“The nursing home? Are you kidding me?”
“Don’t rush to conclusions, Nina. Meredith thought—”
Nina gunned the engine and spun the car around in the dirt and drove off. In less than twenty minutes she pulled into the nursing home’s gravel driveway and parked. She grabbed her heavy canvas camera bag off the passenger seat and marched across the parking lot and into the building.
Inside, the lobby was defiantly cheery and obscenely bright. Fluorescent bulbs stretched like glowworms along the beige ceiling. To the left was a waiting room—with primary-colored chairs and an old RCA television. Directly in front of her was a big wooden desk. Behind it, a woman with tightly permed hair talked animatedly on the phone, clacking her polka-dot fingernails on the fake wood surface of the desk.
“I mean it, Margene, she has really packed on the pounds—”
“Excuse me,” Nina said tightly. “I’m looking for Anya Whitson’s room. I’m her daughter. ”
The receptionist paused long enough to say, “Room 146. To your left,” and then went back to her conversation.
Nina walked down the wide hallway. On either side of her were closed doors; the few that were open revealed small hospital-like rooms inhabited by elderly people in twin beds. She remembered when Aunt Dora had been here. They’d visited her every weekend, and Dad had hated every second. Death on the layaway plan, he used to say.
How could Meredith have done this? And how dare she not tell Nina about it?
By the time she reached room 146, Nina was in a rage. It felt good; it was the first real fire she’d felt since Dad’s death. She knocked sharply.
A voice said, “Come in,” and she opened the door.
Her mother sat in an unattractive plaid recliner, knitting. Her white hair was unkempt and her clothes didn’t match, but her blue eyes were bright. At Nina’s entrance, she looked up.
“Why the hell are you here?” Nina said.
“Language, Nina,” her mother said.
“You should be at home. ”
“You think so? Without your father?”
The reminder was delivered softly, like a drop of acid. Nina moved forward woodenly, feeling her mother’s gaze on her. She saw the recreated Holy Corner set up on an old oak dresser.
Behind her, the door opened again and her sister walked into the small room, carrying a tote bag bulging over with Tupperware containers.
“Nina,” she said, coming up short. Meredith looked flawless, as usual, her chestnut hair styled in a classic bob. She was wearing crisp black pants and a pink shirt that was tucked in at the waist. Her pale face was expertly made up, but even so, she looked tired. And she’d lost too much weight.
Nina turned on her. “How could you do this? Was it easier to just dump her here?”
“Her ankle—”
“Who gives a shit about her ankle? You know Dad would hate this,” Nina said sharply.
“How dare you?” Meredith said, her cheeks flushing with anger. “I’m the one who—”
“Stop it,” Mom hissed. “What is wrong with you two?”
“She’s an idiot,” Meredith responded. Ignoring Nina completely, she moved toward the table, where she set down a big grocery bag. “I brought you some cabbage pierogies and okroshka, Mom. And Tabitha sent you some new yarn. It’s in the bottom of the bag, along with a pattern she thought you’d like. I’ll be back again after work. As usual. ”
Mom nodded, but said nothing.
Meredith left without another word, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Nina hesitated a moment and then followed. Out in the hallway, she saw Meredith hurrying away; her heels clattered on the linoleum floor. “Meredith!”
Her sister flipped her off and kept going.
Nina went back into the pathetic little room with its twin bed and its ugly recliner and its battered wood dresser. Only the Russian icons and candle gave a hint about the woman who lived here. The woman whom Dad had thought was so broken . . . and whom he’d loved.