Family Liar

by Chris Rathburn

Chapter 1:

The old woman smiled as the doctor described her cancer. She let him hold her hand while he did it, let him feel secure that, for now, he was the messenger of death and not the recipient he would one day be. If not a malignancy of his own, then something else would drag him to his grave. As smart as he might be, he was not strong enough for anything else. The doctor was nothing like the old woman.

Metastasized. She liked the sound of the word. She realized there were no more words coming. The doctor had stopped talking. She couldn’t remember his name. She had known too many doctors.

The old woman blinked and made her eyes focus on his face, silently cursing the effort it took to straighten up in her chair, “I’m sorry, young man. I must have drifted away for a moment there. Please, go on.”

“That’s alright,” he told her, and she could see that he meant it. She also saw the darting, furtive glances he kept sending toward his wristwatch. The doctor had pronounced what he believed was her death sentence and he had many miles to go before he slept, dozens of other people on his schedule who needed to be told whether they would live, or else, how they would die.

The old woman didn’t mind the doctor’s eagerness to be on his way. She didn’t need him or anyone like him to tell her any such thing. Their meeting was strictly for appearances. On such matters, the old woman kept her own counsel.

“I was just about finished,” the doctor went on as he let his hand fall away from hers and tucked away his electronic device into a satchel slung over the back of his chair. She searched her memory for its name, a tablet, and then he asked her, “Do you have any questions for me before I go?”

The old woman smiled in a way that left the man feeling unusually disquieted. He was accustomed to death and dying, to sickness and the elderly. There was nothing out of the ordinary happening, just another geriatric getting ready to pass away, yet something about her made him want to get away as quickly as he could manage it.

As her lips twisted her smile into a question mark, he satisfied the urge by leaning back as much as he could without moving his chair, “Just one and then you can be on your way.”

The doctor rubbed his palm against his pant leg, unconsciously trying to get rid of the feel of the old woman’s thin wrist with its papery skin as she asked him, “Forgive me if you’ve already said it, but I’d like to know how long you’d guess I have left?”

He nodded, keeping his hands still by clasping them in his lap, “There’s no way to know for certain, of course…”

“Of course,” agreed the crone. She was mirthful, like she was repeating the punchline of a joke. The doctor felt he must scream, but only cleared his throat and went on.

“…but I would estimate no more than six months,” he finished, then looked at her as though she might strike him for saying it. The old woman didn’t move an inch, but only smiled at him again as she nodded in understanding. The doctor was angry at himself for feeling afraid of such a frail little lady. There couldn’t have been much more than a hundred pounds left of her, probably less, but in his heart, she was a tiger poised to pounce.

“That’s what I thought you’d said,” she replied, then nodded once and waved a bony claw of a hand toward the door, “You may go. I’m sure you have people that need your services waiting. No sense wasting your talents on an old biddy like me.”

She laughed at that, but there was no warmth to it. It was more like she was mimicking something she’d heard before. It reminded the doctor of a bird call, of hunters masquerading as kin to their quarry, drawing their prey close with sounds that had no place in their mouths but to deceive.

The doctor joined in, his laughter as false as his patient’s as he put his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet. He slung his satchel onto his shoulder as he stepped behind his chair. With the bit of furniture between them, he felt safer. Feeling crazy for thinking it, he considered that if he had to, he could always hit her with it.

“I’ll be back later this month,” he said, “I’ll probably want to draw some blood and see how things are looking.”

The old woman sat back in her chair so she could look up at him. It had been built to last, the upholstery worn shiny smooth with decades of use. It came from a time that made more sense to her, a time when people didn’t throw things out when they could be repaired. She wondered how long she’d had it, but like her own age, it was impossible to say anything more than it was ancient in a way that seemed as though it should have broken apart long ago.

She stroked a finger over the smooth wood of its armrest, stripped of its lacquer by countless such caresses until the natural sheen was all that remained. Staring up at the doctor as though he wasn’t there at all, she decided after everything was said and done she would hire someone to refinish it. It was only a chair, one among countless others, but she’d grown accustomed to how it held her.

Besides, the thing was older than anyone she knew and to her that counted for something. More than any, she knew it took something special to hang on for so long. Without attention, it would never keep up with her in the years to come.

Faced with her silence, the doctor opened his mouth to speak. The old woman presumed he meant to politely dismiss himself and she nodded to him before he could make a sound, “That sounds just fine, doctor. I will see you then.”

The doctor faltered, then took the few quick steps he needed to get his hand on the doorknob. There was something about his patient that he didn’t understand, but he was so close to his escape that he simply told himself there was nothing unusual in that. He believed there was a universe of experiences inside of everyone, and that it was impossible for one person to ever truly, fully know another.

He reminded himself that in a moment he would close the door between them and move on to his next patient. Then, when he’d finished with them, he’d do it again and again until the day was ended. There was no solace in those thoughts. As fleeting as their last moments together were, the fear remained firmly in place. It told him, insisted, he needed to move, and that he needed to do it soon, before she gobbled him up.

Slipping across the threshold from the crone’s apartment into the wide hallways of The Manor, the familiar scents of residential nursing care eased his nerves at last. There were the smells of latex and disinfectant, of meals cooking and the ubiquitous cups of coffee that were synonymous with healthcare providers anywhere he’d ever worked. Beneath it all, there was the musty smell of the elderly.

It was the same, vaguely greasy odor he associated with his own grandparents. As a boy, he’d practically lived at their house every summer. He remembered his mother surreptitiously sniffing his laundry when he came home. He did it himself when he thought no one was looking. Like his mother, the scent of their age reminded him of being loved in that special way that could only come from years and years of practice and dedication to the art of it.

When he’d entered medical school, it became the smell of money. His average patients were old enough to tease him relentlessly for his youth. As he’d slowly sagged into the middle of his life, they’d only aged with him. No matter how old he got, he was like a child in their eyes, and most made a point of telling him as much. He didn’t mind it; the older he got, the larger the numbers describing his accounts and investments became.

“Have a good day,” he said, pulling the door closed behind him. The woman had already forgotten him, turning her back to rummage through a weathered chest of drawers. Realization struck him as he let go of the doorknob. The old woman didn’t have that smell.

Instantly, his mind spun out rationalizations, but he knew it couldn’t be from some zealous dedication to hygiene. Everyone got the scent of old age sooner or later no matter what they tried; everyone but her. The doctor gulped down the musty air like a drowning man finally breaking through the surface of the waters. Worn memories rose up in his mind, images of his long-dead grandmother’s faded, kind eyes and warm, wrinkled hands. He clutched them close in his mind’s eye, holding them in the grip of his thoughts like a talisman against some unknowable evil.

Then, before someone could ask him if he was alright, the doctor leaned forward until he had no choice but to put one foot in front of the other, or else fall. By the time he knocked on the next door down the hall, his hands had stopped shaking. Smiling and interspersing small talk with his diagnostic questions with the next patient on his list, his professional façade made up the difference as he waited for his peace of mind to return. He promised himself an extra glass of bourbon at the end of the day if it didn’t.

* * *

Dismissing the nurses after they’d helped her into her wheelchair, the old woman pawed patiently through decades of old jewelry as she hunted for the collar. Some of it was hers. Most of it she’d stolen from the other residents.

She smiled at the glittering gold, the lustrous silver, the shining gems sitting tightly in their facets. Useless sentiment aside, the old prunes gathered here to die had no use for such things. For her, they leant a sense of security. When it came to fresh starts, no one asked many questions, so long as all the answers involved such little treasures.

There it was. Her fingers knew the touch of it instantly. Ignoring a loose ring and a gold tooth as they fell from the box onto the white carpet worn beige with use, the old woman held up the collar.

It didn’t seem like much, just an old strip of engraved leather with a clasp, sized for a house cat. No one snooping would give it a second look, not with all those bijoux heaped on top of it to distract them. She smiled at the irony, imagining ignorant thieves filling their pockets with so much gleaming metal and cut stones, the greatest treasure of all laying all the while within their reach.

None but the crone alone knew its value. Many times, she’d done what had been necessary to ensure that. Three can keep a secret, she thought, running a reverent finger over the symbols etched into the smooth leather, if two of them are dead.

Tucking the treasure beneath her thigh, the old woman wheeled her way over to the old phone on her nightstand. She’d never owned a cell phone, or even a cordless landline. The weathered rotary phone had served her since the 1960’s and she had no interest in giving it up. At least, not until she was ready to move on.

Beside it lay a thick telephone book. She was aware of the internet, but again, new things were bothersome. The world had become full of glowing screens that made her old eyes squint. The weight of a tome on her lap, the feel of many pages beneath her fingertips, was a pleasure.

Patiently turning the thin sheets of paper, she soon found what she needed. Carefully, she turned the phone’s clear plastic rotor clockwise until her finger pushed up against the little groove of metal that let her know where to stop. Each time she let it go, she listened as the rotor turned back to its starting position with a series of low clicks.

Then, she waited until the ringing in her ear culminated with the sound of someone picking up. It was a woman, her voice sounding loudly in the quiet of the crone’s assisted living apartment. The crone winced and pulled the phone away slightly to dampen the raucous din of it.

“Humane Society,” said the voice. The old woman could hear the clatter of a workplace. Alongside the clamor, there was the sound of dogs and cats, all of them waiting for the chance at being placed in a good home. She had just the one the old woman needed.

“Yes,” said the crone, “I was hoping to purchase a young cat, if you have any.”

“Absolutely!” the woman answered, her voice becoming warm, even cheerful, at the prospect of freeing up valuable space, “We’re open until eight if you want to come down and have a look?”

The old woman smirked. She had seen the commercials on the television, a beautiful voice singing a poignant song as one adorable, furry face after another paraded across the screen. Places like this did their best to avoid killing their wards, but to succeed in that they relied on the good will and open doors of strangers. That meant they had to be flexible.

“Oh,” said the crone, “I’m afraid I can’t get there on my own. I live in a nursing home, you see, and these days it’s difficult for me to get around.”

“I see,” said the shelter woman. Patiently, the old woman waited while the other decided how to go on tactfully. Then, the voice said carefully, “You know, a new kitty is a big responsibility…”

“Absolutely!” agreed the old woman, “But it’s not for me, you see. The cat is actually meant to be a surprise for my great-granddaughter. I was just hoping you could bring a few of them by.”

“That’s not how we usually do things…” said the woman uncomfortably.

The crone went for sympathy the way a wolf lunges for an exposed throat, “Please, dear? I’m afraid I found out today I don’t have much time left. Cancer.”

“Oh no! That’s awful!” said the shelter woman, her resolve and reluctance dissolving in the face of a sap story.

“Yes,” replied the crone, the smile on her lips incongruent with her sad words, “and I just want my little Nicky to have something to remember her old Memaw by. Something to remember me by to ease the hurt when I’ve passed on, you understand?”

The shelter woman hesitated, but Memaw knew her resistance was finished; just another victim to the crudely effective ploy of a dying request, “I’d have to talk to my manager…”

“Oh, would you?!” the crone said at once, her words ringing with hope, but edged with sadness and worry, “Even one would be enough, if you could manage it. Just bring the paperwork with you.”

Memaw could all but hear the other woman’s frown as she asked, “When were you hoping to have someone drop by?”

“Today,” she answered firmly, then softened her tone, “I’m sorry, dear, but when you get to be my age, you don’t make any plans for tomorrow, and I’m happy to compensate you for your trouble.”

Any lingering reluctance ebbed from the shelter woman’s voice at the prospect of a bribe. In her experience, the crone had found money to be an excellent solvent of integrity, or even just plain stubbornness. Most of the time, it didn’t even take much of it. People typically thought they couldn’t be bought, but it was always a delight to find out how cheaply they could be turned in her favor.

“You know,” said the woman thoughtfully, “it’s been pretty slow around here and lately we’ve gotten more fur babies than we know what to do with.”

The crone winced at the words, but did not interrupt. Fur babies, she thought, detesting the odd, modern turn of phrase, people these days can’t tell children from animals. She pushed the thought aside as the shelter woman went on, “I’ll talk to the boss, but I think we can work something out.”

She could hear the smile in the woman’s voice as she added, “I think I’ve got a little fuzzy guy your granddaughter will absolutely love!”

“Great-granddaughter,” the crone said absently, then added before the woman could say anything more, “How soon can you get here?”