Free Too Near the Edge by Lynn Osterkamp

about Adam. Could Sharon be wrong about him? Had he
gotten himself into deep gambling debt and jumped over the edge of
the canyon? It didn’t fit with my image of the loving husband and
stepfather who had adopted Sharon’s son. I did know gambling
addicts often leave loved ones alone and poor. Still, I didn’t
think Tyler would be telling me to “play Nancy Drew,” if Adam’s
death was suicide. But I couldn’t figure why Erik was so convinced
of this explanation.
    I was so deep in thought that I tripped on an
uneven piece of paving when a sprinkler system started in the yard
next to me. As I picked myself up, bruised, annoyed, and wet, I
gave new credence to the accident possibility. Even a cautious
person in familiar territory can get distracted and stumble. I
decided I should definitely encourage Sharon to be open to all the
potential explanations.

Chapter 8
     
    On Wednesday morning, I had planned to get to
Shady Terrace in time to visit Gramma before I went to her
quarterly Care Conference. But I stopped at the gym to work out and
got held up for 15 minutes by the road construction on Broadway, so
I barely made it in time for the conference. When I rushed in to
the tiny windowless conference room, most of the interdisciplinary
team members were already gathered there. Betsy, the sweet
twenty-something social worker for the Alzheimer’s Unit was talking
on her cell phone to someone who was looking for a nursing home for
a parent. She twisted a lock of her long curly blond hair with one
finger as she earnestly recited the benefits of care at Shady
Terrace.
    Susanne, the gray-haired slightly overweight
dietary technician, made notes in a bulging day-planner notebook,
highlighting some of them in yellow. Tanya, my adversary from
nursing, munched on a cinnamon roll as she chatted with Alicia, the
bubbly long-legged activity director. I wondered how much of
Alicia’s boundless energy came from the grande-sized Starbucks
paper cup in front of her.
    They all stopped what they were doing when
the medical director, Dr. Ahmed—a slightly-built dark-skinned man
in an impeccable white lab coat—darted in and took the seat at the
head of the table. He placed a stack of residents’ medical charts
on the table in front of him, nodded a brief greeting to the group,
opened the top chart, and said, “Martha Donnelly, age 87.”
    This no-nonsense beginning to Gramma’s care
conference was typical. The schedule is always tight, and staff
members are in a rush to get back to their routine tasks. As usual,
they did a quick round where each member described Gramma’s recent
ups and downs in their area of expertise. I’d been coming to these
conferences for years, so by now I could recite nearly all their
lines on my own. Gramma spurned most group activities, especially
bingo. She would attend musical performances, which she usually
enjoyed. She refused to eat anything that required much chewing,
didn’t drink enough fluids, and didn’t sleep well at night. It was
the nighttime activity that was the issue today.
    “I told you about the behaviors, Cleo,” Tanya
said, leaning across the narrow table in my direction. Her face was
so close I could see bits of partially-chewed cinnamon roll as she
spoke. “We had a tough time calming her down after she tried to
climb into Flora’s bed, and Flora was furious. We’ve tried
everything to keep Martha settled in the evening, but it’s not
working. I really think she needs new medications. What do you
think, Dr. Ahmed?” She finally looked away from me, as she turned
her face in his direction.
    He flipped through Gramma’s chart, without
looking up. Dr. Ahmed isn’t much for social skills. “We could try
Ambien,” he said, writing in her chart—no doubt already ordering
the sleeping pills. “We can start with a low dose and see how she
responds. She might actually be more alert during the day if she
gets more sleep at night.”
    I frowned and shook my head. I remembered