uniform. He loved making people smile—easily his best quality.
As for the rest of the group, Youkelstein was welcomed as if he were a new resident being dropped off by his family. Zach remained pleasant, but quiet. His serenity contrasted with Eddie, who was violently pacing and badgering the teenage girl behind the counter with questions she wasn’t qualified to answer.
A few tense minutes later, Mrs. Rhodes arrived. She was in her fifties and wore a tailored suit. During their first meeting she had the bubbly-real-estate-agent thing going, but today she played the somber funeral director. Veronica saw a talented actress who could replace Ellen in this year’s spring play.
She used all the soft words—peaceful, passed-on, left us—the same ones that were attempted by the doctors when Carsten died. But there was nothing peaceful about a thirty-six-year-old man dying of a stroke in a seedy Poughkeepsie motel, leaving two children without a father.
Mrs. Rhodes walked them down the cramped corridors. Veronica always felt like a giant when she came here. Everything was made to the scale of the shrinking residents and it felt like she would scrape her head on the roof, despite being just five-six. The familiar trip brought them to Ellen’s room, which like her apartment in the city, was an overpriced closet.
Veronica wasn’t sure why they were brought here, other than a subtle hint to remove Ellen’s things ASAP so they could move the next resident in. She expected some sort of chalk outline or police tape, but it was just a lonely room.
“An orderly found her this morning in her bed, she must have left us some time last night,” Mrs. Rhodes said, pointing to the bed that had been neatly made up.
The room looked the same as it always did—miserable. The small television on which Ellen watched her beloved Yankees play was still there. It was one of few surviving items from the “coffee pot fire,” in which she’d accidentally left it on and almost burned the place down. Two of her favorite items—a tacky couch and the laptop computer that Carsten gave her—did not survive.
Veronica walked to a bookcase, which still held the many framed pictures of Ellen’s husband Harold and son Harry Jr. According to Zach, she went out of her way to absolve Harold from any Nazi knowledge in the presentation, but Veronica still wondered what he would have thought about her claims of having a child with the Gestapo guy, or Hitler helping to raise her. Probably the same thing they did—sadness, at what her once sharp mind had been reduced to.
Carsten often claimed that Ellen had quite a sense of humor and optimistic outlook before Harold died. Veronica would need to see that to believe it—he had already died at the time she began dating Carsten. The ironic thing was the last time Veronica picked up Maggie, on Sunday, Ellen seemed the most at peace she’d ever seen her.
“So you’re saying she died of natural causes?” Eddie asked in his investigator tone.
A serious look came over Mrs. Rhodes’ face. “That is why I wanted to meet with you—I think you should come with me.”
They followed her into the hallway, the cryptic reply piquing their interest.
They continued following in lockstep behind Mrs. Rhodes, and passed into the Long Term Care facility, which for all intents and purposes was a hospital. But not one that the patients left. Ellen called it a hospice without morphine.
Mrs. Rhodes whisked them into a small examination room. Ellen’s body was lying on a table, with a sheet covering her to her neck. A little notice would’ve been appreciated! Veronica turned to block Maggie and Jamie from having a vision of their dead Oma permanently scarred into their minds. Despite Youkelstein’s warning about their safety, she sent them off to play by themselves in the hallway. Her initial fears at the school had waned. Being in this place reminded her how frazzled Ellen’s mind was at the end.
Ellen was laid out on the cold slab and looked like Ellen always did, still dressed in her favorite nightgown. But from Veronica’s angle, it looked like a thin smile had escaped her lips. No doubt she was enjoying all the drama that she’d caused—she loved being the center of attention.
Standing beside the table was a man in a white lab coat. He introduced himself as Dr. Bondy, and then stated, “It’s my belief that Ellen committed suicide.”
There went the pleasantries. “What do you mean suicide?” Eddie shot back.