L.A. Detwiler - The One Who Got Away

Barbara clenches my arms, though, aggravating the fresh scratches she left last night. She leans in close, her musty breath careening into my face. Her milky eyes laser into mine, sending a shiver through me. It’s as if she can see straight through me, even though common sense tells me she can’t. Her fingers are sticky.

‘You’ll die here. You will,’ she whispers, and tears form in my eyes as a creeping, crawling feeling reverberates through me. Before I can respond, though, she hoots, smiling, and releases my arm. She clunks off down the corridor in the other direction, slightly leaning to the right and mumbling about daisies and the red rain.

I stand for a moment, staring down at the cup on the floor. It’s crunched up and broken, the few drops of tea that lurked in the bottom spattered about it.

‘There, there, dear. Here you go,’ a nurse says, stooping down to pick up the cup. ‘I’ve got it, Mrs Evans. It’s fine.’

I look into the brown eyes of the nurse. Tightening my face in confusion, I grab my head. ‘Who are you? I don’t know you,’ I say, needing this woman to back up, to give me space.

‘I’m Grace, dear. Remember, we met yesterday?’

I stare at the woman, so desperately needing to know her. I will myself to place her. But I just can’t. Fear bubbles inside, and I place a hand on my chest.

‘It’s okay. No problem. You had a hectic day yesterday. Come on, let me take you to your room. This way now,’ her voice reassures. I’m still stressed, but her voice is kind and her eyes reassure me. I follow her.

‘I’ll check in with you later, Adeline,’ a voice calls. I turn around to see the woman at the table, knitting. Dottie? Dorothy? I think it’s Dorothy. I’m pretty sure. But then again …

I hate it when this happens. I hate it when I can’t remember. I hate it when I forget simple things. I hate it when I feel out of control, like I’m not even in charge of my own self. The forgetfulness comes and goes, some days better than others. The doctors say it is to be expected with this disease, but they don’t understand how frustrating it is. From day to day, from moment to moment, my mind warps and twists so quickly. Some moments, everything is as clear as a crystal. And others, a murky fog settles in, threatening to obliterate every basic memory and thought and rendering me incapable of the smallest task. How helpless can one be? My hands ball into trembling fists, and every joint screams in pain.

The nurse leads me back to my room, and I unfurl my fists, giving my fingers a chance to relax. I reach up to the wall outside of my room and let my fingers trace the black numbers. 316. I live here in 316.

‘Need anything? More tea?’ the nurse asks.

I shake my head, staring at the tray of cold breakfast foods beside my chair. I inhale, but before the nurse can leave, I reach out and touch her arm.

‘Wait. My daughter. I want to talk to my daughter,’ I assert.

‘Certainly. Do you know the number?’

I look at the phone sitting on the nightstand as I cross the room slowly, my feet shuffling along. When I finally get to it, my hands reach for the phone. Do I remember? Can I do this? I’m so afraid I won’t remember. However, I know I need to get a hold of myself. I’m not a quitter. I don’t back down.

‘Yes,’ I say confidently, even though I don’t quite believe it. My fingers slowly reach towards the numbers, and I pause, wondering if they’ll be able to accomplish the feat. I sigh when they methodically dial the familiar numbers. They remember even when I don’t. All isn’t lost, I realise, assurance surging through me as I hear Claire’s voice on the line.

‘Mum, everything okay?’

‘Yes, Claire. Lovely. All is lovely. Just having some tea and thinking of you,’ I say, looking to the nurse to smile and thank her. But she is gone. Too much to do I suppose. Too much to do in a world where so many of us have nothing left at all. How cruel life can be.

‘Do you want me to come over?’ Claire asks.

I do. I so desperately do.

‘No, no. It’s all fine. I just wanted to talk to you,’ I lie.

We continue our conversation, Claire filling me in about the new client she’s working with at the advertising agency. She talks about things I don’t understand, but I don’t much care. It’s just nice to hear a warm, friendly voice I know. It’s so cold here.

While I’m chatting, there’s a knock on the threshold. I turn to see a man stooped at my door. His eyes are dark, his eyebrows unruly. He’s got a strong jawline, I notice, but it’s like his nose is too small for his face, like his head has swallowed it up.

And then there’s the scar, a bubbling, blatant scar along the top of his forehead, a line that’s parallel with the floor. I try not to startle. Wouldn’t do to be rude. All the patients around here tend to wear clothes that look like pyjamas, but not him. He’s wearing a button-up shirt and some brown trousers that seem like they’ve never been taken off. They’re ripped and worn, a stark contrast to the nice-looking shirt.

I leave the phone up at my ear. The man smirks, offering a little wave. The smile comes off as a crooked sneer, the few teeth peeking through tarnished brown.

‘Menu,’ he whispers, holding up a piece of paper. He limps into my room to the noticeboard on the wall closest to the door. His eyes flit about, as if he’s taking in the sight of my room but also terrified to encroach on my space. His movements are dramatic, as if he has to show me he’s only hanging something on the noticeboard and nothing else. I like that. I like that he’s respectful of my space. See, you can’t judge a book by its cover. I feel rude now, judging him for some ailments and disfigurements. As if to make up for it, I nod and smile overly wide, Claire still talking about some new initiative at work, as he tacks up a pink paper on my board.

I think about telling Claire to hold so I can thank him, but he’s too fast. He’s out of the room before I can blink, the limp no longer seeming to ail him. I wonder who he is. Is he one of the men that knitting woman was talking about, but which one? He looks somewhat familiar, but I’ve passed so many people, it’s hard to tell or to place him. I suppose I have time to figure it out. In some ways, I have nothing but time.

When Claire and I are finished talking, I hang up the phone. Standing from my bed, I decide to venture back out. No use being cooped up in here the whole time. I meander around, peering in rooms but trying not to get caught. I don’t want people thinking I’m snooping.

The day goes surprisingly fast. Later on, the nurses eventually find me to take me down to Floor One where the medical rooms are. I shudder as they lead me into the shaky lift. As the metal doors screech to a close and the metal box sputters, I want nothing more than to climb right back out. The ride is jumpy and creaky. It takes so long to get to the bottom floor that I convince myself it’s definitely broken, that we’ll be trapped in the box of death for hours. My heart races, and just as I’m ready to start clawing my way out, the doors mercifully creak halfway open, pause, and then open the whole way. It’s like the indecisive doors are thinking about staying shut. I scuttle out and pray I won’t have to use it too often in the coming months.

I have a few check-ups on the first floor with some doctors who seem to want to talk way too much about my heart, giving nosy nurses too much information about my medical history and telling them what to look out for like I’m not even in the room. When I return from their poking and prodding, I spend most of the afternoon sitting with the knitting woman, wandering about, and eventually taking a seat in the little lending library at the other end of Floor Three. I enjoy the peacefulness of the reading area so much, I return after dinner instead of joining in some activity downstairs later that night. I doze off, and when I startle awake, the nursing home is quiet except for a few characteristic moans from Floor Three. I rise from my seat, deciding it’s time to return to my room.