by A. Marie
Despite his shitty tone, I can’t help but jerk my head, asking, “You checked?”
His face splits into a grin, shaking his head. “Coty would kill me.”
We share a laugh but I don’t miss the way he only acknowledged Angie in that statement, which leaves his interest in Paige a mystery still. A mystery I find very interesting—and not in a good way either.
I scrub my hands down my face. “I’ll try, man, but you put me in a bad spot here.”
My eyebrows lift with meaning and he simply nods, saying, “it’ll be a’ight,” before disappearing outside.
Worst famous last words ever.
CHAPTER 2
Paige
“Hey. How’s it looking in there? Any different from the last time you checked?” Cynthia asks from the nurses’ station.
“Actually, no.” I laugh, grabbing the chart at the top of the pile.
Cynthia and I completed the same nursing course fresh out of high school and we both got hired on fulltime here at Sunbrook Senior Living during our clinical rotation. We’ve been working together ever since and get along pretty well despite her taste in music. Seriously, techno just isn’t for everyone. I get it. Working in an Alzheimer’s care facility, we all need our outlets and raves are hers. The night shift hours alone can take a toll physically, not to mention the emotional strain that can happen as well.
“Is everything still set for tomorrow?” she asks.
“All the paperwork is completed and in with Rosie at this point, so everything should be good to go. I was thinking about coming in early to help out.”
Cynthia’s already shaking her head. “Remember, it’s better to keep to the schedule. We have to create some sort of normalcy for the residents. All of them.” She gives me an apologetic look. “I’m sure the day staff will do a great job.”
“I know.” I exhale loudly. “You’re right.”
We’re not supposed to give any of the patients—or I’m sorry, ‘residents’ as management insists we call them—special treatment, even though every employee working here will admit to having favorites. We all do. It’s hard not to. Working closely with others who depend on you to change their bedding, bathe them, sometimes even spoon feed them, it pulls at your heartstrings. It’s natural to develop an affinity for those you care for. Whether they can remember you or not is irrelevant. They’re still human beings and us human beings all want the same thing: to feel safe and loved.
Speaking of favorites, I flip open the chart to see how my main man Dennis is doing today. Dennis Gregory’s been here longer than any of the other residents and he’s got quite the reputation. When he’s good, he’s great. When he’s struggling, we all do, too. He’s one of the needier residents and has to be checked on often. According to the nurses on day shift, he can get aggressive but only occasionally and usually before I get here. Cynthia and I typically miss out on the sundowning phenomenon Alzheimer’s patients can sometimes experience but we’ve definitely caught the aftereffects when showing up for our later shift. Dennis is what we call a waker, meaning he wakes frequently and wanders the halls looking for food, activities, even dates. Yep, Dennis is a regular Casanova even at eighty-two. I found him sweet talking a plant once and it’s the only time I can honestly say I was jealous of a fern. He was probably a total player in his day.
From the notes jotted down in his chart, it looks like Dennis had a rough day already.
That makes two of us.
My mind flickers back to this morning at my new place, meeting the guys I’ll be living with for the foreseeable future. One was nice, in a distant, unreadable kind of way, which only adds to his insane hotness. I can’t wait to see him ride his bike—his custom red Ducati. Yeah, I checked it out. Bike first, man second. Always. A man’s bike says a lot about him. Marc’s Duc draws just enough attention for you to notice but not linger on. He likes to play under the radar, choosing when and where it’s time to be seen. The maker of his own rules and the breaker of others’.
I bet he’s a freak in the sheets. I wonder if I’ll ever hear it living down the hall or if he handles his business in private. Time will tell, I guess.
The other was a complete shithead. Beckett’s bike was showy and obnoxious, just like him. A Ninja as colorful as his conquests, if the bra he was holding this morning is any indication. An absurdly handsome face that could make you fall to your knees in gratitude is wasted on someone as uptight as Beckett. A long, strong body that probably handles like my CBR—rough start with a smooth, easy finish. Too bad I’m not interested in either after his piss poor introduction today. A shame considering Marc described our roommate as having an over-the-top personality with a dirty sense of humor—a solid endorsement for a girl with more brothers than she knows what to do with—but all I’ve seen is a huge man-child throwing his weight around for shits and giggles. Unfortunately for him, I don’t have an abundance of either these days. Avoidance, which shouldn’t be too hard considering our opposite schedules, will work just fine with a character like Beckett.
“Have you seen Dennis yet?” I ask Cynthia whose eyes are lined with too much concern for my liking. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a female caretaker and she comes nowhere near the original.
She shakes her head and, unable to say more, I leave to monitor the halls, triggering the sensored overhead lights as I go.
Rounding the corner, I spot movement in the cafeteria and push through the swinging door to find Dennis folding napkins in the dark. I flip the light switch and join him.
“Why, hello there. How’s it going?”
Without looking up from the fabric, Dennis says, “Bend over and I’ll show you.”
I pause along the aisle, scanning him for anything he could use as a weapon. With a press of the talk button on my walkie-talkie, I let Cynthia know where we are before grabbing a handful of napkins of my own and taking a seat at the table opposite him. Distance and caution is always the best approach when one of the residents is in a mood. Not many, but some, can grow violent and with the notes in Dennis’s chart already pointing toward aggression, I’m not taking any unnecessary risks.
“Dennis,” I tsk firmly. “You couldn’t sleep?”
My hands begin the familiar movements, folding, but my eyes stay trained on Dennis, ready to react should he try anything.
“Someone new is here,” he spits in disgust.
My fingers still.
“Not yet. But you’re right, someone new will be moving into room fourteen tomorrow. Is that okay with you? A new friend around here might be nice.”
“She stole my goddamn magazine.” His fingers freeze as he meets my eyes.
I shake my head, staying alert. “That’s impossible. She’s not even here yet. Do you want me to help you look for your magazine?”
There is no magazine. All the magazines are kept in the library and I’ve never seen Dennis bother with anything less than a full-length novel when he’s in there. Late night reading is like a double-edged sword—it sounds relaxing until you fall into the right storyline preventing you from putting it down, no matter how tired you become—and Dennis is notorious for picking up a novel after waking in the middle of the night. But if it helps ease his mind, I’ll walk around with him until he lets go of some of this hostility.
He picks up a perfectly folded napkin, shaking it at me. “Don’t you tell me. I know she took it. Devil woman, she is. Coming in here with her thieving ways. I won’t have it.” With that, the cloth is lobbed directly at me, making me flinch back. Thankfully, it falls to the floor halfway to my table.
I’ve had enough of people throwing shit at me today. First that overgrown toddler and now this.
“Dennis, you cannot throw things at me. I’ll have to report you to Rosie. I know you’re upset but let’s look at what you do have.”
“I have nothing!” he bursts, his face red and sweaty. “She’s going to take everything with her.”
While it’s not unheard of for some families
to visit less and less due to the emotional toll it takes when their parent or spouse doesn’t remember them, Dennis’s wife died a few years back so he really doesn’t have anyone anymore. There’s always a possibility for a rare moment of lucidity and he may be having one now but as a memory flashback. It’s hard to tell sometimes and you can’t dismiss their feelings just because they won’t remember come morning. Remaining positive and calm has always been my best technique and Dennis usually responds well to it. To me. That’s why he’s one of my favorites. I’m not sure what’s setting him off tonight though.
“Hey, you have me. I’m here with you right now,” I try to soothe.
He drops his eyes to the pile in front of him then resumes folding. So soft I almost miss it, he says, “She’s going to steal you away and you don’t even know it.”
I focus on Dennis while he works, marveling at his steady hands folding the stiff fabric exactly the way the staff does it. This utterly useless skill has been engrained for retention but not his late wife’s name. How can memories of your own family, the people you love most, be ripped from your clutches while meaningless tasks rest idle awaiting random use? The unfairness of Alzheimer’s never ceases to piss me off.
My chest grows tight and I scoop up my abandoned pile before depositing it back to the bussing station.
“Would you like to go for a walk with me? Maybe you could help me find a cup of tea.”
I wring my hands behind my back. A late-night stroll and a challenge—what man could refuse that? Hopefully not this one.
Dennis’s hands still and I take a hesitant step back, unsure if his foul mood has passed or not.
“In this place? There’s only one spot that comes to mind and lucky for you, I know just where to go.”
Standing, he winks and reaches for my arm in a gentlemanly gesture but I grab my radio, pretending to hear something. I shake my head at myself and we begin walking side-by-side toward his best kept secret, leaving this episode behind.
* * *
“The lobby? Dennis, you sure know how to treat a girl,” I say, smiling.
He blushes, fixing two mugs of hot water before I take over with the tea. Sleepy chamomile for him and two bags of tangy chai for me. I need all the help I can get and I don’t drink coffee so doubling up will have to do.
After enjoying our drinks together, we sit for a while, silently gazing out the window at the moonlit back courtyard. He’s much calmer and eventually lets me know he’s ready for bed.
I escort Dennis to his room then make my rounds, leaving room fourteen for last.
Entering the room, I take it all in, not letting my bias sway me.
Sunbrook’s a nice place with a well-stocked library, arts and crafts room, meticulously maintained grounds, and even weekly events like Bingo and movie nights. Although it’s an assisted living facility, Sunbrook’s focus is on people with Alzheimer’s and dementia needing more outside assistance. And it actually smells good, which is not always the case.
Each room has its own bed and nightstand, a TV on the wall, a sitting chair with a small end table along with a private connected bathroom. They’re meant to be apartment-like homes but with safety features aplenty. It really is like a little community.
I smooth my hand over the freshly-made bed. Cotton, not that synthetic crap most facilities provide. She’ll like it. Or she would’ve before.
Before. A word not readily recognized within these walls but one I can’t seem to purge from my vocabulary.
A tear forms in my eye and I blink it back before it can fall. Before.
I’m straightening the stack of magazines—not stolen—on the end table when an alarm sounds down the hall.
Cynthia’s voice crackles over the radio but I’m already sprinting out the door.
Tonight’s going to be a long one.
CHAPTER 3
Paige
I keep my steps slow and measured even though all I want to do is run. All day I’ve been on edge waiting for my shift. For this moment. Thankfully, both roommates were already off to their own jobs by the time I rolled in dead on my feet this morning. Last night being a full moon lived up to the hype. Every few minutes, it seemed, something went wrong, sending me and Cynthia into a frenzy of activity usually reserved for day shift.
I was originally hired on for nights only but over the past two years of working here, I’ve had to fill in several times already for nurses on days. Usually at the last minute for the moms with young kids that get sick. While it might be hard coming off a twelve-hour rotation when the sun’s just coming up, there’s no comparison to the exhaustion day nurses feel after a rowdy shift. After my last time covering someone’s shift, I saw some ways the night nurses could help out more so I suggested them to my boss, Rosie, and we’ve slowly been implementing them. Things like putting out snacks and changing bedding for the residents who are already awake before we leave in the mornings. So far everything’s gone over well.
Except with Vernon, that is.
He comes in every morning to go over the daily medications but more importantly, he’s a huge pain in my ass. I swear he goes out of his way to be a prick. He typically saves his snide remarks for me, which I try to ignore, but I’ve seen him be gruff with a few residents before and that’s just unacceptable. He’s got a major superiority complex going, I guess because his position allows him to stay relatively hands off with residents, mainly dispensing medication throughout the day, and he gets paid better than most of the other nurses on staff. Living alone with only two cats, he has nobody else in his life to take care of, so he spoils himself regularly, making it clear to the rest of us where he stands—well above our peasant asses.
Realizing I’m clenching my fists, I shake out my arms, not wanting to walk in a bundle of nerves. At least not visibly.
After a quick knock on room fourteen’s closed door, I announce myself then twist the doorknob, letting shaky legs carry me inside.
“Hello, Ms. Christensen. I’m Paige and I’m one of the regular night nurses here. I thought I’d check to see how you’re settling in on your first day.”
My stretched out smile slips as I get a good look at her.
I check her chart, immediately seeing she missed dinner. There’s no reason listed so I make a mental note to look into it later. Asking her likely won’t get me anywhere so I try a different approach, offering, “Would you like something to eat? Maybe some yogurt and granola?”
Favoritism be damned. Today of all days she needs to eat. Moving can be particularly stressful on people with Alzheimer’s. Everybody knows that. How did they let this happen on such a tough day?
I walk around to face her as she gazes out the window and study her sitting in what looks like deep contemplation. She has yet to answer me, let alone acknowledge that I’m even here. The parking lot isn’t that interesting. Something’s bothering her.
My eyes flit around the room, checking for something, anything, to reveal what has her nearly catatonic. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, I glance down and that’s when I see it. The picture. Not just any picture though.
My breath catches and I lower myself to her level. My eyes jump between hers, equally hoping she’ll remember and that she won’t. Some memories are better forgotten given the chance.
“Ms. Christensen, would you like me to put that somewhere for you?” I nod my head toward her lap where the picture rests.
She finally registers someone talking and meets my stare.
Please.
I don’t even know what I’m begging for really. The same thing I always do, I guess. If not recognition, then just peace. That’s all any of us can hope for. It’s hard enough watching someone lose themselves along with their memories but it’s worse when they turn into a different version they never even showed traces of before.
Slowly, she lifts her hand and, on reflex, I jerk back an inch. Her palm caresses my cheek, robbing all of my breath. After only a moment’s hesitation, I lean into her touch, inha
ling the once comforting smell mixed with a scent that now reminds me of the dozens of other residents I care for.
Tears cloud my vision and I squeeze my eyes shut. This is the last thing she needs but the only thing I want. I may be a well-trained nurse now but I’ve been a daughter my whole life.
“Mom?”
Her hand drops back to her lap and I open my watery eyes to see her focused on the parked cars once again.
Shit.
She was here, right here, but now she’s gone. In an instant that feels more like a lifetime.
I sit back on my heels, wiping at my face, and let my gaze linger, just…watching her. Assessing her. Loving her.
Missing her.
She hasn’t recognized me or any of her four other kids ever since she was moved to another care facility last year, but her momentary tenderness gave me that false hope that eats away at me faster than the disease consuming her memories.
Her eyes are vacant already as she stares at nothing.
Just like before today’s move.
Knowing the picture isn’t helping matters, I move to grab it but as soon as my fingers pinch it, my mother’s hand slams down on mine, and the movement sends the picture fluttering to the floor. Our heads drop to watch but neither of us move otherwise.
“I miss him,” she whispers, and my heart pinches. It aches. It bleeds. For her. For me.
Desperate to clear my throat, I choke out, “Who?”
“My David.”
She states it like it’s perfectly normal. Like she’s not ripping my world apart with her frail hands sporting dusty-rose pink nail polish. One name, two words, and the room is closing in on me. The walls are pushing closer until the air begins to thin, forcing me to breathe deeply through my nose while waiting for the pressure to wane.
My David. She remembers him. My father who’s been dead for well over a decade. That’s the thing about this disease. It lies. It digs its deceitful talons into you, holding you hostage because you’re so caught up in the false optimism that lying bitch Hope lures you into.