The Last Page

Margot Anne Marie Cromwell sat heavily in her favorite floral-print winged chair, running her knobby, crooked fingers over a hardback book. She knew that was her name on the cover, and the weight of this book had something comforting about it. There was a sense of familiarity that she just couldn't place. Many things were slipping through Margot’s metaphorical fingers these days. She knew the book was hers. It was her handwriting scrawled on the inside cover. Wasn’t it? How could she have forgotten signing this book, which sits on a shelf in her house and lists her as the author? This has been her plight in life lately. She didn't remember. Strangers talked to her and acted as if she should know them. The dates on the news didn’t make any sense. The scariest part was when she walked into a room with a mirror and didn’t recognize her own reflection. What was the diagnosis the doctor gave her? Louie Body Dementia? That was it. She was 63.

Oliver slammed his hand down on the alarm button for the third time that morning. He was so tired he thought about calling the temp agency and canceling his gig for the day. But it was his first day with a new client, so he sat up, yawned and stretched, and put one foot on the floor. His work schedule was killing him. Oliver was working three jobs to pay the tuition at the prestigious Parsons School of Design, where he was accepted to attend in the fall. He was determined to make a career out of his passion for photography, mostly because he wanted to do something that made him happy but also to spurn the disapproval of his father for choosing an institution of fine arts. Just thinking about it motivated him to greet the day with enthusiasm, knowing that he would be a few hundred dollars closer to his goal.

Oliver checked the map on his phone as he pulled into the driveway of an ancient Victorian-style home. He peered through the rain to see if there was a parking spot for him and thought to himself the house looked uninhabited. The lawn was unkempt and there was a pile of old newspapers lining the walkway. God, he hoped he wasn’t going to find a dead client in the house. He ran through the rain to the front porch and rang the doorbell, suddenly nervous about what he might be getting into with this client. There was no answer after several rings, so he instinctively turned towards his car, then thought to himself, “I should try to check on the lady just in case something is wrong”. He turned back, turned the knob on the door, and it slowly opened to a dark foyer.

“Mrs. Cromwell!” he shouted. No answer. “Mrs. Cromwell, I’m Oliver Norton, your assistant from the temp...” WHAM! Something hit Oliver over the head and knocked him to the ground. Stunned and disoriented, Oliver tried to sit up and get his bearings when he heard a shaky voice say, “Don’t move or I will hurt you!” Apparently, Mrs. Cromwell was home after all.

As Oliver’s vision cleared, he could see a tiny woman wielding a golf club in a defensive posture, with a terrified look on her face. “Who are you?” she said. “What do you want?”. “My father will be home any minute and he will hurt you!”, she continued.

Oliver spoke softly, hoping not to scare her further, and said, “Mrs. Cromwell, I’m...”

Who is Mrs. Cromwell?” she interrupted. “I don’t know who you are talking about. My name is Margot Anne Marie Upshur, and you are trespassing on my property!”

“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Upshur; my name is Oliver Norton,” he quickly interjected before she could say anything else. “I was sent here from ProHealth Staffing as your new assistant. But maybe I have the wrong house.” Oliver began to think he was indeed in the wrong place and slowly stood up with his hands in front of him in a non-threatening gesture. He was expecting someone much older. “I will leave now,” he said as he backed towards the door.

“Oh, you mustn't go!” shouted the lady. “I will make us a nice cup of tea,” she said in a pleasant tone, as if she hadn’t just been threatening his life with a golf club. So now Oliver was utterly confused.

“Mrs. Upshur”, I am an orderly with ProHealth Staffing. I think I am in the wrong house, so thank you for the offer, but I must go find the house I am supposed to be working at.

“Mrs. Upshur was my mother,” the lady stated. “My name is Margot Anne Marie Cromwell.”

Now Oliver was beginning to understand the assignment. He sat in a chair in the kitchen as she went about making tea and pulled out his tablet. He found the staffing assignment and read that he would be working with a dementia patient for the next few weeks. He was to help her take her medications, bathe if needed, and conduct a series of mental exercises with her to determine the level of cognitive regression since her last assessment. He made a mental note to check the staffing assignments before he arrived at a client’s home.

He observed Mrs. Cromwell adding water to an electric tea pot. She gathered two teacups, saucers, and spoons and brought them to the table. He watched as she sat the saltshaker in the middle of the table along with a carafe of heavy cream. He noted the absence of tea leaves or tea bags. Mrs. Cromwell brought the pot of water to the table and, with shaky hands, tried to pour it into the cups. Oliver quickly grabbed the pot from her and noted that she had not turned it on, so the water was cold. He poured it anyway and sat across from her, drinking milky, salted water, pretending it was tea.

“Mrs. Cromwell,” Oliver began. “Call me Anne Marie”, she stated. “That’s what my friends call me.”

“Ok, Anne Marie, would you like to go over a few things so I can get an idea of what you need me to do while I am here?” he asked.

“You’re here to keep me company”, she suggested.

“And to help you take your medications, do some light cleaning, and provide any assistance you might need with hygiene and such,”, he stated. “Would you like to show me around?”, he asked.

“Oh, I’d be delighted to!”, she exclaimed, almost like a giddy schoolgirl.

“Let’s begin with your medication and finish our tea, then we can take a tour”, he said. He gave the pills to her according to instructions, and they sat at the table for another half an hour. He could see the medication take effect as her lucidity improved and she appeared less confused.

As Anne Marie showed him to the dimly lit parlor, he took in his surroundings, noting the magnificent antiques serving as decor. Very old Persian rugs spread across the worn hardwood floors. The opulent room contained a pair of curved wooden settees upholstered in rich green and gold brocade, a highly polished mahogany table with gold leaf decorative inlays, a marble fireplace below a mahogany mantel decked with a mirror, vases, and several photographs. Richly patterned navy wallpaper adorned the walls and a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling as the central source of light. Oliver stood in awe of the setting, eager to see each room and almost forgetting he was there to work.

So began his daily visits to Anne Marie’s house. As their routine grew more comfortable, he noted an improvement in her mental state. The consistency in delivering her medication appeared to have a positive effect on her ability to remain lucid during their time together and so a relationship was born.

One sunny summer day, Oliver planned to greet Anne Marie with a picnic basket and treat her to a day at the park. She could use some fresh air and he thought she would enjoy the outing. She was delighted at the prospect of getting out and eagerly jumped in Oliver’s little Honda. As they spread out the blanket and unpacked the basket, two small children and a dog wandered up to where they were sitting, chasing a frisbee. Oliver noted a look of confusion and fear on Anne Marie’s face as she began shouting at the kids, “get off my property you little gypsies, and take your filthy mutt before I ring the police!”. She tried to stand up and run after the children, who were terrified, and when she did, Oliver heard a very dull-sounding “crack” as Anne Marie’s hip snapped, and she fell to the ground. She began writhing in pain and screaming that the gypsies were trying to kill her.

After the paramedics put her in the ambulance and Oliver had given them all her information, he returned to the house to make sure everything was locked up and secure. A knock on the door startled him. He answered to a short, plump, elderly man wearing a bad toupee. He had crooked yellow teeth, wore a tweed jacket and bowtie, and introduced himself as Martin Devonshire, trustee of Anne Marie’s estate. “May I have a word with you, Mr.” he paused. "Norton," said Oliver, “but you can call me Oliver. I am Anne Marie’s assistant from ProHealth Staffing.”

“Ah, nice to meet you, Oliver”, he said. “I’m afraid Anne Marie is in a bit of a bind, and I hope you can help.” Mr. Devonshire stated. “I have been a family friend of the Upshur’s for well over fifty years and am sad to report that Mrs. Cromwell, maiden name Upshur, is the last remaining member of her family and thus the sole owner of a substantial estate.”

“Ok”, said Oliver, wondering what this had to do with him.

“You see,” stated Mr. Devonshire, “I’m afraid of what might happen to the estate when Anne Marie passes, as it will likely be auctioned off and turned into a strip mall. That is completely counter to her wishes, so I am here to speak to you about the situation.” 

“I am not authorized to speak to you about Anne Marie and certainly cannot make decisions on behalf of her estate,” said Oliver in an alarmed tone.

“No, no, no, of course not”, said the man. “But my attempts to speak to Anne Marie have been unsuccessful, as at each visit, she has been rather confused and unable to understand my intentions. Many times, she doesn’t remember who I am," he said sadly. “What I need from you is to call me when she is here and lucid so she can understand what I am asking of her,” he said.

“Oh, ok”, said Oliver. “I would be happy to do that. Just leave me your contact information and I will get in touch with you on a good day.”

As Oliver lay in bed that night, sleep eluded him. He just had a huge fight with his dad and was very worried about Anne Marie. He sighed and thought of his relationship with his dad. His mother had died on 9/11 when he was three, so he hardly remembered her. His father had tried to parent him for a few years, but as he himself fell into a deep alcohol-fueled depression, his relationship with Oliver soured. Oliver wasn’t even sure if his dad loved him or if he loved his dad. He couldn’t wait to get out of the house and go to college. He just wanted to leave this all behind him. But he would miss Anne Marie. He had grown quite fond of the lady. Their daily chats about life made his job enjoyable, and it really didn’t feel like work at all.

The next morning, Oliver hurried off to the hospital to see Anne Marie. To his delight, she was more lucid than he had ever seen her. The doctors had changed her medications and were working on a therapy schedule for her broken hip. The doctor came in as Oliver sat beside Anne Marie and said, “Mr. Norton, I need to go over her daily schedule for the next few months. She will need 24-hour care, I am afraid, and someone who can lift her from the bed to her chair, etc.”.

“Oh no," said Oliver, “I’m just temporary care during the day.”

“Oh, well then," said the doctor, “we will make arrangements for her to be sent to a nursing home.

“No!” shouted Oliver. “You can’t put her in a home; she doesn’t want that.”

“Well, young man, I am afraid there are no other options. Mrs. Cromwell has no living family or friends to care for her.”

“I’ll do it," said Oliver, before he could even process what he had just said. He knew he couldn’t let her go to a nursing home, but he was leaving in a few weeks for college. He would figure it out before then, he thought.

Oliver didn’t bother to tell his dad he was moving out. Once Anne Marie was on board with him being her full-time caretaker, he packed his stuff and moved into her downstairs guest room. As a resident of the house, he felt a sense of urgency to freshen it up for her return from the hospital. He went room-to-room, opening curtains and windows, letting in fresh air, and breathing in years’ worth of dust. “When was the last time this place was deep cleaned?” he asked himself.

It was then that he really took stock of what he was seeing. Throughout the house, all around, were photographs. What he thought had been basic art pieces turned out to be stunning photography of various places, people, things, and animals. Over the mantel, a large portrait hung, depicting a young woman of remarkable beauty. “Anne Marie,” he whispered, slowly taking in her astonishing features. He then noticed in her study copies of books and magazines, such as National Geographic and Vanity Fair, all containing her incredible photographs. Anne Marie was a famous photographer! How had he not known sooner?

Upon returning from the hospital, Anne Marie was more lucid and energetic than ever. Oliver enjoyed daily conversations over well-made tea and began asking questions. “Anne Marie," he said. “What was your career when you were younger?” he asked. A sad look came over her face, and she said, “That's a story for another time.” Oliver sensed the subject made her uncomfortable, so he dropped it.

The next day, he called Mr. Devonshire and invited him over for a visit with Anne Marie. She was very lucid, and Oliver left her with the plump little man while he ran a couple of errands. When he returned, he grabbed his portfolio from the back seat of his car and took it inside with him. He laid it on the mahogany table in the parlor and opened it. He could hear Mr. Devonshire offering his goodbyes as he wheeled Anne Marie into the parlor, where Oliver could attend to her.

Oliver got up to get her bed ready for her nap. When he returned, Anne Marie was holding his portfolio in her lap, tears streaming down her face.

“Sit down, young man," she said.

Oliver handed her a tissue, and as she dabbed at her eyes, she said, “I was a photographer. A rather good one. I’ve traveled to every continent and photographed wars, royal weddings and funerals, the downfall of a dictator, the splendor of Africa, Asia, and the Americas, the assassination of a president, the birth of a king, and the death of my family.”

Oliver sat, unsure if he had heard her correctly. “The death of your family?” he asked.

“Go grab the book out of that cabinet over there,” she said as she pointed to a locked cabinet. “The key is on top.”

He complied and returned with a very large book, filled with her entire portfolio. There must have been over 500 pages of pictures. He was speechless. They spent the rest of that day pouring over the pages, with her telling the story of each one.

“Wow!” he exclaimed. “What a life you have lived!” “I hope I can experience half of that in my lifetime," he said.

With a weary sigh, Anne Marie said, “Be careful what you wish for Oliver," then she turned to the back of the book.

On the very last page, there was an aerial photo that was all too recognizable. His stomach lurched at the sight of it, and he looked at Anne Marie with tears in his eyes.

“I was assigned to the NY Times in 2001. My husband, Robert, went to work that morning, and I had plans to take photos of Manhattan from a helicopter for a piece I was working on. I took to the air at 8:00 a.m. After a routine round in the chopper, we prepared to head back. At 8:46, AA Flight 11 hit the north tower between the 93rd and 99th floors. Robert was on the 95th floor,” she finished, tears streaming down her face. “I had a miscarriage three days later,” she added.

Oliver enjoyed another six years with Anne Marie. As her Louie Body Dementia worsened, she struggled to remember much, but when they looked at photos together, her face lit with recognition she could not express. He was able to care for her and attend school. He earned his degree in photojournalism, just like her. The house was all spiffed up now. A well-manicured garden opened to a freshly painted front porch. Lila, his fiancé, met him at the door with paint on her face from remodeling the kitchen. She was four months along with their baby girl, Anne Marie Norton.