Kitty's Saga Chapter Five: Us, Not You

That morning, Sandy came downstairs in her nightdress, one hand trailing lightly along the banister.

The staircase walls were crowded with framed photographs from the different lives she had lived. Family portraits. Vacations. Christmases. Her daughter at various ages. People who had once seemed permanent and had somehow become memories instead.

One photograph remained her favorite.

In it, Sandy stood outside the courthouse in a tweed suit beside her then-teenage daughter and the attorney who had once been her mentor. They were celebrating a courtroom victory that had meant the world to her at the time. Sandy was younger in the photograph, of course, but what struck her whenever she passed it was not the smoothness of her face or the darkness of her hair.

It was the certainty in her posture.

That woman had known exactly where she belonged.

In her heyday, Sandy had worked as a legal secretary. Her employer had practiced law for forty-two years before a swift onset of dementia forced him to abandon the profession he loved.

Watching it happen had devastated her.

He had given nearly everything to his work. His office had consumed his days, his evenings, and more weekends than Sandy could count. By the time his mind began betraying him, there seemed to be precious little waiting for him outside it.

Sandy had been terrified by what she saw.

She began saving every penny she could.

She would not work until somebody carted her from an office into a care facility. She would retire while she was still young enough to enjoy being retired. She would maintain friendships. She would have hobbies. She would travel. She would garden. She would have a life that existed independently of a desk.

And she had done it.

Sandy retired in 1987.

For the most part, she remained proud of that decision.

On difficult days, however, doubts crept in.

Had she retired early enough to save her life from becoming her work?

Or had she walked away from something that had given her life structure and purpose?

Had she escaped her mentor's fate, or had she merely chosen another road toward the same inevitable destination?

Sandy never found an answer that completely satisfied her.

She passed the photograph and continued downstairs.

Her body hurt more than usual that morning.

She noticed it but did not find it particularly alarming. Cancer, a stroke, treatment, and age had collectively turned discomfort into such a familiar companion that Sandy hardly bothered distinguishing one ache from another anymore.

Pain was simply part of getting through the day.

The morning itself was beautiful.

After being trapped indoors for so much of the winter, Sandy noticed sunlight pouring through the windows and decided she wanted to feel it on her face.

Perhaps her gardening magazine had arrived.

She stepped outside.

The air was crisp and cold, but the sky was wonderfully bright.

Sandy walked down the driveway toward the mailbox, enjoying the sunshine for the few seconds it lasted.

Then the world shifted.

She stopped.

I feel very dizzy.

It was the last thought she had.

When Sandy became aware of herself again, she was soaked in sweat.

Something beneath her was moving.

Her body trembled uncontrollably.

There were voices around her. Machinery. A rhythmic electronic beeping she could not immediately place.

Then the pieces slowly assembled themselves.

An ambulance.

She was in an ambulance.

And beside her sat Kitty, crying.

Kitty had seen Sandy fall from the kitchen window.

There had been no graceful collapse, no warning that gave Kitty time to understand what was happening. One moment Sandy was walking toward the mailbox.

The next, she was on the ground.

Kitty ran outside.

"Sandy!"

She dropped beside her, terrified to touch her and equally terrified not to.

"Help! Somebody help!"

Their nosy neighbor, Mr. Fieldbrook, emerged from his house in a plaid bathrobe. For once, Kitty was grateful for his inability to mind his own business.

He stayed beside Sandy while Kitty sprinted back inside and called 911.

After the ambulance arrived, Mr. Fieldbrook practically shoved Kitty toward it.

"Go with her. I'll lock everything up."

"The coffee maker!"

"What?"

"Can you turn off the coffee maker?"

"I'll get it. Go!"

Kitty grabbed Sandy's purse on the way out.

Some weeks earlier, Sandy had given her instructions for emergencies. If something happened, Kitty was supposed to call her grandson, Stafford.

His telephone number was written on a folded piece of paper inside Sandy's purse.

Once Sandy had been admitted to the hospital, Kitty borrowed the telephone at the nurses' station and dialed it.

Voicemail.

"Hello, Stafford? This is Kitty. I live with your grandmother."

She hesitated, suddenly unsure how much she was supposed to say.

"She's very ill. We're at the hospital. Can you come?"

Kitty hung up.

She spent the rest of the day wondering whether she had said it correctly.

By nearly ten that night, Kitty was making what felt like her hundredth trip to the water fountain.

She had arrived at the hospital with nothing.

No money.

No book.

No coat beyond what she had managed to grab.

Nothing to eat.

Nothing to occupy herself with.

Nothing except the obligation she had made to Sandy.

The doctor had explained that Sandy's collapse was caused by dangerously low blood pressure, something that could occur with her current medical condition. She would remain overnight for observation but, barring complications, would likely go home in the morning.

Kitty had promised she would stay until Stafford arrived.

When she made that promise, she had imagined Stafford appearing before lunch.

Then lunch passed.

Then afternoon.

Then dinner.

Now visiting hours were over.

Sandy had fallen asleep with the evening news murmuring from the television in her room. Kitty felt awkward staying beside her while she slept, as though sitting there too long might somehow constitute hovering.

So she resigned herself to spending the night curled up in the waiting room.

Kitty bent over the water fountain and swallowed another mouthful of cold, metallic-tasting water.

Then she heard a man's voice erupt from the nurses' station.

"What do you mean I can't see my grandmother?"

Kitty straightened.

"Sir, visiting hours ended some time ago," a nurse said. "You'll have to come back tomorrow."

"Well, take a message. You can do something that simple, right?"

Kitty walked toward the commotion.

The nurse had acquired the rigid expression of someone rapidly deciding whether security needed to become involved.

The man jabbed a finger toward her.

"Stafford Gunderson was here to see Sandy Brown. You got that?"

Kitty's face brightened.

"Oh! Hi, Stafford? I've been waiting for you."

He turned.

Stafford was not what Kitty had imagined.

From Sandy's descriptions, Kitty had constructed a picture of a tall, dignified young man with blond hair—the sort of grandson an older woman proudly described to anyone willing to listen.

The blond hair, at least, was accurate.

It was flaxen and neatly kept.

The rest was less so.

Stafford was in his mid-twenties and no taller than the petite Kitty. His face seemed built around an expression of permanent contempt: brow lowered, mouth tight, eyes already assessing whatever stood before him and finding it deficient.

Kitty did not care.

She was simply relieved he existed.

Now Sandy had family here.

Now Kitty could go home.

"You're the one who left the message?" Stafford asked.

Kitty nodded.

"So what's going on? What happened?"

"She went outside to check the mail and fainted. The doctor said her blood pressure got really low, but she's okay. They're keeping her overnight and—"

"She pays you, and you're too lazy to get the mail yourself?"

Kitty stopped.

Until that moment, it had never occurred to her that Sandy's collapse could somehow be her fault.

Now guilt rushed into the space Stafford had created for it.

Her shoulders drew inward.

"I didn't—I mean, she just went outside. I didn't know she was—"

"Unbelievable."

Kitty felt herself shrinking beneath his glare.

"She's asleep now," she managed. "We're supposed to take her home tomorrow morning."

Stafford folded his arms.

"'We'?"

Kitty looked at him.

"As in you. The same you who let this happen."

Kitty's mouth opened.

"You should have to pay the hospital bill for this, you know. I should sue you right now."

Her face grew hot.

A tear gathered at the corner of one eye.

Stafford stared at it with disgust.

"Are you crying?"

Kitty quickly wiped at her face.

"My grandmother nearly died because of you, and you have the gall to cry in front of me?"

He turned and stormed out of the hospital.

Kitty remained standing in the corridor.

For several seconds, she did not move.

Then she returned to the waiting room and sat down.

She stayed there until morning, curled into one of the hospital's deliberately uncomfortable chairs, wondering whether she still had a home to return to.

The next morning, Kitty helped Sandy gather her belongings and complete the discharge paperwork.

"Did Stafford ever come?" Sandy asked.

"Yeah."

Sandy looked at her.

"He got here late. They wouldn't let him see you."

That was true.

Kitty omitted the rest.

She did not mention that Stafford had shouted at the nurses.

She did not mention that the staff had discussed having security ready if he returned.

She certainly did not mention that Stafford had blamed her for Sandy's collapse and threatened to sue her.

Kitty did not yet know what to make of him.

He seemed filled with so much anger that she could not tell whether the hospital had caused it or whether anger was simply his natural state.

Maybe he had been frightened.

Maybe he had misunderstood.

Maybe he was not normally like that.

Kitty worked hard to believe this.

As they made their way toward the cab lane, the growl of an engine drew their attention.

Stafford pulled up in a new 2000 Ford Mustang GT.

He got out and politely helped Sandy into the passenger seat.

Kitty relaxed slightly.

See?

Maybe last night really had been fear.

Then Stafford pulled the front seat forward so Kitty could climb into the back of the two-door car. As she ducked past him, his hand pressed against the back of her neck and shoved her downward into the cramped opening.

Kitty stumbled into the back seat.

Stafford said nothing.

He climbed behind the wheel.

It was twenty degrees outside.

Neither Sandy nor Kitty had a proper coat.

Stafford did.

He rolled down the windows.

Cold air tore through the car as he accelerated away from the hospital.

Kitty tucked her hands beneath her arms.

Sandy shivered.

"Stafford, you're going too fast."

"I thought you'd want to get home sooner."

He did not slow down.

By the time they reached Sandy's house, Kitty's hands had gone nearly white with cold.

Then they saw the front door.

It was wide open.

Mr. Fieldbrook had apparently remembered the coffee maker and forgotten the door.

Stafford looked directly at Kitty.

"Wow."

She knew before he continued.

"You can't even close a freaking door. What's wrong with you?"

The words came through gritted teeth.

Sandy looked at him.

"Be nice."

Stafford said nothing.

Inside, the house was bitterly cold.

Everything remained almost exactly as it had been when Sandy collapsed. The interrupted meal still sat on the stove, though thankfully the burners had been turned off. Dishes waited on the counter. A cutting board remained where Kitty had abandoned it when she saw Sandy fall.

Stafford surveyed the kitchen.

"She can't even clean up, and you let her live here?"

Kitty looked at him.

For one brief, furious second, she wanted to answer.

Your grandmother was lying unconscious on the sidewalk.

That was why the kitchen was dirty.

Because Sandy had collapsed.

Because Kitty had run outside.

Because Kitty had screamed for help.

Because Kitty had called the ambulance.

Because Kitty had ridden to the hospital.

Because Kitty had sat there for nearly an entire day waiting for him.

She could have said all of it.

Instead, Kitty looked toward Sandy.

Sandy was exhausted. She was already making her way toward her bedroom, too drained to pay much attention to what was happening behind her.

Kitty swallowed the words.

She did not know her place here.

Stafford was family.

Kitty was not.

That distinction seemed suddenly enormous.

Stafford made himself comfortable. He pulled his gleaming Mustang into the detached garage as though he had every intention of staying.

Kitty remained in the kitchen.

She threw away the abandoned food.

She washed the dishes.

She wiped the counters.

She put everything back where it belonged.

When she finished, her eyes drifted toward the calendar hanging on the wall.

One date remained unchecked.

February fourteenth.

Kitty stared at it for a moment.

Yesterday.

She had forgotten all about it.

She picked up the pen and drew a small mark through the square.

So much for Valentine's Day.

Then she put the pen down and went back to work.