Edge of Midnight (13 page)

You need money
.

Squaring her shoulders, Cary went up the porch steps and pushed the doorbell. Stephanie Farley opened the door, stepped back, and finished putting on earrings. Twenty maybe, Cary judged. Short chestnut hair, curling up around a blue hat, blue cotton pants, white blouse. Cary braced herself for an accusing finger and
You're not Kelby!

“It's my grandmother,” Stephanie said. “She had a stroke and I can't really leave her by herself. She can't get around, she…” Stephanie blinked back tears. “I need somebody to come in about this time every day and—well, you can see the place could do with some cleaning.”

Cary looked around as Stephanie waved with a broad gesture.

“Not that I expect you to make the place spotless,” she went on hurriedly, as though Cary might not take the job if spotless was expected. With her vision, the spot would have to be boulder-sized.

“Fix her lunch and feed her. I get home around six. Are you interested?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever done this kind of thing before?”

“No,” Cary admitted. Now the young woman would ask for references and Cary would have to say she couldn't give her any. And Stephanie would say, I'm sorry, but I can't hire a perfect stranger without references. Thank you for coming.

“You're hired anyway. Actually, you're the only one who's showed up and I've got to…” She stopped, took a breath, and started stuffing books in a backpack. “She's difficult. Her name is Elizabeth. Dr. Elizabeth Farley. Psychiatrist. Bigtime teacher at Emerson. Private patients. And she…”

She zipped the backpack and swung it around on her shoulder. “She's pissed. She's used to being in charge. She won't talk.”

“The stroke?”

“Yeah, that's part of it. But she can talk some. Her speech is garbled and she has trouble retrieving words. If she can't get words to put with a thought, she loses the thread. It's really frustrating. She says ‘shit' a lot.”

Stephanie looked at her watch. “Oh, God, I'm going to be late again.” She grabbed keys from the mantle. “Can you start tomorrow?”

“Uh—sure,” Cary said.

On her way home, she stopped at Erle's Market and bought a can of ground coffee, two cans of tuna, some milk, two candy bars, and a toothbrush, then discovered she didn't have enough money to pay for them. She used one of Kelby's checks and signed Kelby's name. When she handed it to the clerk, she stiffened in anticipation of being denounced, a phone lifted, and a call made. Since the police department was just up the street, it wouldn't take them long.

Without even looking at the signature, the clerk gave her a smile and a receipt and wished her a nice day. Cary picked up her illegally obtained groceries and set off for home. She would explain to Kelby, promise to pay her back. She had a job.

Not bad for an almost-blind missing person, identity thief, and underwear-borrowing scum.

 

15

How much more of Kelby was she going to take? Her name, her money, her food, her house, her shower, her laundry, her clothes, and now her nightgown—and she hadn't even met the woman who'd offered her shelter. Pushing aside the phone, she plopped library books on the bedside table and crawled into bed. A stack of unread books made her feel rich, like having money in the bank. She adjusted the pillow, looked at titles, and selected the autobiography by Katharine Hepburn. Doing her book-to-the-nose, bobbing-her-head thing, she read until nearly midnight. A binge reader.

After she turned off the light, anxiety came to sit on her chest and ask what she thought she was doing taking care of a sick woman. She could do harm, or if not harm, then not do things right. Every creak and groan of the old house, the rustling of the wind in the trees outside, had her starting in panic. When she finally slipped over into sleep, she dreamed she was running in the cornfield, squeezing through one row into the next, and the next, and the next, but no matter where she went the big blackbirds were flying overhead like a pointer for her stalker.

The phone rang, pulling her awake with a hammering heart. Arlette! She reached for the phone, then raced down to the kitchen and listened as the machine kicked in.

“Kelby?” Woman's voice sounding irritated. “It's Faye. Your sister? Remember your sister? I've been worried sick. You give me a call! Immediately! If you don't I'm going to do something!”

Pick it up! Tell her Kelby isn't here. No. First she had to talk with Arlette. Why hadn't Arlette called? She'd leave another message after she got off work.

Work. For the first time in months, Cary had a purpose for the day. A small ray of light seeped into her soul, and she hummed “Amazing
Grace” as she showered. She used more of Kelby's underwear and another pair of her pants, a light-weight tan cotton, and found a short-sleeved brown knit shirt. There was something satisfying about brushing her teeth with her own new toothbrush. Heat hit her as soon as she stepped outside, but since she knew the way, it didn't take as long this time to get there.

Stephanie, looking a little frantic, shoved books in a backpack and looked around as though making sure she wasn't forgetting anything. “See if you can get her out of bed. And encourage her to talk even if she doesn't want to.”

“Okay.”
How?
No background in caring for the sick, no knowledge of stroke victims, and God knew, she wasn't a forceful person, which this Dr. Farley probably was before the stroke. How was Cary going to get her to talk and eat and get out of bed?

“The washer and dryer are in there.” Stephanie pointed to a door off the kitchen. “I just did a huge grocery shop yesterday.” She opened the refrigerator on shelves of milk, eggs, cheese, fruit, and vegetables.

“You have to cut her food up real small. Most of the time she doesn't want it, but just keep trying. She's used to having lunch at twelve-thirty.”

“Okay,” Cary said.

Stephanie let out a breath with a nervous huff. “I guess we better tell her you're here.”

In the bedroom at the back of the house, light filtered through sheer white panels on the windows, brass lamps gleamed on the bedside tables. Drapes and bedspread were a deep burgundy. Bookcases lined two walls, mostly, from what Cary could tell, professional texts dealing with physical and mental illness.

“Kelby is here,” Stephanie said.

Dr. Farley, in a pink-flowered nightgown, had a string of drool clinging to her mouth. She stared at Cary with alert brown eyes, wary and angry. Her brown hair sprinkled with gray was matted and in need of brushing.

“Remember what I told you,” Stephanie said in the singsing voice people use for small children and mental defectives. “She's going to come everyday and get your lunch and bath and, you know, clean a little and take care of things.”

“No!” The word was a rusty croak of protest.

“You behave yourself. I'll be back around six.” Stephanie kissed her grandmother's forehead and dashed off with all the grace and confidence of youth.

Cary moved a straight-backed chair closer to the bed and sat down. “What should I call you? Dr. Farley? Or Elizabeth?”

“Not…” The brown eyes, angry and frustrated, watched her closely. Early sixties, Cary guessed. Straight nose, high cheekbones, and firm chin. Except for the left side of the mouth where the stroke had pulled it down in a look of petulance, she was still an attractive woman and must have been pretty when she was young.

“I understand you'd rather not have anybody around. I feel that way sometimes, especially when I'm not my best. I'll call you Elizabeth. Is that all right?”

Cary took in a breath. As long as the woman couldn't speak, she couldn't fire her. “What would you like for breakfast? There's cheese and eggs in the refrigerator. An omelet?”

Stubbornly, Elizabeth clamped her mouth and refused to respond.

“An omelet it is. I'll see what else there is to put in it.” She fled before Elizabeth could shake her head no, she didn't want an omelet.

In the kitchen, Cary set a skillet on the stove, chopped ham, tomatoes and green peppers, whipped eggs, mixed in the diced items and turned on the burner. When the skillet was hot, she poured the whole thing in, let it cook, then slid half on one plate and half on another. She cut an apple into nearly paper-thin slices, found towels and napkins in a drawer, and carried everything in on a tray.

“Let's give it a try.” Cary spread a towel over Elizabeth's chest. “I know I won't be able to do this exactly the way you like it. Nobody can get it right for somebody else, but I'm going to try and I'll get better as we go along.”

“Whooo…?”

“Something to drink. What would you like? Milk? Orange juice? Coffee?”

Elizabeth nodded so quickly, Cary wondered if coffee was forbidden. She must ask Stephanie if there were any restrictions in the diet, like no caffeine.

“Okay. I'll get it started and be right back.” Cary found grounds in the freezer, and the coffeemaker was enough like the one she had at home that she could figure it out. The smell of the coffee dripping into the carafe followed her into the bedroom.

“Do you use cream or sugar?”

Head shake no and no.

Cary forked up a tiny bit of the omelet and offered it to Elizabeth, who kept her teeth clamped. Cary calmly ate from her own plate until Elizabeth slapped the mattress, opened her mouth, and accepted food. Cary alternated bites of omelet with apples slices. The silence got heavy and eerie and finally Cary couldn't stand it. If she didn't say something to break the oppressive quiet, she would scream.

“I'm thirty-four years old,” she blurted. “I have retinitis pigmentosa and can barely see. Soon I'll be stumbling around in the dark. I'm not a criminal, or a bad person. I don't take drugs. I'm not a thief. And I won't hurt you in any way. Not deliberately, anyhow.”

Apple, omelet, apple, omelet. “I'm from California, El Cerrito, California, which is near Berkeley.”

Elizabeth suddenly got agitated, saying “naan, naan, naan” and clawing at her arm. “Whoo … where…?”

“Kelby invited me to visit.” That was more or less the truth.

Elizabeth leaned back against the pillows, looking puzzled.

“Even though my eyesight is poor, I still love to read.” She thought she saw a sharpening of interest in Elizabeth's eyes. “Would you like me to read to you?”

The tiniest of nods.

“Sometimes I have to go slow to decipher words. I know there are books on tape. If my reading is too awful, I could look into getting those and we could listen to them.”

“Nooot…”

“Not the same, I know. They don't go at the right pace, and I hate it when the reader changes his voice to make the characters sound different. Every female has a high breathy voice, the bad guy has a gravelly thug voice. Women readers make their voices deep to
sound like a man
. Bah! Why don't they just read.”

Elizabeth was looking at her as though for the first time she'd said something intelligent. “I'll get the coffee. Do you mind if I have a cup with you?”

She poured coffee into two mugs, set them on the tray with cream and sugar, and carried everything into the bedroom. “I used mugs instead of china cups. I thought it would be easier, but if you'd rather have the china, I can change.”

Cary sat down and offered Elizabeth a sip of coffee. It was awkward and coffee dripped down her chin. Cary wiped it off. “What we need here is a straw. I'll start making a list for Stephanie.” Cary spooned coffee into Elizabeth's mouth. She had no idea how difficult it was to feed another individual. When Elizabeth indicated she'd had enough, Cary took all the dishes back to the kitchen and washed up, then she peeked in on Elizabeth and found her asleep.

At six Stephanie came dashing in with a stir of hot air, face rosy from the heat and the freedom to continue her life. “Did you manage to get any food down her?” Stephanie asked.

“Quite a lot.” Cary listed what Elizabeth had eaten.

“Fantastic. She must like you. That's more than anybody else has gotten her to eat.”

Cary wondered how to ask when she'd get paid.

“Since tomorrow's Saturday I don't have any classes, but I could use some time in the library. Could you possibly come back at nine?”

Cary nodded. The sun still blazed in a heat-scorched sky and she walked slowly. Her first full day of work left her exhausted. Partly the anxiety of not knowing if she was capable, and partly everything else—Arlette, Kelby, Mitch. Everything.

Detouring to the downtown area, she stopped at Weber's Department Store and bought six pair of underwear. Which was worse, wearing Kelby's underwear or using Kelby's money to buy her own? She must ask when she'd get paid. Tomorrow. She'd do it tomorrow.

At home she checked for messages first thing. Arlette hadn't called. Dinner could be whenever she liked, if she wanted to skip it altogether and have a late snack in bed, that was possible, too. The freedom was so heady she giggled out loud and thought she should write everything down. She'd never kept a diary, not since she was eleven and someone had given her one for her birthday, but she had the urge to write down all the dizzying feelings she was experiencing.

Just as quickly, her mood changed. With far less hesitation—she was getting quite used to snooping through Kelby's things—she went upstairs. In the office room, she opened the top file drawer and flipped through folders. Kelby'd had a house in Berkeley which she'd sold. Berkeley? Mitch worked in Berkeley. Did he know her?

Another folder had papers on the Hampstead house. Kelby had bought it six months ago. She'd lived here only six months? Why had she come?

Cary flipped through cancelled checks. Erle's Market, Weber's Department Store, Kansas Power and Light, Southwest Bell—