04 - Ständchen

The leaves in the parking lot of the Whistling Pines Retirement Community swirled in little vortexes of breeze. The smell of spring filled Miles’s every breath. He stopped, closed his eyes and welcomed a brief moment of peace away from an otherwise stressful day. He took in the sounds around him. Trees rustled in the undulating breeze. Birds called overhead. He imagined them going about their bird lives, building nests for their young and never caring one chirp about him or his universally unimportant problems. Somehow that made them seem slightly more tolerable. If nothing else in the universe cared, then perhaps he could let himself feel a bit of ease, too.

In for four, hold for four, out for four. Repeat.

Inside the doors, the tones of a piano echoed through hallways lined in gaudy crown molding. The song was familiar. It built in volume as he approached a communal area where the walls curved out into a two-story space cluttered with antique-style chairs. Residents clustered around the sound’s origin, nodding their heads with the flow of the rhythm. The player had them entranced. Some of those seated had their eyes closed, taken back to a younger day with younger thoughts and worries. Though they may have merely dozed off.

He remembered. Schubert’s Ständchen. ‘The Serenade’ was the song’s name.

Miles moved round the edge to an open spot in the crowd. Before him was a scene he thought would only exist in his memory, never to be seen in-person again.

The song finished and the crowd gave as energetic an applause as could be expected in such a place. The man’s hands stayed rested on the keys. A staff member helped him off the bench, then led him to a room down the hall. Miles stood motionless. Speechless. He hadn’t seen him play in years. After all this time, it was still inside him. An old spirit nestled somewhere between the worn pathways of instinct and memory.

When Miles finally entered the room, the old man was hunched over his desk near the window, at his usual spot. A sea of dismantled submarine parts was lit by a draftsman’s desk lamp, one Miles had brought from the shop office to give a bit of familiarity to his environment.

“You played beautifully, dad. How are you feeling today?”

The man was engulfed in his work, and didn’t look up even at the sound of his son’s voice. Model making was the most intellectually active thing he’d done the past few years. Miles brought him a new kit every Tuesday during his regular visits. He tried to find things related to his past, something that might shake an old memory loose. A truck he used to drive, a piece of equipment he used to use. He missed this week’s visit to meet the Italian deadline, so the submarine must have been a gift from another resident, or perhaps one of the orderlies.

“Did you finish that GRC-109 radio model yet?” He asked, already seeing it fully assembled on a shelf. “Just like the one you brought back from Nam, right? The one you used to teach me Morse code on? I still remember it, you know. Morse code.”

Miles wondered where all the items of his childhood had gone over the years. The old radio, especially. It was his father’s pride and joy when he still talked. Always kept it clean and maintained. The same one he’d been issued as a comms operator amongst twelve thousand other Canadian troops that joined the US fight against the VietCong. It was a badge of pride for his father. He’d done his part, even if most hadn’t believed in the fight. He’d saved a platoon from a danger-close napalm strike by radioing over another operator’s inaccurate coordinates.

He’d taught Miles the code on that radio, on slow Sunday mornings at the shop, patient as weather. Other things had come down between the letters on those mornings too, dropped like they cost nothing. That when it all went sideways, you pretended the whole world was watching you on the television, the same as it had once watched the astronauts—Apollo 13, limping home—and you held yourself calm and smart and steady right to the end of the trouble, and then you were the one they remembered. And the next time came a little easier, because you already knew you could. And one of those mornings—Miles couldn’t think why it surfaced now—his father had said a thing while tapping out the letters, an aside that had meant nothing to a bored boy. That the code the whole world called Morse had mostly been the work of a quieter man named Vail, and that the name history keeps is hardly ever the name that did the work. It meant something now, watching the great mind that had taught it to him go out, slow, like a tide that wasn’t coming back.

He supposed the radio might have been thrown out during the turmoil after the accident. Miles escaped the pain of his mother‘s death by going to college, but his father was left to deal with the impossible task of putting life’s shattered pieces back together. The guilt for leaving still hung like an iron ingot from his heart.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. Sometimes I find myself tapping dots and dashes into the table when I’m lost in thought. And then other times, I…”

“Mr. Holoway?” Came a soft voice from between the cracked door.

“Yes?”

“Oh, good. I was going to call, but since you’re here now… could I have a word?”

Miles followed a knot of bouncing brown hair with blond highlights skewered by an ornately lacquered chopstick. It conjured the image of a Cinnabon next to a Panda Express in an airport food court. Below it a black polo shirt was embroidered in green lettering:

Whistling PinesA Community of Friends

The woman motioned for Miles to sit down in a musty room with floral-patterned lounge chairs.

“You know, Martin is one of our favorites here at WP.”

“He’s hard not to like. I just wish there was more of him left. He was an engineer before… before everything happened.”

“That’s actually what I’d like to speak with you about. Martin… has been wandering.”

“Wandering?”

“Six times this month, and it’s getting more frequent. His symptoms seem to be advancing more rapidly than we’d hoped. Especially after the budget cuts six months ago, we’re really not equipped to handle a case of his progression.”

“Where exactly is there for him to wander to?”

“Various places in the neighborhood, but staff found him at Mountain View cemetery again this morning. He must have crossed three roads to get there. We’re worried about his safety when not under constant watch. Like I said, Martin is liked here, and we really hate to see him go…”

“See him go? I don’t understand. You’re kicking him out?”

“I wouldn’t use those words. We have a protocol for certain resident circumstances, and in this case, administration deemed it best for Martin if he were transferred to a home with facilities specializing in memory care.”

Miles tried to calm the palpitates coming from his chest. He tried to sluff off this new sandbag being added to the other ten already weighting his shoulders. ‘Anger is an easy emotion’, he told himself. A remnant of the group sessions he met Simon at.

Perhaps she could be reasoned with.

“He played the piano today. That must be a sign that he’s improving. He forgets things, sure, but he likes it here. His friends are here. Mountain View cemetery is where… he’s just visiting mom’s grave. And… is that even a good idea? I was told changes to environment can be difficult on him.”

“I’m sorry Mr. Holoway, but our first priority is to ensure Martin has the care he needs.”

Cinnabon-hair offered a laminated sheet, “this is a list of alternative accommodations for you to choose from. We’ll make all the arrangements for his transfer including transportation and billing changeover. We just need your approval as to his final destination.”

Final destination. How quaint, he thinks.

Miles reviewed the list of facilities and services, trying to muster an impression of what life might be like at each. The tiny thumbnail images of the rooms and halls didn’t say much. A view not much better than the portholes of a 1/100th scale submarine. A slow tingle of discomfort and angst crawled over him. He didn’t want this. Didn’t need it now for sure, but the biggest shock came when he saw the price list.

“These places are easily three times the price of Whistling Pines.” He read off some of the cheaper options, “$5950, $6830 a month… Who the hell can afford this?”

His mind reached for the last memory of his bank account balance. A week ago, it had enough for three months of care for dad plus bulk-order bags of chicken and vegetable stir-fry mix, the cheapest way he’d found to sustain himself.

The woman leaned in and dotted the options with a disposable pen. “These are top-notch facilities that will be there for Martin twenty-four seven, including memory care to help offset deeper progression from dementia into Alzheimer’s.”

Progression. Facilities. Residents. Transfer. All sterilized words to describe the most difficult time in someone’s life. Miles tried to focus back. Dad was the only thing that mattered. ‘When you can’t find a solution, look at the problem from a different angle. Think laterally’, dad would have said.

“What… what would happen if I missed a payment?”

“As far as I know, our partner facilities have a 60-day grace period. After that, any unpaid resident would be moved to a state-run facility. Of course, we can’t guarantee the quality of care that would be provided in a place like that. Between you and me, these are much better environments for him.”

The molten swirl of anger and depression was getting harder to contain. Rubbing alcohol spilled over a raw cut. Capitalists taking advantage of people at their most desperate. He could only imagine how many families were struggling like he was, no doubt many in even worse situations.

Miles took a deep breath, then resentfully selected the cheapest option on the list before returning to his father’s room. The guilt was heavy in picking the bottom-rung choice for a man that had given so much of himself. Given everything.

“I know this is an impossible decision, and we thank you for your understanding.”

“Not like I had a choice.”

Cinnabon took the clipboard with both hands and stood to leave before pausing, then turned back to Miles.

“I think you should know… sudden improvement is not always a good sign.”

“What do you mean?”

“You mentioned he was playing piano again. Patients sometimes become very lucid during the last weeks or months of their time. Some say it’s nature’s way of giving their loved ones a chance to say goodbye. I’m letting you know so that you don’t miss an opportunity, if that’s what is happening in this case.”

“I understand. Thanks.”

Cinnabon started up from the sofa and Miles rested a hand on her arm, “Wait. Would you say there’s… I mean, in your experience, have you ever seen someone recover, you know—long-term I mean, after one of these ‘moments of lucidity’?”

She sat back down, “Well, I’ve certainly seen things I can’t explain. I won’t tell you it never happens. But it’s rare.” She paused. “What’s less rare is stranger.” She seemed to weigh whether to say it at all.

“Near the end, some of them arrive at this… absolute peace. Not resignation, but a sort of certainty. They seem to know where they’re going. It’s not that they’re making peace with dying, but rather that they’re impatient to begin something new.” A breath. “Some of them even see ahead. They’ll say a thing, and days later—weeks even, it happens, exactly. Things they had no way of knowing. I’m sure that if I gave you the specifics, you’d find a reason to dismiss them. But I was in the room—more than once. Near the end the veil seems to wear thin. Some just seem to get a clear glimpse of the other side.” She looked at him. “I attend conferences sometimes, about end of life care—you meet a lot of people. I’ve heard the same from quite a few others in my field. People who take this kind of work, one of two things happens. They either come around to a new picture of reality, or they leave inside a month. It takes a certain kind to stay. You have to leave the door open for what’s possible.” Cinnabon placed a hand over Miles, “I hope that gives you some comfort.” She attempted a smile before departing, and Miles attempted to compose himself before returning to his dad.

Miles turned the knob to Martin’s room, forcing his voice into a hopeful, cheerful tone, “Dad, they’re going to help you pack your things, alright? You’re… going to an upgraded room. A suite they say. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“A suite?” Said a voice he had almost forgotten the sound of. The word seemed to spark something in him. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. He’d spoken.

“I saw her today,” said his father in that patient, friendly tone Miles had so dearly missed.

“Dad?” He muttered with welling eyes, now unable to hold back. “Who did you see?”

“I saw her. My wife.”

“Mom? Where did you see her?”

The old man set down a plastic anti-aircraft gun turret and turned towards Miles.

“You know, she was standing there with me, next to my son. The ocean was so beautiful. Sparkling.”

Miles wasn’t sure how to feel. This was the most lucid he’d been in years. The piano playing. Actually speaking. But the words of Cinnabun echoed in his head. This memory was certainly from a time long passed. Mom was gone. They hadn’t been to the beach since Miles was a kid. At least the image seemed comforting to Martin. The thought crossed Miles’ mind that his mom was somehow reaching out from the great beyond.

“Did she say anything?”

A slight glaze moved across his father’s eyes and for the first time in years, a smile lit up his face. “She said ‘well Marty, you’re finally getting your astronaut dream!’.” Martin stretched out his hand as if reaching for something, “I never saw such a view of the ocean.”