Eve
The day passes like a mile-long train. I change sheets with suspicious-looking stains. I almost throw out a set of false teeth with a half-filled glass of water. Now I wipe the last of the crumbs from the kitchen bench, then rinse out the cloth and hang it over the faucet. My back aches. I’d always fancied myself as being fairly fit, but housework is something else. I feel withered, broken, in pain.
Clem is in the front room, watching TV, waiting to be taken home. Emerson, the agency nurse, is in the parlor, reading a novel. The residents are in their rooms, readying themselves for bed, and I can’t wait to do the same. I wash my hands, pick up my manual, then head up the hall to say good night to the nurse.
“I’m off for the night, then.”
Emerson looks up from her book. “Okay. Shall I pop in and see the residents before bed, or are they best left alone?”
I have no idea. On one hand, I’m reluctant to disturb them, given the way I walked in on Clara this morning. On the other hand, after my conversation with Anna this afternoon, I’d like to check in on her again. Maybe she’ll remember what she meant when she said “Help me.”
“I’ll check on them before I go,” I say.
I come to Luke’s door first, which is ajar, and suddenly Eric’s words jump into my mind. “Luke’s and Anna’s doors need to be locked.” I make a mental note to remind Emerson and knock loudly. “Luke? It’s Eve. Just checking you’re okay.”
I wait, peering through the crack, but there’s no response and no movement.
“Luke?” I nudge the door. “Are you in here?”
When he still doesn’t answer, I open the door completely. Dear God, may he not be naked. Or worse, naked and disoriented. I slowly advance inside. His bed is made. Empty. “Shit!”
“Everything okay?”
I spin around. Emerson is in the doorway. “Luke’s not here,” I say.
My anxiety is mirrored in Emerson’s eyes. This isn’t good.
Emerson gets it together first. “The front doors are locked, so he must be inside. I’ll check the building. You check with the other residents.”
“Yes.” I nod maniacally. “The other residents.”
Amidst my alarm, I find myself wishing I were checking the building while Emerson woke up the confused, sleepy old people, admitting that we’d lost a resident.
I step out into the hallway and look at the closed doors. Light shines out the bottom of Anna’s and Bert’s doors; the other rooms are in darkness. I move toward Anna’s door. Pretty unlikely, I reason, that Luke would be visiting a grumpy old man at this time of night.
I tap lightly. “Anna, it’s Eve. Are you there?”
I wait a moment, my panic rising. Still there’s no response. Is Anna missing, too? Not waiting another second, I swing open the door. In my mind’s eye, I can already see it: Another made bed. Another missing resident. This whole thing spiraling out of control.
At the sight of Anna’s feet, I go limp with relief. Thank God! I continue into the room until the whole bed comes into view; then I gasp and quickly retreat.
“I’ve checked the building,” Emerson says, appearing beside me. “No sign of Luke.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her, even though I’m fairly certain that it’s not. “I’ve found him.”
12
Anna
Thirteen months ago …
You know what I don’t miss? The doctors’ appointments. A year ago, when I was diagnosed, there were a lot of them. The geriatricians (I know, right?), the neurologists, the neuropsychologists. The memory clinics, the PET scans. An interesting fact about Alzheimer’s is that a definitive diagnosis can be made only through autopsy. For this reason, Dr. Brain diagnosed me as having “probable Alzheimer’s.” The “probable” part always made me laugh. It might be a bit macabre, but the idea that after you’re dead they might slice open your head and say, Well, looky here. She didn’t have it after all, struck me as funny.
It’s been six weeks since Young Guy accosted me in the hallway … and I’m still not dead. It’s unexpected, but life has been pretty good at throwing me curveballs lately. I haven’t forgotten about what I was planning to do that night, nor have I decided that I’ll never go ahead and do it. I guess, like a lot of callers on Beat the Bomb, I’ve simply decided that I am willing to take my chances hanging on a little longer.
Today, it’s pet therapy day. Not my favorite day of the week, given my dog phobia, but I’m inside and all the dogs are all outside, so I can’t complain. Young Guy, the dog lover, loves this day. Usually he spends the entire time outside with the dogs. He opted to stay inside today, but I can tell he’d rather be outside because his eyes are glued to the window, where a hairy fluff ball sits on Southern Lady’s lap, licking her face. I shudder.
“Myrna don’t like dogs neither.”
I look up, uncertain who has spoken. I notice the old guy, whom I’ve nicknamed Baldy, is looking at me. “What?” I ask.