Cynthia Thomason - Your House or Mine?

She chewed on the end of one nail as she scanned the side of the road for a sign that identified the drive to the nursing home. She wondered about what sort of contract the deputy had and if it was truly valid. It couldn’t be. She had legally owned Ashford House for four years. A man can’t just move into town and make a deal on a piece of property that has been given to someone else.

In spite of this controversy, Meg did feel some compassion for the deputy. He was obviously a family man. He’d mentioned his daughter, and Meg supposed he had a wife and perhaps other children who depended on him. And now he would have to disappoint them when he explained about the house. This whole mess really was unfortunate, and certainly not a problem Meg had ever thought she would have to deal with. Just as she never thought she would pull into her aunt’s drive and find a good-looking lawman carting manure from the barn.

She shook her head to dispel the very clear image of Wade Murdock standing so close behind her in the parlor of Ashford House. When she considered Wade’s appearance, which she shouldn’t, since he obviously had a family, she had to admit that Murdock had a certain appealing quality, in what she imagined was a down-to-earth, working man, New York sort of way.

Shady Grove Convalescent Center, five hundred yards ahead.

Meg slowed when she saw the sign and snapped on her blinker, putting Wade Murdock out of her mind. The gracious, solidly constructed two-story structure sat amid leafy mulberry and flowering sweetbay trees. An expansive green lawn displayed a riot of pink-and-white periwinkles clustered around wrought-iron benches. Shady Grove was a picture of pastoral serenity.

Meg parked in front of the entrance and went inside. A pleasant young woman offered assistance and gave Meg directions to Amelia’s room. She walked down a long hallway with doors on either side. Each room had a window with the curtains drawn to let in the sunshine. Some patients appeared to have personal belongings in their rooms, a favorite chair, a painting, something that reminded them of home. Most of the occupants seemed confined to bed, confirming what Meg had thought when she saw a sign identifying her aunt’s wing as “continual care.”

When she neared Amelia’s room, Meg heard a distinctive voice coming from a television. “Come on down. You’re the next contestant on The Price is Right.”

She held a deep breath, stepped inside and looked at the thin, white-haired woman lying in the bed. A smile broke on her face as she recognized the ravaged but still familiar features of her beloved aunt. Amelia seemed to have aged a decade in the last few months.

Meg followed her aunt’s gaze to the TV screen where a young, dark-haired Bob Barker welcomed his latest participant. She recognized the logo of the Game Show Network in the corner of the screen and realized Amelia was watching a repeat of a previous Price is Right broadcast. She came to the side of the bed and spoke softly, “Aunt Amelia?”

Her aunt glanced briefly at her with pale gray eyes that seemed to have lost the spark of enchantment that always twinkled in their depths. She pointed at the television. “Did I order a set of those?”

Meg looked back at the screen where an announcer was describing a set of golf clubs. Taken aback by the ambiguous greeting, she said, “Are you asking me if you ordered golf equipment?” She thought of all the boxes in the dining room and knew some of them were large enough to hold a set.

“If I haven’t, I will. I’ve always wanted some.”

Realizing the futility of asking for further explanation, Meg searched her aunt’s face for some sign that the old woman had recognized her. Her eyes remained cool and remote. Disappointed, Meg gripped the railing of the bed and leaned over the thin form that barely made a ripple beneath the sheets. “Aunt Amelia, it’s me, Margaret.”

Amelia smiled, though not at Meg. “Oh, look. That woman’s got to give the price of an electric blender. I should be on that show. I just bought one, and it cost twenty-nine ninety-five.”

Bob Barker flipped a card over and revealed a price of fourteen dollars for the blender, probably an accurate amount for an appliance that was sold twenty-some years ago when the show was first taped. Amelia clasped her hands under her chin. “See, I told you.”

Meg took Amelia’s hand, thinking the gesture would divert the woman’s attention from the television. “I’m here, Aunt Amelia,” she said. “Remember me? Margaret.”

Her aunt’s attention to the program didn’t waver. “If you’re going to stay, sit down and watch.”

Meg obeyed. She sat in an upholstered armchair by the bed and remained silent through the Showcase Showdown. Once a winner was proclaimed, she asked if she could turn off the television.

“Go ahead. I don’t like The Joker’s Wild.”

Grateful for the silence, Meg tried to reach her aunt again. “It’s so good to see you, Aunt Amelia,” she said.

Amelia’s head swivelled slowly and she finally gave Meg her attention. “It’s good to see you, too. You told me your name, didn’t you? I should have written it down. I tend to forget now and then.” She leaned over and took a notepad and pencil from her nightstand. “That’s why I write things down.” She smiled at Meg. “Now, what is your name again, dear?”

Meg wiped at a tear that slid down her cheek. “My name is Margaret Hamilton. I’m your niece.”

Amelia repeated the words as she wrote Meg’s name down. She stared intensely at the page before narrowing her eyes and squinting at Meg as if she were trying to pull a distant memory from the faulty recesses of her once sharp mind.

Meg swallowed, trying to ease the burning in her throat. Of all the receptions she’d imagined during her drive to Mount Esther, she’d never expected that her aunt would have totally forgotten her existence. After all, hadn’t Nadine Harkwell said that Amelia had asked for her to come?

As she watched her aunt’s face, hoping for a spark of recognition, Meg longed for the chance to go back just a few years, back to when she and Amelia sat on the front porch swing talking for hours about things that mattered to girls, young and old. Back then, they’d been best friends, not distant strangers. But now, the blank look in her aunt’s eyes was almost too much to bear.

Meg patted Amelia’s hand and started to rise. And then a small miracle made her believe that somewhere beneath the muddled thinking, a vibrant, mischievous Amelia Ashford still thrived. Amelia turned her hand over in Meg’s and threaded their fingers together. “Margaret,” she whispered. “My darling Meggie. You’ve come. I knew you would.”

Meg laughed through a choking sob, leaned over and kissed her aunt’s cheek. “That’s right. I’m here. What do you want me to do?”

“We need to talk, Margaret. There is much that needs to be done and I’m afraid there’s too little time.” Amelia’s eyes fluttered and closed. “But I must rest now. Just a wee nap.”

She was sound asleep when the nurse came in to check her. Meg introduced herself. “Did she recognize you?” the nurse asked as she held two fingers against Amelia’s wrist and checked her pulse.

“Yes,” Meg said. “After a while at least.”

“Good. She has lucid moments, and during those times you’re all she talks about.”

“How is she, really?”

The nurse inhaled deeply, indicating her response was not going to be good news. “She’s like many elderly people. They are able to maintain their mental capacity as long as their health is strong. But once they suffer a physical injury, it’s as though their systems shut down.” The nurse jotted something on Amelia’s chart and smiled down at her patient. “But she’s a dear old soul. We’re all quite fond of her.”