Package Deal
By
Gregory Smith
There’s a special bond between a mother and a special needs child; a bond that’s unlike any other. Consider the following…
It rained heavily on the morning of Zelda’s funeral that halted any idea of taking Joey. The cemetery was sure to be a mess. Pushing a wheelchair through the wet grass, mud, and ice would be a chore, to say the least. Better to remember her as she was - a devoted mother and caregiver.
The family hired a private duty aide to stay with Joey that morning. It was one of the first times that anyone other than Zelda had helped Joey with his morning care. Waking him, allowing him to use the bedpan, his daily sponge bath, dressing him, and finally lifting him into his wheelchair- that was his normal routine. The entire process could take several hours. It had to be difficult for him, getting used to a stranger meeting his needs. With his mother not around any longer, this is how it would be for the rest of his life.
Muscular Dystrophy had made speech extremely difficult for Joey, His verbalizations were slurred and difficult to understand, no matter how slowly he was asked to speak. Mom just knew how his daily care should go. She knew every word he would try to articulate. A stranger may not take the time to try and understand his speech, may not care what he wished or what he was used to. A stranger might only care about getting the task done and then moving on to the next task, ticking time always wielding its mighty influence.
Really, who cared what Joey had to say? It had always been that way. The false perception of thinking that someone who is physically challenged naturally must be mentally challenged. He soon grew more and more isolated within himself as the years went by. What good was it to try and state an opinion or an objection? Few people could understand his speech (other than his mother) and even fewer cared. They might be thinking “What does Joey know, anyway? His viewpoint doesn’t really matter.”
As Joey became more of an introvert, he reasoned that perhaps he didn’t even need to express himself. He had had his mother around to express his needs for him. Not only did she feed him, wash him, dress him, groom him- every single day for decades- she even thought for him too.
Soon, Joey lost his individuality, his dignity, and even his reason for being.
He was just…there.
#
His mother had complained of chest pains for a week. Like so many times before, she thought nothing of it and failed to follow up with her doctor. Zelda was setting up the Christmas tree, stringing the lights, her fancy decorations – an assortment of colorful Christmas ornaments from Eastern Europe- stacked on the living room floor.
“Let me take a break,” she heaved, sitting on the sofa. It was chilly in the house since the heater was on the fritz, but Zelda was sweating profusely. Joey started shaking in his chair when he saw how pale his mother appeared. Suddenly she slumped over, rolling off the sofa and onto the floor.
Luckily, Joey had the phone by his side in the wheelchair. Zelda had to know something wasn’t quite right. Normally the cell phone would be in the pocket of her housecoat. In case of emergency Joey knew to hit one button to call 9-1-1. One button- if he had the strength to do it. If he could stop shaking, just for a moment, and hit the damn button. He had to do it…for his mother. She needed help.
It took all the stamina and determination he could muster to hit that button, but hit it he did. When the dispatcher on the other end of the phone asked what the emergency was, Joey let out a cry of anguish.
It didn’t help that Zelda had been a heavy smoker since her teenage years. It didn’t help that such a frail, elderly woman continued to lift a heavy man like Joey up and down the row home stairs. After Buck died, Zelda was alone. There was a younger brother, Roger, but he had moved out years ago.
Joey felt guilty for his mother’s illness. The heart attack was his fault, or so he thought. Everyone knew it- they just wouldn’t say it. He could see it in their eyes.
#
The last few days had been rough on Joey. Not only was he missing his beloved mother, but he also wasn’t used to Roger doing his morning care. His brother rarely lifted him or fed him. Joey shook constantly. When he was anxious or upset, as he was then, the tremors grew worse, so violent that his entire wheelchair would shake.
A thought flashed by Roger: if Zelda died, he would have to step up and shoulder more responsibility. Roger loved his brother. If he could care for Joey, he would have. But he would need help. And he had to work. He was already formulating a plan in his mind, in case of the worst possible outcome.
Zelda had never thought about what would happen to Joey if she ever got sick. She had her different bouts of illness- flu, fever, even a case of kidney stones, but never anything like a heart attack. She had never been in a hospital, other than to give birth to her two sons. Despite her frailty, she was a strong woman with a sturdy constitution. Despite her propensity to smoke several packs of cigarettes a day, she had always been healthy. Yes, she endured a persistent cough, undoubtably a by-product from cigarettes. Otherwise, she was in relatively good health for a woman in her late seventies. Thus, she never wanted to think about the question of what would happen to Joey if she was ill- or worse- if she died.
Joey had no clue as to how bad his mother really was. When he learned that Zelda had died, he completely shut down. He refused to eat. He refused to communicate. His eyes remained closed. An occasional tear ran down his face.
Roger attended the reception after the burial, thanking well-wishers for coming. It seemed like the entire town was there. The visiting nurse had things covered at home. No need to hurry back. The roads were still slick and treacherous from the early morning’s misty rain and fog. Roger lingered well into the late afternoon, then stopped at the bar for a few drinks.
#
The afternoon light was quickly fading. All the while as he drove home Roger planned the speech he would make to his brother, a talk about the future, a talk about the need to place Joey into a nursing home. Forget the promise he had made to Zelda before she died, the oath he took to take care of Joey at home, no matter what. He made the promise, hoping Zelda would pull through. He made the promise to give her peace in her dying moments. It was a promise he never intended to keep.
When he arrived at his mother’s home, Roger opened the door to a most disturbing sight: Joey was gone.
The attendant was still there, sitting on the sofa, crying. She hadn’t fallen asleep, nor had she left the house, not for even a second. She let Brownie, the family dog, out to pee in the backyard. When she returned from retrieving the dog ten minutes later, Joey had vanished. Beloved Brownie, Joey’s companion, sniffed all around the spot where the wheelchair was parked. Tire tracks were still embedded in the carpet. It had only been a moment and…Joey was gone.
The attendant kept apologizing. She had not called the police or her agency yet. She was stunned, unsure what to do. What happened to a fully-grown, totally- disabled man, and his forty- pound, heavy-duty wheelchair, in a mere minute?
Someone had to have entered the home. But the front door was locked. Joey couldn’t push his own wheelchair. There was a single stone step outside the front door to consider. Why would anyone want to take an individual like Joey in the first place? He certainly could not walk or wander away.
What the hell happened?
Roger called 911 and the local police responded quickly. They questioned the attendant and looked around the living quarters for fingerprints. Pretty soon the entire town knew about the disappearance. Word got around quickly in a small town like Lakeside; social media blew up. An all-points bulletin was declared for Joseph Johnson.
#
At Sacred Heart cemetery, the gravediggers were finishing filling in Mrs. Johnson’s fresh grave. The job was made easier when the cold rain stopped. The ground was muddy and soft; As one worker remarked “It’s a beautiful day for a funeral… gloomy and gray.”
They began tossing baskets of flowers and wreaths on top of the grave. As they were removing the tent, one of the fellows, a man named Elmer, was the first to notice a crippled man in a wheelchair sitting in front of the flowers- a solitary figure almost hidden by the pile of bouquets. Was this gentleman someone who had just arrived to pay his belated respects? Or had he lingered after the services were over? None of the men recalled seeing him when they began their task.
The man trembled violently, even though he was dressed warmly for the inclement weather. A gusty, chilly wind was blowing in from the north, causing leaves and fragments of tree branches to scatter through the cemetery. The disabled man sat there quietly, tears running down his face.
Bernie, one of the gravediggers, wasn’t sure what to say or do.
The trio of gravediggers turned, tools in hand, and slowly trotted down the slope, passing tombstone after tombstone, until they reached their truck. Bernie got behind the wheel, silently mulling over the scene. He looked through the open window, peering into the soft, purple twilight, and saw the silhouette of the man in the wheelchair near the flowery gravesite. He waited, thinking someone, anyone, would pull through the cemetery gates, park in the long driveway, get the man and take him where he needed to be.
He turned the key and started the truck. Just do your job, he thought. Don’t get involved. There had to be an explanation. It would be embarrassing to call the office or notify authorities, for it to turn out to be something simple like a grieving family member who just wanted time alone with the deceased.
What if no one came for this poor soul? With the temperature falling rapidly, a body could freeze to death after sunset.
“Let’s go, man,” said Elmer. “What are you waiting for? It’s quitting time. Hey, man…are you alright?”
“Something’s not right, here,” Bernie mumbled. “I might get in trouble for this, but I got to let somebody know.”
He began dialing his cell phone.
“Hey, Janet? Put me through to the boss. I’ve got a problem here…”
#
The police had questioned Joey about what happened that day. How did he get to the cemetery, a good three miles away from his home? Certainly not by himself. Even if he could push his chair, it was hilly and rough terrain from where he lived in town, over the rough streets and cracked sidewalks, over the Bridge Street bridge, followed by more winding roads until he would reach the cemetery. And that was in good weather. It was all a moot point because, physically, Joey could not do it.
Ok then…who took him out of the house? Who got him over the front step, lifted him into a car, folded his wheelchair, tossed it in the back seat or the trunk, all this before his attendant returned with Brownie, and then drove him to the cemetery, only to leave him there, by himself?
Every time they asked the sullen Joey who did it, his garbled answer was “Mom.”
“We know you miss her, Joey,” the authorities replied. “We know you went to see her; you felt devastated by missing her funeral. We know all that. What we want to know is…who took you to her grave? Don’t worry, if it is a family member or friend, they won’t get in trouble. You won’t get in trouble for asking to go. Please, Joey…who took you to the cemetery?”
“Mom,” was his reply.
#
Joey will get used to life at the nursing home, the social worker assured Roger. No problem getting him in so quickly. She understood Roger’s inability to care for his brother. Luckily, the local nursing home had open beds, and they always welcomed new admissions. She would encourage Joey to participate in the facility’s activities as much as he was able, especially the weekly church services and bingo games.
“Bingo!” Roger interjected, snapping his fingers. “My mother would push Joey to the Firehouse Bingo games every Tuesday night. I know he will enjoy Bingo.”
In time he would get familiar with the staff and the other residents. He would have more things to do to keep his mind occupied. He still had his television, which Roger had set up in Joey’s room. He would get three square meals a day, and the food wasn’t bad; it wasn’t like home cooking, like Zelda’s famous homemade spaghetti and meatballs, but it was good. He would have two roommates, granted a big adjustment compared to his living situation at home. He would get used to them too.
What other choice did he have?
In time his anger at Roger would subside. Just give it time.
#
The carolers visited Joey’s room early that day. He attended the facility Christmas party that afternoon. Many residents went home for the holidays. Those who remained received small gifts from visiting family, friends and volunteers. Santa was there, spreading holiday cheer. The staff did the best they could to make the residents smile. Joey took it all in stride, considering this was the first Christmas without his beloved mother. Roger brought gifts early in the week, setting up an artificial tree with twinkling lights on Joey’s side of the windowsill.
It was Christmas Eve. Joey was tired and asked to be put in bed early. His television was off; instead, he quietly listened to Christmas tunes over the intercom system. Tears clouded his eyes as he fell asleep.
The phone chimed a good fifteen times before Roger groggily answered. That drinking session was admittedly out of control. It was after midnight, and he had finally fallen asleep. Damn phone.
“Mr. Johnson,” the voice began. “We’ve been trying to call you …”
It was the Nurse Manager on Joey’s unit. This was a call she dreaded making.
“Is my brother dead?” he asked bluntly.
“No,” she hesitated, “He is…missing.”
Missing? How can he be missing?
The night nurse checked on him, Roger was told, and found his bed empty. His wheelchair was gone too. They frantically searched the unit. Obviously, the man couldn’t get himself out of bed, nor could he push his own chair. Joey Johnson did not go home for Christmas.
So, where was he?
Roger demanded an answer, his temper short and flaring, as he unleashed a torrent of legal threats mixed with assorted profanity. Then, in the blitz of his scolding, directed at the unfortunate nurse, he suddenly stopped.
There was silence at the end of the phone. Yes, he was still there. He was…thinking. He advised the nurse not to call the police just yet.
“Keep looking in the building,” he advised. “I’ll check as well. Maybe one of our overly-sympathetic relatives took him out without permission.”
Roger threw on some warm clothes and his winter jacket. The tires on his SUV screeched as he pulled down the street, the windshield wipers battling the persistent snow.
#
Thankfully, the cemetery gates were open. Roger drove through and parked in the driveway. He gazed up the slope toward his mother’s gravesite, roughly fifty yards away. The steely snow clouds impeded any chance of moonlight. Inky darkness awaited him, darkness and tombstones, darkness and the barren, leafless, lifeless trees fringing the cemetery. It was nearly impossible to see until he switched on a flashlight and climbed out into the elements.
Roger followed the flashlight beam up the slope. The wind began to gust sharply, blowing stinging ice pellets against his bare face. His hope grew when the light beam found fresh tire tracks embedded in the muddy ground.
Upon reaching his mother’s grave Roger noticed how the tracks stopped- at her tombstone.
Moments later, a shadowy figure stepped from behind the row of tombstones behind him. The imposing figure held a lantern in one hand and a shepherd’s staff in the other. He was dressed in a brown friar’s habit, the hood covering the head and face.
The Grim Reaper, thought Roger.
“Caretaker,” Roger addressed the visitor, “I’m sorry for the intrusion so early on Christmas morning. I’m not sure why I’m here at this hour.”
“I’ve been waiting for you,” replied the figure in a hollow tone. “That’s why you found the gates opened.”
“Oh,” replied Roger. “You are up late for a caretaker.”
“I work the graveyard shift,” the mysterious figure replied. “I watch over these departed souls. For whomever dies last and is buried on these hollowed grounds shall keep watch during the night until the next soul is buried within. Only then will I be granted rest.”
“It’s insane why I’m here,” Roger mumbled. “I’m looking for my disabled brother. Obviously, he can’t get here on his own, yet I thought he would be here. I don’t understand it myself…”
“Your brother is fine,” the caretaker reassured.
“What? Wait a moment…You knew I was on my way to get my brother? You were waiting for me? How do you know he is ‘fine’? Where is he?”
“Home,” the caretaker replied calmly. “Your brother went home.”
“Home?” questioned Roger. “What are you talking about? My brother lives in a nursing home now. “
“We weren’t ready for Joseph yet,” the figure said. “We needed to make special arrangements. Your brother returned home. Don’t worry, he is being well cared for. Merry Christmas, Mister Johnson.”
The caretaker turned and walked away, the lantern swinging low to the snowy ground, growing dimmer and dimmer as the dark figure vanished into the driving snowstorm.
“Wait!” called Roger. “Is this some sort of gag? What do you mean ‘he went home’? What the hell is going on here?”
#
Roger called the nursing home, hoping that somehow, someway, they had found Joey. Or maybe someone brought him back. Who, in the name of God, was bringing him to the cemetery, on Christmas Eve, in a snowstorm?
The staff were still searching for their lost resident. Meanwhile, Roger drove to his childhood home, hoping for the best yet thinking the worst.
“Joey,” he mumbled as he drove in the snow,” Where the hell are you?”
Roger still had a key to the old place. It was on the market since he placed Joey in the nursing home. It wasn’t surprising that the house looked empty and barren from the outside as he pulled up. Snow had accumulated in the front. No curtains in the windows. No lights in the early morning. The house, his old childhood home, actually looked spooky now. It had to be frigid inside since the heat was still off.
What was Roger even doing here in the first place? He almost didn’t get out of the parked truck, but something pushed him to check the property for his own piece of mind. Once he opened the door the savory aroma of roast turkey filled his senses with hunger and delight. A nice-sized Christmas tree stood in one corner of the small living room, decorated with old-fashioned ornaments, just like when he was a kid. A welcome blast of warmth felt good from the heater.
Everything was just like it used to be early on Christmas morning, before the activity started, before the family awoke, before the company began visiting, before the presents were open and the celebration commenced.
There was Joey’s trustworthy wheelchair, sitting empty beside the cot. There was Joey, sleeping soundly, bundled underneath several blankets. The antique cuckoo clock, once only a distant, broken memory, peacefully ticked off the seconds before softly announcing the six o’clock hour.
Someone had brought Joey home from the graveyard, put him to bed, turned on the heat and set up a Christmas tree. Roger heard the creaky stairs and he froze, scared to death, unaware what to expect from this intruder who was about to descend to the living room. It had to be some crazy aunt or uncle or meddling family member who thought they knew better regarding his brother’s welfare.
To Roger’s surprise, there, standing in a worn tan bathrobe, hair up in curlers, was his mother, Zelda…his deceased mother.
“Roger!” she whispered, trying not to wake Joey. “What are you doing here so early? I thought I told you we weren’t eating until noon?”
“MOM!” he gasped. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here, with your brother. What’s wrong with you? Were you out drinking again?”
“You were dead!” he stated bluntly.
“Roger!” she scolded. “Now I know you were drinking! You better shape up! Go home and sleep it off. You’re welcome to come back for turkey later. Do me a favor and shovel the front sidewalk before you leave. Now go before you wake your brother up.”
“But I haven’t been drinking,” he lied. “Am I dreaming? Or am I living in some kind of parallel universe?”
Zelda sat in her favorite rocking chair, silently rocking back and forth for several seconds, contemplating what to say.
“Please, Mom…give me an answer!” he demanded. “You were dead!”
“No, it’s not a dream, Roger,” she conceded. “Not a parallel world, either. It’s more like a …package deal. I know you tried, Roger. No one could take care of Joey like I did. He was so unhappy at the nursing home. It was my fault for dying. So, I made a deal with Death. I was allowed to come back to take care of your brother. Once he dies, I go too. That’s the deal.
“We have a special bond, your brother and I. It’s just that…he needs me,” she said. “I could’ve stayed. They do celebrate Christmas in Heaven. It was my choice to come back…for Joey.”
Roger plopped himself on the sofa, speechless. He sat there, searching for answers as Zelda continued to slowly rock in her chair, not saying a word.
“But what about the rest of the family? Your friends? The neighbors?” he asked. “Everyone who was at your funeral? What will you tell them?”
“Nothing,” she stated. “They will remember nothing. Their memories of my passing have been erased. To everyone else, it’s same-old, same-old Zelda. Only you know the truth. All evidence of my death will be erased from time. My obituary no longer exists in the newspaper or online. No one in town…in the entire world… will ever know. Only you will know that I died, and know that I came back.”
“What about Joey?” Robert whispered. “Does he know?”
“No,” she stated. “He’s been asleep since I returned. He will never know. When he wakes up, I’ll be here, just like every Christmas. Why upset him? He has enough to worry about. Now, I suggest we get back to ‘normal’. You’ll be here for Christmas dinner at noon?”
“How can things ever be ‘normal’ again?” he stated.
“Roger!” she replied sternly. “You’ll come back for turkey?”
“Yes,” he agreed, unable to look at her.
“And you’ll shovel the sidewalk out front before you leave? I want to go to church this morning,” Zelda said.
“Yes,” he repeated.
“Good,” she replied. “Now cheer up! It’s Christmas, and your mother is back from the afterlife. It’s going to be a beautiful Christmas after all.”
Gregory Smith is a retired medical social worker living in Phoenixville, Pennsylvania. He is active on social media, including Blue Sky, X and Instagram. Greg has 12 short stories accepted or published so far. He is the oldest survivor of Osteogenesis Imperfecta in the world. He has written a memoir called An Unbreakable Spirit and has a new book on the horizon called Stronger Than Bone, about living with brittle bones at the age of 68. Greg enjoys sports, watching classic films, reading and listening to oldies music in his spare time. He is married with two cute dogs, Katie & Cocoa.
By
Gregory Smith
There’s a special bond between a mother and a special needs child; a bond that’s unlike any other. Consider the following…
It rained heavily on the morning of Zelda’s funeral that halted any idea of taking Joey. The cemetery was sure to be a mess. Pushing a wheelchair through the wet grass, mud, and ice would be a chore, to say the least. Better to remember her as she was - a devoted mother and caregiver.
The family hired a private duty aide to stay with Joey that morning. It was one of the first times that anyone other than Zelda had helped Joey with his morning care. Waking him, allowing him to use the bedpan, his daily sponge bath, dressing him, and finally lifting him into his wheelchair- that was his normal routine. The entire process could take several hours. It had to be difficult for him, getting used to a stranger meeting his needs. With his mother not around any longer, this is how it would be for the rest of his life.
Muscular Dystrophy had made speech extremely difficult for Joey, His verbalizations were slurred and difficult to understand, no matter how slowly he was asked to speak. Mom just knew how his daily care should go. She knew every word he would try to articulate. A stranger may not take the time to try and understand his speech, may not care what he wished or what he was used to. A stranger might only care about getting the task done and then moving on to the next task, ticking time always wielding its mighty influence.
Really, who cared what Joey had to say? It had always been that way. The false perception of thinking that someone who is physically challenged naturally must be mentally challenged. He soon grew more and more isolated within himself as the years went by. What good was it to try and state an opinion or an objection? Few people could understand his speech (other than his mother) and even fewer cared. They might be thinking “What does Joey know, anyway? His viewpoint doesn’t really matter.”
As Joey became more of an introvert, he reasoned that perhaps he didn’t even need to express himself. He had had his mother around to express his needs for him. Not only did she feed him, wash him, dress him, groom him- every single day for decades- she even thought for him too.
Soon, Joey lost his individuality, his dignity, and even his reason for being.
He was just…there.
#
His mother had complained of chest pains for a week. Like so many times before, she thought nothing of it and failed to follow up with her doctor. Zelda was setting up the Christmas tree, stringing the lights, her fancy decorations – an assortment of colorful Christmas ornaments from Eastern Europe- stacked on the living room floor.
“Let me take a break,” she heaved, sitting on the sofa. It was chilly in the house since the heater was on the fritz, but Zelda was sweating profusely. Joey started shaking in his chair when he saw how pale his mother appeared. Suddenly she slumped over, rolling off the sofa and onto the floor.
Luckily, Joey had the phone by his side in the wheelchair. Zelda had to know something wasn’t quite right. Normally the cell phone would be in the pocket of her housecoat. In case of emergency Joey knew to hit one button to call 9-1-1. One button- if he had the strength to do it. If he could stop shaking, just for a moment, and hit the damn button. He had to do it…for his mother. She needed help.
It took all the stamina and determination he could muster to hit that button, but hit it he did. When the dispatcher on the other end of the phone asked what the emergency was, Joey let out a cry of anguish.
It didn’t help that Zelda had been a heavy smoker since her teenage years. It didn’t help that such a frail, elderly woman continued to lift a heavy man like Joey up and down the row home stairs. After Buck died, Zelda was alone. There was a younger brother, Roger, but he had moved out years ago.
Joey felt guilty for his mother’s illness. The heart attack was his fault, or so he thought. Everyone knew it- they just wouldn’t say it. He could see it in their eyes.
#
The last few days had been rough on Joey. Not only was he missing his beloved mother, but he also wasn’t used to Roger doing his morning care. His brother rarely lifted him or fed him. Joey shook constantly. When he was anxious or upset, as he was then, the tremors grew worse, so violent that his entire wheelchair would shake.
A thought flashed by Roger: if Zelda died, he would have to step up and shoulder more responsibility. Roger loved his brother. If he could care for Joey, he would have. But he would need help. And he had to work. He was already formulating a plan in his mind, in case of the worst possible outcome.
Zelda had never thought about what would happen to Joey if she ever got sick. She had her different bouts of illness- flu, fever, even a case of kidney stones, but never anything like a heart attack. She had never been in a hospital, other than to give birth to her two sons. Despite her frailty, she was a strong woman with a sturdy constitution. Despite her propensity to smoke several packs of cigarettes a day, she had always been healthy. Yes, she endured a persistent cough, undoubtably a by-product from cigarettes. Otherwise, she was in relatively good health for a woman in her late seventies. Thus, she never wanted to think about the question of what would happen to Joey if she was ill- or worse- if she died.
Joey had no clue as to how bad his mother really was. When he learned that Zelda had died, he completely shut down. He refused to eat. He refused to communicate. His eyes remained closed. An occasional tear ran down his face.
Roger attended the reception after the burial, thanking well-wishers for coming. It seemed like the entire town was there. The visiting nurse had things covered at home. No need to hurry back. The roads were still slick and treacherous from the early morning’s misty rain and fog. Roger lingered well into the late afternoon, then stopped at the bar for a few drinks.
#
The afternoon light was quickly fading. All the while as he drove home Roger planned the speech he would make to his brother, a talk about the future, a talk about the need to place Joey into a nursing home. Forget the promise he had made to Zelda before she died, the oath he took to take care of Joey at home, no matter what. He made the promise, hoping Zelda would pull through. He made the promise to give her peace in her dying moments. It was a promise he never intended to keep.
When he arrived at his mother’s home, Roger opened the door to a most disturbing sight: Joey was gone.
The attendant was still there, sitting on the sofa, crying. She hadn’t fallen asleep, nor had she left the house, not for even a second. She let Brownie, the family dog, out to pee in the backyard. When she returned from retrieving the dog ten minutes later, Joey had vanished. Beloved Brownie, Joey’s companion, sniffed all around the spot where the wheelchair was parked. Tire tracks were still embedded in the carpet. It had only been a moment and…Joey was gone.
The attendant kept apologizing. She had not called the police or her agency yet. She was stunned, unsure what to do. What happened to a fully-grown, totally- disabled man, and his forty- pound, heavy-duty wheelchair, in a mere minute?
Someone had to have entered the home. But the front door was locked. Joey couldn’t push his own wheelchair. There was a single stone step outside the front door to consider. Why would anyone want to take an individual like Joey in the first place? He certainly could not walk or wander away.
What the hell happened?
Roger called 911 and the local police responded quickly. They questioned the attendant and looked around the living quarters for fingerprints. Pretty soon the entire town knew about the disappearance. Word got around quickly in a small town like Lakeside; social media blew up. An all-points bulletin was declared for Joseph Johnson.
#
At Sacred Heart cemetery, the gravediggers were finishing filling in Mrs. Johnson’s fresh grave. The job was made easier when the cold rain stopped. The ground was muddy and soft; As one worker remarked “It’s a beautiful day for a funeral… gloomy and gray.”
They began tossing baskets of flowers and wreaths on top of the grave. As they were removing the tent, one of the fellows, a man named Elmer, was the first to notice a crippled man in a wheelchair sitting in front of the flowers- a solitary figure almost hidden by the pile of bouquets. Was this gentleman someone who had just arrived to pay his belated respects? Or had he lingered after the services were over? None of the men recalled seeing him when they began their task.
The man trembled violently, even though he was dressed warmly for the inclement weather. A gusty, chilly wind was blowing in from the north, causing leaves and fragments of tree branches to scatter through the cemetery. The disabled man sat there quietly, tears running down his face.
Bernie, one of the gravediggers, wasn’t sure what to say or do.
The trio of gravediggers turned, tools in hand, and slowly trotted down the slope, passing tombstone after tombstone, until they reached their truck. Bernie got behind the wheel, silently mulling over the scene. He looked through the open window, peering into the soft, purple twilight, and saw the silhouette of the man in the wheelchair near the flowery gravesite. He waited, thinking someone, anyone, would pull through the cemetery gates, park in the long driveway, get the man and take him where he needed to be.
He turned the key and started the truck. Just do your job, he thought. Don’t get involved. There had to be an explanation. It would be embarrassing to call the office or notify authorities, for it to turn out to be something simple like a grieving family member who just wanted time alone with the deceased.
What if no one came for this poor soul? With the temperature falling rapidly, a body could freeze to death after sunset.
“Let’s go, man,” said Elmer. “What are you waiting for? It’s quitting time. Hey, man…are you alright?”
“Something’s not right, here,” Bernie mumbled. “I might get in trouble for this, but I got to let somebody know.”
He began dialing his cell phone.
“Hey, Janet? Put me through to the boss. I’ve got a problem here…”
#
The police had questioned Joey about what happened that day. How did he get to the cemetery, a good three miles away from his home? Certainly not by himself. Even if he could push his chair, it was hilly and rough terrain from where he lived in town, over the rough streets and cracked sidewalks, over the Bridge Street bridge, followed by more winding roads until he would reach the cemetery. And that was in good weather. It was all a moot point because, physically, Joey could not do it.
Ok then…who took him out of the house? Who got him over the front step, lifted him into a car, folded his wheelchair, tossed it in the back seat or the trunk, all this before his attendant returned with Brownie, and then drove him to the cemetery, only to leave him there, by himself?
Every time they asked the sullen Joey who did it, his garbled answer was “Mom.”
“We know you miss her, Joey,” the authorities replied. “We know you went to see her; you felt devastated by missing her funeral. We know all that. What we want to know is…who took you to her grave? Don’t worry, if it is a family member or friend, they won’t get in trouble. You won’t get in trouble for asking to go. Please, Joey…who took you to the cemetery?”
“Mom,” was his reply.
#
Joey will get used to life at the nursing home, the social worker assured Roger. No problem getting him in so quickly. She understood Roger’s inability to care for his brother. Luckily, the local nursing home had open beds, and they always welcomed new admissions. She would encourage Joey to participate in the facility’s activities as much as he was able, especially the weekly church services and bingo games.
“Bingo!” Roger interjected, snapping his fingers. “My mother would push Joey to the Firehouse Bingo games every Tuesday night. I know he will enjoy Bingo.”
In time he would get familiar with the staff and the other residents. He would have more things to do to keep his mind occupied. He still had his television, which Roger had set up in Joey’s room. He would get three square meals a day, and the food wasn’t bad; it wasn’t like home cooking, like Zelda’s famous homemade spaghetti and meatballs, but it was good. He would have two roommates, granted a big adjustment compared to his living situation at home. He would get used to them too.
What other choice did he have?
In time his anger at Roger would subside. Just give it time.
#
The carolers visited Joey’s room early that day. He attended the facility Christmas party that afternoon. Many residents went home for the holidays. Those who remained received small gifts from visiting family, friends and volunteers. Santa was there, spreading holiday cheer. The staff did the best they could to make the residents smile. Joey took it all in stride, considering this was the first Christmas without his beloved mother. Roger brought gifts early in the week, setting up an artificial tree with twinkling lights on Joey’s side of the windowsill.
It was Christmas Eve. Joey was tired and asked to be put in bed early. His television was off; instead, he quietly listened to Christmas tunes over the intercom system. Tears clouded his eyes as he fell asleep.
The phone chimed a good fifteen times before Roger groggily answered. That drinking session was admittedly out of control. It was after midnight, and he had finally fallen asleep. Damn phone.
“Mr. Johnson,” the voice began. “We’ve been trying to call you …”
It was the Nurse Manager on Joey’s unit. This was a call she dreaded making.
“Is my brother dead?” he asked bluntly.
“No,” she hesitated, “He is…missing.”
Missing? How can he be missing?
The night nurse checked on him, Roger was told, and found his bed empty. His wheelchair was gone too. They frantically searched the unit. Obviously, the man couldn’t get himself out of bed, nor could he push his own chair. Joey Johnson did not go home for Christmas.
So, where was he?
Roger demanded an answer, his temper short and flaring, as he unleashed a torrent of legal threats mixed with assorted profanity. Then, in the blitz of his scolding, directed at the unfortunate nurse, he suddenly stopped.
There was silence at the end of the phone. Yes, he was still there. He was…thinking. He advised the nurse not to call the police just yet.
“Keep looking in the building,” he advised. “I’ll check as well. Maybe one of our overly-sympathetic relatives took him out without permission.”
Roger threw on some warm clothes and his winter jacket. The tires on his SUV screeched as he pulled down the street, the windshield wipers battling the persistent snow.
#
Thankfully, the cemetery gates were open. Roger drove through and parked in the driveway. He gazed up the slope toward his mother’s gravesite, roughly fifty yards away. The steely snow clouds impeded any chance of moonlight. Inky darkness awaited him, darkness and tombstones, darkness and the barren, leafless, lifeless trees fringing the cemetery. It was nearly impossible to see until he switched on a flashlight and climbed out into the elements.
Roger followed the flashlight beam up the slope. The wind began to gust sharply, blowing stinging ice pellets against his bare face. His hope grew when the light beam found fresh tire tracks embedded in the muddy ground.
Upon reaching his mother’s grave Roger noticed how the tracks stopped- at her tombstone.
Moments later, a shadowy figure stepped from behind the row of tombstones behind him. The imposing figure held a lantern in one hand and a shepherd’s staff in the other. He was dressed in a brown friar’s habit, the hood covering the head and face.
The Grim Reaper, thought Roger.
“Caretaker,” Roger addressed the visitor, “I’m sorry for the intrusion so early on Christmas morning. I’m not sure why I’m here at this hour.”
“I’ve been waiting for you,” replied the figure in a hollow tone. “That’s why you found the gates opened.”
“Oh,” replied Roger. “You are up late for a caretaker.”
“I work the graveyard shift,” the mysterious figure replied. “I watch over these departed souls. For whomever dies last and is buried on these hollowed grounds shall keep watch during the night until the next soul is buried within. Only then will I be granted rest.”
“It’s insane why I’m here,” Roger mumbled. “I’m looking for my disabled brother. Obviously, he can’t get here on his own, yet I thought he would be here. I don’t understand it myself…”
“Your brother is fine,” the caretaker reassured.
“What? Wait a moment…You knew I was on my way to get my brother? You were waiting for me? How do you know he is ‘fine’? Where is he?”
“Home,” the caretaker replied calmly. “Your brother went home.”
“Home?” questioned Roger. “What are you talking about? My brother lives in a nursing home now. “
“We weren’t ready for Joseph yet,” the figure said. “We needed to make special arrangements. Your brother returned home. Don’t worry, he is being well cared for. Merry Christmas, Mister Johnson.”
The caretaker turned and walked away, the lantern swinging low to the snowy ground, growing dimmer and dimmer as the dark figure vanished into the driving snowstorm.
“Wait!” called Roger. “Is this some sort of gag? What do you mean ‘he went home’? What the hell is going on here?”
#
Roger called the nursing home, hoping that somehow, someway, they had found Joey. Or maybe someone brought him back. Who, in the name of God, was bringing him to the cemetery, on Christmas Eve, in a snowstorm?
The staff were still searching for their lost resident. Meanwhile, Roger drove to his childhood home, hoping for the best yet thinking the worst.
“Joey,” he mumbled as he drove in the snow,” Where the hell are you?”
Roger still had a key to the old place. It was on the market since he placed Joey in the nursing home. It wasn’t surprising that the house looked empty and barren from the outside as he pulled up. Snow had accumulated in the front. No curtains in the windows. No lights in the early morning. The house, his old childhood home, actually looked spooky now. It had to be frigid inside since the heat was still off.
What was Roger even doing here in the first place? He almost didn’t get out of the parked truck, but something pushed him to check the property for his own piece of mind. Once he opened the door the savory aroma of roast turkey filled his senses with hunger and delight. A nice-sized Christmas tree stood in one corner of the small living room, decorated with old-fashioned ornaments, just like when he was a kid. A welcome blast of warmth felt good from the heater.
Everything was just like it used to be early on Christmas morning, before the activity started, before the family awoke, before the company began visiting, before the presents were open and the celebration commenced.
There was Joey’s trustworthy wheelchair, sitting empty beside the cot. There was Joey, sleeping soundly, bundled underneath several blankets. The antique cuckoo clock, once only a distant, broken memory, peacefully ticked off the seconds before softly announcing the six o’clock hour.
Someone had brought Joey home from the graveyard, put him to bed, turned on the heat and set up a Christmas tree. Roger heard the creaky stairs and he froze, scared to death, unaware what to expect from this intruder who was about to descend to the living room. It had to be some crazy aunt or uncle or meddling family member who thought they knew better regarding his brother’s welfare.
To Roger’s surprise, there, standing in a worn tan bathrobe, hair up in curlers, was his mother, Zelda…his deceased mother.
“Roger!” she whispered, trying not to wake Joey. “What are you doing here so early? I thought I told you we weren’t eating until noon?”
“MOM!” he gasped. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here, with your brother. What’s wrong with you? Were you out drinking again?”
“You were dead!” he stated bluntly.
“Roger!” she scolded. “Now I know you were drinking! You better shape up! Go home and sleep it off. You’re welcome to come back for turkey later. Do me a favor and shovel the front sidewalk before you leave. Now go before you wake your brother up.”
“But I haven’t been drinking,” he lied. “Am I dreaming? Or am I living in some kind of parallel universe?”
Zelda sat in her favorite rocking chair, silently rocking back and forth for several seconds, contemplating what to say.
“Please, Mom…give me an answer!” he demanded. “You were dead!”
“No, it’s not a dream, Roger,” she conceded. “Not a parallel world, either. It’s more like a …package deal. I know you tried, Roger. No one could take care of Joey like I did. He was so unhappy at the nursing home. It was my fault for dying. So, I made a deal with Death. I was allowed to come back to take care of your brother. Once he dies, I go too. That’s the deal.
“We have a special bond, your brother and I. It’s just that…he needs me,” she said. “I could’ve stayed. They do celebrate Christmas in Heaven. It was my choice to come back…for Joey.”
Roger plopped himself on the sofa, speechless. He sat there, searching for answers as Zelda continued to slowly rock in her chair, not saying a word.
“But what about the rest of the family? Your friends? The neighbors?” he asked. “Everyone who was at your funeral? What will you tell them?”
“Nothing,” she stated. “They will remember nothing. Their memories of my passing have been erased. To everyone else, it’s same-old, same-old Zelda. Only you know the truth. All evidence of my death will be erased from time. My obituary no longer exists in the newspaper or online. No one in town…in the entire world… will ever know. Only you will know that I died, and know that I came back.”
“What about Joey?” Robert whispered. “Does he know?”
“No,” she stated. “He’s been asleep since I returned. He will never know. When he wakes up, I’ll be here, just like every Christmas. Why upset him? He has enough to worry about. Now, I suggest we get back to ‘normal’. You’ll be here for Christmas dinner at noon?”
“How can things ever be ‘normal’ again?” he stated.
“Roger!” she replied sternly. “You’ll come back for turkey?”
“Yes,” he agreed, unable to look at her.
“And you’ll shovel the sidewalk out front before you leave? I want to go to church this morning,” Zelda said.
“Yes,” he repeated.
“Good,” she replied. “Now cheer up! It’s Christmas, and your mother is back from the afterlife. It’s going to be a beautiful Christmas after all.”
Gregory Smith is a retired medical social worker living in Phoenixville, Pennsylvania. He is active on social media, including Blue Sky, X and Instagram. Greg has 12 short stories accepted or published so far. He is the oldest survivor of Osteogenesis Imperfecta in the world. He has written a memoir called An Unbreakable Spirit and has a new book on the horizon called Stronger Than Bone, about living with brittle bones at the age of 68. Greg enjoys sports, watching classic films, reading and listening to oldies music in his spare time. He is married with two cute dogs, Katie & Cocoa.
