Caryl pulled out a key from an inside pocket of her jacket and gave it a few savage thrusts and twists in the lock.
I could smell garlic even before the door opened with a muffled moan into a cavernous living area. The hardwood floor was magnificent where it could be seen; rugs were thrown about with no obvious design. Placed with equal randomness were two couches that faced each other, a small trampoline, assorted bookcases, a hydroponic garden, a springy toy horse, and a black grand piano that looked like a cougar had used it as a scratching post. I heard sizzling sounds and muffled conversation from somewhere behind the wall that faced the front door.
“Holy shit,” I said.
“Would you like to see what would be your room?” Caryl asked, continuing toward a wide, airy wooden staircase. The living room was two stories high; doors that might have been bedrooms or bathrooms were visible over an ostentatious balustrade on the second floor.
“Upstairs? Really?” I aimed for a scathing tone, but I was feeling a bit nauseated. After the orderly neutrality of the hospital, this place was a brutal assault on the senses.
“It’s the only unoccupied room,” Caryl said, not seeming apologetic in the slightest.
“Have you noticed this place is not particularly, ah—wheelchair accessible?”
Before Caryl could answer, a freckled topless woman with wavy hair and Asian eyes wandered in from the presumable direction of the kitchen. She was partially covered by a cloth sling that supported the black-haired baby she was suckling.
“Hey, Caryl,” she said with a dreamy smile. “Teo’s making gnocchi. Who’s this?”
Caryl turned to me expectantly.
“Nobody,” I blurted. “I’m nobody.”
Caryl turned back to the young mother. “We’ll be down in a moment, Song,” she said gently, then started up the steps without looking to see if I was following. Using my cane and a light touch on the rail, I was able to make fairly good time.
“Was that one of the other . . . mentally ill people you’re finding work for?” I whispered when I reached Caryl, who had been kind enough to pause at the top of the staircase.
“No. Song is the manager here at Residence Four.”
“Residence Four? Out of how many?”
“Three.”
My head was starting to hurt. The garlic smell was not helping.
Caryl headed along the balustrade to the right, past numbered doors that were set into the narrow hallway. Tantalizing hints of graffiti could be seen where the fleur-de-lis wallpaper had peeled away.
A door faced us at the dark dead end of the hall. Like the other doors, it had a brass number attached to it, presumably a six if you took the other numbers into account, but it was canted at a decidedly nine-like angle.
Just before it on the north side of the hall stood an unnumbered door; Caryl rapped on it lightly with her knuckles before easing it open to reveal a murky three-quarter bath with a dripping faucet. A one-eared tortoiseshell cat darted out like something from a horror movie and raced for the top of the stairs, where it crouched warily.
“You’ll be sharing this bathroom with Stevie,” said Caryl, not seeming to notice my distress. “She’s in room five. I doubt you will hear from her.”
“Caryl,” I began as she produced another key and turned it in the dead-end door. I wasn’t sure what to say, how to tell her how very wrong this all was. I was trying to frame a protest that didn’t contain the word “insane” when she opened the door and made me lose my train of thought.
Sunlight poured across the one-and-a-half-story octagonal room like honey, illuminating the emptiness of the freshly refinished floor. Five of the eight walls were mostly glass; the bamboo Roman shades had been rolled all the way up, flooding the room with afternoon sun.
I don’t know how to describe the feeling that overtook me except to call it love. It had the same bouquet: electric top notes of want, smoky warmth at the heart, and a bitter base note of unworthiness. I glanced at Caryl and found her watching me closely. I have a lousy poker face.
“This is the nicest room in the house,” Caryl said flatly.
“Then why is it empty?”
“It used to be an art studio, but it hasn’t been used enough to justify the designation. My original plan was to offer the room to Song and give you hers, but she raised concerns about not being able to make the room dark enough during the day. For her baby,” she added when I looked confused.