Finding Home Read Free

salt air. Over the past eleven months that exercise had become a ritual, an attempt to psyche himself up for the distinctive and unappealing aroma that clung to Seaside Gardens—and every facility like it. An unsettling combination of death, age, excrement, disinfectant, mass-produced food and air freshener.
    He’d checked out half a dozen of the finest such facilities in Eureka, and the obnoxious smell was omnipresent. It was even here, at the best of the best. It would be one thing if there was no choice; he could cope better with that. But Gram didn’t belong here.
    Trouble was, she thought she did—and she was as stubborn as he was. Once she’d decided this was where she was going to die, nothing he or the doctors or the counselor she’d sent packing had tried had convinced her otherwise. Including prayer.
    Nevertheless he persisted, closing his eyes to repeat the words he said before every visit.
    Lord, give me strength. Show me how to reach her. To lift her spirits. To give her hope.
    Straightening his shoulders, he stepped inside, nodded to the evening receptionist—and kept walking. Mandy would talk his arm off if he gave her half a chance. After almost a year of daily visits, he knew most of the employees—by design. As he’d discovered, even in an upscale facility like this, the staff was more attentive to the depressingly small number of residents who had regular visitors.
    He paused at his grandmother’s door, hoping he’d find her sitting in the easy chair in her private room, dressed in the capris and soft knit sweaters she used to favor, reading one of those romance novels he’d always teased her about. He’d supplied her with plenty of them over the past few months—yet all of them remained untouched in a sack in the corner of her room.
    Instead, the scene was the same as it had been last night. And the night before. And the night before that.
    Barbara Walsh was in bed, dressed in a cotton housecoat, the sheet pulled up to her chin. Her eyes were closed. Her hands were folded on top, at her waist.
    She was still as death.
    Shaking off that depressing thought, Scott scanned the room for clues about her day. Her half-eaten dinner tray rested on the beside table; she hadn’t bothered to go to the dining room for her evening meal. Her walker was out of reach; she hadn’t used it except to go to the bathroom—with assistance. Her Bible lay unopened on the nightstand beside her; she hadn’t turned to it for comfort, as had been her practice in the old days.
    Conclusion? No transformation had happened in the past twenty-four hours. Not that he’d expected one. But he hadn’t given up yet, even if she had.
    He moved beside the bed and touched her shoulder. “Hi, Gram.”
    Her eyelids fluttered open and she blinked at him, as if orienting herself. “Don’t you have better things to do on a Friday night than visit an old lady in a nursing home?”
    At least her mind was still sharp.
    “There’s nothing I’d rather be doing.”
    She snorted. “Then you’re the one who needs a doctor, not me. You’re a young, handsome man. You should be out on a date.” Her words were sassy, like in the old days, but her tone was listless.
    “Thirty-seven isn’t that young.”
    “It is when you’re seventy-seven, like me.” She peered at him. “Why don’t you patch things up with Angela? I bet she’d take you back.”
    Discussing his former girlfriend wasn’t on his agenda for the evening. “Did you walk today?”
    “You’re avoiding the subject.”
    “That’s right.” He retrieved the walker and set it beside the bed. “Let’s take a stroll.”
    “I’m too tired.”
    “You always say that.”
    “That’s because I’m always tired.”
    “You wouldn’t be if you moved around more. Exercise energizes.”
    “You’re going to badger me until I get up, aren’t you?”
    “Yep.” They had the same discussion every night.
    “Fine. Let’s not waste a lot of breath arguing. I’ll need it