sunnydale at the urging of her daughter and son-in-law. They wanted her to be close by, but not too close, and they wanted her to be in a safe environment. Sunnydale provided both, all within an hour’s drive from where they lived.
A man with a friendly face approached her. “Hello. My name is Henry. Henry Pushkin.”
Frida was startled at first but appreciated his kind eyes. “Hello yourself. I’m Frida Larsen.” Frida was five feet, five inches tall, with an average build. Her white hair was cut in a pixie style that surrounded her big blue Nordic eyes.
“New resident?”
“Ya. Just got here a little over a week ago.”
“Well then, welcome to Sunnydale,” he said, beaming. “It’s always nice to see new faces.”
“Thank you. How long have you been living here?”
“Going on two years.”
“And how do you like it?”
“It’s quite nice. There are a lot of activities, good food and service.” Then he hesitated.
Frida could sense there might be a but coming. Then nothing. She wasn’t quite convinced. “But?” she put it to him boldly.
Henry chuckled. “You are rather perceptive, now, aren’t you?”
“Women’s intuition, and I’ve been around long enough to have accumulated plenty. I try to put it to good use.”
Henry was charmed. He also wanted to steer the conversation in a different direction so as not to scare off the new resident. “I don’t mean to sound forward, but are you married?”
“No. No. I’ve been a widow for several years. I used to live in Minneapolis, but my daughter and her husband wanted me to be closer to them. This was the perfect solution. At first everyone thought it was foolish to rent, but my money is in a fund, and I’d like to keep making a little money.” She paused. “My daughter will get what’s left over, but in the meantime, I might as well enjoy myself!”
He chuckled. “I totally agree. I realize most homes appreciate in value, but it can take years. And then what? I might as well keep earning money on my money while I’m still kicking!”
It was Frida’s turn to ask. “Married?”
“Widower. Ten years. Originally from Colorado, but the winters were getting into my bones.”
Frida laughed. “I know the feeling.” She paused. “You still haven’t told me about the but.”
“But? Sorry. I was having a senior moment.”
“Don’tcha find the words senior citizen a little, oh I dunno, boxing us in?”
“Yes, I completely agree. We live in a world where people don’t want to be labeled, yet every day there is a new one that we have to adhere to. I still haven’t mastered the pronoun thing. When I went to school, ‘they’ was plural.”
Frida chuckled again. “I know whatcha mean. What if everyone wore a name tag? Personally, I don’t care what anyone’s preference is in how they live their lives. As long as they are decent and kind.”
“Another thing we agree on. I’ve learned that life is too short to be judging other people unless you’re on a jury.”
Frida smiled. “See? Now I agree with you.” She paused. “May I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“What did you think of that presentation back there?”
“Oh, that? They do it a few times a year. It’s their pitch meeting.”
“And do you participate?”
“Me? No. I go to see if there are any newcomers.”
“Mission accomplished,” she said, and grinned. “You know what that presentation reminded me of? One of those shopping networks. Did ya ever notice they use the ‘you don’t have to worry’ phrase for every item they have on the air?”
“Shopping networks are not my thing, but I believe you.” He motioned for them to walk toward the roundabout.
“Sometimes I channel surf and will stop if I spot something I think I need. I have to tell ya, I laugh when they say ‘you don’t have to worry about’ whatever, whether it’s sheets and pillowcases or a car battery. Sheets? I don’t think I’ve ever worried about my sheets. A car battery? Maybe, I might if I was stranded on a country road somewhere, but I don’t lose sleep over it.”
Henry laughed. “You’re a pip, Frida Larsen.”
“I’ve been called ‘spunky,’ too.” Frida felt her face flush a bit. It was the first time since her husband passed away that she had an easy conversation with another man. It was refreshing. She hoped there were a few more people like him. Not that she was looking for a mate, just someone to chat with. Take a walk. Have a meal.
They continued toward the gazebo in the middle of a small park that sat in the center of the roundabout drive.
“How are you adjusting to the weather?” Henry asked. He gestured for her to take a seat.
“Uff da. It sure is hot during the day. Nights aren’t too bad, so I’ve been told.”
“That’s true for a good part of the year, but summers can be brutal, even at night. I don’t want to alarm you, but next month will be a doozy. The first year I was here, they showed someone actually frying an egg on the sidewalk. You don’t see too many people walking around. Everyone wants to stay in their personal meat lockers,” Henry joked.
“Ha. That’s a funny one. I have to admit, being used to the cold, I do keep my thermostat around sixty-six.” She winced. “There aren’t rules about that, are there?”
“Not that I know of.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes.
“So tell me, Henry Pushkin, we never got around to that dangling but, and don’tcha tell me it was one of those moments.” She gave him a slight nudge with her elbow.
“At the risk of sounding irrational, let me just say this. While I think this setup is a good idea for some people, especially those without families, it sometimes gives me the heebie-jeebies knowing the next step is on the other side of those trees.” He gestured toward the long line of Italian cypress trees that served as a high hedge. “Although they do a magnificent job in keeping the different facilities separated, sometimes I feel as if it’s a dark cloud looming in the horizon.”
“Isn’t that just life?” Frida asked, wide-eyed.
“Good point,” Henry responded. He was about to continue when he noticed a flicker of light through the hedges. “Wait here.” He got up and walked quickly toward the cypress trees. He parted a few branches and peeked through. Then he stepped back slowly and returned to where Frida was sitting.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” He let out a huff. “At least I don’t think it’s anything.”
“But …”
“Ah, that word again,” he said, grinning.
“Yes, and?”
“I probably should not be telling you this, or you may think I just escaped from an asylum.”
“That would make the story even more interesting.” Frida egged him on.
Henry looked at her for a beat and then said, “Okay. You asked for it. I often take walks at night. Wandering the premises. They don’t encourage us meandering about, but I sometimes have trouble sleeping, and a walk usually helps.”
