Mercy House

by Adam Cesare

  Selma’s blush deepened and the old woman went quiet, gluing her eyes back to the TV screen.

  Sarah moved down her list, following Flores out of the room and to the third-floor nurses’ station. They were alone. On days when the home was receiving a new resident, all personnel were rerouted to higher levels of visibility. It was a policy put in place to make the first and second floors appear better staffed than they really were.

  “You don’t have to scare them like that, you know. They’re never going to start using rubbers that way,” Flores said, her pronunciation of rubbers coming out robbers, which might have been how the woman spelled it in her head.

  “I don’t find it cute, like you do. They’re going to do it, so we can at least try to minimize the outbreaks that flare up when they do,” Sarah said, watching as Flores opened one of the station’s drawers and checked her phone. It would be their job to rub ointment onto the patient’s weeping sores, so you would think that Flores would be more invested in getting the residents to use protection.

  Sarah cleared her throat and asked about the next patient on the third floor.

  Flores smiled, not listening, absorbed in whatever she was doing on her phone. All personal devices were supposed to be stored in the employee locker room, not that there was any way to get a signal throughout most of Mercy House, even on the third floor. Flores would be restricted to leeching off the facility’s Wifi, something Sarah was too timid to risk just in case Donner was able to monitor who was accessing what. Stashing their phones was a rule that some of the docs, and Flores, seemed to ignore.

  They all had beepers on their lanyards to respond to red calls, and that was all Sarah needed. She could talk to her friends when she got home. The friends she had.

  With all the gossip that Flores liked to share about Donner looking to reduce hours, maybe eliminate staff, the woman didn’t seem to think Sarah would have the courage to report her. It wasn’t courage Sarah lacked, she was just too nice to try to throw the woman under the bus.

  “Is there anyone I should keep an eye on?” Sarah asked, giving up on going through the entire list. The third floor was where most of the severe cases were kept, with some relatively healthy residents, like Bea, thrown in to stop those transferred to the attic from feeling even more as if they were being put out to pasture. Many of the patients on the third floor were nonverbal, the majority of them hooked up to catheters and colostomy bags. They weren’t demanding in the same way that more active patients could be.

  “Same old, same—wait. That’s not true,” Flores said. She slipped her phone into her pocket and looked up at Sarah. “There’s some good news: Arnie is able to transfer on his own now. At least he did tonight, walked himself to go pee, too. His knees seem to be feeling better.”

  Flores may have called a trip to the bathroom “going pee,” but at least she had called getting out of bed “transferring,” the proper terminology. She was trying.

  “That’s great,” Sarah said, even though she doubted Arnold Piper’s recovery was as miraculous as Flores was making it sound.

  The other woman must have read her mind. “I know you don’t believe me, but just promise you’ll let him try it on his own, okay? Before you start grabbing at him, let him try.” Flores then checked her watch, a redundant gesture as there was a clock on the desk in front of her. The signal was received loud and clear: Flores wanted Sarah out of her face.

  “Almost quitting time and everything’s taken care of for now, have a seat and relax,” Flores said, scooting her rolling chair behind one of the computers in the nurses’ station. In an effort to end her conversation with Sarah, the woman pretended to read over something on-screen, even though these monitors were ancient and they took a while to warm up. The computers on this floor would never be seen by visiting families, so why would they have to be new? Even if they were an essential part of the medical team’s tool set.

  Thinking about how the funds were allocated at Mercy House made Sarah angry, so she took the seat Flores had suggested and took a few deep breaths.

  This was the end of sign-out, such as it was, and Sarah folded up her clipboard, retracted the tip of the pen, and put both items back in her pockets. Long white coats were for doctors, but Sarah needed the pocket space so she’d bought a short white coat, the kind that medical students wore in hospitals. They didn’t have students in Mercy House, so her wearing a coat didn’t disrupt the hierarchy, but it did make some of the other staffers look at her funny.

  “How are things, Flores? Any plans for the weekend?” Sarah asked, leaning her stomach against the counter so she could see most of the hallway, keeping her eyes on the blue and red lightbulbs above the doors, should anyone need help.

  This was Flores’s favorite part of their interactions, when Sarah opened up the door to personal topics. It did not matter that the woman didn’t seem to like Sarah much. Flores enjoyed talking and would boast about her family and share her plans with anyone who would listen.

  “Junior has been asking us for one of those,” Flores started. The stories about “Junior” were among Sarah’s least favorite.

  Sarah tuned the nurse out, listening to every fourth word while making a mental list of what she would need to get done while on the floor tonight.

  Mr. Ventura skipped by the nurses, tipping an imaginary hat and humming to himself. Flores stopped what she was saying, something about a dinner, and asked him why he was so happy.

  “I beat that bastard! First time in years. Not once but twice,” Mr. Ventura said.

  “That means you’re almost as good as me, better keep practicing,” Flores joked with him.

  “I could never beat you, angel, you’re too beautiful to lose,” Ventura said, massaging his bald pate, then wetting a pinky on his tongue and running it over each eyebrow. Sarah had never discussed it with him, but she’d seen Mr. Ventura playing chess in the rec room on numerous occasions, and she guessed that this was what their conversation referred to.

  Ventura gave Sarah a nod as well, still smiling but less so, and continued down the hallway. As he did, Sarah noticed that his gait was almost impossibly improved from yesterday. Sarah had read a study on the benefits of games not only on the sharpness of the mind but on physical impairments. It was an interesting phenomenon, she would have to start asking him how his games were going and observe his limp from there.

  With the patient gone, Flores continued their conversation. “Do you want me to bring you something or not?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry, what?” Sarah said, embarrassed to be caught not listening to whatever Flores had been saying before they were interrupted.

  “…from the welcome dinner? I can bring you up a plate before I leave.”

  That’s right. It wasn’t sign-outs, but there was at least one thing that could get Flores to stay after five o’clock: the welcome dinners meant to introduce new residents and their families to Mercy House. Sarah didn’t blame her. The food was nice, far better than what the commissary served up daily. Although the families weren’t told that detail, they should have been able to guess, if they realized what a dog and pony show the tours were.

  “No, I’ll be fine, I packed dinner. Thank you, though,” Sarah said. She glanced at her own watch, and then pulled her hair up, transferring one of the simple black bands from her wrist to her ponytail in one practiced motion.

  It was time to begin her rounds.

  Chapter 4

  “As you can see, we’re just finishing dinner service. Residents have the option of having their food in the cafeteria or taking a private meal in their room,” Gail Donner said, adding, “Whatever works for them.”

  That last sentence had been uttered three times on their tour already and they hadn’t even been shown Harriet’s room yet.

  Nikki and Don had gone on a cruise for their honeymoon, not an expensive one, and the cruise director had kept calling the experience “your style cruising,” while explaining how the food, drinks, and activities we
re charged, which was code for: We’re going to nickel-and-dime you on everything, since you were too cheap to book a real cruise. The way that Gail said “Whatever works for them” reminded Nikki of “your style cruising” and made her shudder to think of the bill, which would surely be intercepted at the mailbox before she could get a look at it.

  Of the purported one-hundred-plus residents of Mercy House, there weren’t many in the cafeteria—maybe ten—but all eyes were on their tour group. Nikki got the impression that even the ones who weren’t making it obvious were sizing Harriet up. She had expected the residents to appear more depressing than they were, sadder, with more drooping mouths and bulges where their diapers were sneaking over their waistbands, but they all seemed to be in good spirits and relatively healthy. She hoped Don was noticing, too; it would make leaving Harriet a little easier.

  “There’s limited seating, but a few residents will be joining us at your dinner tonight, Harriet. Leaders in the community we’ve built here,” Gail said. “Don’t worry, there are many more people to get to know, with new friends arriving all the time.”

  “Hooray, friends,” Harriet said, her voice flat. This level of sarcasm, a higher cognitive function, was available to her only on good days. Harriet glared at a group of three bluehairs huddled over a table, their lips moving in whispers. Nikki had a strange sense of high school déjà vu.

  The cafeteria was a large room, with the same gymnasium-like high ceilings as the foyer. It was hard to believe that there were enough residents at Mercy House to justify all the seats. When they were through staring at the natives, they were walked up the food line to see the steam trays. Nikki had to admit, even this far past lunchtime the food smelled pretty good after her own meal of Cheese Nips and Diet Coke in the car.

  “Some guests like familiarity while others prefer more adventurous dining, so we offer a schedule of staples while also rotating in at least one unique dish a night,” Gail said.

  “Like Taco Tuesdays?” Nikki heard herself ask, tired of being quiet.

  “Exactly,” Gail said, possibly oblivious to Nikki’s tone, but maybe more savvy than all of them.

  When they finished in the cafeteria they were brought across the hall to the recreation room. Orderly rows of tables held chess sets and board games, shuffleboard and pool, and a large projector in one corner with two rows of newish-looking recliners in front of it. There was also a row of computers set up in the back, but none of them were occupied. Even in Mercy House, where the Internet could tear down the walls around them and deliver them the world, old folks still weren’t fans of technology.

  This room was the most modern. There were brightly colored floor tiles and the walls were painted in pastels, making the rec room into a Chuck E. Cheese for the dentures and arthritis set.

  The foosball table was the only nonpassive activity getting play. The rest of the old folks were smiling with their eyes glued to the movie theater–size screen; they had headphones on so it was impossible to tell what their show or movie was about, but they seemed to be enjoying it.

  “This is where I want to be put,” Nikki whispered. It wasn’t true, if anything, there was an air of the Orwellian in the pacified, silent crowd. Nikki leaned in close to Don and took his hand, his calluses rough against her skin.

  His expression was warm but he didn’t grip her hand back, only gave it the lightest squeeze before disentangling her fingers from his own.

  “During the morning and afternoon, most of these tables will be filled, but there will always be a spot for you to do what you want, Harriet,” Gail said. “And if we don’t have the activities you enjoy here, you can put in a requisition order for whatever you need.” Nice, neat, she was careful not to use phrases like, If we don’t have something you had at home.

  Harriet was taking her time thinking of a retort; Nikki was familiar with the look. She suspected that the thorniness was all a show, though. The rest home had won Harriet over, otherwise she would not look as awake and healthy as she did. Harriet needed to have her mind engaged or she would lapse into either hysteria or sleepiness.

  The foosball game was getting heated, and the smack of plastic feet on the miniature soccer ball became the loudest sound in the large room. That the two old men playing could move that quick and get such power on their spins was impressive.

  “It’s very nice,” Don said, stepping in where his mother had drawn a blank.

  Behind them, someone who wasn’t a patient entered the room.

  “Excuse me, but dinner can be ready whenever you are, Chairwoman,” the dowdy woman said, her attire and smell labeling her the cook, or maybe more like a lunch lady.

  “Wonderful, just in time. We can visit the second floor and check on your room after we’ve eaten. I hope you’re hungry, Harriet.”

  “Famished,” Harriet said, her tone a mystery to Nikki.

  Chapter 5

  Teddy Reed had the black broad’s panties wrapped around his fingers as he dropped his scrub pants around his ankles and changed into jeans. He locked the door to his office, something he always did when he was alone, even if he wasn’t planning on getting up to no good.

  He switched his top for a flannel button-down and his transformation was complete. If Donner wanted to give visitors the false impression that Mercy House had one more nurse on staff than it did, that was no problem with Teddy. It was just another unflattering thing he knew about how Mercy House was run.

  The couple’s car had been a rental, so there’d been nothing much for him to take, but he’d checked the glove compartment and seat pockets anyway.

  It was risky, he could have been spotted, but he’d popped the trunk, found the overnight bag that the couple had stashed back there, and thrown the panties in his scrubs’ top pocket, adrenaline pumping through him the whole time. The garments were solid black cotton, conservative except for the lace trim running down the sides, which let you know that, Yeah, maybe we can party, if you’re down.

  She was damn fine, so it was a pity that the panties were clean, with not much of a scent beyond detergent. He’d have to use his imagination. The woman had light skin and kept her hair natural. Her hair was light in color and had only a slight crinkle to it, which made Teddy guess she wasn’t full black. He liked that, it made her a real Halle Berry type, a complete MILF. Or at least the kind of MILF you found while browsing videos online, probably too young to be anyone’s mother in real life.

  Teddy wished he could crash the welcome dinner, but showing up uninvited would get Donner on his case and he didn’t need any more attention thrown his way. He had a good thing going here, and keeping his head down when the brass was around was part of what made it work so well.

  But if he were at that dinner, man. He’d sidle up next to the fine Ms. Laurel and put his hand on her lap while her doofy husband was looking the other way. That’s what he’d do. Even if that little dude looked built, Teddy was even more jacked and a foot taller. He’d keep his fingers in her lap, soaking up her warmth, rubbing a bit.

  It was okay to think these things, he rationalized, as long as he never acted on them. Teddy had always been a fan of role playing, even if he didn’t find much interest in the elves and dwarves and shit of Dungeons & Dragons, and would never have sought out a group to play with, even if he did. Instead he’d dedicated himself to his own kind of role playing.

  It was a campaign he’d been running since middle school, and the phenomenon was something he wasn’t able to communicate to himself until his freshman year at Hofstra, after reading Richard III for the first time. Or at least after having the professor explain Richard III to him, and the lines: And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,/To entertain these fair well-spoken days,/I am determined to prove a villain. If people thought he was strange because he couldn’t communicate well, maybe he’d started life a little chubbier, a little ruddier than the rest, then fuck ’em, he would make himself over in his mind, become a villain.

  Even if it was mostly pretend, h
is war on the rest of humanity, all the way from the kid who’d blamed him for a fart during circle time to every girl who’d ever refused him for a date, it gave him strength.

  He pulled the lost and found box from under his desk and pawed through it until he located the tin he’d marked with an X. The “lost and found” might as well have been labeled stolen and pilfered. Nobody came into his office but him and the box wasn’t advertised. Teddy had the only key to the room and he knew that because he’d installed the locks himself.

  Aside from the occasional technician or sales rep who came to check out or upgrade the medical equipment or install a new Hoyer lift, Teddy was the man who did the repairs if something needed fixing at Mercy House.

  In his own sweet time; he was a busy guy.

  He had nearly a terabyte of movies—and “movies”—stored on his external hard drive and a fairly strict workout regimen to adhere to. He wasn’t going to get slack, like he’d been for too much of his life. Your busted faucet or blown lightbulb can wait, Grandpa. He would cover all complaints in due time, and that wouldn’t include throwing sawdust onto a pile of puke. Teddy was a handyman, not a custodian. They could call Thomas for puke, that shit was the old gimp’s job.

  Of course this reluctance to work never looked like anything but laziness, or maybe aloofness, to the staff and administration of Mercy House; he wasn’t looking to get fired by being openly hostile to anyone.

  Unscrewing the box lid, he gave the panties a deep sniff and then laid them in with the rest. Some were tiny and fresh, like Ms. Laurel’s, while others were large and, ahem, vintage.

  He was a live-in handyman and was paid extra for it. Good luck finding a replacement who doesn’t mind living in the sticks surrounded by a bunch of old farts. There was a small cot in Teddy’s office, but he wouldn’t be doing much sleeping in it tonight. Once the night nurse was through making her rounds, Teddy had a date with his girlfriend.