by Lauren Brown
I close the door and look around. It’s just like the others except the bed is facing the bathroom door, leaving space between its edge and the window. A dresser sits in front of the window across from me. I walk around and pick up a picture of an icy blue-eyed, white-haired woman in a silver frame atop her dresser. She’s smiling with two women I assume to be her daughters. She looks happy and healthy. I set the picture down and notice a notepad with what seems to be a Bible scripture at the top. Cheering from the lobby interrupts my thoughts. I set the frame down and move to the medicine cabinet. I open it but see nothing. It’s empty. I look in the cosmetic bag sitting next to the sink. Still nothing. I try to keep from panicking.
I check the vanity cabinets. Just adult diapers and toilet paper. More cheers from the lobby. I go back to the dresser and open her underwear and sock drawers.
Where are the damn pills? I pull out my list and double-check that I’m in the correct room.
I’m halfway through my list when I hear the door handle turn. Shit!
I fall on the floor next to the bed, trying to hold my breath. I hear someone enter and watch two small, brown shoes scuffle across the floor. My heart is pounding so loudly that I’m afraid she can hear it.
She retrieves something from her desk, a pen maybe? I watch her feet move towards the bathroom. If she comes any closer, she’ll see me.
She stops midway and then changes direction back to the door. I hold my breath as she leaves then let out a long breath, like a gushing ravine. I feel faint. I wait a few seconds before standing. I look at her desk and see another cosmetic bag. I stuff two pills into my pocket, then rapidly leave the room and walk back to the lobby. I hope no one notices the sweat on my shirt or how long I’ve been gone.
I return to the table and take a seat.
I look around to see if anyone notices me, but all eyes are fixed on the bingo cards or Beatrice. I breathe rhythmically to calm my nerves. The thought of repeating this on the right side of the building is nerve-wracking. I can only hope this gets easier as time goes on.
I play some more then casually stand and go to the right hallway bathroom. I repeat what I did on the left side of the building with the same pounding in my chest but with a hair’s width more confidence this time. After I raid the second room, I make my way back to the lobby. I sit in my seat and look at my board. There are chips placed on my numbers.
“I did that for you,” the old man whispers.
“Oh, thanks.”
He smiles and looks down at his board.
I look across the room at Nurse Beatrice and see Hue staring at me. I start to wave before he looks away.
“G twenty-three,” echoes through the lobby.
I look down and see the G twenty-three. I feel in my pocket for the red chip I meant to use earlier before I began my trek down the halls. I can feel the smooth chip among the coarse white pills. I pull it out and place it on the number nestled between the other red chips and stare at my board.
“Do we have any winners?” Beatrice repeats over the microphone.
I look at my board then carefully raise my hand.
“Bingo.”
Chapter 18
It’s been four weeks. I’ve watched the sun rise and fall twenty-eight times since I’ve been a prisoner in this place, and each time I hold out my arms and wish the sun would take me down with it. Especially today.
I look at my bedside clock. 10:45 a.m. Rick will be here soon. I try to lift my heavy feet out of bed. You’d think I’d be light, light as a bird, considering I didn’t eat breakfast this morning and more than likely won’t eat lunch. But no. I’m heavy as lead, deep in my bones and in my soul. I look in the mirror and begin putting on my modeling wax, crunching it up and pushing it down in certain places to imitate wrinkles, age, and supposed wisdom. I shutter at the memories the scars bring to the forefront of my mind. I brush my fake, gray, brittle hair to the side and slip on my round glasses. I look at myself in the mirror and see the nightmare I had last night. The nightmare where I’m trying to unlock the basement door to get to Hope and just as I open it I find the Bear standing by her with his revolver.
“Knock, knock!” says a familiar voice.
I flip on the lights and crack open my door.
“Hey, Vernie.”
“Where were you this morning? No breakfast?”
“I’m going to eat a big lunch with my”—I pause, hating to say it—“my brother Rick today.” My stomach clenches at the use of his name.
“Oh, how nice! No breakfast?”
I sigh at her repetition. “No breakfast today.”
“All right. Wanted to make sure you weren’t sick. The man in there before you died from pancreatic cancer.”
“Yes I know,” I respond as I start to close the door.
She pushes her glasses up her nose and then waddles into her room. I’ve seen her room. Actually, I’ve seen it twice in the past four weeks while taking oxycodone from her medicine cabinet. There are pictures of all her dead and beloved cats, a wicker chair with dated green cushions where she knits, and a picture of her on her wedding day. Her bookshelf is covered with pictures of all her children.
I watch her close her door and then close mine, waiting for the dreaded exchange. I open my drawer and see the pills. Vernie’s, LeRoy’s, Bob’s, the list goes on. I dump out the devils in my hand and count them. Seventy-two. A nervous pit forms in my stomach. I’m eight short from the Bear’s requirement.
“Mr. Smith,” Sarah’s soft voice says from behind my door, “your brother is here to take you to lunch.”
I put the pills back in the bottle and take a deep breath. Surely he won’t notice something as small as eight white pills.
“Hi, brother!” Rick yells from the lobby, throwing his arms up for a hug, his cigarette bobbing up and down.
“No tobacco in here,” Beatrice barks as she walks by.
“My apologies, ma’am.” He walks outside briefly to put it out then returns.
I don’t say anything as I approach him.
“Now, Mr. Smith,” Sarah says behind my shoulder, “your brother is taking you to lunch. Try to smile a little.”
I look at her and then at him, depression filling me rapidly. He has to know who Sarah is.
“Come on. I’m taking you to Charlie’s Chili. You love Charlie’s, remember?”
“I hate chili.”
Sarah shoves my lower back, pushing me towards Rick. He forces an ugly smile although it’s obvious to me he is just as unhappy about our lunch date as I am.
“We’ll see you in an hour, Mr. Smith,” Sarah calls out as we walk to Rick’s car.
He holds the door open for me as I slide in.
“Well hello, Theodore, or should I call you Ted? Teddy?”
I whip my head to the voice in the backseat. The Bear is smirking at me.
“Oh, sorry. I meant to tell the nurse that our cousin would be joining us today,” Rick sneers, starting the car.
I swallow. The anxiety he makes me feel causes me to almost vomit.
“Don’t be so gloomy. Life could be a lot worse,” the Bear says, taking a puff of his cigar. “I can honestly say that I came with Rick today because I miss you.” He laughs. “Who would have thought that a man such as myself could ever miss a man as pathetic and disappointing as you?”
I look out the side window, watching the trees roll by. Rick occasionally glances at me.
“In fact,” he continues, “I came to make sure you were taking me seriously. Have you been doing your part?”
I don’t answer.
“I see. You’re angry. I get that. I’ll know if you have or not shortly.”
We emerge from back roads onto a seemingly busy street and approach a grocery store.
“Just park over there.” The Bear motions to Rick.
“Hand em’ over,” Rick commands, gripping his gun.
I reach in my jacket pocket and pull out the bottle. I hand it to the Bear who begins counting. I w
atch a young boy place potted plants neatly in a row outside of the store. I’m desperate for him to see me and know me and pull me out of this car.
“There are only seventy-two pills here. I told you I needed eighty each month.”
Rick picks the gun up and puts it closer to me. I longingly look at the young boy, begging him to hear my inner cry telepathically, to turn around and see what’s happening, but he doesn’t. He goes back into the store.
“Where are the other eight, John?”
The sound of my real name is so unfamiliar now that it takes me a moment to realize he’s asking me a question.
“I got started late.”
“What do you mean?” the Bear snaps.
“I mean, I had to get to know the buildings, the nurses, the patients. I couldn’t just immediately start opening doors and taking their medications.” Each trembling syllable scratches my arid throat.
I watch the Bear shut his eyes and take in a deep breath just as he did in his office in my previous life. I can feel Rick growing angrier by the minute, breathing harder out of his nose. He puts the gun closer to my head.
“I understand,” the Bear says calmly, “mistakes happen.”
“But it wasn’t a mistake, it was intentional,” I defend.
“Cut the shit, John. Just ‘cause the Bear says he understands doesn’t mean you ain’t in trouble.”
“Rick.”
“Well, it’s true. He said it was intentional. He’s a coward. He couldn’t follow through before, so how can we trust him to follow through now.”
“Get out of the car, Rick.”
“What?”
“If you don’t get out of this car, I’ll trade you for John at Park Pines.” I can feel the tension growing thicker. I feel as if I’m suffocating.
Rick puts his gun back into his pocket, gets out of the car, and slams the door. He walks to the side of the parking lot and smokes.
The Bear leans into the front seat to look at me.
“I understand you, John, better than you think. But what I’m afraid of is that you don’t understand me. You see, understanding me is the key to the survival of you and your friends. Right now you may want to die, you may have depressive and suicidal thoughts, but in reality, John”—he lowers his voice to almost a whisper—“you don’t want to die. If you do attempt to escape, kill yourself, or not follow through on the deal, I will kill your friends. And this time, I’ll make you watch.”
He pauses to take a puff of his cigar, relaxing back into his seat. He pulls out the bottle of pills and shakes it. The rattle they make is unappealing.
“I’ll let you off the hook this time. But next time, I expect my full eighty.”
I hang my head, forcing out a breath.
“Good,” he says, taking an even longer inhale on his cigar then blowing the smoke in my direction. “Now, Rick is going to take me home and then take you back.”
He rolls down his window and motions for Rick to get back in the car.
The smoke from the cigar tickles the hair in my nose, making me agitated. I want to turn around and grab the cigar out of his mouth and then smoke it myself, not because I want to smoke, but because more than anything I want the privilege to smoke, the freedom to do it. And I want nothing more than the freedom to do it in front of the Bear himself.
I look in the side mirror and can see his dark reflection high on nicotine. He gleams in my direction. I sink back into my seat a little farther, allowing the chains of despair to keep me there and, as I watch him puff the cigar in my direction a little harder this time, I shake a little down in my bones.
“How was lunch with your brother, Mr. Smith?” Sarah asks as I walk back into the building.
“It was all right,” I say, trying to avoid her.
She senses my frustration. She seems to sense my feelings more than the other residents. Maybe it’s because of our past. I feel her hand on the small of my back while she follows me down the hall. I tense at her touch, afraid she can feel the sweat from the nervousness of my encounter with the Bear.
“Mr. Smith, sometimes God has bigger plans for us than we can imagine. Plans so large, so wild, that revealing them to us in one large blast wouldn’t last. Giving us our plan in pieces throughout our lives is what, I think, keeps us sane and motivated. The hard times, well those are just tests to see if we can handle what’s to come. Faith becomes faith when it’s tested. When our backs are pushed up against the wall. And trust me, the bitter test always makes for a much sweeter victory.”
Raised in the Presbyterian Church, she had always been more spiritual than me. She had invited Hope and I to several of her church functions back in college. She said the prayers before family dinners. Her spirituality had been unique to me in my previous life, which when shone too brightly could be overpowering and annoying; however, in this moment, I needed it. She’s empathetic, real, and her hand is enough to get me through the night and the nightmares. The corners of my mouth turn up a fraction as she hugs me outside my door.
“Have a little hope, Mr. Smith. It’s what I hold onto each day,” she says as I walk into my room.
I sigh and turn the lights on to see my bland, smothering room. I have successfully completed my first month stealing pain medication from the elderly. This success is just an empty pit, though, as I feel nothing from it. I mean, technically speaking, I didn’t really fulfill the Bear’s wish entirely. I need to collect eight more pills next time… next time. I frown at the thought of there being a “next time.”
I close my eyes. I can’t help but think about Hope now. I’ve tried so hard to keep her at bay, to not allow her to witness and experience the awful acts I’m committing since I’ve already put her through so much. But tonight, I’m allowing myself a little time with her. Just a little.
I think about our nights in the beach house, the nights in our home, in my apartment in medical school. How I miss those days more than anything. With my eyes shut tight, I let the bland Park Pines walls roll away and see the colorful beach house walls roll in. The large, glass window in the living room that sold us on purchasing the timeshare, is before me now, glistening with the morning sun. We’re on one of our mini getaway vacations looking out that large window into the vastness of the ocean.
“It’s like a living, breathing piece of artwork,” I imagine her saying as she sips her coffee and stares out at the infinite ocean. She’s sitting on the couch with her back to me, her hair tousled from a night of rolling in the sheets, a night of kissing and whispering our names, of loving her through the night and into the morning to awake exhausted and full. I look out the window with her and see a bird flying in the direction of the unending ocean. I ache for these moments, for her laugh and her wisdom, for her love, for the morning song of the bird.
I ache for my Hope.
It’s been three days since I met with Rick, and I’ve started taking pills more frequently. Instead of going into two rooms every couple of days, I’m now visiting a room each day. I must look like a lunatic all panicky and anxious in conversation, sneaking into rooms and rummaging through elderly people’s toiletry bags, tossing and turning from the nightmares. I thought I would mellow out, just accept my present situation, and that would be the end of it, but honestly the stress has only gotten worse.
I feel as if I am losing my mind.
I can’t help but think about my makeup not being exactly right, that one of the nurses might come into my room unannounced and see a ghostly John Livingston, and then I’ll be exposed for all to see and have to spend my life behind metal bars. Or worse, the only remaining people I care for in my life will be murdered because of me.
Sometimes, I battle with myself about whether or not spending my life in prison is any different than spending it here. “Just turn yourself in, then maybe he’ll get caught too,” I’ll tell myself. I’ll go back and forth on this for some time before I finally realize that the Bear and the mayor and Rick will never be caught. No, instead, I’ll be caught t
en times over and no matter where I am, Park Pines, a prison, an insane asylum, I’ll never be free. I’ll never be free from the pain, and that’s the most terrifying captivity.
Tap tap tap.
Must be Vernie. I glance in the mirror, checking my hair and glasses, then open the door. Sarah is waiting for me on the other side.
“I hope you’re feeling better, Mr. Smith,” she says with that familiar smile. “May I come in for a moment?” I hesitate, then open the door wider. She walks past me and sits on my bed.
“I got this for you.” She hands me a journal. “I have one at home. I write in it, you know, thoughts and feelings, beliefs, whatever it is you want to write. You can draw in it.”
I take the journal. “Thanks.”
“I give one to all the residents here, helps keep memories fresh. Can help with depression.” She raises an eyebrow. She must know I’m depressed. We sit in silence for a few moments before she stands.
“Well, it’s about time for you to see your primary care physician. You’ve been at Park Pines for some time, and you’re behind on your follow-up. I looked in your file this morning to see which physician you’ll be seeing today, and Dr. Loche is out of the office until next week. Beatrice told us that a physician will be filling in for him this week. So, if you hear a knock on your door around three, that’s the doctor, okay?”
I nod and try to smile.
“Be sure to let him in.”
She leaves me sitting on the bed. According to my paperwork, I’m in Park Pines for possible early onset dementia, high blood pressure, and diabetes. Assuming the dementia is found to be true, in a year’s time, I’ll be moved to a nursing home, a fabricated one, of course, created by the Bear. And from there I’ll be released back into the real world, into the wild.
The visit today should go smoothly. I do have high blood pressure, and checking that won’t require anything that will be too revealing. It’ll just require a refill on my medicine. As for the dementia, I can make its progression as extensive as I wish. My file has a fake CT scan, fake neurology notes, fake labs. I’m not really worried about being exposed today. I’m more worried about how it will feel seeing a physician in practice. Will it be like seeing myself in a previous life?