The Road To Echo Point

Vi shook herself out of her reverie. She didn’t avoid challenges anymore, she took them head-on.

Her knuckles stung as she rapped on the striated surface of the door. Her efforts hardly made a sound. She pounded with her fist the second time and was rewarded with a dull thud.

She swore under her breath as she blew on her bruised hand.

The door swung open instantly, silently. Plenty of oil on those old fittings.

“You’re here. Good.”

The Ian guy stood in the doorway, his massive arms folded over his chest.

Vi took in his scruffy, stubbled jaw. She raised an eyebrow at his just-rolled-out-of-bed hair—short, dark-blond spikes here, mashed flat to his head there. And to think she’d envied guys with their wash-and-go cropped hair. Apparently, the “wash” part was critical to the whole ’do. He looked like a shower and a dab of shampoo might work wonders.

The view improved once her gaze got past the stubbled jaw. His Phoenix Coyotes hockey jersey, though badly wrinkled, outlined a very nice set of pecs, then hinted at a muscled stomach before neatly disappearing in to his jeans. No doubt about it, he was devoted to his hometown teams. The teal and purple presumably brought out the green in his eyes, but today they were just too bloodshot.

It had to be one hell of a hangover, judging from the way his hand shook where he gripped the wrought iron door handle.

Wariness twisted her stomach. This was more than she’d bargained for. Vi let her suitcase down with a thunk. The laptop case remained firmly on her shoulder.

She stuck out a hand. His grip was strong, but with a tremor she could have named in seconds.

“Too much partying?” It was more of an observation than a question.

Ian scowled in response. His shoulders straightened. He had to be six-three or six-four. No wonder he’d scared the hell out of her.

“Look, lady, I don’t know where you think you’ve landed, but there isn’t too much to celebrate around here.”

Vi shot him a glare. “I know a hangover when I see one.”

“You do, huh? How about sleep deprivation, you familiar with that?”

She raised her chin a fraction. “I’ve read a bit. And my secretary has a colicky baby. She says that’s why she’s always late.”

He looked her up and down, his gaze attacking her neatly pressed khakis, polished loafers, cotton sweater set. He shook his head. “No, you’ve never missed a moment’s sleep. Your poor secretary.”

The laptop strap bit into her shoulder. His words bit into her pride. She was a good boss, dammit. She’d come up the hard way—won a scholarship for inner city teens. She knew what it was like to struggle, to fight.

Vi took a deep breath and reminded herself that getting along with the guy might mean all the difference. “Look, we got off to a bad start. Why don’t we try again? You could begin by inviting me in.”

He grunted in reply, shoving away from the wall. He turned without a word, leaving her to follow like a helpless child.

She grabbed her tweed suitcase and trotted behind him. And she never trotted behind anyone. One or two steps ahead at the very least.

“I’d like to get unpacked right away. Get my computer set up….” Her mind was off and running, calculating how she would keep her finger on the pulse of the office, while stuck out here in the boonies. She shuddered to think that Echo Point was the closest outpost of civilization. It was a good twelve miles away.

“Yeah, we better get moving. The witching hour is almost here,” he muttered.

She barely heard him. “What was that…witching hour?” she mumbled, still mulling over office politics.

VI JUMPED at the sound of an insistent knock at her door.

She shoved her socks and underwear into the top drawer of the distressed pine dresser and slammed it shut.

“Vi?” came the deep voice.

“Just a minute,” she called, stowing her luggage under the bed. As she stood, she adjusted the pile of pillows, smoothed the lovely chenille bedspread. Unbleached cotton, maybe even organic. It felt heavenly, soft, under her fingers. It’d taken years to educate herself about the finer things in life. And soon, she’d be able to afford them. Even with the big chunk of her paycheck she sent to L.A. each month.

Another knock. This time louder. Desperate almost.

Hurrying to the door, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She pasted on a confident smile.

“Ready…lead the way,” she said as she opened the door. She was talking to a hulking back moving down the hallway. Vi jogged to catch up with him.

The Mexican tile blurred beneath her feet—the stark white walls glowing in contrast. Migraine-inducing bright. But at least it lightened up all the colonial Mexican stuff.

Just when she thought she might go blind from the glare, the hallway opened into a great room. Large, low-ceilinged, with a big screen TV in the corner. Spare, to the point of being scary. No homey pile of magazines. Just a remote and a TV magazine—

Vi frowned. Was the remote actually chained to the coffee table?

It was.

“Mom, this is Vi.”

Ian nudged her forward until they reached a leather sofa. The high gloss and buttery tones promised soft calfskin. A colorful Indian blanket was draped across the back, right behind an old woman. Slender arms, soft, silvery-gold hair worn in a chin-length bob and cornflower blue eyes that sparkled.

“Vi, this is my mother, Daisy.”

“Hello.” She extended her hand.

The woman grasped Vi’s hand in her own. Pat-pat went the ringed fingers. Her hands were cool, her scent divine. There was a grace to her movements, a regal quality in her posture. This woman hadn’t slouched a day in her life.

“I’m Daisy. Welcome.”

The woman stood, and her petite frame surprised Vi—her head didn’t reach much higher than Vi’s shoulder. Without warning, the tiny thing enfolded her in a hug.

Vi stiffened. Glancing over the golden head to the giant, she pleaded with her eyes.

Save me.

There would be no rescue from that corner. The exhaustion had cleared from Ian’s face and his eyes were alight with affection.

She awkwardly patted the woman’s straight back, then disengaged herself.

“Mom, Vi’s going to join us for dinner.”

“Who’s Vi?” she asked, a frown pulling at her brow.

“I’m Vi.”

“Oh, yes, yes of course, dear. But who’s joining us for dinner?”

Vi turned helplessly to Ian. This threatened to become a bad game of “Who’s on First?” She’d had only a brief opportunity to research Alzheimer’s and didn’t quite know what to expect.

“Mom, why don’t you show our guest your paintings while I get dinner.”

“What a lovely idea, dear.” The old woman took Vi’s arm and gently led her through an arch and down a long corridor.

Vi couldn’t help but notice the strange wallpapering technique they’d employed. There was some sort of border on the wall, about elbow height. It looked like metallic tape. Reflective tape?

She opened her mouth to ask about it, but never got a break in the conversation. The older woman chattered as they strolled, commenting on the weather, the ballet she’d just seen, the latest scandal involving President Nixon.

Other than forgetting the current president, she seemed remarkably in charge of all her faculties. This job might just be easier than Vi had anticipated.

“Here’s my studio,” Daisy commented, as they reached a set of double doors at the end of the hallway. She threw open the doors to reveal a breathtaking view. There were windows from floor to ceiling along one wall, framed by the gray and purple of the Superstition Mountains in the distance. Below, a lush meadow meandered to a stand of cottonwood trees, with a few scrub oak sprinkled in. Mostly green, but with an occasional burnt orange leaf here and there. Gorgeous.

And the supplies. She’d never seen so many wonderful paints in one place, short of an art store. Her fingers itched to hold a brush, to try the pastels she’d experimented with years ago, given to her by a kind teacher. But no, the colors were all wrong. A bolder, more brilliant medium was needed. One that would bring out all the contrasts and textures.

“It’s wonderful,” she breathed.

“I knew you’d like it. You have artistic hands.”

The gnarled hands picked up hers, tracing the length of her fingers, pressing gently on her palm, as if assessing her strength.

“Mine were very much like this once.” The old lady sighed and dropped her hand. She turned away from Vi, but couldn’t hide the regret in her voice.

“Once?”

Daisy wandered toward the window, lost in thought. “Can’t hold a paintbrush.”

Back she came, her movements stiff, disjointed.

“Can’t dance, either. Knees won’t work right.”

To the window and back, faster and faster.

“Everyone knows. Hold a brush properly. First lesson.”

She moved to the workbench and grabbed a coffee can full of paintbrushes. “Can’t do it.” She stalked toward Vi. “Can’t do it, can’t do it, can’t do it, can’t do it,” she chanted, louder with each refrain. Crimson splotched her wrinkled cheeks. The rest of her face was deathly pale, almost gray.

Oh, God, she’s going to have a stroke.

“It’s okay,” Vi soothed. Her stomach knotted with helplessness. How was she supposed to handle this woman?

“Can’t do it, can’t do it. Can’t do it!” She was directly in front of Vi. Droplets of saliva showered her face. The old hands clawed at her.

“Can’t do it!” she shrieked. The woman turned and with surprising strength, hurled the can, brushes and all, at the window.

The glass shattered. Large jagged cracks radiated from the spot where the can had connected.

Vi panicked. What in the heck was she supposed to do?

Surely Ian had heard the commotion. Surely he’d fling open the doors and take care of this…this situation. She strained her ears, willing his heavy footsteps.

Nothing. No sound of the cavalry coming to her rescue.

Daisy, surprisingly nimble now, raced toward the window.

Vi made a split-second decision and sprinted after her. She caught the woman from behind in a big bear hug. Daisy thrashed and screamed, batting at Vi’s arms. Vi held on tightly, gasping for air. She wouldn’t let go. Wouldn’t let this sick woman throw herself through the glass.

The tiny figure twisted and wrenched in her arms. Every movement forced Vi’s arm upward. She could strangle the old woman if she didn’t let go. But Daisy could die if she did. It wasn’t much of a choice.

CHAPTER TWO

VI SPUN HER BODY to the left, taking Daisy with her. Enraged shrieks beat against her ears. Her arm inched higher, over the lady’s chin.

Then everything went red. Vi howled with outrage. The old woman was biting her.

Teeth ground down, never releasing. No dentures here.

The door flung open. Ian’s gaze swept over her and his mother.

“Help me!” Vi screamed. The jaws clenched harder. Pain shot up her arm, radiating along her shoulder. Flashes of light erupted behind her eyes. Heat rushed over her in waves, her knees threatened to buckle.

Ian strolled toward them.

Couldn’t the man see she was dying?

“Hurry,” she yelled.

Teeth. Pain.

“Shh,” he soothed. “You calm down, she’ll calm down.” His tone was conversational, as if they discussed the weather.

The vice on her arm eased a fraction.

“Good.” He continued to saunter toward them, his voice low.

Vi tried for a fair imitation of his Mr. Roger’s cheerful croon. Through clenched teeth, she sang, “She’s killing my freaking arm.”

“It’s not your freaking arm I’m worried about.”

“It worries me,” she barked.

The vise tightened again.

“Mom, dinner’s ready.” He held out his hand to the woman. “We don’t want it to get cold.”

Vi cautiously relaxed her grip on the woman.

The jaws unclenched.

Vi backed away, ever so slowly. She didn’t dare breathe until she was out of biting distance.

“Why isn’t this woman in the hospital?”

“Because hospitals won’t take her. This is a chronic problem, not acute. And this is her home. She belongs here.”

The tiny woman faced her. Sweat dripped down her cheek. Saliva pooled at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes had lost their sparkle, dulled by confusion.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m Vi. Remember?”

“I don’t know a Vi,” she stated. Turning to Ian, her voice shaky, she asked, “Do I?”

He stepped over to his mother’s side. “This is Vi, Mom. She’s our guest for dinner.”

A radiant smile broke over the woman’s face. She must have been quite beautiful at one time. “Of course, dear. Our guest.”

“I WON’T STAY,” Vi hissed. “I’m not qualified for this.”

“Sure you’re qualified. You think on your feet. And you know a mean half nelson.” Ian gave her a lopsided grin.

His poor attempt to distract her with humor almost worked. The fact that he had a sense of humor came as a complete surprise to Vi.

“That woman is a danger. To herself. To me. She needs professional help. Wh-what would have happened if she’d thrown herself through that window?”

His grin faded.

“She didn’t. And you were there. You handled it. Once you understand her a little better, you’ll do great.”

“Look, I can’t take care of a houseplant. Or pets. You’ve obviously overestimated my capabilities.”

Ian scratched his head. “It’s usually not this intense. It’ll take a little time for Daisy to adjust to having you around,” he said. “I’m sure you can handle it, or I wouldn’t ask.”

“There’s got to be somebody else. How about a private nurse? Someone who specializes in this kind of thing. I’ll help pay.”

He brushed his hand over his face. “Don’t you think I’ve thought of that? Nurses don’t come cheap.” Then he named an astronomical figure. “I can’t risk using up Daisy’s nest egg. She might need it…later. And I doubt you’re willing to foot the bill.”

Vi’s heart sank as she mentally inspected her savings account. There was no way she could swing it—not if she wanted to send money to L.A. every month. And there was no question about that. It kept her conscience clean.

“I’ll stay a week. That ought to be long enough for the dog to get back up to par….” It was a stab in the dark, but she had to try.

“The vet said a month at the minimum. I’m not risking permanent damage to Annabelle, just to make life easier for you. You don’t have a choice. No Daisy, no driver’s license. No driver’s license, no job.”

There was a hard edge to his voice as he scraped mangled Tater Tots and smeared ketchup into the garbage. The remnants of microwaved hot dogs, stale buns and carrot sticks soon followed. The meal made campus food look gourmet.

“Look, I’ll buy you another dog. AKC, pick of the litter, whatever it takes.”

“Annabelle cost over fifteen thousand dollars. Even if you could cough up that kind of money, a dog like her takes a year and half to train.”

“Fifteen thousand dollars?” She nodded her head in the direction of the dog basket in the corner of the kitchen, where the subject of their discussion lay, head on paws, big brown eyes following every movement, every nuance. “That cost fifteen thousand dollars? Boy, did you get screwed.”

“That happens to be a member of our family. She’s worth every penny and then some. Believe me, by the time your four weeks are up, you’ll agree.”

“You never told me why this dog is so important. I can see your mother needs help, but, well, wouldn’t she be more comfortable in an institution? Where there are people trained to handle her problems?”

He crossed his arms. “Home is the best place for her. Annabelle has been trained to help keep her here. Wandering is a big problem.”

“That’s what I’ve read.” Vi mulled over her options.

“I can do two weeks. That’ll use up all my personal and sick time, but I think I can make it work. After that you’re on your own.”

“No deal. This mess is your fault. You’re here till Annabelle’s well enough to work. You leave and I’ll have the judge issue an arrest warrant so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

No counteroffer. That wasn’t good. This was his turf and his rules. It went against everything in her being to do it, but she had no choice but to bid against herself.

“Three weeks.”

He folded his arms over his chest, his mouth set in a thin line. “Uh-uh. Four weeks. And that’s only if Annabelle heals without complications. It could be six.”

Vi pictured her future sliding down the drain in six weeks. Jerry Jones could be well on his way to stealing her promotion.

But knowing when to concede was one of her better survival skills—she’d learned that at home a long time ago. She’d let Ian think he’d won, this time. “It seems I don’t have a choice.”

The man nodded, accepting her apparent defeat. A crooked grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. He had dimples. What a waste.

“It’ll be interesting to see who wins. You or Daisy.”

“I don’t lose. Ever.”

“Uh-huh,” he grunted, an eyebrow raised in speculation. “I’ll take the shift tonight. Tomorrow while Daisy’s at the center, we’ll discuss her care. You better get some sleep, you’ll need it.

VI FLINCHED. Her heart pounded. Some sort of noise?

She struggled to focus. It was dark, only vague shadows of heavy furniture against pearly white walls.

Where the heck was she?

A strange bed, high off the ground, a footboard with swirls of black against misty gray. Intricate, hand-worked wrought iron.

The noise. There it was again. Pounding, yelling, more pounding.

Daisy. The old lady. What was going on?

Vi burrowed farther under the covers, muffling a curse. With the bedspread over her head, she could barely hear it. Ian had promised to take this shift.

Sure enough, a muffled, “I’m coming, Mom.”

Something heavy thudded against the wall, then footsteps dragged outside her door. It was like something out of the Simpson trial. Had Kato been this scared?

She clenched a corner of the crisp muslin sheet.

More hollering. A doorknob rattled. The pounding resumed.

Vi couldn’t take it anymore.

Fresh air hit her in a cool wave as she pawed her way out of her cocoon. Throwing on her robe, she slid her feet into her slippers.

The door latch was cool beneath her hand, the door opened easily, silently. She sucked in a breath, rattled by what she saw—Ian, a pair of Arizona State University maroon-and-gold sweatpants slung low on his hips and nothing else. Shirtless, he was more Greek god than hulking monster.

Ian fumbled in his pocket and took out a key. He barely got it clear of the lock when a figure came through the doorway and bounced off his chest.

He didn’t grab the figure. Instead, he stood there, arms hanging at his side, talking. Just talking.

Daisy jabbered in rapid-fire succession. Not a word made sense.

Ian inclined his head as he spoke to Daisy, his voice low, reassuring. “It’s okay, Mom, I’m here. It’s me. Ian. Everything’s okay.”

The jabbering slowed to English. “I was trapped. Somebody kidnapped me and locked me in there to die.”

“No, Mom. I locked the door so you wouldn’t get lost.”

“I don’t get lost.” Daisy straightened, the top of her head barely reaching Ian’s chest.

“Sometimes you don’t remember so good.”

“I remember perfectly.” She smoothed her wild hair. Stabbing a finger in Vi’s direction, she shrieked, “She did it. She broke into our house and locked me in my room. She stole my paintings!”

“Shhh. You remember Vi, our guest.” He laid a hand on his mother’s withered arm. “Come on, I’ll walk you to the bathroom.”

“Yes, of course,” she murmured.

The two walked down the hall, hand in hand, one robust, the other tiny and confused.

Vi shook her head and shuffled back to bed, where she flip-flopped for more than an hour. What about this Alzheimer’s stuff? What was it she had read? Progressive, no cure. Eventually fatal. Not a pretty picture. The old lady would die. But what happened in the meantime?

Sighing, Vi contemplated the mess she’d made. Her futile attempt to outrun the past had sent ripples through three lives, four if she counted the dog. The thought of Annabelle with her bandaged hind leg and Daisy with her irrational tantrums made Vi want to crawl under the covers and hide. She’d messed up big time and turned life upside down for everyone involved.

Was she any better than her dad? Letting her emotions get the upper hand until she lost control and did something stupid? Something that hurt another living being?

Vi shook her head. She wouldn’t accept that. There was a world of difference between her and her dad. She intended to make things right for Daisy and Ian. But she wasn’t a trained nurse, or even a social worker. What if she screwed up? The woman could have gone through that glass panel today. If the fall hadn’t gotten her, the glass would have sliced her to shreds. This was too much for them to expect of her.

The decision wasn’t easy, but it was best for everyone involved. She would leave in the morning. Call her attorney. Have him explain everything to the judge. Sell her car, if necessary, to pay for a qualified nurse….

IAN POURED HIMSELF another cup of coffee. Thank God for the senior center. Tuesdays and Thursdays were what kept him going. The first few hours were exhilarating. Freedom beckoned, with endless possibilities. What should he do first? Read? Jog? Work at the computer? Sleep maybe? At nine in the morning, the world looked rosy.

But the crash always came. Along about noon, he’d come down off his high. The responsibility would drop on his shoulders like a rack of free-weights. By two o’clock his gut started churning, tying itself in knots. Fear? Disappointment? Dread for sure. Maybe even a little guilt. He could do better. Be more patient.

Vi staggered around the corner, interrupting his thoughts. Her pink terry cloth robe was belted haphazardly, her black hair wild. She scratched her head, leaving a big cow lick behind.

He shook his head. This couldn’t possibly be the same woman. He let his gaze rove from her face, down her neck, to where the nubbly fabric dipped between her breasts. The ratty old robe was an improvement over the power suits and country club casual stuff. Breasts?

Ian shoved his mind into reverse.

Breasts. The boardroom barracuda had breasts. Imagine that.

He shook his head, bemused.

“Morning, Vi,” he drawled, his gaze seeking out more visual clues, from her shaggy pink slippers upward. Breasts meant hips and a waist. But the bulk of her robe kept everything else hidden.

He stifled a sigh of disappointment. The deprivation was getting to him. Abstinence had never been one of his strong points.

“Morning,” she mumbled, shuffling past.

He winced as she slammed a cupboard door. So did she.

“Where the hell do you keep the coffee cups?”

“My, aren’t we cheery this morning. Upper left.”

She turned, briefly, to fix him with a bloodshot glare.

“Too much partying last night?” He hid a smile in his coffee cup. That’d get a reaction.

Vi grunted, noncommital.

Was she even conscious?

She poured herself a hefty cup of coffee and gulped down a good third of it. The woman might have nerves of steel, but her esophagus had to be cast iron. She closed her eyes and sighed with bliss.

“Cream, sugar?”

“Uh-uh.”

He raised an eyebrow. Impressive.

“Sorry about all the noise last night.”

She waved a hand and grunted as she shuffled past him, back the way she had come.

It was at least half an hour before she returned for her second cup. This time there was a little life in her step. And the light of battle in her eyes.