“Dad?”
There’s a pause. “Anna, it’s Jack.”
I feel a flash of humiliation. “I know. That’s what I said.”
I fight the urge to slap myself in the head. Dad? Seriously? Did I think after a twenty-year absence, he’d just call up and say hi?
“How you doing?” he asks.
“What is it, Jack?” I sound snappy, I know, but after my embarrassing slip, I just want to get off the phone. “Did something happen?”
“No, it’s about tomorrow. I have to take Brayden to Little League, so Helen is going to pick you up. Okay?”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but the pause goes on and on, so I figure he’s waiting for me to say something. So I say, “Okay.”
“I’m really looking forward to seeing you.”
“Yep,” I say. “Me, too.”
I glance at the doorway. The manager is waiting there. I want to tell him he doesn’t have to wait, that I’ll be able to find my way back to my room, but I’m not so sure I will. Probably best that he waits right where he is.
I stand for a moment longer, and then I realize the phone is beeping into my ear. Jack must have hung up. The manager is still in the doorway, and I don’t want him to know that Jack hung up on me, so I say loudly, “All right—bye, Jack.” Then I put the talking end of the phone on its cradle and follow Eric back to my room.
*
At Rosalind House, people fall asleep a lot, but never in their beds. During the day, while sitting in armchairs, they drop like flies. One minute they’re chatting away, and the next, zzzzzz. Dreamland. But at night, when a comfy bed is at the offering, wham. Wide awake. In this, as with so many things these days, I sympathize with the oldies. I’m tired a lot, and all day I look forward to a nice, restful sleep. But the moment I slip between the sheets, my lids are on stalks.
Tonight when I can’t sleep, I get out of bed and walk into the hallway. Blondie is there.
“You okay?” I ask her. There’s a room at the end of the corridor designated for the nurse on night shift, and usually by this time of night, she is in it.
She laughs. “I was about to ask you the same thing. Couldn’t sleep?” Blondie sounds happy and cheery, as usual.
“Thought I’d walk around a bit,” I say. “That okay?”
“Fine by me.” She holds up her thick-cup by the handle. “Want a hot chocolate? I’m making one for myself.”
I tell her no thanks and she heads for the kitchen. I go in the opposite direction. Rosalind House is a beautiful building, but by the light of only a couple of floor lamps, anything can look creepy, especially when you are alone. In the dark, I feel agitated. What am I supposed to do? Turning on the TV isn’t an option, as the residents are light sleepers and I’d rather be captured by gremlins than wake up Baldy. He’s grumpy enough on eight hours’ sleep. So my choices are to stand here in the dark … or to walk.
My legs feel tingly, so I walk. A few times up and down the staircase. I vaguely remember Dr. Brain telling me exercise was good for Alzheimer’s. For some reason, this makes me laugh. What a diligent student I am!
After a minute or so, I stop walking. I’m tired now. It often happens this way—wide awake one minute, and the next, weariness hits like a train. I turn to head back to my room, then pause. Am I upstairs or downstairs? I glance around. I’m on a flat area of carpet. Right ahead is a corridor with doors leading off it on either side. I must be downstairs.
I turn to face the stairs, but instead of rising up before me, they fall away, like a hole. I look around again. Corridor, doors, giant hole. I must be at the … Nope. I can’t work it out.
I pace a little, staying well clear of the hole. I’m sleepy and I just want to go to bed. It’s like I’m in a box. A fucking box. Like that spooky room in Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, the one with only one door that no one can find. What if I can’t find it? What if I’m stuck in this box forever?
“Damn.” I kick the wall. “Stupid. Fucking. Stairs.”
I hear footsteps. Blondie! She’ll save me. I turn and, before I can stop myself, gasp. There’s someone at the bottom of the hole, and it’s not Blondie. I feel a twinge of fear or excitement or something.
“What are you d … doing?” Young Guy asks.
“Just walking,” I say. For some reason, I’m too proud to tell him I’m lost. “I’ve got a dead leg.”
“Wanna see s-s-omething?” He points beyond me. “Up there.”
Before I can answer, he’s dropped to his hands and knees and is crawling up the stairs. Must be to do with the depth perception—ten points for creativity. At the top, he rises to his feet and grins at me.
I try to grin back, but it sticks halfway.
He’s wearing a white V-neck and thin, navy-blue sweatpants—so thin, I can make out the shape of his legs (muscular) underneath. He makes sweatpants look pretty good. He gives me a one-eye blink and walks past me toward the front of the house.