Too Far Under Read online

  Too Far Under

  a novel

  by

  Lynn Osterkamp

  Smashwords Edition

  Published by:

  PMI Books

  Boulder, Colorado

  http://www.pmibooks.com

  Too Far Under

  Copyright © 2011 by Lynn Osterkamp

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Lynn Osterkamp

  This book is available in print at most online retailers.

  Discover other titles by Lynn Osterkamp at http://www.lynnosterkamp.com

  The water can be deceptive.

  Please be aware of strong undertow and crashing waves.

  Beach Sign

  Prologue

  Mirabel’s last day on earth was a late August scorcher, but the heat melted away when the sun slipped behind the mountains. The evening air had a delicious mountain crispness and piney smell. Mirabel was overdue for a soak. She dropped her clothes in a pile on the bathroom floor and slipped into a terry robe. On her way through the empty kitchen, she grabbed a chilled bottle of Chenin Blanc, a wine glass, and her ipod. Then she headed out to the secluded hot tub in the backyard of her house in the outskirts of Boulder.

  “My favorite part of the day,” she said to herself as she turned on the jets, tossed her robe on a chair and slid into the bubbling hot water. “Yes,” she sighed in relief as the throbbing in her muscles and joints eased. Mirabel refused to accept limitations to her active life, despite increasing arthritis pain. Some days it was all she could do to get moving in the morning, but she pushed through the fog and kept her commitments. Mirabel was proud that people who knew her said that once she set her mind on something she moved forward like a rocket and got things accomplished.

  Today she’d spent hours with the Prairie Dog Action group she chaired, working on strategies to take action against Hugh Symes, a vicious developer who plowed a colony of prairie dogs under—killing them instead of relocating them. Then she delivered meals-on-wheels, worked on promotional materials with the Colorado Sierra Club, and had a short Scientology session with India and Brian.

  As usual, her husband Derrick wasn’t around for dinner, so she and her daughter Angelica picked up some fruit smoothies and black bean tempeh burgers at the Boulder Co-op café. They ate downtown on the courthouse lawn while listening to a local jazz group at the weekly Bands on the Bricks concert. It was after 9:00 when they got home and by the time she’d checked her phone messages and had her usual bedtime heart-to-heart talk with Angelica, it was about 10:30, which was slightly past her usual soaking time.

  Angelica, an unusually perceptive ten-year-old, had offered to forgo the bedtime ritual so Mirabel could get right to the hot water. But Mirabel treasured Angelica’s nighttime confidences too much to miss one no matter how much her body ached. She wished she had spent this quality time with her three older children, but somehow life had gotten in the way and that opportunity was long gone.

  A familiar sadness overwhelmed her as she thought about her older children, now all but lost to her. Her ongoing arguments with her two oldest—Shane, twenty-four, and Lacey, twenty-three, left her frustrated and disappointed. Somehow neither of them had found a steady path in life. She had tried to teach them the importance of contributing to the community, but they insisted she had already contributed enough for all of them. Had she neglected their emotional needs to serve her social causes? She never meant to, but looking back she did have regrets.

  Worst was Kari, dead at thirteen. It had been two years now, but Mirabel still missed Kari every day and blamed herself for not doing more to save her. Tears trickled down her cheeks. Her precious babies. She may not have been the best mother, but she loved them all so much. At least she was close to Angelica. She vowed to do whatever she needed to do to keep that, and to redouble her efforts to reach Lacey and Shane.

  As Mirabel’s physical tension yielded to the swirling water, she turned her thoughts away from her family. Other worries nagged at her. Life was confusing lately and she didn’t know who to trust or believe. She wasn’t naïve. She was quite aware that money—or the desire for more of it—could motivate people to evil. But until recently, she’d thought she was a good enough judge of character that no one could take advantage of her or of people she loved. Now she wasn’t so sure. Things were happening that she knew she needed to stop. It was going to be an unpleasant month.

  As she soaked and sipped her wine, Mirabel tried to quiet her reactive mind and move toward clear as she’d learned to do as a student of Scientology. But it wasn’t working—maybe because of a combination of alcohol and painkillers in her system. She’d resisted taking any medications for at least a year after her arthritis began to interfere with her daily life, and even now hadn’t found the courage to tell her fellow Scientologists that she was taking pills they believe to be poison. Actually, she had other issues with them these days that had eroded much of their mutual trust, so the pain killer thing was probably minor.

  She sat up to reach her wine bottle, poured herself another glass, leaned back against the side of the tub, and drank deeply. As the wine level dropped in her glass, Mirabel slid down further into the water, focusing on relaxing her body and again trying to clear her mind. Gradually her thoughts dimmed, her body loosened, and she felt the floating calmness she sought.

  She had almost lapsed into a stupor when she felt a hand touch her head. She couldn’t see who it was, but in her groggy state she didn’t really care. The hand squeezed her head lightly, which felt soothing and she drowsily wiggled her head to snuggle into it. But soon the touch felt too firm and aggressive. She roused herself enough to push back and finally tried to turn her head to see who was there. But the person behind her held her head tightly in both hands, thrusting her face under the warm water.

  Mirabel kicked at the bottom and sides of the tub, struggling to get a foothold to push herself up and raise her head out of the water. But it was too late. The pills, the wine and the hot water had left her body and her mind too slack to act forcefully in her own defense. The hands pushed her head deeper into the tub.

  Fear and panic came over her in waves as water gushed down her throat. Her chest burned and she gasped, trying not to breathe in the water that surrounded her. But finally the irresistible urge to breathe won out. Mirabel’s last thought before the water filled her lungs and she lost consciousness was that if she drowned she’d be letting down all the people who were counting on her to show up tomorrow and the next day and all the days after that.

  Chapter 1

  Two months later

  When I got the urgent early-morning call from Shady Terrace Nursing Home, I thought it was my boyfriend Pablo calling to say he missed me already. He had spent the night and was on his way to work while I dozed lazily under my puffy down quilt enjoying the afterglow and procrastinating getting up for a few more minutes.

  I flipped open my cell and saw the Shady Terrace number instead of Pablo’s. My heart sank. “Cleo Sims,” I answered, dreading what could only be bad news from the nursing home calling so early. It was
Tanya, one of the nurses on my eighty-seven-year-old grandmother’s unit.

  “Get ready for a shock, Cleo. Shady Terrace is closing and all the residents have to move out! They just told us, and the residents don’t even know yet. There’s a big family meeting this morning at 9:00. Can you make it?”

  Too stunned to ask for details, I said I’d be there. I wanted to scream and throw my phone against the wall, but instead I grabbed a robe and stepped out onto my front porch, hoping my mountain view would have its usual calming effect.

  It was a mild sun-drenched October morning, but I shivered as if winter had arrived overnight with a blast of arctic air. Tanya’s words bounced around in my head as I paced around the porch, struggling to absorb the unwelcome news. Fury prodded me to fight back, but at the same time I wanted to curl up in a corner and cry. How could this be happening just when Shady Terrace had finally gotten its act together and was providing such good care? Where could Gramma go? Her Alzheimer’s disease has progressed to the point that she doesn’t always recognize me, but she’s been at Shady Terrace for eight years and the staff knows her ups and downs and how to make her comfortable.

  I was a wreck, and the mountain view wasn’t soothing me at all. As a grief therapist I know there are times when you need to stop and absorb bad news and there are times when you need to take action. This moment called for action. So I went back inside to grab a quick shower and get dressed. As I showered, anger and sorrow continued to fight for control of my emotions, while my saner professional side tried to start making a plan.

  It was going to be a busy morning. It was Friday and I had a class to teach at the university at 10:30. I couldn’t be late for that. The department head had made it clear that my paranormal psychology class was an experiment and that some faculty did not approve of hiring an unorthodox therapist like me to teach even as a lowly instructor. I was on trial and I wanted to measure up.

  For the moment, though, Gramma’s well-being was my top priority, so I had to make this meeting. I jumped into my Toyota and headed to the nursing home. Of course the main parking lot was full and I wasted time looking for a space before I went over to the auxiliary lot. The meeting was just getting started in the central lobby when I dashed in, so I didn’t have time to go to Gramma’s room and check on her. Instead, I found an empty chair at the back of the room and sat down. This lobby was designed to look like an old-fashioned town square with fake storefronts, an ice cream parlor and a popcorn wagon. The theory is that the residents will feel comforted by a setting that takes them back to a happier time of their lives.

  Maybe it is calming for them. But I felt like I was sitting in Disneyland listening to Cruella De Vil. I’d never seen the woman who was speaking, so I figured she was from corporate headquarters. She was a tall, large-boned woman, dressed in a snazzy black business suit that was overkill for a fake main street in a Boulder nursing home but would have fit right in to Donald Trump’s boardroom. Unfortunately, her message matched the boardroom image.

  “We know that Shady Terrace is a vibrant community of seniors,” she began in an incongruously upbeat voice. “But, our building is in need of significant and costly repairs that we can’t afford to make with our current operating budget. So, after careful deliberation, we have entered into a sales agreement with Hugh Symes Development Company, which will require the closure of the Shady Terrace skilled nursing center. You will be receiving a letter this week that will be your official sixty-day notice of closure as required by Colorado law. We know this decision will be difficult for our residents and their families, but we assure you that we will do everything possible to assist you in making a smooth transition to another living situation.”

  I squirmed in my chair. What did she mean they would do everything possible to assist us? Do these corporate executives go to a special class where they learn to sugarcoat horrible news and lie easily to suit their purposes? I wanted to scream at her, “Doesn’t this corporation have a slogan that says, ‘Caring for you is what we do’?”

  Listening to her, it sounded to me like what they do is go for the big bucks. Tears welled up in my eyes. How could they care more about their bottom line than they did about people like my Gramma who couldn’t speak out for themselves and were dependent on all of us for their care?

  Boulderites tend to be assertive, especially when it comes to issues of human rights vs. big business. Hands shot up all around me and a man in front plowed right in without waiting to be called on. “It took my mother a year to adjust to this place and now you’re saying she has to move? It sounds like our family members are just dollars to you and if they don’t bring in enough, they have to go.” His anger and disgust were front and center.

  “I assure you that this is not personal. It’s just business.” Cruella spoke evenly, not matching his furious tone. “We understand that this is an unsettling and difficult time for you and your loved ones and we will do all we can to make it go as smoothly as—”

  “I assure you that it is very personal to me and to my mother,” the man interrupted. “And it’s not going to go smoothly for you because I’m going to do all I can to stop you, starting right now with a call to the newspaper.”

  A woman on the other side of the room, tired of waiting for her raised hand to be noticed, jumped up and joined in. “Isn’t there something we can do to save Shady Terrace? It took me forever to find this place and now that Mom is doing well, I don’t want to move her.”

  “We understand that this is difficult, but after exploring all the possibilities, we determined that closing is the best option,” Cruella continued in her condescending I’m-being-patient-with-you tone. “Now I need to catch a plane, but the Shady Terrace staff and your local long-term-care ombudsman are here to help you get started on making new arrangements.” With that, she picked up her briefcase and ducked out the front door.

  I needed to get out of there myself if I was going to get to my class on time, but Mary Ellen, the Director of Nursing, and Betsy from Social Services were walking up to the front and I wanted to hear what they had to say. The both looked like they’d been crying. “We’re checking on openings in other nursing homes and we’re going to help you all look for places,” Mary Ellen said. “And Tim, a volunteer ombudsman from the county, has offered to help you with information about other facilities.” She beckoned to a tall thin bald man in the second row, who stood up to join them in front.

  My eyes nearly popped out of my head! Tim Grosso, Ph.D., the Chair of the university Psychology Department—the very Tim Grosso who had reluctantly hired me to teach a class—was a volunteer ombudsman? I hated to miss his comments, but I knew the students wouldn’t wait for me if I was late for class, so I slipped out.

  As I drove up to the university, I agonized over Gramma’s plight. This was one more in a long line of indignities she’d faced over the last twelve years. Before Alzheimer’s eroded her mind, she was a top-ranked Boulder artist, whose colorful oil paintings commanded high prices and won national awards. And she was the sweetest, most patient teacher, whose students—including me—learned to paint better than we ever thought we could.

  She and my Grampa, who taught philosophy at the university, had a storybook marriage for more than fifty years before she began showing signs of Alzheimer’s at age seventy-five. At first, it was forgetfulness and confusion. But she kept getting worse, being argumentative and accusing us of hiding her things. She began wandering out at night in her nightgown—probably to go to her studio in the backyard. She had always been a night person. If Grampa locked the door, she would wake him up to let her out. If he refused, she sobbed and screamed. If he left her alone in the studio, she often fell and hurt herself.

  It was horrible for all of us. Gramma because she couldn’t make sense out of the world any more, and Grampa and me because we were losing her at the same time that she was still here needing us to take care of her. Grampa tried hiring people to be with her, but she hated having them around and didn’t wan
t them in her studio. He wasn’t getting any sleep at night and he couldn’t deal with her constant arguments or keep her safe at home anymore, so after four years of that he finally decided to move her into Shady Terrace. He picked it because he thought it was the best place. The whole thing was terribly hard on him. He visited her every day, even though it was painful when she kept begging him to take her home.

  I visited a lot too and I still do. It was easier for me when Grampa was still alive because we could share the sadness. But he died of a heart attack a year after Gramma moved to Shady Terrace and I’ve been in charge ever since. My grandparents practically raised me and I want to do as much for them as they did for me. They were never close to my mother—their only child—so Grampa set things up for me to be Gramma’s guardian after he died. I miss him more than I can even begin to describe and I do everything I can to live up to his trust. But today I felt scared and overwhelmed. Even though it wasn’t my fault that Gramma would have to move, I had a sinking feeling that I was letting Grampa down.

  Chapter 2

  I raced along the sidewalk to my class, feeling unprepared because I hadn’t had time to review my notes, and my focus was on Gramma instead of on my upcoming lecture. The campus is a treat in the fall when the turning leaves match the buildings’ red roofs, but I was too rushed and distracted to enjoy the scenery. Because I’m a temporary university employee, the parking permit I’m allowed to buy isn’t valid in the best lots, and I had a ways to walk in a hurry to get to class on time.

  I was thrilled when the Psychology Department hired me to teach this class in paranormal psychology as part of their new initiative reaching out to nontraditional students. Every stamp of respectability I can get for my work is important to me. I have a doctorate in psychology and I’m a certified grief therapist, but my practice has recently taken a somewhat unusual turn. I’ve found a way to help people see and actually talk with dead family members or friends to resolve incomplete issues.