In Plain Sight
I haven't written many short stories since I was a kid, but this one just came to me a couple of years ago. There was a patient in one of our local nursing homes named Elvis J. Presley. I never met him, and his door was always closed, so I couldn't even sneak a peak. He was a very private person, I was told, and got annoyed after awhile by the attention he got from his name. The nurses insisted he was older than the singer, but I glanced at the spine of his chart and noticed that his birth year was a couple of years later than the Mississippi-born superstar. But my imagination ran away with me....
Elvis woke up startled.
The dream had felt so real. The
same dream he’d been having several nights in a row. He could see her so clearly, a young teenage
girl with short blond hair and startling blue eyes, weeping. God, those eyes!. Every night it was the same thing. Sometimes she was weeping with such
sorrow. Other times she was dancing
joyfully in her bedroom. It was like he was watching just outside her
door, mysteriously drawn to her spirit, her soul, her heart. Then she turned
around, seeing him, her hands suddenly covering her mouth —and he woke up.
The old man swung his legs out of
bed, shoving his feet into the slippers on the floor. He rubbed his hands over his face and tried to
wake up, reaching for his cane that leaned up against the wall.
He heard the noises outside of his door
that indicated the rest of the nursing home had come back to life. He kept his door closed whenever he was in
the room. A lot of people coming through
visiting loved ones always wanted to get a peek at the old man who shared a name
with the famous rock star, Elvis Presley. Yes, he
was born with it, he told them one more time.
His mother named him.
He never ceased to be amused at the
attention his name got him, even in this tiny Midwestern town. People needed to get a life, he thought. At first he enjoyed listening to people’s
stories of how they’d seen Elvis in concert and what his music meant to
them. But after awhile, he just wanted
to be left alone, be another anonymous face in the white-haired Bingo
crowd. Sometimes he pretended to be
asleep on the couch when visitors came walking through. Occasionally he heard someone whisper to the
nurse on duty,
“Do you really have a resident here
named Elvis Presley?”
“Yes,” the nurse would say patiently, “But
he’s older than the singer.” And the
person would look around the room, wondering which one he was.
He depended
on music to soothe his soul. His
repertoire consisted of Ray Charles, Beatles, Johnny Cash, blues, but mostly
gospel. He had some CDs of the Imperials
and J.D. Sumner and the Stamps Quartet. It
wasn’t easy to find these things, but the nurses were good about getting online
for him and even getting some old vinyl albums.
He’d given them the money to get one of those new record players. He
loved to listen to the crackling sound of a vinyl record. He would listen for hours. No one disturbed him unless it was time for
his meds or meals. He preferred to take
meals in his room, but sometimes he’d shuffle out to the dining room and sit
with the ladies. He preferred their
company to the men who usually griped about the government or how their sons
were messing up their farm businesses.
Susan was a chaplain who came to
the nursing home to visit with some of the residents. Sometimes she’d lead a worship service in the
chapel, but Elvis never went. They were usually
too tame for his taste. However, he’d overheard Susan talking to the other
residents occasionally and she seemed to be alright. She had an infectious smile and a beautiful
voice. Sometimes he overheard her
singing to a resident in one of the neighboring rooms. Her voice was sweet and pure, like a lullaby.
One day he
was shuffling down the hall when he heard her singing, “Peace In the Valley.” He stopped and listened for a moment. His mama had loved that song. He smiled and peeked into a nearby room. He saw Susan kiss the forehead of an old
woman lying in her bed. Susan prayed
over her, stroked her cheek, and quietly left the room.
Elvis was
still standing there. Susan looked up
and saw him. “Oh, hello,” she said,
startled.
“Hello,” he
said shyly, struck by the piercing blue of her eyes. “I’m sorry to startle you,
I just heard you singing to Mavis. You have a beautiful voice.”
“Thank you,” she said, blushing.
He cleared
his throat. “I love gospel music. My
mama used to sing to me all the time. There ain’t nothin’ like a good gospel
song,” he said, turning into his room.
Susan
smiled, “That’s true,” she said, intrigued.
She saw the name plate by his door.
“Ohmygosh, I’d heard that they had a resident named Elvis Presley here, so
you’re him, huh?”
It was
Elvis’ turn to blush, though he’d played out this scene many times. “Yep,
guilty as charged.”
“My
daughter is crazy about Elvis. Ever since she was a little girl and heard
his music in a Disney movie,” she said.
Elvis
looked into his room, and back at Susan.
He nodded. “Yeah, he was the
best,” he mumbled. “You wanna come in and visit a bit?” He asked without thinking. Damn, he was planning to take a nap.
“Sure,” Susan
said, following him into his room. She often got a little bored with her job. It’s not that she didn’t care, but many of
the residents she visited had severe dementia and couldn’t participate in
conversation. She was beginning to
wonder if she ever made a difference.
There wasn’t much in Elvis’ room
that revealed anything about this man with the famous name. There was his record player, a pile of
records and CDs. There were no pictures
of family, just a few pictures of horses, motorcycles, and an old picture of
Jesus above his bed. A tattered Bible
lay open on the nightstand. King James.
Susan
looked around before sitting down on a nearby chair. “So,” she ventured, “I bet you get a lot of questions
about your name.”
“Yeah, I
guess I do,” he said, sighing, but not offering any more information.
Susan
wanted to ask so many questions. How had
his parents come up with that name? Was
it a common name back then?
Susan tried
again. “Do you have any family?” It was
one of her usual segue-ways into conversation.
People loved to talk about their family.
Elvis
turned toward her. “Nope,” he said,
“just me.” Silence.
Susan studied
his face. He looked between 75-80 years
old. His eyes were a faded blue, his
hair white. He seemed weary,
protective. His face was a locked door. She felt an unexpected kinship with this
private man.
“What did
you do for a living?” she asked. At this
stage of life, many people loved sharing their memories, and just wanted
someone to hear—be a witness—to their lives.
She suspected that this man had some fascinating stories.
Elvis drew
in a deep breath and cleared his throat.
“Well,” he said, “a little of everything. I drove truck for a while in my younger days. Believe it or not, I tried doing some music gigs. But it’s hard to be taken seriously when
you’ve got a name that’s already taken by someone famous.”
Susan
looked around the sparse room. Clearly he wanted to remain a mystery, retreat
into the safe sanctuary of himself. He wasn’t
rude. He was very courteous. Elvis
looked around the room, obviously uncomfortable, and it was clear to Susan that
he wanted her to leave.
“Well,” she
said, “I do need to head back to the office.
It was wonderful to meet you, my daughter will get a kick out of it when
I tell her.” She smiled. Elvis suddenly noticed how beautiful she was.
There was something in her eyes. Behind
the smile there was pain, and he knew pain.
This woman, he thought, is recovering from something.
Suddenly he
felt anxious. He didn’t know what
triggered it. Something about her face looked so familiar. For a moment he studied her brown hair and
blue eyes, but couldn’t figure out what unnerved him.
“Uh, yeah,”
he said, quickly recovering. “Nice to
meet you too, ma’am, take care,” he said, reaching for some albums and
pretended to sort through them.
Susan wondered
what shut him down quickly, but cleared her throat and got up to leave. She stared at the back of Elvis. He was still trim for an “old man,” and
well-kempt. He clearly cared about his
appearance. She quietly left the room
and pulled the door shut. She lingered in
the hall for a moment and heard the harmonizing sounds of the Imperials singing
“Sweet, Sweet Spirit.” She listened for a moment and heard another voice-- that of the old man,
singing along. His baritone voice was
rich and full of emotion. What a strange
man, she thought. With an ever-so-interesting name.
Susan
walked slowly down the hall, looking at the residents playing cards at a table
in the activity room. She didn’t notice Audrey, the charge nurse standing
nearby, looking over a chart.
“So you met
Mr. P, huh?” Audrey smiled.
Susan jumped
a little. “Oh, yeah --- he’s not easy to
get to know, is he?”
“No,” said
Audrey. “He never has any visitors, no
family to speak of. In fact, we were all
shocked that he let you in. We’re not
sure where he’s from, his records are pretty sparse. We all call him Mr. P around here, because,
well, it’s just too weird to call him Elvis.
He’s a dear man, but he’s a mystery. We don’t know why he’s here. He doesn’t require much care at all.” She was careful not to give out too much
information.
Susan
smiled. She wanted to pry, but she knew
the rules. Characters in real life
always fascinated her and she was a little frustrated that she couldn’t find
out more about Mr. P. Why didn’t he live
at home? Where did he come from?
Mr. P dozed
off in his chair, listening to his records.
He dreamed he was on a beautiful beach, walking with a young woman,
laughing and chasing her in the sand. He
smiled in his sleep. He loved
women! But most of them hadn’t seen
beyond his handsome face and charming ways.
They didn’t see his longing, his deep hunger. For peace, for God, for a rest from the
darkness that plagued him. His only relief was when he listened to music. It was a feeling he could never sustain or
store up to draw upon when he needed it. Late at night was the worst.
The dream
faded and there she was again. That girl with the blonde hair. In the dream he could see she was an old
soul. Someone like him. She had a spirit
of wisdom that exceeded her years. He
sensed that she understood how he felt. Like an oddball or misfit who felt so deeply
and profoundly that it made one feel like they could burst wide open. It was
like he could see her soul. Somehow he knew that she wasn’t a musician, but loved
music. Music was in her skin, her blood,
her being and it was as important to her as the air she breathed. He loved this mystery girl in his dream, but
not like he’d loved so many women in his youth.
Like a soul-mate. She understood
and loved him for who he was. When he saw
her in the dream, she turned and smiled with absolute joy, as if she had been waiting for him.
“THERE you
are!” she said, and he woke up with a cry that jolted him.
He lay
awake, not moving, needing to hold onto that feeling of connection, that sense
of being completely understood.
Something he’d never really had in his life. He never truly trusted people after his Mama
died. God, that woman adored him. He was
the center of her universe, and she was his.
When she died, it was like someone cut out his heart and buried it in
the ground. He could never quite figure
out how to breathe after that. In his
younger days, he’d tried to fill the void with lovers. He tried to share things
with them that excited him, inspired him, and they’d end up looking at him as
if he were crazy. They wanted so little
and he wanted so much. Sex was just a
drug to try to keep away the pain of isolation.
Now he
didn’t need anyone. He’d resolved that
he would be alone and he did everything he could to keep it that way. He sighed heavily as he rolled over and got
up. He put on an album, savoring the
crackling sound of the needle on vinyl.
He didn’t understand the technology of online music, music that was
disembodied, in a computer file. He
liked the certainty of an album, the solidness of it, the security of knowing
that the music was held within its grooves and couldn’t be lost.
Susan got
to see a lot of Mr. P over the next several weeks. He waited for her, which surprised the
facility nurses. He wasn’t one of her
patients, but their visits were a spiritual lift for her in the midst of her
daily travels. She got frustrated with
him as she tried to coax some stories out of him and he remained tight-lipped.
For Mr. P,
the dreams became more frequent and intense. The Blond Mystery Girl was
passionate and beautiful. His heart ached
and he’d wake up with his hand out into the air, reaching for her. It was as if he was a distant observer,
watching her as she wrote stories, poetry, journal entries in her room. Her heart was broken often. He knew that her passion and sensitivity made
her more prone to hurt. He wanted to
protect her, shield her. He knew a thing
or two about how vicious the world could be.
He was amused that she was comforted by the Gospel songs of Elvis. The
Blond Girl haunted him. But he couldn’t
speak about her to anyone. The dreams
left him sad, and quiet. The nurses
began to notice when they came in to wake him in the morning.
“Did you have your nightmares, again,
Mr. P?” They’d lean over and touch his
shoulder, seeing the tears at the edges of his eyes. He shrugged them off.
“Just the
dreams of an old man at the jumpin’off point,” he said.
Mr. P liked the young
chaplain-lady. He couldn’t pinpoint what
it was about her that drew him to her.
Getting close to people was terrifying for him, and yet she was the
first one in a long time that he could trust.
They talked about music, God, history, etc. Mr. P was very good at diverting the subject
when it got too close, and sometimes he’d just chuckle and point at Susan.
“Ha!
You almost got me there…” he said with a twinkle in his eye.
One night
she was called to the nursing home to be with a patient who was dying. She’d
been out with her daughter to a late movie and was just leaving the theatre
when the nurse called. Susan hadn’t had
time to drop Sarah off before heading over, so she came along. Sarah always carried a book with her for such
emergencies, so she curled up in the waiting room with her book and soon fell
asleep.
The family all left shortly after
the death, and Susan went into the staff room to see if there was any coffee
left. It was 1:00 a.m. and the building
was silent and dark, except for small lights along the floor. After the
mortuary people had gone, the nurses went back to their stations. The calm after the storm of death. Susan felt suddenly very tired, and sat down
in a recliner to catch a power nap before driving home.
She woke abruptly, remembering that
Sarah was there, too, and probably anxious to head home. She stretched and yawned, willing herself to
get up.
Mr. P had
been disturbed by one of his dreams and decided to wander down the hall to get
a cup of coffee . He shuffled toward the
little kitchenette and passed the family waiting room just as Sarah was sitting
up and stretching.
Mr. P glanced
into the room and came to an abrupt halt that almost threw him off balance. His
heart started racing and his hands were suddenly cold.
“MotherofGod!”
He whispered. He stood transfixed,
staring at the young girl yawning and turning over, oblivious to his presence. Mr. P felt dizzy, his knees trembling. He stood still, not trusting his legs to
work. It was her. My God. The Blond
Girl. From his dreams.
Susan came
up behind him and gently touched him on the shoulder, and he jumped, turning
toward her with a sudden look of terror.
“Are you ok, Mr. P?” She asked
gently.
“What the
hell are you doing here?!” He blurted out, angry that he’d been caught off
guard.
“Mrs.
Osenbach passed away tonight,” she said, “they called me in to be with her and
her family.”
His wide
eyes stared at her as he moved away from the door. His eyes moved to the floor, trying to stop
the shaking in his hands. This was the most vulnerable she had ever seen him. What had happened? What terrors did he carry around in that soul
of his?
His eyes
were teary, and she assumed it was the news of Mrs. Osenbach. “Did you know her well?” She gently asked.
“What?” He looked up, again confused. “Oh, no, Rita was a bitch, actually. I stayed away from her. Uh…” he cleared his
throat, “I just woke up from a bad dream and wanted some coffee. That girl,” he nodded back toward the waiting
room, “do you know who she is? Or what
she’s doing here?”
Susan
peeked in at Sarah, who was now sleeping soundly on the couch, curled up under
a blanket. Susan chuckled. “Oh, that’s my daughter, Sarah. She and I were at a movie when I got the
call, so she rode along with me…”
Mr. P’s face
blanched.“Your daughter? Holy shit,” he said, and hurriedly turned
away, apparently no longer interested in his coffee. Susan started to speak, but he was no longer
listening, anxious to get back to his room.
She stared after the old man, wondering if she should accompany him, but
decided to just leave him alone.
Mr. P
crawled into bed, shoving his cane aside, ignoring the noise it made as it hit
the floor. He got under the covers,
slippers still on his feet. When he
closed his eyes, he saw Her again. Those
blue eyes from his dreams. Now peaceful,
sleepy as he’d just seen them in the waiting room. Eyes that looked at him as if she knew him. But how could she? He’d never seen her in person before tonight.
He put his arm over his eyes to shield
his mind from her image, but he fell asleep with her smiling gently at him, telling
him… she understood. Everything.
Susan didn’t
make it back to that nursing home for a couple of weeks because of her busy
schedule. But she couldn’t stop thinking
about Mr. P. Sarah hadn’t mentioned
anything about that night, of course, she slept through most of it. She hadn’t seen Mr. P in the hallway staring
at her.
Susan got a
call just as she was getting into bed one Friday night. “Susan,” the night nurse said very grimly,
“Mr. P isn’t doing very well. The Doctor
thinks he may have had a stroke a couple of days ago, and he hasn’t been the
same since. Tonight he’s real bad and he’s asking for you. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone else, just
you. Can you come?”
Susan’s
heart sank. Not Mr. P. Whenever she met a new patient, she knew death
and loss was a strong possibility, but somehow she thought this man would live
forever. She dressed quickly, kissed her
sleepy husband and headed out the door.
The home was quiet, all the residents
tucked in their beds for the night. Dim
lights lit the hallways. The birds
chirped sleepily in the glass aviary, greeting this night visitor. Susan hurried to Mr. P’s room, where a nurse
was just leaving.
She looked
so sad. “He doesn’t look good. I hate
this,” the nurse shook her head and squeezed Susan’s arm.
Susan
peeked into the dark room. There was a
nightlight near his bed, and J.D. Sumner was singing softly, his deep bass
voice filling the otherwise quiet room.
The nurse was right, Mr. P didn’t look so good. Shit,
Susan thought. She approached the bed
just as he turned toward her.
“Hey,
Preacher,” he said with a slurred voice.
“I’m not doin’ so good. But it’s
ok. I just wanted to talk to you ‘bout
some things. I’m not afraid to die,
hell, I’d come so close before-- sometimes I thought it’d be a relief…” Tears streamed down his face as he said, “I’m
not so afraid of where I’m going, it’s
just, well, my Mama. I didn’t always
live the kind of life that made her proud.
I got better, but I was pretty messed up when I was younger. I don’t think I could stand to see her
disappointed in me,” he said, and it struck Susan how young he suddenly seemed.
Like a scared little boy.
She smiled,
the tears spilling from her eyes as well.
“Oh, Mr. P, your Mama sounds like a special lady. From what you’ve told me, I think she’ll be
so glad to see you, she’ll forget everything else. She loves you. You’re ok.” She reached out to stroke his face. Dying has a way of melting all barriers.
He smiled,
a tear falling sideways onto the pillow. He looked toward the record player. “God,
isn’t that beautiful?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Do me a
favor,” Mr. P whispered.
“Sure,
anything,”
“Tell your
girl, it’s gonna be alright. All of
it. Tell her I understand. It’s a hard world for people with tender
hearts. Tell her to just keep bein’
herself, stayin’ true to herself and to take no shit…” he bit his lip, as if he
regretted the last part. Susan
chuckled.
“It’s ok,” she
whispered.
“She’s got
a beautiful spirit. Just… tell her she’s
gonna be ok,” he said. “And…” he
hesitated, “tell her thank you.”
Susan
swallowed. She wasn’t sure what he was
talking about, but it didn’t seem the time to ask. She knew Mr. P hadn’t had a chance to talk to
Sarah that night, he only saw her from a distance. But she also knew that there are many
mysterious things that she’d never understand, and whether it made sense to her
or not, she would pass on the message.
“And thank you,”
he said softly, his blue eyes staring into hers. He chuckled softly. “Thankyouverymuch.”
Susan laughed out loud through
her tears. “You’re welcome, Elvis.” she
said, holding his hand. J.D. finished
his song and the needle picked up as the player shut itself off. Susan began to sing “Peace In the Valley” to
Mr. P as he closed his eyes with a gentle smile on his face. She followed with “Amazing Grace,” and “How
Great Thou Art.” As she reached the end
of they hymn, she placed her hand on his chest.
It was still. And she wept. She sat there a long, long time, holding his
hand.
The next
morning at breakfast, Sarah asked her immediately what was wrong, as Susan’s
eyes were puffy and swollen from the tears.
She would wait till later to tell her the mysterious message. Susan took a deep breath and responded,
“Elvis Presley
died last night.”
