Counting Coup

By Kelli M. Donley

Happily consumed with her academic career, Professor Avery Wainwright never planned on becoming sole guardian of her octogenarian Aunt Birdie. Forced to move Birdie—and her failing memory—into her tiny apartment, Avery’s precariously balanced life loses its footing.

Unearthed in the chaos is a stack of sixty-year-old letters. Written in 1951, the letters tell of a year Avery’s grandmother, Alma Jean, spent teaching in the Indian school system, in the high desert town of Winslow, Arizona. The letters are addressed to Birdie, who was teaching at the Phoenix Indian School. The ghostly yet familiar voices in the letters tell of a dark time in her grandmother’s life, a time no one has ever spoken of.

Torn between caring for the old woman who cannot remember, and her very different memories of a grandmother no longer alive to explain, Avery searches for answers. But the scandal and loss she finds, the revelations about abuses, atrocities, and cover-ups at the Indian schools, threaten far more than she’s bargained for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kelli M. Donley
• Release date: Aug 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463568569

Kelli M. Donley

Kelli Donley is a native Arizonan. She is the author of three novels, Under the Same Moon, Basket Baby, and Counting Coup. Inspiration for her novels comes from her work in international public health. Kelli lives with her husband Jason, in Mesa, Arizona. She works in public health, and blogs at: www.africankelli.com.

Book preview

PART ONE

1

Professor Avery Wainwright was standing in front of Ocotillo Acres by 8:45, stuffing her speckled blouse into her black jeans, hoping her appearance looked more artistic than homeless.

 Ms. Wainwright? a woman in a white coat asked, after she stepped through the double sliding doors into an air-conditioned foyer. There was an older woman with tightly permed bleach blond hair at a baby grand piano playing something classical Avery didn’t recognize. The room smelled of roses. This was nothing like she remembered.

Good morning, Avery stuck out a hand.

Thank you for coming. Would you like to see Roberta before we visit?

Oh, uh…sure.

The facility was immaculate. The walls were freshly painted and the staff all wore pressed uniforms and smiles.

This place, it looks so nice, Avery said.

Oh yes, the woman said, leading the pair down a long hallway decorated with framed photos of the residents. We got new owners two years ago and they’ve made some necessary improvements. Residents have all types of activities and the food is great. Look, there’s Roberta.

They’d walked into what looked like a tidy, 1950s diner. At one of the red booths, surrounded by other women her age, sat her Great Aunt Birdie. The gaggle of octogenarians were sipping coffee and playing cards.

Birdie? Avery said, approaching the table.

That’s me! Or, so they say. The woman didn’t look up. She wore a pink linen button down and a pair of soft blue jeans with an elastic waist. The deep wrinkles across her brow and around her eyes revealed a life spent outside. Her once red hair, now white, was tucked neatly behind her ears.

Birdie, it’s me. Your great niece, Avery.

Oh, look Birdie. You’ve got a visitor. How nice for you. Darling, do you want to sit here with us? A woman, with hair so thin and white it reminded Avery of a spider web, tapped the seat next to her. She had a thick southern accent Avery guessed was from Georgia.

Birdie? Her great aunt didn’t look away from her game. Avery twisted her smile into a grimace. What did she expect? She hadn’t been there for a year, and the woman couldn’t remember her name. It was unfair to want a reunion.

The nurse pulled Avery by the elbow and leaned in to whisper in her ear. Let’s not interrupt them for now. I’ll bring you back after our discussion.

Before Avery could protest, she was sitting in a small conference room. There was a platter of Danishes and a pot of black coffee. Avery was a member of the any coffee is good coffee club. She poured herself a mug.  

Three other staff members walked into the room. They wore the same white coat and sat on one side of the table. Avery fiddled with her mug, feeling underprepared. She should have called her parents.

A middle-aged man with skin the color of wet garden soil began. I’m glad you found the refreshments. Thank you for making it in this morning. We won’t take much of your time, Ms. Wainwright.

Doctor… she muttered, between bites of Danish.

Yes? He responded, putting a manila folder on the table.

No, she gulped, watching with annoyance as a piece of Danish landed on the table in front of her. She swiped at it, took a sip of hot coffee, and started over. I’m Dr. Wainwright. PhD in American Folk Art. I work at ASU. She ate what remained of the pastry and tried to appear cheery. A career of studying books and artifacts hadn’t been by chance; she was horrible at the art of small talk.

And I’m Dr. Armstrong, he continued. This is our support staff. Several nurses and a nutritionist nodded with corresponding introductions. She kept eating and nodding back in return, knowing there was no way she would remember their names.

As you know, Roberta has stroke-related dementia. Unfortunately, we are quickly reaching a time when we can no longer help her. He paused. We don’t say this lightly. She has been with us for nearly eight years, and Roberta is part of the Ocotillo Acres family.

Avery took another slurp of coffee, burning the roof of her mouth. She winced. Is she out of money?

No. We are a family-run business. We do not evict residents due to funding.

Evict. This didn’t sound promising. His words were so carefully chosen, Avery briefly wondered if he’d practiced what he was going to say, or if it had been written out by a lawyer.

So, what’s the problem? Avery glanced at the row of staff, but the room grew silent. She tried to read their faces for clues, finally adding, Someone on the phone said she was violent? I just can’t imagine that. And how violent can an eighty-year-old demented lady be?

"We take violence very seriously, Ms… Dr. Wainwright," the chief of nursing said, twisting her hands in her lap into a ball.  

Avery wiped at the corners of her mouth. Of course, she said, pushing her glasses higher on her nose. I’m not making light. I just am having a hard time believing this. What happened?

She bit one of the support staff. The physician said it like he was announcing the time, his voice void of emotion.

Bit? Like with her teeth? Does she still have her teeth? She’d asked the last question rhetorically, but one of the nurses let out a nervous laugh. What could have possibly happened to make her want to bite someone?

The first time, we assumed she’d been aggravated and let it go. As you know, dementia patients can become easily irritated, especially in the evening hours.

Avery nodded, dumbly. She heard what he was saying, but she was still sure they had the wrong person in mind.

The first time?

The second time, we decided to keep this staff member away from her. Unfortunately, it has advanced beyond biting. She tried to hit him with a broom earlier this week. Her behaviors are escalating, and we’re concerned she’ll be a threat to other residents.

The same staff member?

We are unable to disclose the specifics, Dr. Armstrong said. She could have sworn he was smirking.

I am here for the specifics. Avery said, consciously trying to keep her tone friendly. I’m not familiar with the exact sum, but I would suspect my great aunt has paid you a small fortune during the last eight years. Moving her at this point doesn’t make any sense. Will someone just please tell me what happened?

The support staff looked to the physician and Avery realized that they were there as props, not sources of information. This was Armstrong’s show.

Yes, the same staff member, he continued at a calculated pace. That isn’t the issue. It’s that she’s been told not to bite to the point that we had to restrain her. We do not like having to restrain residents. It puts unnecessary stress on the other residents and staff.

Restrain? Isn’t that against some policy? Avery was on her feet. She could not imagine the frail Birdie she’d just seen playing cards being tied down. Of course it puts stress on the residents. We are talking about people here, right?  

"No, in fact it is our policy. And we didn’t restrain her until she advanced to the use of a weapon."

Avery laughed at the ridiculous tone the doctor was taking about an old woman who couldn’t lift a broom above her waist for all the gold in the world.

We are giving her sixty days to find a new residence. As her guardian, we’ll need you to begin your search immediately. We have some pamphlets here of other care options that may be a better fit. The doctor opened his folder and started sorting through paperwork.

Wait. Just wait. Guardian?

Yes, ma’am. You are listed as her guardian on the paperwork, one of the nurses chimed, shuffling a stack of legal documents before her.

There must be a mistake, Avery said. I am not her guardian. I should not be making these decisions.

You are her great niece, correct? the same woman asked.

Yes.

And you are Avery Wainwright?

Yes! Avery’s patience was shot.

Well, do you remember signing these documents in 2007?

Avery gave the paperwork a cursory glance and tried not to reveal her shock when she saw her signature, in her handwriting, at the bottom. There had been paperwork and talk about a will when Avery had visited years ago, but she didn’t remember agreeing to this. She shook her head.

Did anyone speak with the staff member and ask why she became so angry? I get that her brain is changing. I get it. She was still standing while everyone else remained seated. But, this doesn’t make sense. Maybe the staff person started it? Are there other reports of angry residents? And aren’t you supposed to know how to handle this?

The staff member is not violent, Ms. Wainwright. And yes, we are in the business of ‘knowing how to handle this,’ Dr. Armstrong said, using air quotes, including recognizing when it is time for a resident to move on. Our decision is final.

And the other residents? Avery continued. How many others have been evicted for their violent ways? 

There have been no reports, nor do we have any suspicion of any other violence toward this staff member. Please keep us posted of your plans so we can have Roberta ready.

Oh, come on! There has to be another option. Please reconsider this. Birdie couldn’t hurt a fly, and you know it.

"We do know it. We know her, Dr. Armstrong continued. We are here every day caring for her and have for years. Our visitor records show your last visit was eighteen months ago. Her mental health has declined significantly since then. Again, Ms. Wainwright, our decision is final."

The room went silent. The nutritionist scrunched up her nose and the nurses stared at their hands in their laps.

Thank you for coming in, Ms. Wainwright, Armstrong said.  

Avery stomped outside, pulling on sunglasses to block out the mid-morning blast of sunlight. She slid into her car.

Ouch, she said and she danced against the seat’s hot vinyl.

She’d forgotten to return to visit with her Great Aunt Birdie. Had it really been a year and a half since she’d been here for a visit? She watched the sliding glass doors of the facility open and close. There was no way she could bring herself to march back in there, even at the thought of Birdie in restraints. She’d have to figure out another solution. 

Starting the car, she glanced at the handful of pamphlets on the seat. In the next two months, she had classes graduating, research on the Gee Bend quilters due for an academic journal, and whatever Harold needed.

And now, she had to find Bird a new nest.

2

I did a bit of reading last night, Avery said, trying to fill the silence at Ocotillo Acres’ reception desk. You’re not supposed to use restraints. They told me yesterday they had to restrain Birdie. Do you know my great aunt?

It had taken Avery less than 30 hours to return to the retirement home to collect her aunt.

Avery tapped a pencil on the desk. The receptionist, stood with her arms crossed, silent. A smear of a misshapen tattoo was barely visible along the edge of one sleeve of her pressed white uniform.

She’s frail. And, I can’t imagine how scared she was, Avery said, shaking her head. She hadn’t slept, and her black hair sat flat on her head, in need of a good wash. She’d been standing at the front desk for more than 30 minutes, waiting for staff to gather her Great Aunt Birdie’s things. She’d asked for them to be placed in the small aluminum moving container on wheels she’d rented and perilously attached behind the Prius. Can you imagine being tied up like that? Avery rambled.

Ma’am, I’ve told you. I’m not allowed to answer your questions. The receptionist, whose name tag read Miranda, rocked back and forth in her clog nursing shoes.

Isn’t that strange? You work at a reception desk. Is this to be a silent reception? Avery pointed to the lettering across a sign that hung from the ceiling that read, How can we help you? Before Miranda could reply, Avery felt her stomach lurch and knew the vat of coffee she’d gulped on the way hadn’t been her smartest idea.

Avery had spent the night before pacing her messy, one-bedroom apartment. She thought of calling her parents, but they wouldn’t be awake at the late hour. Her Uncle Joe lived in Chicago, and as a judge, was always too busy, even for infrequent calls. Her sister, Amelia, wouldn’t be of any help either.

Amelia, two years Avery’s junior, had Down syndrome and lived at home in suburban Denver with their parents. She had a job at a grocery store, and was an avid online gamer, but wouldn’t be of assistance in helping Avery sort out housing options for their elderly auntie. Amelia would have to be reminded who Birdie was, and Avery didn’t have time for the game of Words with Friends it would take to explain her current predicament.

Around 3 am, Avery turned to the web, conducting the type of research that made her crazy when it showed up in undergraduate bibliographies: that which was not from a trusted scientific source. CNN: crap. The Washington Post: acceptable. The Economist: better. US Weekly: failing at life, and most likely her class.

There were pages and pages of sites geared toward families suddenly seeking care for an aging family member. They were full of clip art of happy older white people playing shuffleboard and riding cruiser bikes. Yet Avery noted the abscence of art when you got to the details of memory center resident rules. Or, worse: the extensive contract information that was always voided after death. There was also little information on how care facilities were ranked or reviewed—other than a few angry tirades. They were all anecdotal and did not help in decision making. There were too few to track trending.

She printed a stack of papers and sat down on the orange couch to review, but soon decided it was too much. Her best option came to mind at 4:32 am: she’d bring Birdie home—home to the same messy, one-bedroom apartment Avery was currently sitting in. This would have to work until she had time to call her family and come up with a better plan.

At 9 am, when she arrived at Ocotillo Acres with the rented moving container hitched to the Prius, she felt less sure.

What if Birdie was violent? Even if she was, Avery had reassured herself in the dark of the night that frail Birdie couldn’t be left a moment longer in a facility where restraints were used. Avery thought about Grandma Alma Jean, and how disgusted she would be knowing her sister had been treated this way.

That was the worst part of insomnia: the intensity of emotion. Avery hated being alone with her thoughts in the middle of the night, and had gone so far as to put a note on her nightstand as a reminder reading, Tomorrow, you’ll laugh at this.

While the sentiment was true, laughing at the students who wrote terrible things about her appearance on their semester reviews, or at not having a paper accepted to the latest journal, was manageable, Avery had yet to find the humor in Birdie’s situation when the warm sunlight of a spring morning crept into the apartment.

Avery dropped the pencil on the front desk, and began pacing back and forth in the foyer. The argument with management had been heated. They’d relented only after other visitors started arriving and Avery pointed to the highlighted section of Birdie’s contract that clearly stated her legal guardian was within her rights to request an immediate transfer. She was unwilling to share where that transfer was until the chief medical officer put his foot down and said he would absolutely not! release Birdie without further information.

She’s coming home with me. Avery said.

With you? The man pulled the reading glasses off his face and let them dangle on a silver chain around his neck. Although he was bald, his silver eyebrows were so bushy they reminded Avery of dusty caterpillars. They were alone in the same small conference room as yesterday. Avery thought about having another cup of coffee.

Yes… for now. Avery hoped she sounded less shaky than she felt.

And where will she sleep?

In my room.

And where will you sleep? He raised an eyebrow.

On the couch.

Ms. Wainwright, this all sounds perilous and temporary. Do you have the resources to provide the level of care Roberta needs? She isn’t incontinent, but she has accidents. She’ll need to be bathed. And she is on a specific diet to prevent choking. And there are medications that must be given at precise intervals, and she is not steady on her feet. If she stays in bed too long, she will develop bed sores. He was counting on his fingers until his list outnumbered digits. These can be exceptionally difficult to heal. And if you do get her out of bed, and get her dressed, you cannot leave her alone. If she is awake, you must be awake and alert. She should have mentally stimulating activities. You are prepared for this?

Well… Avery gulped, reconsidering. Was it too late to ask for another week?

Listen—his tone softened and he put a hand on Avery’s shoulder—I think it is admirable you want to care for her. In 25 years of working with seniors, I have never seen a young family member show up to take a resident home. Never. Not once.

She stared at the badge clipped to his white coat. She didn’t like the feeling of his hand, which remained on her shoulder. She stepped away from him.

But respectfully, I don’t think you are prepared for this. He folded his hands in front of him. I know you’ve read the contract. And I’ve heard you are a PhD at the local university, so I won’t question whether you understood it. Yes, there is a clause for our releasing Roberta to you, but there is also a footnote about the requirement of adequate care. We have four staff people on her floor 24-hours per day. Four, he said with an emphasis Avery found grating.

I know. Avery had read this once and then crossed it out with a red pen and initialed it, as though making changes to a nearly decade old contract was the same as freshman anthropology term paper. She hadn’t known about the staffing ratios, but they were certainly caring for more than just Birdie.

Well? Please reconsider Ms. Wainwright.

This is temporary until I can speak with other family members. And, Avery snapped, I can’t leave her here now that she’s been restrained.

Let’s discuss that incident. It happened once after she flew into a rage concerning a staff member.

I heard that. Doesn’t that sound suspicious to you? What kind of rage could that little old lady ‘throw herself into?’

It wasn’t pretty. And our options were either to physically restrain her from hurting herself or others, or chemically restrain her. I opted for hand restraints, which were kept on only until she was transferred into another room and calmed down. We ensured the staff member didn’t interact with Roberta again.

Who is he? Avery had thought about this man during her long night awake. He must have provoked Birdie. She even thought about sending an anonymous tip to one of the local TV stations that Ocotillo Acres had an abusive staff member who was getting residents evicted. By the dawn of morning, she was embarrassed the thought had come to her, and relieved that she hadn’t followed through with the email.

I can’t tell you that, the medical director said.

Has he hurt other residents? Avery asked.

The physician sighed and said, Ms. Wainwright, he didn’t hurt Roberta. He’s a janitor. He was mopping on the other side of the room.

This doesn’t make sense.

Nor does it make sense that you are planning on being the primary caregiver for Roberta. Listen, sweetie— he patted her arm—You are a young, pretty woman. You must have better things to do. Do you really want your home to smell of urine? Because it will. Quickly. There is always someone here cleaning.

Avery let out a snort. "As I said, honey, it is temporary. She didn’t want to confess she had no idea how long it would take to find Birdie another spot at a care facility. The bit she’d read online said residents with a history of violence were far more difficult to rehouse. Worse were the reviews of facilities that chose chemical restraints for residents who had acted out. Avery had read more than one account of zombie patients."

The doctor’s cheeks grew red.

Well, he said with a huff, "I will only allow this for a few days. And we are going to have staff check in with you every eight hours by phone in case something has gone wrong. Or when something goes wrong, more like it. You can always bring her back here until you’ve figured out her long-term next step. She has 59 days remaining." He smiled.

No, Avery said stubbornly. As long as that staff person is here, I can’t let her stay.

If you haven’t found another placement within a week, please know we will call adult social services and ask for their assistance in seeing Roberta placed appropriately.

She probably shouldn’t have called him honey.

Avery tucked a folder under her arm. It had a detailed schedule of medications and daily activities and menu ideas. The small plastic box they handed her was full of labeled orange medicine bottles. She hoped to have Birdie somewhere else before she had to figure out how to get these medications refilled.

Finally, Avery saw her great aunt being pushed in a wheelchair to the front door. She had a dying rubber plant with yellow leaves in a terra cotta pot in her lap. A large man with freckles across his nose and a short brown pony tail pushed her through the sliding glass doors to the car.

Birdie, we are going to go for a drive, okay? Avery bent down and put the plant on the ground, holding her aunt’s hands. I know this must seem strange, but I promise I will take good care of you. Let’s get out of here.

You sure are pretty. What’s your name?

I’m Avery, Bird. I’m your niece. Alma Jean’s granddaughter. Avery looked into the old woman’s green eyes, hoping for some recognition.

Well, if you say so, sweetie. I like going for a ride. Back in the day, I used to love to cruise. She winked. I bet you know what I mean. You must get all the boys.

The man who’d pushed her smiled.

I haven’t been on a ride in a while… Birdie continued, Or at least I don’t remember that I have. Avery could see several of her top teeth were held in place with metal brackets.

Let’s get you buckled in and make it a day. Just you and me, Bird. After the nurse helped get her aunt into the car, with the door shut, he motioned for Avery to follow him to the back of the car.

A bit of friendly advice? the orderly asked.

Avery shrugged. Okay.

Number one rule, you can’t leave her alone.

Avery sighed. So she’d heard.

Do whatever you can to wear her out during the day so she’ll sleep, not wander, at night. Cards, movies, books, puzzles…

Thank you. She smiled, appreciative for the moment of kindness.

He nodded, tipping his head like he wore an imaginary hat.

Avery drove away from the palm-lined facility, squinting at the western sun.

Oh, this is delightful, Birdie said, patting her lap. What an adventure!

Avery reached in the glove box and found a spare set of sunglasses for her great aunt.

Thelma and Louise! Avery said, trying to be cheery.

Who?

Never mind, Birdie.

Birdie tilted her head toward the morning sky, the sunglasses wobbling on her face as she laughed, carefree.

In her rearview mirror, the Superstition Mountains towered—purple and sage.

3

What have I done?

Avery spoke to her reflection, stuffing a toothbrush into her mouth and trying to ignore the heavy blue bags beneath her eyes. There was no amount of eye cream in the world that could help this. She hadn’t had more than two hours of consecutive sleep in three days.

Avery Wainwright had made a bad life choice, as her mother Mary would have called it. Bringing Birdie to her Tempe apartment was not working out well.

She had left Dean Harold Sommerness several voice mails and emails, although there hadn’t yet been a reply. Avery wasn’t worried. Harold was the type of boss who rarely looked over his own stack of research to criticize hers. Eventually, he’d wonder where she was and would check his phone. In the interim, Avery arranged for a teaching assistant to step in to lecture when it became apparent she really wouldn’t be able to leave her great aunt in the apartment alone, even for a couple hours.

Birdie barely slept. This had not been included in the Ocotillo Acres paperwork.  Avery’s great aunt was also a confused, wandering, pyromaniac who didn’t know who she was or where she was at 2 am—never mind the amount of consoling Avery provided.

Birdie liked to cook, a character trait Avery did not remember about her great aunt in her younger days. There was no explaining to the woman why she couldn’t be in the kitchen, especially in the dark hours of night when Birdie’s confusion was more intense. Avery would sit on the orange futon on fire watch, willing her great aunt to remain in her bedroom and get some sleep. When her own eyelids slipped shut for just a moment, succumbing to a much-needed nap, Birdie would pounce. Avery was roused by the smoke alarm, which had gone off in her dreams for a moment before she realized what was happening.

It took the neighbors less time to realize what the shrieking beeping noise was. She worried no one had slept well since Birdie’s arrival. Avery heard something heavy smack the floor above her, sending dust bunnies cascading downward from her ceiling fan.

Sorry! She said too loudly, sneezing in the storm of detritus. The broom banging stopped, but she could hear someone else throw open their patio door and scream, Seriously?  Again? I am calling the police if this doesn’t stop!

Tonight, Birdie was standing at the stove looking over empty pots with her nightgown sleeve caught on the burner. The air filled with the acrid smoke of burning polyester.

Avery pulled her great aunt’s arm to the sink and doused the sleeve with cold water, waving her other hand in front of their faces to shoo away the smoke. Before she could open the arcadia doors to the patio, there was a knock at the door.

Avery looked at the digital clock blinking green on the microwave. It was 2:14 am.

She shuffled Birdie into her bedroom and once again tucked her in, reassuring her it would be fine. There wasn’t time to change her nightgown. Avery patted the wet sleeve with the comforter and said again, Goodnight Birdie! Sleep well, before closing the bedroom door.

Avery hustled to her front door, where the gentle knocking continued. She pulled it open a crack, hoping Birdie didn’t have time to find a match in the meantime.

Ahvereee, good evening.

Oh, Marco! Come in. She let the apartment complex maintenance man through her door, shutting it softly. Avery smiled. It is nice to see you. Marco had been her friend since her first day in the complex, some six years ago. He’d helped her heft a broken Ikea futon from the parking lot to her apartment. She remembered being embarrassed she had neither any loose cash to tip him, nor a good reason for moving broken furniture. When she’d tried explaining, he had generously batted away the excuses and returned the next day with a small potted plant. It was something purple and delicate and was dead within a week.

Little did Marco know then that she couldn’t care for anything other than succulents—which seemed to require only a warm windowsill and plenty of Arizona sunshine.

Marco strode into the room, surveying the damage. He never hugged her, but tonight she wished he had.

Miss Ahveree, the smoke. Is there a fire? He put his hands on his hips. He was about her age—early thirties—with dark, shiny black hair that he kept neatly trimmed. He had a small scar above his right eyebrow that hadn’t gotten the stitches it once needed. Otherwise, his face was symmetrical. His brown eyes were flecked with gold and his teeth remarkably straight.

No, no. Avery stammered.

Swiftly, he crossed the room, grabbing a stool in the kitchen. He pushed the reset button on the alarm, letting residents in a half dozen apartments get back to sleep. Then he drew a Walkie Talkie from his hip belt and said briskly, All clear.

Marco replaced the stool and looked at the kitchen, raising an eyebrow. The heavy odor of burnt chemicals wafted through the small space. He was wearing a heavy tool belt, even in the middle of the night. He lived alone across the hall, and while she had never been in his apartment, she was convinced he kept his tool belt by the front door, on the ready. She’d never seen him without it.

Okay, Avery relented. "There was a bit of a fire, but it is