by Amy Cross
I shake my head.
"It's the way you hold yourself. The way you go about your daily business. If you comport yourself in a happy, enthusiastic manner, people will pick up on that and treat you accordingly. But if you slouch into work like you don't want to be there... well, you get the idea. If you want people to think you're just going through the motions in order to get a pay-packet, then fine, carry on like that. But if you really want to get somewhere in life, you might need to rethink your approach."
"So it's about body language?" I ask, stuffing a bottle of water and a pre-packaged sandwich into my backpack. The truth is, I already know what he's talking about, but I have to ask questions occasionally; it's the only way to make sure he accepts that I'm paying attention.
"In a way," he says. "But it's more than that, really. It's about your approach to life."
"What's wrong with my approach to life?" I ask.
"I didn't say there's anything wrong with it," he says, "but do you think there's really anything very right with it? You're starting college in a few months. First impressions count. I was hoping you might learn this kind of stuff over the summer."
"Guess not," I say, zipping up my backpack. "I'd love to stay and talk, but I have a bus to catch."
"Good luck," he replies, looking down at his book. "If you need me, you know where to find me."
I stare at him for a moment. "Dad?" I say eventually.
"What?" he asks, not looking at me.
"You remember Martina?"
He looks at me, and I can see I've got his attention. "Of course," he says. "Why do you ask?"
"Do you think about her much?"
He pauses. "Sometimes."
"Do you miss her?"
"Why?"
"It's just a question," I say. "I was wondering, that's all. You don't have to answer."
He stares at me. "Sometimes."
"Huh," I say. "That's what I thought." With that, I turn and head out the door, walking through the garden to the cold street. That little question about Martina was probably mean, but I've been thinking about her a lot lately. It's more than ten years since she died, and I can't help but wonder what the past decade would have been like if she'd been around. If she and my father had stayed together, everything would have been so different. In the years since her death, I've mostly managed to put her out of my mind, but lately I've been thinking about her more and more. It's almost as if, in some way, my memories of her have been reawakened by recent events. Hopefully it's just a temporary thing; the last thing I want is for Martina Hopkins to take up permanent residence in my thoughts.
The bus journey to the retirement home is slow, and a bunch of rowdy guys call out to me from the back seats. I ignore them, though inside I'm burning up with fear in case they come closer. They whistle at me and generally make a nuisance of themselves, but fortunately I'm eventually able to get off the bus without being bothered directly. I stand on the sidewalk and watch as the bus heads off into the distance. I know I should be more open to experiences, but in general I hate people. They're loud and obnoxious, and they just cause trouble. I'd be much happier floating through the world in my own little bubble, not having to interact with anything. The problem is that I inevitably have to spend time with other people, and bad things usually happen. I don't know why, but other people seem to bring out the worst in me. I'm pretty sure I'd be just fine if I never had to see anyone else.
Chapter One
Today
"Kenneth Jenkins pissed himself again," says Lizzie, storming into the office while I'm writing some notes in the logbook. It's 2am and we're almost halfway through the night shift; so far, we've been so busy, there's barely been a moment to stop and take a breath.
"What?" I ask, turning to her.
"Jenkins," she snaps, grabbing a box of paper towels from one of the lockers. "He's pissed the bed. Now I've got to change everything." Lizzie's mood has been getting stormier by the hour; she's always seemed to have a level of anger simmering away beneath the surface, but tonight she's particularly tetchy. "Can you do me a favor? While I do the sheets, can you hose him down?"
"Sure," I reply. "You mean, like, in the shower?"
"Yeah," she says, hurrying back over to the door. "Just take him to the bathroom, stick him in the shower and make sure all the piss is washed off. Then dry him, get him into some new pajamas, and bring him back to his room."
"Okay," I say, closing the logbook and following her through to the red ward. "I didn't know Mr. Jenkins was -"
"There's no need for a fucking debate about it," she replies, clearly annoyed. "The old guy pissed himself, and he needs cleaning up. You've only worked here a couple of weeks, Juliet. Trust me; when you've been here a little longer, you'll get used to the crap the residents try to pull. Wait 'til you've literally had to reach your hand up someone's ass to pull out a piece of shit that's got lodged up there."
As soon as we get to Kenneth's room, I see him sitting on the edge of the bed, completely naked, looking embarrassed and sad. It's a heartbreaking sight, especially when I spot the large wet patch on the bedsheets.
"Juliet's gonna clean you up," Lizzie says, showing no sign of sympathy at all. "Get up. Go with her."
Slowly, Kenneth gets to his feet and comes over to the door. I step back, immediately smelling the urine. As Lizzie starts removing the soiled sheets, I take Kenneth by the hand and lead him along the corridor. Maybe I'm being overly sensitive, but I can't help thinking that Lizzie's attitude is a little over-the-top; it's pretty clear that Kenneth is feeling humiliated, especially as he's still naked, and I feel as if maybe Lizzie could be nicer to the residents.
"Don't worry," I say, leading him into the bathroom. "You'll be all fixed up in a couple of minutes."
He doesn't say anything. Kenneth Jenkins is usually one of the most talkative and friendly residents, but he seems totally crushed right now. He just sits on a nearby chair and waits while I turn the shower on; I wait for a moment, checking the temperature of the water with my hand until finally it starts to heat up a little.
"How do you like it?" I ask. "Warm? Hot?"
He slowly turns to look at me, and I realize there are tears in his eyes.
"It's not that bad," I say. "Everyone has accidents."
He stares at me, and a tear rolls down his cheek. Grabbing some toilet paper from nearby, I go over to him and gently wipe the tear away.
"Do you want to get in the shower now?" I ask, trying to sound as friendly as possible. "It'll feel good to get it washed off, won't it?"
"I didn't do it," he says suddenly.
"You didn't do what?" I ask, wiping away another tear from his cheek.
"She did it," he says, staring at me with his sad, old eyes. "She did it to me!"
"Come on," I say, "let's get you into the shower."
"It's hers!" he says as he stands up. I get him into the water, and then I quickly lather up a sponge and wipe him down.
"Doesn't this feel good?" I ask. "There's no need to be embarrassed. Accidents happen to everyone."
"I didn't have an accident," he replies. "She came in and did this to me."
"What do you mean?" I ask as I run the sponge over his back.
"She came into my room," he continues, "and she sat on my bed, and she told me no-one'd believe me if I said it was her. And then she did it, and then she came and found you and told you it was me."
I take a deep breath. I understand why Kenneth is embarrassed, but it seems kind of over-the-top to start accusing Lizzie of wetting his bed. Lizzie might be a little harsh at times, but I don't think she's cruel. Besides, why the hell would anyone do something like that? It's pretty sick.
"You don't believe me," he says.
"I'm sure it's not quite like that," I say, turning off the shower. "There. All clean." I grab a towel and start gently patting him dry.
"It's exactly like that," he says. "She was right. No-one believes me. No-one ever believes me, or the others. Most of them ar
e too far gone to even know it wasn't their fault, but she can't trick me the way she tricks everyone else." He turns to me. "There are some evil people in the world, you know."
"I know," I say.
"Just because you're sweet and innocent, doesn't mean everyone's the same."
"I'm not sweet and innocent," I say, forcing myself to smile as I finish getting him dry. "There," I add, before going over to the cupboard and pulling out a dressing gown. "You can wear this back to your room," I continue, "and then we can get you into some pajamas."
"I don't want to go back there," he says.
"And where else are you going to sleep?"
"I want a camera," he continues. "I know you can get little cameras these days. I want one in my room, so you can catch her doing it to me."
"I really don't think that's necessary," I say as I help him into the dressing gown. "Let's just stop over-reacting and get you back to your room." I feel bad for patronizing him like this, but the stuff he's coming out with is kind of crazy. There's no way Lizzie, despite all her faults, is going around urinating in the residents' beds so she can blame them; I mean, she might be a bit of a bitch sometimes, but she's not insane.
"Get me a camera," he says as I lead him back out into the hallway. "You know what I'm talking about. Get me a little one I can hide somewhere. I'll give you money, but you have to pick it up for me."
"Let's not worry about cameras right now," I tell him.
"And don't tell her I told you this," he says. "If she finds out I told you, she'll do something even worse."
"I won't tell her," I reply, "but you have to promise me that you'll realize this isn't as bad as it seems. A little accident isn't the end of the world."
We walk in silence for a moment. "I thought you'd believe me," he says eventually. "I thought you were one of the good ones. We haven't had a good one since Jennifer Mathis left."
I take a deep breath. Even the mention of that name, Jennifer Mathis, is enough to put me on edge. I haven't gone anywhere near the abandoned ward for a few days, and I haven't had any strange encounters since the night that Ruth Brown died. I have no doubt that Jennifer Mathis is still around somewhere, waiting for me, but for now she seems to be leaving me alone, and for that at least I'm grateful. When I've come up with my own plan, I'm going to go back in there and confront her properly, and find out how she managed to get so deep into my head.
"You must be tired," I say as we reach his room. Lizzie is just finishing up with the bed, and there's a pile of dirty sheets in the corner. "Hey," I continue as I guide him to the bed, "at least now everything's clean and new."
"Until he does it again," Lizzie sneers.
"Do you think you'll be able to sleep?" I ask Kenneth as I settle him into bed. He doesn't reply, but he squeezes my hand tight and I can see that there's genuine fear in his eyes. I think he truly believes the claims he's been making, which makes me worry a little for his state of mind. "I'll come back and check on you in a while," I say. "Okay?"
He nods.
"Come on," Lizzie says, carrying the soiled sheets out into the corridor. "There are other residents, you know. We can't spend all night on him."
"Sleep well," I say, before switching off the light and leaving the room, pulling the door shut as I go.
"You wait 'til you've been here as long as I have," Lizzie says as we walk back toward the reception area. "You won't be so nice to them when they piss themselves in the middle of the night."
"He didn't do it on purpose," I say.
"Didn't he?" She smiles. "Sometimes they just want attention, and they learn how to get it. People are like dogs, Juliet. They pick up tricks, and they use them to get what they want. Just 'cause these residents are old, don't be fooled into thinking they've lost the ability to come up with nasty little schemes." She opens the laundry chute and shoves the sheets inside. "Kenneth Jenkins is a devious old bastard. If he wants some attention, he'll happily piss the bed just so he can spend some time with us. Frankly, I think he does it because he likes being sponged down in the shower. Don't tell me his little pecker didn't quiver while you were washing him."
"I'll go and check on the rest of the red ward," I say, turning and heading back along the corridor. I'm really starting to hate the way Lizzie talks about the residents. She acts like they're a bunch of naughty children, and sometimes it seems like she treats them pretty badly. Sure, it's annoying when someone has an accident in their bed, but I don't feel as if scolding them is going to do much good; in fact, it's probably going to make things worse. Then again, I'm only a temporary employee here, and I'll be gone by the end of summer. I guess there's no point trying to change things. I just need to knuckle down, do my best, and try not to cause trouble. I'm not here to save anyone.
Chapter Two
Eleven years ago
The maggots are really busy this morning. Wriggling in and out of Gizmo's body, they're chewing on every last morsel of flesh. It's taken them a few weeks, which is a little longer than I'd anticipated, but they've finally reduced his corpse to little more than a collection of bones and fur. When they first appeared, the maggots were small and thin, but they're getting fatter and fatter. It's been fascinating to watch them develop, and to see the way they've used Gizmo's body; in a way, they've turned him into an entire world, but they're going to run out of resources soon and I can't wait to see what happens next. I just wish I'd been able to perform this same experiment on my mother's body.
"Juliet!"
Looking up, I realize my father is looking for me. I told him I was coming out to the garden to look for frogs, but I've been out here for ages. I quickly put the lid back on the box and slide it back into its hiding place, before running around to the back door.
"Find anything?" my father asks, smiling at me. He's still wearing his dressing gown, even though it's almost lunch-time.
I shake my head.
"Maybe it's the wrong time of year," he says. "You want to come in and have breakfast?"
Reluctantly following him into the house, I glance over at the clock and see that it's almost midday. In my opinion, breakfast should be eaten much earlier, but at weekends my father has a tendency to run according to a different schedule. He likes to stay in bed for as long as possible, which means I have to find something to eat for myself and then wait for him to emerge from his bedroom. It feels weird to be eating breakfast so late in the day, and lunch and dinner both get pushed back much later than I'd prefer. I liked it when my mother used to get up early and boil some eggs. My father makes eggs too, but it's not the same; he always complains about the way I eat them.
"Martina's in the shower," he says as he butters some toast.
I stare at him.
"Did you hear me?" he asks, glancing over.
I nod. What does he want me to say? That I'm glad she's in the shower? That I'm interested? That I care? Anyway, I already knew what she was doing, because I can hear the shower running in the distance. I've tried really hard to hide the fact that I don't like Martina, but he's really pushing me to act like I accept her. My father's never been very good at hiding his feelings, and he's never been very subtle, and I hate the way he's trying to act like Martina's a part of our family. To me, she's just this woman who comes and sleeps over a couple of nights each week.
"You like Martina, don't you?" he says, bringing a big plate of buttered toast over to the table.
"Yes," I say obediently.
"Good," he replies, tousling my hair. "There's no reason to be against new people coming into our lives, and Martina's really very nice. Give her a chance and I think the pair of you will get on really well."
I sit on one of the chairs and grab a piece of toast. My mother always used to burn the toast; I liked biting into the crisp black edges, whereas my father's toast is just lightly browned. I know I probably spend too much time thinking back to how my mother used to do things, but I got used to her habits. It feels as if everything my father does is wrong.
"
You know," he continues as he checks the boiled eggs, "Martina isn't sure whether or not you like her." He glances over at me. "I think she thinks you're a little cold around her sometimes. Maybe you could try a little harder to make sure she knows that's not true."
I bite into the toast. It's soggy, and too buttery.
"Don't eat yet," he says, hurrying over and taking the piece of toast out of my hand. "Just wait a couple of minutes, Juliet. It's rude to start before everyone's at the table."
I look over at the door. In the distance, the shower is still running. If we wait for Juliet, everything's going to get cold.
"Did you hear what I said just now?" my father continues. "I think it'd be nice if you could show Martina that you like her. Just smile a little more and talk to her. Is that something you think you could do?"
"Yes," I say, hoping to get him off my back. At that moment, I hear the shower being turned off.
"You want us to be happy, don't you?" he continues, bringing a bowl of boiled eggs over to the table. "Time moves on and new people come into our lives. It's how the world works, Juliet. You're too young to understand at the moment, but you'll just have to trust me. Martina's a very lovely person."
I smile politely.
"Hey!" Martina says, coming through to the dining room wearing nothing more than a towel wrapped around her body. She does this every time she's here for breakfast, and I hate it. Why can't she get dressed like a normal person? Her hair's wet and there's something annoying about her bare shoulders, which still have little beads of water glistening on the skin. As she walks barefoot over to my father and kisses him on the cheek, I have to fight the urge to ask her to put some clothes on. I know I shouldn't get so easily annoyed, but it feels like she thinks she can do anything she wants when she's here, even though she's just a visitor.
"Perfect timing," my father says as he fills up two mugs of coffee. "Breakfast is served."
"You really spoil me," Martina says, laughing as she comes over to the table. "A girl could get used to this. Isn't that right, Juliet?"