The Road To Echo Point. Carrie Weaver
bare. Cozy.
Indian rugs, hand woven and old, judging by the muted colors and workmanship, were scattered on the floor, warming the brown ceramic tile. Here and there were a few knickknacks, something missing in the rest of the house. Hand-carved kachinas, outfitted in flamboyant turquoise and red, jockeyed for space between tan woven baskets and some sort of odd sculpture. Made out of a horseshoe and barbed wire, it looked like a cowboy twirling a lasso.
She cocked her head to the side, checking it out from another angle. Maybe it was a cowboy doing some sort of funky dance….
Her gaze slid to the wall behind Ian’s head. No more western stuff there. No, it was pure modern sports memorabilia. Photos of Randy Johnson and Jake “The Snake” Plummer and some guy in a hockey uniform. All were autographed, all personalized to Ian.
“You’ll watch Daisy from 10:00 p.m. to 8:00 a.m.”
She waited for him to continue.
He didn’t.
“And…”
“That’s it. Watch Daisy. If she so much as steps out of bed, you follow her. Help her find the bathroom if she gets lost. Wait for her, make sure she goes back to her room.”
“You said she’d calm down. Now that she’s used to me.”
He didn’t quite meet her gaze. “Yeah. She’ll calm down.”
“Sounds simple enough if there’s no wrestling or windows involved.” Vi snapped closed the notebook. “That’s all the dog does?”
“Originally, Annabelle was trained to watch Daisy only at night, and come get me if she got out of bed. But she gradually extended her shift, so lately she’s spent most of her time with Daisy. There are only three other certified Alzheimer’s dogs in the world, so no one really knows what she can do.”
It was amazing. How they could train a dog to do stuff like that. How the dog seemed to understand almost on a human level.
Vi was intrigued, but didn’t want to give the guy any false hopes. So she suppressed all the questions whirling around in her head and attempted to look disinterested. “Cool,” she commented.
Ian raised an eyebrow.
“You’ll think it’s pretty damn cool, after about a week with Daisy. Last night was just a small sample. When I told you about the witching hour, it was to prepare you, not scare you. The technical term for it is ‘sundowning.’ A lot of people with Alzheimer’s get restless when the sun goes down. At night, their sleep patterns are disturbed and they frequently roam.”
“They childproof homes for kids. Can’t you do something like that for her? Special locks on the doors?”
“Daisy’s figured out every obstacle I can put in her way. The last time she roamed, she ended up two miles away, and it took Search and Rescue nearly six hours to find her. It was June—she was severely dehydrated and almost died.”
“I didn’t realize,” she murmured.
“Most people don’t.” He sighed and rubbed a hand across his forehead. The bags under his eyes made him look like one of those sad old hound dogs that never moved from the porch. “Hell, I had no idea. Nobody does, until you’ve been there.”
She almost felt sorry for the guy. Almost. There was no way she intended to get drawn into his problems. She had enough of her own.
“So I’m off duty during the day?”
He nodded slowly. “If I were you, I’d sleep. You’re gonna need it.”
“I’m sure I can handle it. You a sports nut or something?” She gestured toward the pictures on the wall.
“I guess you could call me that. I was a sports writer.”
A writer. Interesting.
“Was?”
“Until two years ago. When Vince—I mean—Sheriff Moreno, called.” His gaze was focused on the wall behind her left ear. Like he was there, but wasn’t there.
“Asked if I’d noticed Daisy getting forgetful. He’d found her car, still idling, stuck in a desert wash ten miles outside of town. Said she’d seemed disoriented, didn’t know where she was or how she got there.”
Ian shifted, cleared his throat.
“I hadn’t seen her for a while. Been on the road. I should have figured it out sooner. Not Vince.”
A twinge of remorse nagged at her. She’d done this. She’d made this guy worry more than he already did. He didn’t deserve it, any more than she did.
But the touchy-feely confidences had to stop. Because if they didn’t, then she’d have to reciprocate, tell him something deep, dark, revealing. And if she started, where would she end? Her stomach rolled at the very thought.
“Okay, I get the gist. Prodigal son is racked with guilt, throws away a promising career to care for his mother. Very commendable. More than I’d do in the same situation.”
“I don’t want sympathy. You asked about the sports stuff and I told you.”
“Good. I’m not the sympathetic type.”
He crossed his arms and leaned back in his big leather chair. “No? That’s probably what makes you so damn successful, Ms. Davis. Personally, I’d hate to make a living off other people’s misfortune.”
“Yeah, well I didn’t create the system. I’m just damn good at what I do.”
“I’m sure you are.”
VI MUMBLED obscenities around the pen clenched between her teeth. The computer screen went blank again, only to be replaced by gibberish. For the second time today.
There was a tap at her door. “Ten o’clock. Your shift.”
Not already. She’d barely made a dent in the files she’d ferried in from work. There were a couple demand packets to review along with adjuster recommendations for settlement. Not to mention twenty or better status reports, case reserves and the usual inter-office B.S. to go through.
“In a minute,” she lisped around the pen.
This time the rapping was louder. Hard knuckles. “Vi, ten o’clock. Get a move on.”
Sighing, she removed the pen. “I’m coming already. Don’t get your shorts in a wad.”
Silence.
Maybe just one more file.
“Vi. Now.”
“Oh, all right.” She threw one last look at the computer screen and left the room.
Ian gave her barely enough room to squeeze through the doorway into the hall. He waited, arms crossed, ready to escort her to her own personal hell.
Frustration made her middle finger itch, the thumb and three other fingers started to bend of their own accord. She reminded herself that obscene gestures got her nowhere. Clamping her rebellious fingers into a tight fist, she rapped on Daisy’s door. “It’s me, Vi. Can I come in?”
“Go away. I don’t know a Vi.”
This was turning into a nightly ritual. Even though Vi had been there nearly a week, Daisy could not, or would not, understand that Vi was there to help. She refused to call her by name, always referring to her in the third person, like she wasn’t there. And then it was usually to accuse her of some heinous crime, such as stealing her paintings, locking her in her room or making a mess. A mess, coincidentally, that only occurred when Daisy was around.
“She’ll get used to you,” Ian assured her for the hundredth time, as he rapped gently on the wooden door. “Mom, Vi’s coming in now. She’ll keep you company, just like Annabelle did.”
“Don’t need company.”