And as the public facts had stated, after his release from prison, the ex-husband had come for one Sandy Holston, bent on killing her for reasons unspecified. He had pursued her into the river, where he was subsequently overwhelmed and drowned by the discharge of water from the upstream hydroelectric dam. What the public facts did not contain, what was contained in the private facts Sandy held so close, was that as Vernon had pursued her, she had retreated downstream with intent and purpose, with precise design, leading him into position at the head of the deepest hole on that stretch of the river just as the wall of discharged water arrived downstream. She’d lured her ex-husband into position just as she would have played a fish. She was a killer, too.
She was Sandy Holston, a woman with a questionable past and a smelly old dog, whose life played out along a tight line between herself and a fish on the other end. She was, admittedly, a “cold fish,” living largely on her own terms, but in this place, this watershed, this river valley, she was also a woman who might, in her own way, love.
AFTERNOON sunlight poured through the glass doors at the end of the hallway. It was the first fully warm day of spring, and Edith had asked to spend as much of it as possible outside, in the courtyard. Sandy was on her way to retrieve Edith, but before she could reach the exit, she was stopped by the exasperated voice of one of the nurses’ aides issuing from the room to her left.
“Now be a good boy for mama,” the nurses’ aide said. Sandy walked to the open door of the room and saw the aide was bent forward, wagging her finger in an old man’s sunken face while her other hand tugged at the fingers of one of the man’s hands, which were clutched tightly to the hem of the blanket covering him. “We have to get you cleaned up and changed. We don’t want to lie there all icky with poo-poo diapers, now do we? Come on, now, let’s be a good boy.”
“Stop that.” Sandy set her purse on a straight-backed chair by the door and stepped to the aide’s side.
“What?” The nurses’ aide turned, startled only slightly, the look of exasperation clear on her face.
“I said stop that.” The aide straightened up, took a step back, and her face went flat as Sandy removed her hand from the old man’s. Sandy recognized the look shifting across the aide’s face. It was, in part, a response to Sandy’s nominal authority over her, but more so it was the face of one of those women, the ones who still regarded Sandy with awe and a bit of fear as the woman for whom men had died.
“But I was just—” Sandy held up her hand, stopping the aide in midsentence.
Sandy drew the curtain around his bed, then took two latex gloves from the aide’s cart, drew them on, and leaned toward the old man in the bed. His head tilted to the side and his mouth hung halfway open, his tongue protruding slightly as it worked hopelessly with the twitch of his lips to form words. His left hand still clung desperately to his blanket, the right lay limp at his side, the fingers curled and immobile. Sandy finished snapping on the gloves and turned to the man, her voice firm and even.
“We’re going to change you now, Mr. Rankin.” His eyes flitted back and forth while the left hand struggled to clutch the blanket tighter. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but it has to be done. Just look at Edie, and she’ll hold your hand. We’ll be done in just a moment.”
Sandy glanced at Edie and nodded toward Mr. Rankin’s hand. “Just hold it,” she said softly. The aide did as instructed, and the man turned his frantic eyes to her. While he was momentarily distracted, Sandy flipped the lower portion of his blanket aside, slid off the soiled incontinence pants, disposed of them, wiped his crotch clean, and slid on a fresh pair of pants. The old man was barely able to turn his eyes back to Sandy by the time she had finished.
“There now,” Sandy said as she pulled off the used gloves and dropped them in the waste container hanging from the aide’s cart. “You’ll rest better now, Mr. Rankin.” She held her hand briefly over his limp one, then slid the curtain aside, scooped her purse from the chair, and motioned for Edie to follow her out into the hallway.
The nurses’ aide rolled her cart out of the room to where Sandy waited.
“Don’t ever do that again.” Sandy slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder.
“Why? You saw what a mess he was. I was just—” Sandy cut her off again.
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Edie’s brows pinched together in confusion. “Don’t ever talk down to a resident that way again. He lacks mobility and speech, but you can see he has some awareness of what’s going on. He’s frightened and embarrassed. He’s a grown man. Don’t talk to him like he’s a child.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And pull the curtain for privacy. He’s a person, and something like this can be humiliating.”
“I’m sorry,” Edie said, the look on her face a mixture of mild regret and genuine fear.
Sandy nodded and walked to the glass doors leading to the courtyard.
Early in her time at the nursing home, Sandy would have given little if any consideration to the emotional frailty at play in custodial care such as that just performed for Mr. Rankin. It was a necessary task to be completed, nothing more. Sandy knew her professional approach was different now, and more than anyone or anything else, Sandy knew this change had come about because of Edith Moser.
EDITH was alone in the courtyard in her wheelchair, her eyes closed, her face turned up to the afternoon sun. The courtyard was an alcove of sorts, a concrete patio enclosed on three sides by the exterior of the building. An arbor extending from the nursing-home roof covered half the courtyard and an assortment of patio furniture. Spaced intermittently around the patio were a few large flowerpots, newly planted with petunias and pansies that had yet to take hold. Two other flowerpots were without flowers, containing instead sand with a variety of cigarette butts speared into it. The open side of the courtyard faced west to the lawn behind the structure, which rolled out to an adjacent pasture where a few spotted cattle could be seen grazing behind their wire fence. The far side of the pasture swept up a slope and into a thick stand of hardwoods and pine. Edith’s chair sat at the far open edge of the patio, the wheels locked in place, exactly as Sandy had positioned her a few hours ago. Sandy stepped quietly to her side and squatted by the wheelchair.
Edith’s face caught and held the afternoon light as if it were emanating from her to the sun. Her lips turned up in just the hint of a smile, more like a grin, as if she knew something no one else would ever have the insight to perceive. The skin of her face was loose, hanging slightly, but still soft and largely unwrinkled. Her legs, stick-thin and virtually useless, were propped on the foot supports of the chair, covered by the robe and blanket Sandy had wrapped her in before bringing her outside. Edith’s hands lay folded in her lap, webbed in thick blue veins under waxy skin as soft as that of her face. Her arms were only slightly more useful than her legs.
Sandy looked at her face, then reached out to gently touch one of Edith’s hands in hopes of not waking her too suddenly. Her hand still hovered just above