I blink a few times, thinking about last night, about the arm on my hand. I think about Jones and his reaction. I think about the blood-curdling feeling that all is not well on Floor Three, that this place isn’t quite what it seems. The faux homey appearance they try to create with the dusty, dried bouquets of flowers sitting on archaic stands in the hallways. The cheery-coloured paint in the common room, the bird cage with tiny finches near the lift. It’s all a façade to make us feel at home. But this isn’t home. And something tells me I might not want it to be.
Whoever was in my room last night had a warning, clear and painfully frightening. It’s not safe here. I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut so tightly that I see specks in the forced blackness. It’s nonsense. It must be. What real danger could there be in a place like this? Who would come here to carry out malicious plots? What would be the point, after all?
The harsh nurse drops off a tray a few moments later with a spot of tea, some eggs, beans, and what I suppose is meant to imitate breakfast ham. It looks rubbery and grey, an oozing film coating it in an unnatural, unappetising way. After wrestling with the thought of tucking myself back under the blanket and making this whole place disappear with sleep, I decide there’s no use. There will be no serene sleep today, my nerves battling my mind’s need to rest. I sit up wearily, gently folding the scratchy blanket back from my legs.
After plodding to the loo, I gather my strength to get dressed. I’m supposed to push a button to ask for help to change. I find that insulting. I have a heart condition and some forgetfulness that comes and goes. I am not a child. I slowly, painfully pick out an outfit from the chest of drawers, tucking myself into a plain grey pullover and some comfortable trousers. I don’t dare look into the mirror. Goodness knows I don’t need to be any more depressed than I already am.
I snatch the tea from the tray and I wander out of my room, glancing first towards the staircase. It still irks me that it’s locked. I take a breath, though, knowing it’s pointless to worry about it now. I need to focus my mind on other things. Thus, I turn to the right and set out for the common area, deciding that some exploring may do me good.
I plod onward, peeking into rooms here and there, the doors all flung open. When I get to Room 312, though, I notice the door is still shut. Odd, I think. I stop for a moment to catch my breath and wonder what curiosity the room holds. I’m tempted to reach out and touch the door knob, to peek in. I don’t, though. Wouldn’t do to make enemies here by intruding. Still, there’s something unnerving about Room 312, a murky horror that evades all reasoning. I don’t know what it is, but something about the door both lures me in and repels me with all its might.
I keep walking, passing a man in a wheelchair, his head slumped slightly backwards, his throat exposed. He rolls gently back and forth. His eyes pierce into mine, and I shudder, feeling like there’s something he wants to say but can’t. Agony drips from his watery eyes. It seems like tears want to fall from them but can’t. Slowly, methodically, careful not to trip, I march on until I finally reach the common room.
‘There you are. We thought you escaped already,’ Dorothy announces, cackling over a cup of tea. Another lady sits beside her in a wheelchair, but she just stares up at me and grins. She’s missing an eye. I tell myself not to stare at the gaping socket, not to be rude. I sit down in an empty chair beside her, my tea in hand.
‘You look like you didn’t sleep a wink. Rough night?’ Dorothy asks.
I shrug, biting my lip. I wonder if I should tell her. I don’t know her yet. I don’t want people to think I’m – what? What would they think? I did nothing wrong.
‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘Some crazy things happened.’
‘Crazy in a good way?’ Dorothy asks.
‘Crazy in the way that someone was standing over my bed last night.’ I tuck a long, grey strand of my greasy hair behind my ear.
Dorothy shakes her head. ‘Babbling Barbara.’
‘What?’
‘Babbling Barbara,’ Dorothy repeats, slowly this time. ‘I could almost bet my life it was her. She’s the floor’s lunatic. She’s madder than mad. Been here since before me. I think she’s too bonkers to die, you know? She wanders this place like a vagabond. Not even sure the staff know where her room is anymore. She gets lost all the time, even at night. One time I caught her sleeping in my bed while I was in it. Frightening but harmless. Nothing to worry about, dear. Nothing at all. She’s truly not capable of hurting anyone, although her crazy babbling is enough to send even the sanest of us to the loony bin.’
‘She hurt me, and it was pretty frightening. Look what she did,’ I reply, rolling up my sleeve to show Dorothy my wounds.
‘Oh my goodness,’ Dorothy gasps as she shakes her head. She leans in to examine my arm more closely. ‘Barbara did this?’
I sigh. ‘I suppose, if it was truly her. Yes. It was awful. She mauled me and wouldn’t stop.’
Dorothy shakes her head. ‘She’s never done anything like this. It’s peculiar. She truly has been harmless. But goodness, that’s terrible.’
Dorothy’s gaze lifts from my arm, and as she stares into my eyes, I get the sense she’s telling the complete truth. She shakes her head again before sighing and moving on with the conversation. I want to shove the worrisome event aside, to pretend it didn’t happen. Still, as Dorothy blabs on about some of the soap operas she watches and her grandchildren, I stare into my tea, thinking about Barbara’s words.
You’ll die here. You will. Get out now. Get out while you can.
For a mad woman, they sure were coherent phrases. Why did she choose those words? Does she say them to everyone? And above all, if what Dorothy said is true, why am I the only one who has been attacked by her? It’s too frightening to think about. I try to forget the worries, but they sink their teeth into me, gnashing and grinding conspicuously in the recesses of my memory to be rustled out later.
‘It’s a shame you missed breakfast, you know? I would’ve introduced you to some of Floor Three’s finer residents. But don’t worry. There’s still time, of course. We’ve got plenty of time. Hopefully.’
The woman beside Dorothy chuckles at that, like it’s the funniest joke. I do not.
After a long while, I stand from the table. ‘I think I’ll go ring my daughter,’ I announce, suddenly feeling confined in this room. There’s too much furniture here. I don’t like how everyone is just sitting around. I need to be alone. I suddenly, mercilessly thirst for solitude.
‘Are you sure? I think the painting class starts in two hours. Be certain to come. It’s really fun. And the university boy they bring in is a real dream. If I were just a tad younger, I’d have a go at him. Give him something really special to paint.’ Dorothy winks before readjusting her glasses to underscore her point.
‘Okay,’ I reply, turning with my almost-empty Styrofoam cup, slightly surprised by Dorothy’s forward promiscuity. My fingers crunch the cup until a piece falls in on itself.
But before I even turn the whole way around and pointing in the correct direction, I startle, dropping the cup.
‘Get out while you can. Get out,’ she gurgles, her craggy face scrunched up as her finger wags in my line of sight. Her milky eyes are crusty today, the bright whiteness of them alarming in a foreign way in the light. The words strangle in my throat, and I’m suddenly sputtering and coughing, clasping my chest as I back up, almost upsetting the table.
‘Barbara, dear, you’re scaring Adeline. Stop it,’ Dorothy orders, standing from her chair.
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, sm
iling, 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.
But when I get to the corridor, I’m disoriented. It’s been too long. Where am I? Where is my room? What room am I in? I look to the left. There are a few rooms that way. I look to the right. There’s a long corridor around the corner. Where do I go? I don’t know. I take a breath, going right. I walk looking in rooms, peering at numbers. What number do I need? How don’t I know? I don’t understand.
‘This way, Adeline,’ a voice barks. I look to see the harsh woman from this morning ushering me down the hallway. Is she still here? What a long day for her.
I nod, following her to my room, relieved she was there despite her glower and her angry mutterings about imbecilic residents. I ig
nore her icy, squeezing fingers on my arm that dig into my flesh as she yanks me forward. I was going the right way, I realise. This soothes me. Still, when I get to the room, my fingers trace the numbers again. I need to lock them into my mind. 316. I live in 316.
She doesn’t offer to help me change out of my clothes, instead shoving me into bed with a quick movement that jars me.
‘Don’t be wandering, you hear? We have enough to do without chasing down lost rubbish,’ she spits at me. I blink, staring up at the woman, feeling so powerless. Once she’s gone, I exhale out the day’s stresses, trying to think about all that’s happened. My eyes are heavy with exhaustion, and I know I’ll soon be asleep – even with Rose’s gurgling. Still, I know there’s something I must do.
My mind is wavering, whether I like it or not. But I must stay sharp. I need to stay with it. If the knitting lady is right and this place isn’t as safe as it seems, I need to be careful not to slip up. I lean over to the stand beside my bed and yank on the lamp cord. I slowly pull open the drawer and find a Bible and a notebook. I pluck a sheet of paper from the pad, locate the pen in the drawer, and lean onto the hard surface of the stand to jot down notes.
316: my room.
Knitting lady … Dorothy? Deborah?
Code to the stairwell?
I look at the list of reminders to myself. Not very impressive, but I haven’t been here long. At least this will help me keep track of information. Maybe it will nudge me tomorrow to remember what I need to find out. I need to keep my wits about me. That’s the one thing I’m certain of.
I tuck the paper in the back of the Bible, out of sight. I don’t need Claire or the home discounting me as mad. I don’t need them having more ammunition to write me off as nothing more than a disintegrating pile of flesh. I tug on the lamp cord, settle back into bed, and close my eyes. Rose’s gurgles continue to rattle in the background, but I’m so exhausted, it doesn’t matter. Drowsiness settles in, and I almost forget about everything that happened the night before.
The One Who Got Away Page 6