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Chapter Twenty-Two
The voices grew louder. Sounded like a man—no, two men. I recognized one voice, Chet. The other, possibly Kurt Berman. They grew still louder. Right outside the door.
I expected to see the door fly open. What excuse could I give for being here? What had I gotten myself into? I held my knees to keep them from trembling.
I was unable to make out what the men were saying. Had they noticed that the hidden door was ajar, held open by the pen I’d used to prevent it from locking, with me inside?
The next thing I heard was the snick of a door either opening or closing. I put my ear to the activities room door. I could no longer hear them talking.
I waited a few moments, then cracked the door open and peeked out. No one there. Where had they gone? The possibilities were: One, they’d gone through the hidden door. But the pen I’d used as a stopper was still in place and the hidden door still slightly ajar as I had left it. The second possibility, now a probability, was that they had gone into the room across the hall. I assumed the door across the hall led to another apartment, but looking now I saw a sign on the door, “Staff Only.”
One thing I knew for a fact was that they were no longer in sight. The other fact I knew was I had to get the hell out of the Assisted Living facility. And quickly.
I tiptoed out of the Activities Room, opened the hidden door, retrieved my pen, and let myself out. I closed the door behind me as quietly as I could, but still heard a snap as it relocked. I prayed that no one else heard it, as I took the stairs down to the garage floor and sauntered out of the garage trying to slow my breathing and my thumping heart.
Never again. That was it. Finis.
Back in the sanctuary of my apartment, Harriet was watching TV. She was now using only a cane, although half the time she forgot it and walked unaided with only a slight limp.
I leaned over her shoulder and gave the top of her head a loud and moist kiss.
She looked up. “What brought that on?
“It’s not your birthday?’
“No.”
“Our anniversary?”
She wrinkled her brow, shook her head, then a coy smile slowly took over. She glanced toward the bedroom. “In the middle of the afternoon? Like old times? You Devil.”
I opened my mouth to speak when the phone rang.
Harriet went for the phone while unbuttoning her blouse. She held up a finger. Wait.
I could wait another six months. Or had it been a year?
She put the phone to her ear. Listened for a moment, then, “Wendy, darling!” Harriet turned toward me. “It’s Wendy.”
I listened on the bedroom extension while Wendy asked Harriet how her hip was, how she felt in general, and assorted mother-daughter matters mostly concerning clothes.
I got in a few words, then, fully dressed, flopped on the bedspread and closed my eyes.
.Harriet joined me in the bedroom, the conversation with Wendy finally over,
I was drifting off to sleep and faintly heard her say, “Now where were we?”
Me? I was in dreamland.
Chapter Twenty-Three
About two weeks after my aborted attempt to invade the Assisted Living facility, I met Oliver Stevens in the elevator.
He said, “I’ve been meaning to get in touch with you, Henry. I’m Chairman of the Health Services Committee. I remember you telling me that you’d been in the pharmaceutical industry. We need another member for the committee. How about coming on board?”
“Refresh my memory. What exactly do you do?” I wanted to know what I’d be getting in to before I made a commitment.
“We see if the residents in the health facilities have any problems.”
“You mean the Care Center and the Wellness Center?”
“You got it.”
I said, “If there are problems, what do you do about them?”
“We have meetings.”
Like all I needed was another meeting. When I retired, I swore off meetings. I’d had my share as CEO of the company. I said, “And the meetings take care of the problems?”
He stared at me as though I were a candidate for the nuthouse. “No, we report them to the Residents Council.”
“And they solve the problems?”
“No, they take it up with Bowers’ management.”
I said, “And management takes care of the problems?”
Oliver was getting fidgety. “Look, Henry, will you or won’t you?”
“Do what?”
He took a deep breath. I expected him to tell me to forget he asked. Instead, through gritted teeth he said, “Join our goddamn committee.”
I could see his fist clench. “Well, if you put it that way…”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
I liked Oliver, but I could see I was about to make an enemy. “If you really want me, I’ll do it.”
He loosened up. “Great. We have a meeting scheduled for tomorrow.”
He told me where the meeting would be held.
As he started to walk away, I had a thought. “Oliver, is your committee responsible for Assisted Living too?”
He thought for a moment. “Well, it’s in the Care Center building so I suppose we cover it. But what problems would the people in Assisted Living have? They’re basically well, except they need help with their Activities of Daily Living.”
I suppose he was right. Maybe the one having the problem was me.
The following day, I showed up at the Health Services Committee meeting. There were two other members besides Oliver and me.
One member reported that one of the Care Center patients said she couldn’t get chocolate chip ice cream. They gave her Jell-O instead.
Oliver said, “We’ll refer it to Residents Council. Maybe they can work something out with the Diet Kitchen.”
Another patient had complained that the seat on her wheelchair was too hard.
Oliver pursed his lips, gazed at the ceiling, then looked at his committee. “Any suggestions?”
To this point, I hadn’t opened my mouth. I was about to suggest they fatten her up a little, when Mike, one of the committee members piped up. “How about getting her a cushion?”
“Excellent suggestion, Mike,” said Oliver.
Now, why couldn’t I think of that?
After several other serious problems had been solved by referring them to the Residents Council, who in turn would refer them to the administration, who would tell them they’d look into the matter, the meeting was adjourned.
While the other members filed out, I went up to Oliver. “I noticed nobody had said anything about the Assisted Living residents.”
Oliver shrugged. “I guess they didn’t have any problems.”
I wasn’t so sure. “Would it be all right if I checked?”
“Why?”
Because I thought something fishy was going on, that’s why. But I knew that wouldn’t fly, so I said, “So they wouldn’t feel that they were being neglected.”
He smiled and shook his head “If it’ll make you happy, go ahead.” Tolerant. He was probably sorry he’d ask me to join the committee.
Now that I had an opening, the following day I phoned Chet. I told him I was on the Health Committee and I was appointed to check on the patients. See if they had any complaints. So I stretched the truth a little.
Chet said, “Nobody from the committee has ever checked before. Why now?”
“Well you know Ollie. He takes his job seriously. Now, if was up to me…”
I heard Chet sigh. “What do you want to do?”
“I suppose I’d better ask each of the people in Assisted Living it they had any, you know, complaints.” I quickly added, “Or compliments.”
“I can save you the trouble. They don’t have any complaints.”
Because you have a lock on their mouths?
I said, “Well Chet, I’d be less than honest if I reported to the committee that I’d done the checking mysel
f. You how it is.”
Fortunately, he didn’t know how it was. After a moment of hesitation he said, “All right. Let me check the calendar and I’ll let you know when’s the best time.”
I knew if I waited for him to call I’d be in Assisted Living myself—or dead. “I tell you, Chet, I’m in and out most of the days. I’ll call you.”
Take that, Buddy.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Over the course of the next four days, I tried to nail Chet down to make a date for my “inspection tour” of Assisted Living.
If I was making a nuisance of myself, it wasn’t for my lack of trying. My job wasn’t easy since he had two offices. One was in Assisted Living where he was Assistant Administrator. The other in Independent Living where he was the Resident Relations guru.
A year ago, when he had come to our apartment to welcome us, he assured me the “the door to my office is always open.” He was right about that. The door to his Resident Relations office was always open, but usually with a clock-face sign that needed winding. The hands never moved. Anyone who took the instruction to “Come in and have a seat,” could develop pressure sores on their buttocks.
I’d read enough detective stories to know how a stake-out works. The usual technique involves a surveillance vehicle, a fake laundry truck with tinted windows, and wearing an indwelling catheter. But since we were indoors, I improvised using a method I believe Raymond Chandler devised: Leaning against a lamppost, in this case the wall outside Chet’s office, reading a newspaper. Upside down.
It worked.
Although he only spent a nanosecond in his office, I grabbed him trying to escape and sat him down in front of his calendar. It took only a couple of swats with a rubber hose for him to give me a date and time.
As I had found out before, it was easier going through airport security than getting into Assisted Living. But now I was in as the representative of a prestigious committee.
Accordingly, when Fredricka admitted me, she actually cracked a smile. On the elevator to the Assisted Living floor, we even made small talk. “Is it warm outside?” “Nice shirt you’ve got on.” Like that. I’d obviously misjudged her.
When we arrived at the Assisted Living floor she swept her hand around. “What would you like to see?”
“Can I see the residents?”
“Of course.”
Huh?
She knocked on the door to the first apartment we came to. A cheery, “Come in.” was the response. An attractive silver-haired woman wearing a robe was seated at the small table in the living room/bedroom filing her nails. She smiled. Hi, I’m Jean.”
I introduced myself, told her I was a member of the Health Services Committee. “I’m making rounds to see if everything is satisfactory.”
“I love this place. The food is good, the personnel are very helpful. I couldn’t be happier.”
I stuttered a few words, not being able to believe my ears. “Well, thank you for allowing me to visit.”
“You’re welcome.”
I turned to go. Fredricka was behind me. She gave Jean a finger wave and said, “Shall we go to the next apartment, it’s across the hall?”
Still in a daze, I followed her. In the apartment a couple, fully dressed, were playing cards.
After I introduced myself, the man said, “Hi, I’m Bob.”
His wife—I assumed she was his wife—said, “Hi, I’m Angie.”
I gave them my “any complaints?” spiel.
Bob said. “No. The food is good, the personnel are very helpful.”
They appeared to be in good health, although Angie was thin and her complexion sallow.
I thanked them for allowing me to visit.
Bob said, “You’re welcome.”
Outside the apartment, Fredricka said, “Angie has some sort of blood condition. Bob can’t give her all the assistance she needs. That’s why they’re in Assisted Living”
We zigzagged down the corridor. At each apartment I got similar responses. They were pleased with the service, food and personnel.
I didn’t visit all the apartments. At four of them, Fredricka peeked in, put her finger to her lips and whispered, “They’re asleep.”
The Rogers and Todds were out of their apartments. Larry and Christine Rogers were in physical therapy, and the Todds were involved in an activity in the Memory Section on another floor. I was disappointed in not being able to see them. They were really the only Assisted Living residents I knew. The others, Fredricka told me, had moved here before the Rogers or the Todds.
As we walked back to the elevator, Chet came out of the Administrator’s office.
“Well, did you unearth any problems?”
I shook my head. “No. Everyone is happy.”
He chuckled, polite enough to avoid the “I told you so.”
I was confused. I didn’t know what I expected to find, but my concerns about the place were unfounded.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Back in my apartment, I picked up a book I’d been reading, but I couldn’t keep my mind on the pages. Something gnawed at my brain. How could I have been so wrong about the Assisted Living facility? These residents were pleased, and offered no complaints.
I guess I had been turned off by what I perceived as a reluctance on the part of both Chet and Fredricka to allow me access to the floor. In addition, Fredricka hadn’t been the friendliest person on the planet during my first few visits. In retrospect, were those reasons to find fault with the facility? Certainly, during my “inspection tour” she couldn’t have been more affable. The problem, as I suspected, is me and my hypersensitivity.
A memo in my in-house mailbox read:
To: Independent Living Residents.
From: Kurt Berman, Administrator.
Since many of you have expressed an interest in the Care Center and Assisted Living, we have arranged an Open House tour of the building on Tuesday, May 10 starting at 3 PM
All residents are welcome, but because space is limited, we can accommodate only the first 50 who sign up. Tours in groups of ten will be conducted by our staff. At the conclusion of the tour, light refreshments will be served in the Care Center Dining Room.
Sign up sheets will be available tomorrow in the Resident Relations Office
Any doubts I’d had about goings-on in the Assisted Living facility were now dispelled.
Although I’d seen the facility before, I was anxious to see it again. Maybe I’d missed something.
Who am I kidding? The back of my mind still harbored a morsel of suspicion. I was unable to shake it loose.
I signed up Harriet and myself. Although I thought we’d be among the first, there were already thirty-five names on the sheet. By three in the afternoon, all fifty places had been filled.
The day before the scheduled tour, a notice in my box informed me that tour groups were staggered in ten-minute intervals. Harriet and I were in the third group, so we were to meet with our tour leader at the Care Center entrance at 3:30.
The notice laid down the ground rules for our visit.:
Stay with your guide
You will be shown one of the vacant apartments in Assisted Living which has been furnished as a model apartment.
Two of the Assisted Living residents have graciously opened their apartment for inspection.
Please respect the privacy of the other residents whose doors are closed.
Enjoy your visit!
On the appointed day and time, we and eight other residents from Independent Living met at the top of the ramp leading to the Care Center building,
We were met by a guy who looked like a pro-bowl linebacker. His blond hair was pulled back in a short pony tail. He wore slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt. His torso and arm muscles made the seams of his shirt bulge. Broad shouldered and narrow-waisted, he could have been a candidate for Mr. America, or a double for Arnold Schwarzenegger He said, “Hello everybody. My name is Steve. I’ll be your guide for this tour. You have all re
ad the instructions, no?”
We nodded.
“Good. We will start in the Care Center and then go to the Assisted Living section. Any questions before we start?”
No questions.
Steve opened the door to the Care Center and ushered us in.
While we walked down the corridor, I tagged behind so I could have a word with Steve. “Are you part of the staff?”
“Yes. I’m an aide. I spend part of my time here in the Care Center, but mostly I help in Assisted Living.”
The two or three times I had been in Assisted Living, I hadn’t seen Steve. But then, I hadn’t spent much time there. Fredricka had seen to it that my visits were not prolonged.
Harriet pointed to one of the rooms we passed. . She whispered, “Isn’t that the room I was in?”
“I don’t remember. They all look alike to me.”
Steve stopped us in front of the nurses’ station and we formed a circle around him. “As you can see, the layout is like a hospital floor. In the wings on each side are the patients’ rooms.
Someone asked, “Private or semi-private?”
“Both.”
He went on to elaborate, explaining that our contract entitled us to a semi-private room, but for an additional fee we could have a private room. I’d heard most of this from our marketing person before we moved in.
Harriet stifled a yawn.
Steve showed us a vacant room, pointing out the amenities.
While he was explaining the nurses’ duties and the workings of a hospital floor, showing where medications and dressings were kept, another group of ten residents, led by Chet as their guide, passed behind us. They had apparently finished their visit in the Care Center and were headed for the next leg of their tour.
Barry Friedman - The Old Folks At Home: Warehouse Them or Leave Them on the Ice Floe Page 8