ISBN 1-59201-023-7
Books Unbound E-Publishing Co.
http://www.booksunbound.com
Publication November, 2003
Cover Art by D. Lee
All Those Years Ago
Scott Fields
Copyright 2003
All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and occurrences are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not the goal of the author or Books Unbound.
Chapter One
The morning sun was shrouded in dark and ominous clouds that seemed to hang just over the treetops. Soft and gentle snow fell quietly, floating effortlessly as it descended to the ground below. The last days of winter struggled with the oncoming spring, and the snow quickly melted as it touched the warm earth.
A tired and weathered face leaned gently against a windowpane, staring blankly at the falling snow. The room was warm, and the cold glass felt good to the touch. The man's eyes seldom blinked as he stared from the window. It was not uncommon to see this face in this window. He had spent the last several years watching the seasons march by. He watched the soft summer days turn into the crisp, golden days of autumn and marked his time as the long nights of winter gave way to spring.
It wasn't so much that this man was interested in the weather or the passing of another season, more that he was less interested in his small world inside. It had been two years since the old man had been admitted into the nursing home, and he had lost all hope of ever getting out.
"Good morning, Norman," greeted the nurse. She walked across the room. The man in the wheelchair said nothing. The woman turned and stared at the man's untouched bed. "Norman, you didn't go to bed last night, did you?" She turned towards him.
The nurse sat down on the edge of the bed, still holding a glass of water and a cup of pills. She was a big woman of African descent and nearly three hundred pounds in weight. "Are you all right?" she asked, staring into his eyes. "You don't look very happy today, Norman, not that you ever look happy any other day."
She leaned over and studied the man's face as he continued to stare out the window. In spite of his age, he was a ruggedly handsome man with silvery white hair. The lines of age seemed to wander aimlessly across his face, and yet his soft blue eyes seemed to sparkle as if a small part of his youth still existed somewhere beyond the pain.
"I have just the answer to your problem, Norman. I have your medication for the day," she announced cheerfully, looking into the small cup. "In fact, one of these little babies will make you forget your problems, my problems and the pope's problems. Now, open wide."
The old man did not move.
"Come on, Norman," she said, holding the cup near his tight lips. "I don't have time for this. Open your mouth."
The man did not move.
"Be nice to me, Norman, and take your medicine."
Still nothing.
"Please," she said, touching his closed lips with the paper cup.
"I'll tell you what, Mr. Miller," she said with a stern voice. "Either you take these pills or I'll go get a syringe. Take your choice."
Norman moved his head away from the window, his mouth still closed.
"Come on, Norman. You're worse than a kid."
With that, he opened his mouth, and the nurse hurriedly poured the pills inside. Before she could lift the glass of water to his lips, the old man leaned his head back and with a grimace gulped down the medicine.
"Good God, Norman," she said shaking her head. "How in the world do you do that? It makes my butt pucker just to watch."
The old man returned to the cool windowpane, his eyes staring blankly at the falling snow.
The nurse grabbed Norman by the wrist with one hand and stared at her watch on her other arm. "I don't know whether you know it or not, but your friend Earl died yesterday," she mumbled. She counted his pulse. "Don't misunderstand me when I say that's not such a bad thing. No, sir. I'm sure that was God's doing, taking him away like that. That ain't no way to live, not by my way of thinking. He wasn't much better than a vegetable the way he was. Nobody should live like that. Don't you agree, Norman?" She lowered his arm to his lap.
The old man said nothing.
The nurse sat down next to him and began to scratch his back. "How does that feel?" she asked. She ran her long fingernails up and down his backbone. "Something is bothering you, isn't it, Norman? You always squirm and carry on when I scratch your back, and today you don't even know I'm here."
She stopped scratching the man's back and leaned over to look into his eyes. She brushed his hair back with her fingers. "I don't like what I see, Norman. I've seen that look in here before. You've got that far away look, honey, and that ain't good."
She ran her fingers through his greasy hair. "You need a bath, don't you? I'll bet it's been a week from the feel of your hair. I'll be sure to have someone get in here right away and clean you up. I'll bet that will make you feel better. Huh, Norm?"
She searched his eyes once again for a reaction. A lone tear darted down his cheek, racing just past the corner of his mouth.
"Oh, Norm, not you," she said as she wrapped him in her arms. "I never expected this of you. You've always been different from the others. I told 'em two years ago when they brought you in here that you didn't belong in a place like this. Hell, you're not even that old. Your only crime is having nobody at home to take care of you." She began to rock him back and forth.
"I don't want you to leave me, Norm," she said, holding him tighter. The old man's eyes swelled with tears that spilled over, soaking his wrinkled face.
The woman pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped his face. "I'm going to go now, Norman, but I'll be sending someone in to give you a bath. You stay right there, Norman. Don't you move."
The nurse stood and for a moment stared at the man sitting in his wheelchair. He stared blankly at the floor in front of him. His shoulders sloped forward and his hands lay lifelessly in his lap.
"Damn!" she shouted and turned towards the door. Once in the hallway, she stopped a young woman dressed in white slacks and a white smock. "I need you to go Room 109 and clean up Norman Miller," she instructed.
"I'm on my way to clean up Earl's room."
"Earl will soon be six feet underground. I don't think he cares how clean his room is now."
"But I was told...."
"You go take care of the living first. A dead man's room can wait." With that, she marched down the hall and turned into the administrator's office.
"Mrs. Ward, we have a problem." She sat down in front of the big oak desk.
"What would a day be like without a problem from you, Bess?" the administrator mumbled, without looking up.
"It's Mr. Miller. There's something wrong with him. Something really wrong."
The woman dropped her hands to her desk and stared at the nurse sitting across from her. "If he didn't have problems, he most likely wouldn't be here!"
"I'm serious, Mrs. Ward. I've been taking care of Mr. Miller for the last two years, and I can tell when something is wrong."
"All right. Tell me, Bess. What's he doing?"
"Nothing! That's the problem. He's doing absolutely nothing!"
"Bess, that's what happens around here. Nothing! Everyone in this building gets an A for doing nothing. If nothing was an Olympic sport, we would need a trophy room."
"It's not that kind of nothing, Mrs. Ward. It's the kind of nothing that means trouble. I don't know. He just sits there and stares. He doesn't say anything. I know he can hear me because he took his medicine when I told him to."
Mrs. Ward stared at the nurse for a moment. "All right. I'll call his daughter-in-law when I get a chance." She returned to the pile of papers on her desk.
"Is that all you plan to do?"
"What more do you want from me?"
"He needs to be watched. Someone needs to spend time with him. I'm telling you that something bad is going to happen. I can just feel it."
"Bess, you know better than most that I can't spare someone to watch Norman. I barely have enough help to see to the basic needs of the residents."
The nurse stared at the woman for a moment and then got to her feet. "There's something terribly wrong with the system when we can sit around and do nothing while this wonderful man prepares to die," she said and started for the door.
"Bess, you're breaking the first rule of nursing, and that is you should never take it personal."
"I take it damn personal when I see a fine man give up on life, and the sad thing is that there was a time when you did, too." Bess stormed out the door.
It was late afternoon when a young woman dressed in a waitress uniform came rushing into Room 109. Bess was sitting in a chair next to Norman's bed. She jumped with the appearance of the young woman.
"You're Jenny, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am. I'm Norman's daughter-in-law. How's he doing?"
"Not too good, I'm afraid," said Bess, moving away from the chair. "I don't know what came over him. All of a sudden, he won't say anything, and he has this look in his eyes like I've only seen a couple times. I don't like what I see."
The young woman walked slowly to the chair and sat down. She took one of his hands and smothered it with hers. "Norman, can you hear me?"
"He's been asleep for over an hour now," said Bess. "Hopefully, he will sleep through the night."
The young woman leaned back in the chair and sighed. "What else could happen to me?" she said. She ran her hands through hair.
"Bad day?" asked the nurse, pulling up a chair from the other side of the room.
"Bad day, you ask? How about a streak of 'em that stretch back further than I can remember?"
"Honey, you look like you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders. Care to tell me about it? I went off duty an hour ago."
"You punched out an hour ago, and you're in here with Norman? You must care about him very much."
"Your father-in-law is a good man, and I'm very concerned about him. So, tell me. What kind of problems could a young woman like you possibly have?"
"Let me give you the condensed version. After all, I'm sure you have better things to do than to listen to my problems. Let's see. How do I start this off? Which disaster comes first? Well, probably the first problem was the worst, and that was when my husband was killed in an auto accident. I guess I shouldn't call it an accident. I don't consider it an accident when a woman, trying to call her hairdresser on her cell phone, is going eighty miles per hour and drifts over the centerline. It was no accident when she ran head on into my husband, killing him instantly. Anyway, that's what started it off. Then, my new husband got thrown in jail. My own father became an invalid, and he now lives with me. I work two jobs to make ends meet, and I find out that I need an operation and I have no insurance. How am I doing?"
"Lord sakes, girl! That's enough problems for anyone!"
"So, you can imagine how I felt when I got the call from this place," Jenny said. She glanced at the floor. "It's not that I don't care about Norman. Hell, I love him almost as much as my own father. It's just that I don't have the time for this right now."
She paused and looked at the nurse. "That didn't sound too good, did it?"
"Honey, I understand exactly what you're saying, but I really believe that the most important thing for you right now is to go home and get some rest. I'm going to stay with Norman for a while, and I'm real sure he's going to sleep the rest of the night."
"Are you sure it's all right?"
"I'm positive. Don't give it another thought."
The young woman got to her feet. "That would be terrific," she said, shaking the nurse's hand. "I can't thank you enough."
"Don't mention it. If there's any change in Norman, I'll give you a call."
"Thank you so much," she said. She walked out the door.
Bess sat in the chair next to Norman's bed. She took his hand and stared at the old man's face. "Life can be cruel, can't it, my old friend? You lead a good life trying to do the right thing, and you end up in a place like this. It just doesn't seem fair sometimes. Life is for the young. That's for sure." She patted his hand.
Bess remained with Norman for over an hour and then got to her feet. "You get some rest, Norman. Rest is what you need. Things will look better in the morning. You'll see. Good night, Norman." She walked out of the room.
Minutes later, an old man in a wheelchair entered Norman's room and stopped next to his bed. "Jesus, I thought she'd never leave. Norman, you've got company, now wake up."
Norman snapped his eyes open and turned to the man beside him.
"You're quite the talk of the town, Norman," said the old man. "Everyone is wondering if you're all right. They say you haven't spoken in over a week." He paused and stared at Norman, waiting for him to speak.
Norman turned his eyes to the ceiling.
"I guess that tells me something. I don't know what you're up to, but I got what you asked for." He reached under the blanket on his lap and removed a small bottle.
Norman turned in his direction and held out his hand.
"I don't know what kind of problems you've got, but if you take all of these like I think you're going to, your problems will all be gone." Norman grabbed the bottle and slipped it under his blanket.
"Do you know what your problem is, Norman? You never took the time to shake hands with life. You know. You never took the time to stop and smell the roses, as they say. You probably spent your whole life working right up until the time that heart attack put you in here." The old man moved his wheelchair until he was looking into his friend's eyes.
"Probably never had time to go to church. I'll bet you haven't even made peace with your God, and here you are at the end of your life. I don't envy you. No, sir. I don't want to be standing at the Pearly Gates and wondering if they will open for me." The old man paused and stared at the man in the bed.
There was still no reaction.
"There is one advantage to death," said the old man. "You might possibly get to see all those who have gone before. My Clare has been gone for ten years, and there's not a day goes by that I don't think about her. Just think, Norman, there may be a time when I will be reunited with her. What a day that would be." He smiled. He laughed and turned to Norman. "I'll bet she'll scold me for something or other. She'll probably be wondering what took me so long." The old man's smile faded as he looked away. "God, I miss that woman."
For the next several minutes, the two men said nothing. They both stared into a river of memories and lost dreams. It was a moment of quiet solitude and reflection. Suddenly, Norman rolled over and faced his friend. "Do you know what the saddest words of all are?"
"My God! The man speaks!"
"Lester, tell me what you believe to be the saddest words in life."
"I'm sorry, Norman, but I don't have a clue."
"When I was a kid, my grandfather recited a short poem to me. It was only four lines long, hardly worth mentioning, but it left an impression on me that I never forgot."
"So, tell me. What is this four-line poem, Norman? My curiosity is killing me."
"Well, it goes something like this:
Of all the sad words
Of tongue or pen,
The saddest words,
What might have been?
"Like I said, I was just a boy when I heard it and really didn't understand what it meant. Yet, for some reason, I never forgot that four-line poem.
"Then, as I got older, I began to understand. Life is a series of decisions, of forks in the road. We are what we are as a result of those decisions. You can blame anyone you want, but we are all the product of a lifetime of decisions--some are big, and some small. These decisions can give us reason to rejoice or can be luggage to be carried around for the rest of our lives."
"And I suppose you're tired of carrying your luggage."
"Let's just say that there were too many times in my life when I turned right when I should have gone left."
"That's where you're wrong, my friend," said Lester, pointing a finger at Norman. "You think it's as simple as right or wrong. You think that because you turned right instead of left and things in your life didn't turn out the way you'd like, that you must have made the wrong decisions along the way. That's not always the case."
"You're wrong, Lester!" exclaimed Norman. "If I'm a product of my own decisions and I'm unhappy with who I am and what I've become, then I obviously turned down the wrong roads."
"You don't get it, do you? Chances are both roads led to the same place. No matter if you turned right or left, you were still destined to arrive at the same place."
"But...."
"There are no buts to it. Most of the decisions we make during our lives are not right or wrong decisions. They're just A or B decisions, one or the other. Now, you can blame yourself for everything bad that has ever happened to you. You can create your own living hell, or you can get on with your life."
"It's too late, Lester."
"What are you talking about?"
"It's just too late. It's been a long journey, and I want to get off at the next station."
"My God, Norman, how old are you?"
"What difference does that make?"
"You're not even seventy, are you?"
Norman paused and turned to his friend. "I'm sixty-eight."
"My God, Norman. You're still a young man. The journey is not over, my friend. It has just begun. You have so much life yet to experience. You worry about what might have been? My God, Norman, you haven't even lived long enough to really screw up your life. Wait until you reach my age. Sixty-eight? You're still a pup."
"I don't know, Lester. It just seems like my life has been one big mistake. Nothing I have ever done has ever turned out right."
"So what? Who gives a damn? Norman, you're missing the important point here. The real key to a successful life is not where you've been, Norman. It's where you're going. The road to anyplace worthwhile is littered with failures and disappointments. That's a part of the journey. Nothing worthwhile ever came easy, Norm. You should know that. Everything has a price to pay. The bigger the goal, the tougher the journey.
"So, what do you say, Norman? Kicking your own bucket can absolutely ruin your day. Why don't you get back on that horse? It may have thrown you once or twice, but life's all the sweeter when you show her who's boss."
Norman said nothing. He turned and stared at the ceiling for several moments and then back at his friend. "Pretty fancy talk for someone in a nursing home. Who died and made you God?"
"Oh, I don't think of myself as anything close to a God. I'm having trouble enough being a man."
Silence fell on the room as the two men studied one another. It was an important moment in both men's lives. The issue at hand was life and death, and neither of the two had given it serious consideration until then.
Lester had worked as an electrician all his life. He considered death a subject to be discussed by great minds, a philosophical topic too complex for the mind of a common laborer. He simply chose not to consider his and all mankind's ultimate fate.
Suddenly, a man named Norman had brought him face-to-face with the truth. He struggled to do the right thing. He chose his words of advice carefully, for the fate of another man's life was most certainly in jeopardy.
How would he feel if, in the end, this friend of his ultimately committed suicide? Would he have regrets? Would he consider his role as ineffectual and his advice void of any value? This was to be the last chapter in this man's life, and not only was it was important that Lester offered his own most perfect wisdom about life and death, but to do it subtly to help his friend to choose life.
Norman, on the other hand, silently considered his options. It really was quite simple. He could live out his remaining years in the confines of this building, every day reliving his life's regrets, or slip off into an endless sleep, a sleep that offered no regard for right or wrong.
To Norman, death was the ultimate equalizer. Statesman, peon, rich man, poor man, all mankind's destiny is to smolder side-by-side in the grave. Death is the ultimate liberation from life's remorse. It is the quintessential solution. It is life's finality without judgmental assessment. To Norman, death was the answer to his life of failure.
"Norman, did you ever consider what events in your life led you to this point?" Lester moved closer to the side of the bed.
"I don't understand."
"You want to take your own life. I'm just curious what would happen in a person's life that would lead him to this."
"It was many things."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. I can't remember."
"Your life is so screwed up that you want to commit suicide, and you can't even think of one reason?"
"I didn't take my son to church!" Norman blurted.
Lester stared wide-eyed at the man lying in the bed next to him. "You what?"
"You heard me. I didn't take my son to church."
"I thought you told me you're an atheist."
"I am, but my son should have at least been exposed to the church so he could make up his own mind."
Lester shook his head and glanced at the floor. "Talk about your irony of ironies. You want to commit one of God's number one bad deeds because you didn't expose your son to God. I don't know much about God, Norman, but I'm pretty sure He would rather forgive you for your indiscretions than for you to take a dirt nap."
Norman said nothing.
"By the way, Norman, I've always been curious. When an atheist is having sex, who do they talk to?"
Norman turned and smiled at his friend.
"Why is this so important to you, Norman? There are millions of parents who didn't take their kids to church. You don't see them swallowing a jar of pills."
"When I was young, my parents took me to church every Sunday. I was exposed to Christianity. I chose something else, but at least my parents did the right thing."
"Let me ask you something, Norman. How did your son turn out? Did he become an atheist as well?"
"Quite the contrary," Norman replied. "He became a devout Christian, very active in his church."
Lester stared at his friend, pointing a finger in his direction. "You don't find that a bit strange?"
"What?"
"You went to church as a child, and you became an atheist. Your son did not go, and he became a Christian. What do you think? Maybe you did the right thing, after all."
The smile disappeared from Norman's face. He rolled over and stared at the ceiling. "You'd better go now, Lester."
"Come on, Norman," said Lester. "There has to be something else. Nobody kills himself for just that. What other crimes did you commit?"
"I'm sorry, my friend, but it's time," said Norman.
Lester reached over and took Norman by the hand. "Are you sure? I'm here if you want to talk."
Norman turned and looked into his friend's eyes. He smiled a warm smile and said, "You've been a good friend, Lester."
Lester squeezed his hand. "I hope you know what you're doing."
Norman gave a polite laugh. "I do, too."
Lester released his friend's hand and backed his wheelchair away from the bed. He rolled his chair across the room and stopped in front of the door. "If you don't mind, I'd rather not tell you that I'll see you later," he said with a smile. "I wish you luck on your journey wherever it takes you, and I bid you farewell."
"Goodbye, my friend," said Norman to the man who was now nearly out the door. "May all your dreams come true."
Norman propped himself into an upright position in his bed. His hands were shaking as he slowly opened the bottle of pills. He poured the contents into his open hand and set the bottle on the stand beside his bed. With his free hand he reached for a glass of water and leaned back against the headboard of the bed.
Norman glanced down at the mound of pills in his hand and then peered out the window next to his bed. It was dark outside and the only light came from a security lamp near the parking lot. He strained to see into the darkness. Near the edge of the light, two figures strolled slowly across the pavement. Norman moved closer to the window. They were an older couple with rounded shoulders and silver hair that seemed to glow in the dark.
Norman wiped the frost from the window and lightly pressed his face against the cool glass. From the corner of his eye, he could see the man reach for the woman's hand, and without looking, she reached for his.
"That's the way we were, weren't we, Ida?" he asked aloud. "Our minds were one. I didn't even have to ask you to know what you were thinking. Even after forty years of marriage, we still held hands, and it just felt so natural. I couldn't imagine walking beside you and not reaching for your hand, but the amazing thing is that, up until a minute ago, I never realized how natural it really was. We never looked at each other. We didn't look down at the other's hand, but somehow we knew, didn't we, Ida? Our hands always seemed to find each other."
Norman leaned back in his bed and turned to the ceiling. "I've thought of a million reasons why I shouldn't do this thing. I guess the biggest reason is that you would have a fit for my even thinking about it. But for all the reasons why I shouldn't do it, I have one good reason in favor of it. I miss you, Ida. I miss you so much it hurts. I tried to get along without you, my darling, but it wasn't working. I was meant to be with you. Oh, I know what you're thinking, Ida. If I'm an atheist, how could I ever expect to join you in heaven? Well, that's the chance I have to take. Besides, it's not like I'm leaving that much behind. Nobody should live like this."
Norman glanced down at the pills in his hand. A lone tear streaked down the side of his face.
Author's Biography
Scott Fields was born and reared in La Rue, a small village nestled in the farmlands of mid-Ohio. There he learned to appreciate small town life and country living. After graduating from Ohio University in 1970 with a degree in English Literature, he entered the field of retail management and for the next 30 years managed many stores in the Detroit, Michigan area.
In 1996 Scott acted on his lifelong dream of being a writer by writing his first short stories. Within two years, he had four published and then began work on All Those Years Ago.
Scott and his wife, Deb, now live in Mansfield, Ohio. Their children, Sara, Angela, Michael, and Matt are still living in the Detroit area.
Scott has always considered writing to be his hobby. Over the years, he has written five novels and three screenplays, and has nearly a dozen more projects either started or in outline form. "There's so much to write, and so little time to do it in."
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