The Thief of Lost Time

Chapter 36: The Red Scar

The afternoon I found Aunt Ellen in the attic, Mom told me to remain there while she called for help. The fire department arrived first. "She's in the attic. She's eighty-five." Mom showed the two firemen the attic stairs. The older one with white hair shook his head. "How the hell did she climb up there?"

The younger fireman removed his heavy jacket and sprinted up the stairs. He closed the skylight and carried my great-aunt in his arms. They drove her to the emergency room and then to intensive care. "She has pneumonia," Mom told us. "It's serious. She might die."

I visited her once in the hospital with Mom. We wore scrubs, paper slippers, and masks. The nurse said we could only stay a few minutes. I wanted to kiss Aunt Ellen and hold her hand, but with tubes attached to her everywhere, I didn't dare touch her even if I was allowed to be that close. Mom didn't think she knew we were there.

She recovered after two weeks and went home from the hospital.

***

"I'll be home late. I'm visiting Aunt Ellen after school. I haven't seen her since the hospital."

"She's no longer at home." My mother avoided looking at me. "She can't take care of herself anymore. We put her in a nursing home last week."

They'd done this without telling me? "Why was it a secret?"

"We didn't want to upset you." She seemed relieved now the truth was told. "What do you say we visit her together? I'll pick you up after school."

A car horn sounded outside the house. "You better go. There's Mr. Waters."

Our neighbor sometimes gave me a ride to school. On the way, I told him about Aunt Ellen.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Where is she staying?"

"Near the Congregational Church. I've forgotten the name."

"That must be the Belmont Home. Very well regarded. She'll be comfortable there."

He sounded like she was at a resort hotel. He dropped me off in front of the school.

I wondered what Aunt Ellen would look like now. I would never be inside her house again. Leaning against a telephone pole, I closed my eyes. I visualized every detail of her apartment: the massive cast iron stove in the kitchen, the sewing machine by the dining room, the ivy pressing against her bedroom window. The vivid images surrounded me, but Aunt Ellen was absent, and I was a ghost.

Mom waited in the parking lot after school, smoking a cigarette, with a Reader's Digest condensed novel. She had a whole bookshelf of them. Decades later, when I tried to sell them, the used bookstore manager turned up his nose. "We can't even give those away!"

"How was school?" She stubbed out her cigarette and waved the smoke out the window.

"Okay. Lots of homework." I threw my books and my gym bag on the back seat.

"You brought your gym clothes home to be washed."

"How do you know?"

"I can smell them."

All I could smell was her cigarette smoke. "When will you quit smoking?"

"When you stop sweating."

We both laughed. We'd sparred over her smoking for years. Leslie and I didn't smoke, agreeing it was a filthy habit. The public was still unaware of the cancer risk.

We rode down Mass Ave in silence until we passed Robbins Library. "Oh damn!" Mom hit the steering wheel in frustration. "My library book! I knew I forgot something."