Sandwiched. Jennifer Archer
moving there, really. Like I’ve said before, Parkview isn’t a nursing home; good heavens, I’m not ready for that. It’s simply a community of retirees, but they do have a nursing staff on the premises in case they’re needed. Still, it wasn’t what I’d hoped.
One day I may have to accept moving back to Parkview Manor or someplace like it. But for now, while I’m still able to care for myself and able to help CiCi with Erin, I couldn’t bear to spend another day in the place. Gather that many old men and women together in one building and what do you get? A big ol’ bunch of busybodies with too much time on their hands, that’s what. Why, just last week, Ellen Miles tried to pry gossip out of me about Jane Binkley. I didn’t waste a minute before setting her straight. I told her I don’t make a habit of talking about other people’s business. “Just because my apartment is next door to Jane’s and I’m privy to most of the woman’s coming and goings,” I said, “doesn’t mean I’ll tell you or anybody else about the late hours men spend over there, or about all the giggling I often hear on the other side of my wall.”
I swear, Harry, you should have seen Ellen’s face! Her eyes bulged and she slapped a hand over her mouth like I had offended her, instead of the other way around.
Busybodies aside, Parkview just isn’t for me. It doesn’t seem natural to see only old, wrinkled faces day by day, to go out into the courtyard and never hear children laughing, to never see or speak to young families playing together or taking bike rides or walks around the neighborhood. A happy, healthy life requires a certain mix of ingredients. Babies and children. Teenagers. Middle-aged people and old folks. Most of those ingredients are missing at Parkview, and what remains is a very stale cake.
The only things I liked about the Village are a few dear friends I met and the reading group, which I formed and CiCi led. She’s promised we can go on with it, that we’ll keep meeting each week and she’ll still read aloud for those of us with eyes too weak.
Speaking of my eyes, Cecilia would probably tell you a different story about my ability to take care of myself. Because my sight’s getting worse, she’s hired a baby-sitter to stay with me during the day. She won’t listen when I tell her that, other than driving and reading and the like, I’m as self-sufficient today as I was five years ago and the five before that. My new glasses help with my vision. My only complaint is that the magnification is so strong my eyeballs look as if they might pop out of their sockets. I’m trying not to be vain, but sometimes I’m glad you can’t see me like this.
I’ll be thinking of you every moment next Saturday, the anniversary of our last day together. The truth is, I still think of you almost all the time on every day. I try to concentrate only on the good times, but often my mind drifts to the difficult times, too. Oh, how I wish we had had more patience with one another. Why did we spend even one precious moment on pettiness, jealousy or pointless blame? Because of your stubbornness and the resentments I collected like rare coins, we wasted minutes that could’ve been spent making joyful memories. If only we had it to do over.
That said, I must admit that sometimes I even miss our arguments. I miss your hard head, our standoffs. Without them, there’d have been no making up. And making up was the sweetest thing, wasn’t it?
I’m asking Cecilia to drive me to Cleburne and by our old house next Saturday to check on your prize roses. If the weather held, they always lasted at least through mid-November. I hope that’s true this year. I missed having you give me the first bloom this season. It was always my favorite gift from you, especially during our tough times. It seemed a promise that everything was all right between us. That you were sorry, or I was forgiven, or you’d given in and life would go on.
Saturday, when we turn the corner onto Bentwood Drive I will see your tender smile in the blooms. And I’ll remember.
As always, your yellow rose,
Belle
CHAPTER 4
Cecilia Dupree
Day Planner
Wednesday, 11/5
1. 9:00—Hoyt Couple—New patient appt.
2. 1:00—Mom’s Parkview reading group.
3. Call Bert. Remind him he has a daughter.
By nine-thirty-five, I’m wondering if Mr. Roger Hoyt will ever open his twitching mouth and start talking. He sits stiff and straight as a ruler beside his wife of twenty years, hands clutching the chair’s arms like he’s on a roller coaster that’s about to take off. His expression tells me his tie is too tight. Only, he isn’t wearing a tie.
“Mr. Hoyt…Roger. May I call you Roger?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Cut to the chase, I decide. Ask him point-blank. I lean forward. “Cindy has said that she feels you don’t love her anymore. That you’re bored with her.” I catch his gaze, hold it. “How do you feel? Are you bored with your wife? Have you fallen out of love with her?”
Roger Hoyt reeks of fear, or it might be his aftershave; I’m not sure. He glances at the woman in question and clears his throat. “I still love my wife. It’s just, well, I’m not in love with her. Not anymore.”
Cindy’s lower lip quivers.
I flash back to the moment Bert made the same admission to me, and I sympathize with Cindy Hoyt. “Okay, Roger. When did you realize this?”
He clears his throat again. “I can’t put my finger on an exact moment. It just sort of happened over time. We stopped having fun together, stopped talking about anything except the kids and the bills. That sort of thing.”
“So, you’re saying you’re more like brother and sister now?”
“Yeah, but we still…you know. We’re more than brother and sister, but it’s not enough.” He shifts in the chair. “I want more.”
“You’ve got commitment, the security of family, but no passion?”
He nods.
I turn to Cindy. “What’s it like for you to hear all this?”
“It hurts.” She blinks tear-bright eyes. “But he’s right. We don’t have fun anymore. We don’t really talk. And our sex life has suffered. But I think we can work things out if we try.”
I watch for Roger’s reaction. Interesting. Cindy sees it, too, and looks down at her lap.
“Roger, when Cindy just said that, you cringed. Why?”
“I don’t know. I, um, I guess I’m not sure if I want this anymore. I—”
Cindy sits straighter; her expression hardens. “That’s just what I thought, Roger. Do you think I haven’t noticed how much time you’ve been spending at work?” She turns to me. “I think he’s starting something with his secretary.”
“I am not!” Roger’s face flames.
“Not an affair,” Cindy adds quickly, anger replacing the hurt in her voice. “Not yet. But I saw the e-mails, Roger. I saw them. The woman couldn’t be more than twenty-five.” She crosses her arms and leans back.
A switch flips inside me. I stare at Roger and cross my arms, too. “Would you care to tell me about these e-mails between you and…?”
“Bitsy,” Cindy hisses. Our eyes meet then narrow in unison. In unity.
“So, Roger, you and Bootsy have been flirting with infidelity through e-mails, is that—”
“Betsy. Her name is Betsy. I—we’re—” Roger scoots to the edge of the chair. Glares at Cindy. At me. “We’re not…I…” He stands. “Fuck this! Fuck it! I won’t sit here while a complete stranger and my wife gang up me.”
Oh, no! No! Damn it! What’s wrong with me? What am I doing? I reach my hand toward him. “Calm down,