Fluke (33 page)

“Can I help you?” she asked Sara.

“It’s me, mom…Sara.
 
I know you remember me, ‘cause I’m your little girl,” Sara said, and she actually sounded younger when she said it.
 
I could have closed my eyes and actually thought there was a little girl in the room with me.

“My little…” Sara’s mother trailed off.
 
She continued her gaze at Sara, and her forehead wrinkled a little bit, as though she were trying to remember something.
 
I felt slightly uncomfortable and wondered if I belonged here.

Quit being a
chickenshit
, Adam-boy.
 
This is the love of your life’s mother, for Christ’s sake.

Sara took her mother’s hand into both of her own, sitting on the bed across from where her mother sat in the chair by the window.

“Yeah, mom, it’s me,” Sara said.

The corners of Maggie’s mouth turned up in a small smile, but as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished.
 
Her eyes darted to me, and the apprehension returned.

“Who is that man? Who is he?” she cried suddenly, sounding frightened.

Sara had told me that paranoia was a problem in Alzheimer’s patients.
 
I smiled, in an attempt to relax her, but the smile felt forced to me, and I realized that it probably looked awful.
 
I abandoned it and chose to introduce myself.

“Hi, Ms.
DuBeau
,” I said.
 
“My name is Adam, and I’m friends with your little girl Sara.”

Sara glanced back at me, smiling, and I wondered if maybe I had talked too slowly.
 
I didn’t really know how to talk, to be honest.
 
I didn’t know if she would comprehend what I said if I spoke normally or not, so I tried to talk slowly and with a bit more volume than my normal mumbles.

“Sara? Sara is here,” she said, as though answering a question.
 
She looked away from me and at Sara.

“Yes, mom, I am here,” Sara said.

“Hi, dear,” said her mother.
 
She looked at Sara with what might have been some sort of recognition.
 
I felt encouraged by the look; I hoped Sara felt the same way.

“How have you been, mom?”

“They took my cat,” she answered, looking down in her lap, which was empty.

“They did?” Sara asked in an exaggerated voice.
 
“Now why would they do that?”

“They hate my cat, they say it pees on the floor everywhere,” she replied.
 
“That cat was trained to use the litter box.”

“Yes, it was,” Sara agreed.
 
She stood up, and walked over to where the television sat on a wooden dresser, and picked up a small stuffed cat that sat on top of the television.
 
It was a small, white cat.
 
The fur was either supposed to be white with gray streaks on its head and back, or it was stained from too much handling, I couldn’t tell which.

“Here’s your cat, mom,” Sara placed the stuffed toy in her mother’s lap.
 
I realized that they had apparently been through the cat routine before.

Her mother looked down at the cat for a long time; I thought she might have fallen asleep.
 
I still felt uncomfortable in the room; as much as I loved and wanted to support Sara, I secretly hoped that we wouldn’t be staying long.

“Here’s my cat, little girl,” she said, picking her head up and looking at Sara.
 
Then she looked in my direction, over Sara’s shoulder, and asked me, “Sir, would you like to pet my cat?”

I hesitated for a second, unsure of what to say.

“Um, sure, I’d love to,” I said, moving to the other side of the room.
 
I moved slowly, no sudden movements, for fear I might
frighten her.
 
I took it as a good omen that she had opened up to me, a complete stranger, and had asked me to pet her cat.

I reached the side of her chair and squatted down.
 
I glanced to my left, at Sara, who was smiling, and on the verge of tears, it appeared.
 
How hard must this be for her, seeing her mother like this?

I reached my hand out slowly, staring at the stuffed cat, which was just slightly stained from being rubbed so much, I concluded.
 
My fingers touched the fur, and I started patting the cat’s back gently.

I looked at Sara’s mother’s face, which wasn’t nearly as absent as it had been when we first entered the room, and she was smiling at me.

“Such a pretty cat,” she said, to no one in particular.
 
Then she reached up and rested her hand on the top of my head and said, “And such a pretty boy.”

I felt my neck and face flush; I was a little embarrassed at being called “pretty,” and I felt like I wanted to laugh.
 
I already knew that it was going to turn into a joke for Sara and I once we got back into the car, but for now I just said, “Well, thank you, Ms.
DuBeau
.”

“And so polite,” she added.
 
My blush continued; I felt like a little kid.

“Mom,” Sara said.
 
I looked at her, and she was digging in her purse.

Her hand left my head, and she turned in her chair, seeming suddenly oblivious to my presence.
 
I stood up, listening to my knees pop, and backed up a step, leaning my back against the wall.

The picture emerged from Sara’s purse, held between her long, tan fingers.
 
Sara fingers.

And suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt like telling Sara, “No!” I felt like snatching the picture from her fingers and running.
 
The last thing I wanted was to show that picture to Sara’s mother.
 
I didn’t know if it was fear of what she might say about the picture, or if it was worry that we might upset her, but it didn’t feel right.

I looked at Sara, who wasn’t looking at me, but at her mother.
 
I opened my eyes wide, and tried to shake my head no, but I couldn’t.
 
We had traveled so far for some kind of answers, for some
kind of resolution to this mysterious triangle that had formed between Sara, me, and an unknown man in a picture.
 
We couldn’t stop now.

The man in the picture looked so much like me, and he had abused Sara.
 
What if this sick bastard did turn out to be some sort of blood relative of mine? How would I deal with the fact that he had molested the woman I love? I started feeling nauseous standing there.

Would Sara hate me if it turned out that the man was my father? My brother? My uncle? Would she turn her anger, her rightly deserved bitterness, on me? Would this be the end of the mystery, or the end of Sara and I?

I walked over to the dresser, which was just the right height for me to sit on.
 
My stomach tightened in anticipation as I heard Sara say, “Do you know who these people are?”

Sara’s mother took the picture from her and studied it, squinting slightly.

“No, I don’t know who these people are,” she said after a moment, and I almost collapsed to the floor, relieved.
 
More than ever, I wanted to believe that ignorance was, indeed, bliss.

“I’m blind as a bat without my glasses,” she told Sara.
 
“Do you know where my glasses are?”

I looked on the dresser, and just behind me lay a pair of glasses.
 
I picked them up, almost reluctantly, and handed them to her.
 
She put them on slowly, adjusting them on her face.

“That’s better,” she said, looking back at the photograph.

She didn’t say anything for a long time.
 
I glanced at Sara, who returned my glance with a confused look of her own.
 
We sat like that, very quiet, for almost five minutes.

“Mom?” Sara finally said.

“Hmm?” she responded.

“Do you know who the people in the picture are?”

“Picture,” she repeated, as though it was the first time she had heard the word.

Sara gently took her mother’s wrist in her hand and moved the picture into her mother’s line of sight.

“Picture,” she said, again, smiling.
 
“This was such a nice day.”

I shifted a little on the dresser, and Sara leaned in closer.

“What can you tell us about the picture?”

“It’s a nice one,” Ms.
DuBeau
said.

“Mom…” Sara started.

“It was on Evergreen Road,” her mother interrupted.

“Do you know the man in the picture?” Sara asked.

I swallowed slowly, hearing the sound of it in my head.
 
It sounded like a wave crashing.

“Who’s that pretty little girl?” Sara’s mother asked.

“Evergreen Road, mom.
 
That’s me,” Sara said.
 
I started catching a hint of frustration in her voice.

Patience, Sara, patience
, I thought to myself.

“That’s Sara,” her mother said.

“Yes…” Sara started.

“Sara is here,” she said.

“I’m here, mom.
 
Do you know—“

“Sara and Frank,” she said.
 
“Sara loved that man.” She stroked the stuffed cat in her lap with her free hand.

“Frank?” Sara asked.
 
“Is that the man’s name?”

“Frank used to come over and play with Sara all the time when Sara was a little girl.”

“What did Sara call Frank, mom? Did she call him Frank?”

“Sara used to run up to him and scream ‘Hi Mister Chance!’ when he’d come to the door.
 
She’d say, ‘Hi Mister Chance,’ and he’d say, ‘You got ants in your pants?’ She sure loved it when he was around,” Sara’s mother said, staring off into space.
 
“He was friends with my husband, Charles
DuBeau
.”

Frank Chance
, I thought.
 
Frank Chance.

Sara groaned slightly, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand.
 
I heard her starting to sob through her hand.

“Oh God,” she sobbed.
 
“Mister Chance I have ants in my pants.”

She was remembering, and I was learning.
 
I went to Sara and sat next to her on the bed and put my arm around her back.
 
She leaned into me and cried quietly into my shoulder.
 
From this position, I could see the picture frame on the nightstand across the bed.
 
The picture in it was of a happy young couple, smiling, hugging, with a big tree behind them.
 
I knew before I even saw the
writing that it was the picture insert that came with the frame.
 
The people in those pictures were always too good-looking, too unreal for real photos.

“I remember, Adam,” she said quietly, weakly into my shirt.
 
“I remember that stupid ants in the pants joke.”

“It’s okay, Sara,” I said; I didn’t know anything else to say.

“The only
ants
in my pants were his filthy hands.”

Was Frank Chance my father? Was it possible that I had been given up by a Chance only to be taken by a Fluke?

“Why are you crying, Miss?” asked Sara’s mother.
 
“Do you need a nurse?”

Sara pulled away from me suddenly, wiping her eyes with the sides of her index fingers, and told her mother, “No, mom, I’m fine.”

She wasn’t fine, though, I could see that.
 
She was playing fine for her sick mother, but once we were away from her mother, this was going to get worse for her before it got any better.

“It was good seeing you, mom,” Sara said, standing up.
 
She hung her purse strap over her shoulder and urged me up by grabbing my hand.
 
I stood.

“Thank you for visiting.
 
They never let me have visitors here.
 
How did you get through?”

“We snuck in, mom,” Sara said, sounding very, very tired.