L.A. Detwiler - The One Who Got Away

I squeeze my eyes shut, looking away from the window. It wouldn’t do to get upset now. I open my eyes again and glance at the clock. Lunch isn’t for an hour or so, I think. What time did that woman say? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I’m sure I’m not very hungry anyway. Perhaps it would do me some good to take a walk.

I stand from the chair, my knees cracking with the effort. When did I get so old? I wander out to the corridor, but I stop at the threshold and glance at my roommate. What’s her name? Shoot. My eyes land, however, on the noticeboard near her bed and see the drawing of the rose. Is that it? Rose? I think so. My eyes fall back on the woman. She hasn’t moved, still sitting and staring at the centre of the room. I study her for a moment. Her eyes shift, her head moving almost imperceptibly.

I think for a moment she might talk, her lips flapping slightly, her hands curled in on themselves in her lap. She moves one hand up and down, slowly, carefully. It bangs on her legs, tucked in underneath the white blanket wrapped around her.

She emits a moan from her lips. She’s trying to speak, her eyes desperately locked on mine. She blinks over and over and over, a rapid succession of movement from her that I haven’t yet seen. My heart flutters as I walk across the room.

‘Rose? What is it?’ I ask, reaching for her hand. She jumps as I touch her, the groan intensifying.

I can’t understand her. I stare into her drooping face, but no answers come. The poor thing is lost and confused. Is she even really in there, mentally? Does she understand what’s going on around her? I’m not sure.

‘There, there, Rose. It’s okay. I’m going to go for a walk, okay? You take a rest.’ I pat her hand, her skin cold and clammy like she’s already in the grave. In many ways, I suppose she is.

I smile once more, turning to leave. She emits a screeching whimper, desperation clinging to every piece of the sound. It spreads like a plague in my chest, drowning me in uncertainty. Although sorrow for Rose certainly builds within, another emotion pools beneath it: terror. How am I going to survive this? How can I endure a place where death and devastation are in my face every single moment? I know I should be glad that even with my health problems, I still have mobility and my wits about me. I have a lot in Smith Creek Manor terms. But there’s something about the home that just seems to remind me of all I have to lose. I can already sense a harsh reality few want to uncover; this place divests a person until they’re nothing but a pile of bones under a blanket, mumbling incoherently as saddened onlookers try their best to unsee the realities. I don’t want to face Rose’s fate. I don’t. It feels like there’s a contagion in this place, and the closer you get to someone like Rose, the more likely it is you’ll fall prey to the unseemly loss of all you hold dear.

So I do what so many do in these kinds of homes. I turn my head, leaving Rose alone, as I step further away and into the corridor. The staircase is adjacent to the left, that door guarding it. A code box hangs beside it on the wall, the cool metal of it taunting me as the fluorescent light glides over it. Instantly, my heart starts to beat faster and faster until it’s racing wildly. A sensation rises, a familiar paranoia I try so hard to suppress.

I’m trapped. I’m trapped here . I can’t escape. Even the stairs have a code, one that I don’t know. My breathing increases. I count to three. I need to calm down. I reach for the wall to steady myself, tears forming.

‘Dear, is everything okay?’ a voice says as footsteps echo on the floor. I turn to my right to see a young nurse with brown hair and a reassuring smile. She quickly marches towards me.

‘I’m fine,’ I offer weakly, but my face must say otherwise because the woman quickens her pace. She clutches my arm gently, and I let myself lean on her.

‘There, there. I know. All such a change. I’m Grace. Come on, now. Let’s get you to a chair. Looks like you’ve seen a ghost or something.’

I don’t argue, letting her lead me back into my room, towards the chair I just left. I avert my eyes from Rose, willing myself not to look over there. My heart beats frantically, which causes my panic to rise. I know I have to stay calm. I can’t let this happen, not again.

‘Now, come on. What shall I get you? Fancy a cuppa?’ Grace asks, her melodious voice wrapping itself around me as I settle by the window once more.

‘The code,’ I spat at her, without any thought.

‘What code?’ she asks, stooping down to look into my face.

‘The stairs. I need the code for the stairs.’ My fingers viciously cling to the velvety feel of the chair’s armrest.

She studies me, her smile pitying. ‘You won’t need the code for the stairs. After all, who wants to use them when there’s a perfectly good lift?’ Her smile is warm. I might like her in other circumstances. But thinking of that lift, I shudder. I wouldn’t describe it as perfectly good, or even safe. I think about the creakiness, about the jolting noises.

I persist, hoping she’ll give in. ‘I need the code. If there’s a fire. I need to know it. And that lift is so terrifying. I hate the lift,’ I demand, shaking my head, frustration building. She doesn’t understand. She just doesn’t know.

‘You’ll get used to the lift, love. It’s just a bit old, but it’s completely safe, I promise. And there hasn’t been a fire at Smith Creek Manor, ever. If there were, we’ll be right here in a jiffy. No need to panic, truly. Now why don’t you come with me? I’ll show you the common room down the hall. Do you some good to meet some friendly faces. There are some sweet women down there who love knitting and gossip. And tea. They love their tea, of course. Now how about that cuppa?’

I stare at her, blinking. My mind hurts. I don’t know why I’m so – what am I? Goodness, this is all just confusing. I don’t know how to feel.

So, I say the only thing I can. ‘Fine.’ I let her lead me down the sterile corridor, the lights still blinding as the nurse waffles about this resident and that, as if I’m starting a new school instead of the first day of the end of my life.

‘Listen, trust me. This floor isn’t so bad. Sure, we got a few who are a bit crackers up here. It’s true. And a couple that just, well, between you and me, give me the absolute creeps and all, some creepy ones. But overall, it’s okay up here. Fewer nurses to bother you, and there are even a few sane residents here on Floor Three. But then again, the nurses don’t mind us much up here. We’re sort of the forgotten floor, you know?’

The woman knitting beside me at the table chatters on and on. Dorothy, I think she said her name was. I don’t remember her surname. I clutch the tea that the nurse gave me, my hands warming on the Styrofoam cup. No fine china here, I suppose.

A game show blares in the community room area nearby, and a few patients – residents, I stand corrected – gape mindlessly at it. One woman is parked in a wheelchair in the corner, touching the wall, repeating the name Philip with such angst, it makes my heart ache. Her whimpers rise above the announcer on the show, mixing in a strange cacophony of joy and agony, symbolic of what this place holds.

Dorothy sits, knitting some crooked, scratchy blanket. The nurse sat me at this table, told me I’d make quick friends with this woman. I don’t know. But, looking around, she seems to be one of the few who can hold a conversation. These people are just so – old. So old. So gone. Or maybe this place just does that to a person.

I sigh. ‘Doesn’t sound like a good thing to be forgotten.’