Mrs.

Arizona Walters

By: Ryan Shah

Between falling specks, sounding almost solid in their ​kerplunk​ on the pavement,
she looked towards the sky. Wrinkled her nose. Squinted her eyes with a vein of
annoyance-- no, ​disgust​. By the relaxation in the rest of her slender frame, it was obvious.
Not young looking, but not old either (the sort of in-between confusion of an age).
Only the loosely hung vintage pearl necklace gave away her age. Bought for a young woman
in the ‘60s by a forbidden lover.
Tragic from the beginning, like the rest of her story.
The deep-set canyons in her face seemed unnatural against her slender, relaxed
frame giving one the impression she dug them in herself through years of infinite
annoyance and skepticism.
I guess she was aptly named then: Arizona. It suited her. The arid-zone, ​Arizona.
“Marcus, I believe it is my birthday today.” Without turning around she seemed to
sense my presence. Mystical, like always.
I had too much experience in moments such as those to act surprised at her almost
omniscience. How she does it I will never know and perhaps no one ever will.
“I know Arizona. I marked it on my calendar.”
Turning around, her handmade cardigan swaying behind her, she smiled back.
“And I’m sure you know that on my birthdays I give out the presents; I’ve had
enough presents given to me for my lifetime.” Pulling out a small Ziploc from her bag, she
placed a handful of hard toffees-- the signature old-lady-esque candies of course-- in the
palm of my hand. She then closed my fingers over them, as if to remind me to guard the
precious gifts with my life.
I smiled a small, caring smile like one does at a sleeping baby. “Tell me Arizona, how
are you feeling today. On your birthday.”
“Better. Stronger. Today just seems different. I remember thinking about my
grandsons this morning. Aaron, in particular.”
“Oh really? What about?” I tried my hardest to hide the surprise in my voice and she
did not seem to catch on. This was definitely a big deal.
That reflective sparkle that had become so reminiscent of a younger Arizona drew
itself back into her eyes. Just for a second. She became awfully interested in the seam
between the two linoleum tiles under her socks. Damn, I thought.
Just a few months ago I had made my usual afternoon rounds but found myself
running fifteen minutes late, due to a rather intriguing caramel macchiato, and knocked on
her door at 2:45. Arizona opened with a huff, beckoning me in with nothing more than a
straight face. Not polite, but clearly not rude either.
Arizona was always a “scheduled” person, knowing at every moment where she had
to be, what she needed to be doing, and who she was meeting (along with a mental dossier
of social, familial, and personal information for small talk that could rival any FBI intel). As
any woman of high-esteem should. But she was in the unfortunate position of being a
dowager: with the upbringing of a fine lady of a forgotten generation whose necessity has
been rendered superfluous by time. She retained her mental timelines but found nothing to
fill it with these days.
To that end I found myself overstaying my welcome with her a few days a week. I
knew she began to enjoy subtly pushing me out. It gave her the feeling of having a ​reason t​ o
conclude and get ready for her next “appointment.” She reminded me of a great-aunt in that
kind of way. A woman with an ever-moving aura that seemed to announce her presence
long before she made herself known. Both in persona and lifestyle.
I came back the next afternoon, but rather than the usual 2:35-on-the-dot that
Arizona always liked I found myself peering through the glass of her door at 2:20. Standing
at that worn cork-board across from her favorite armchair was the bespectacled woman
herself, rubbing her thumb softly against a wallet-sized glossy picture.
Knocking, the attempt was to not frighten her bird-like disposition but it failed
anyway. Arizona quickly tugged the picture off the board hoping that no one had seen it.
Little did she know that I put it there for her, breaking the rules. The sharp tug dislodged
the clear thumbtack I set the picture with yesterday and sent it rolling on the floor. Also
against the rules.
I acted like I knew nothing of the sort and, better, did not notice anything out of the
ordinary. She seemed to buy it, putting me at ease.
“Arizona, are you up for a walk today. In the park?” I ventured, still standing in the
doorway with a hopefully reassuring smile. Her eyes softened. Not noticeably, but I had
enough experience to see it. Like a drop of mud on the end of a trenchcoat.
It may have been the rest she got yesterday. Or seeing the picture. Or some invisible
alignment of the moon and stars. She slowly shook her head up and down, as if she was
reevaluating her decision every microsecond and thought a deliberate motion would give
her more time to decide. She let out a soft breath and that was the end of it, as if shocked by
her own answer. In all honesty, it was warranted; I was shocked too.
She was still in her socks so she reached under her bed to retrieve her only pair of
shoes. The sole gleamed an almost iridescent white, like it had only ever seen the assembly
line, with grey trim a navy shoelace. Shakily, she slid it onto her left foot.
I could see the frustration settling on her brow as she held both ends of the one
shoe’s laces and shakily moved them together. Arizona squinted her eyes, as if attempting
to will her hands to cooperate like they once did. They were the eyes of someone not used
to hands disobeying the brain.
Quickly, I stepped in before Arizona lost the will to walk in her frustration
(frustration with herself was the most dangerous type in Arizona). Tying the laces of the
left and hunting down the right from the other side of the room and deftly doing the same, I
brought her to her feet and soon we found ourselves on the pavement of the park.
“Sonny?” She asked. We had been walking in silence for the last fifteen minutes. “I’ve
had the inkling feeling I had started a story about Erin the other day but I can’t seem to
remember if I finished.”
“Oh, Mrs. Arizona Walters, I know you could never keep track of those sorta things,”
I said purposefully, knowing well the response that I would receive. Rather, I prayed for
those two answers.
“Sonny, ‘those ​sort of​ things.’ I’ll be damned if you lose your English while I’m
around,” she quipped affectionately. Then she paused as if something was missing but she
was grasping at wayward thoughts trying to find the one. “And it’s Dr. Arizona Walters to
you.”
It was that last line, “Dr. Arizona Walters” not “Mrs. Arizona Walters,” that forced me
to hold back tears. I was talking to the lucid Arizona.
Then, for the next half hour, Arizona and I walked through the light Portland fog. She
in her light pink robe leaning against the teal of my short-sleeved scrubs. We rounded the
small trails a few times and I heard one of my favorite stories about Arizona’s only
grandchild. A fully accurate one at long last.
Just a snapshot that would soon be lost to time.

A lone pair of vintage Cartier sunglasses.

One copy each of ​Jane Eyre,​ ​Pride and Prejudice​, and ​The Great Gatsby​, the leaves
fraying from the binding after many years of tugging at the yellowed pages.
A plaid throw that Arizona’s friend down the hall had knitted for her a couple years
ago.
I could barely keep myself together. But I had to, nurses were expected to.
Especially in this ward, where sorrow itself seemed to prop up the walls and hold up
the anti-bacterial service desks like invisible construction beams. There was no room for
sentimentality and sadness came with the job.
Arizona would have said “Such is life, Sonny. You can move past it.” I could almost
imagine it in her exact tone of voice. Soft, like she was cooing a baby, but firm enough to
take her seriously.
 I stood off to the side of the threshold as they continued to empty Arizona’s room. I
found myself watching the portly man who tugged off the cork-board ignore a small glossy
image float ground. Artfully tucked away, encrusted in months of thumbprints. The man
made eye contact with me as if to wordlessly say “I didn’t see anything” with a wink.
It was of Erin, Arizona’s granddaughter and only grandchild, laughing wildly and
playing at the beach with a pail in her hand. Hovering over Erin, in the same mid-laugh, was
Arizona with the detached plastic strap in hand.
Management had specifically said that Arizona was to have no reminders of her
family, supposing it would give her fits. But I knew Arizona would want her nostalgia and it
seemed Arizona knew enough to squirrel it away, out of sight.
Nasty car accident, it was. What, ten months ago? On their way to surprise grandma
no less. Like I found myself doing so much these days, I imagined what Arizona would have
said about it: ​“It's downright unnatural for children to die before their parents. And
grandchildren before grandparents? Someone messed up in a damn big way somewhere. But
if one had to find a silver lining at least everyone is up there together. The children shouldn’t
be left up there with no one to watch after them. I can hold down the fort alone on Earth for
now.”
That was the kind of person she was, a silver lining person.
I guess there is a silver lining to Alzheimer's, too. You end up forgetting the tragedy
along with the rest of it. Perhaps you can even get a little peace in the end.
Slipping the little picture into the front pocket of my scrubs I made my way back to
my desk where I placed it in the front drawer. Right next to the jar where I saved Arizona’s
toffees each time she offered some (which ended up being four times a day towards the
end).
I reached in and pulled out the picture of her tombstone I took at the funeral last
weekend. I couldn’t have written the epitaph better myself;

Here rests a woman who was the silver lining to so many lives.
Dr. Arizona Walters, respected neurosurgeon and pioneer in Alzheimer’s research.