Blackout (5 page)

They went to the front where Thomas paid for the meal. Betty waited for him, and they walked out to her car. She got in, and he stood at the open door a moment, as if reluctant to go. He must be lonely, she thought with a pang.

“Maybe we could do this again sometime?” he finally asked.

She looked at his attractive face. Mind and heart warred.

Heart won.

Squinting into the bright morning sunlight, Alice walked to Merry Hills. She felt a bit anxious about her second day, afraid she’d do or say something wrong. Most of the old people appeared so frail, and Nancy had told her that today she would help on one of the heavy-care halls where most were either bedbound or in wheelchairs.

When Alice entered the nursing home, she wrinkled her nose at the smell of disinfectant and went to the employee area to leave her purse and lunch. There Nancy introduced her to Joyce, a tall, skinny black woman, about twenty-five, Alice guessed.

Joyce looked Alice up and down and said, “Come on, then,” leading the way to the 300 wing. “First thing we have to do is get everyone we can up into a chair. Then we serve breakfast. After that we change beds and give about a third of them baths.”

They entered a room occupied by two men, Joyce knocking first. “Nancy explained to you yesterday we always have to knock? For privacy and dignity.”

Alice nodded.

“Mr. Murphy. Mr. Lipscomb. How are you both today?” Joyce greeted the two men cheerfully. Mr. Murphy in the near bed groaned. Mr. Lipscomb didn’t move or speak.

“Up and at ’em.” Joyce walked to Mr. Murphy’s bedside.

After Joyce showed Alice how to get the two men ready for the day, they went down the halls, stopping in each room. Many of the residents were not taken out of bed. Joyce changed diapers as necessary, gave sips of water, soothed the restless ones, fluffed pillows, helped them change positions. Alice tried to turn her mind off. If she began to think about the ruined minds and bodies all housed in this one place, she’d lose her breakfast and go screaming out into the bright California sunlight.

They came to a room where a young woman was by herself. Gray eyes followed them as they approached. Alice’s eyes widened in surprise at seeing someone so young in a nursing home. Joyce put the bed-rail down and helped the woman to a sitting position.

“Miss Scranton was in an auto accident,” Joyce explained. “A bus hit her car head on. Insurance pays for the private room and will care for her for life.”

In her mind, Alice felt wind rushing by her and the lurch of a truck going around a curve. A man drove. Too fast. Much too fast. A tree appeared straight ahead. She gasped. The image disappeared. Blinking, she gave herself a little shake.

“You all right?” Joyce asked.

Alice nodded. “How old is she?” She stared at the woman who had a cap-like haircut, a long nose, and a totally slack expression on her face.

“Twenty-four. She was twenty-one when it happened. We’ll put her in this Geri Chair with the head rest. Her neck tends to twist.”

Claw-like hands tried to grasp Alice’s arm as she helped put Miss Scranton in the chair, but there was no strength in the young woman’s grip. Alice gritted her teeth. When they left the room, she didn’t look back. Don’t think about it, she told herself.

In the next room, two more elderly men needed care. As they lowered the one nearest the door into his chair, Alice felt a pinch on her bottom, and she yelped and turned to face him. He had a wide grin on his face. Smacking his lips, he said, “Gotcha!”

“Alice, I’m sorry,” Joyce exclaimed. “I should have warned you.”

Alice swallowed hard. “That’s all right.” She resisted the impulse to rub the pinched spot.

“What’s going on?” a voice from the other bed said, “You’re awfully noisy over there.”

“Sorry, Mr. Young. I’ll be right there to help you up,” Joyce said.

They had started at the far end of the hall and were working their way toward the nursing rotunda. At the room nearest it, Joyce stopped outside and said, “This is Mrs. Cranston’s room. She’s the director of nurses’ mother. She was paralyzed from the shoulders down by a stroke a year or so ago, but her mind is sharp. Don’t pay too much attention to her bitching. It’s all an act.”

Alice nodded, and they entered the private room. Alice noticed something odd about it, then realized it had an oval shape and was the morning room Nancy had told her about yesterday. As they stepped inside, she could see the back courtyard through the bank of windows on the far wall. Heavy brocade drapes were pulled aside to reveal delicate lace curtains that filtered out some of the harsh sunlight. The resident’s bed sat parallel to the windows, facing a television on a shelf. Two wing-back visitor’s chairs were placed between the windows and the bed, facing the doorway. In the far left corner was another door, probably a private bath, Alice guessed. Bookshelves with leather-bound books and figurines flanked either side of the bed. Another bookcase sat next to the TV. Convenient to the door, the usual nightstand had been positioned next to the bed.

Betty Senior turned her head slightly and greeted them with a barrage of words.

“Joyce. There you are. I need some water here. I’m dry as a bone.” As the two came around the foot of the bed, Betty Senior saw Alice. “Who are you?” she asked sharply. “Why do we get so many new people all the time, Joyce? Get used to someone and they leave.”

“I’m still here, Mrs. Cranston. Don’t plan to quit any time soon, either.”

“Huh,” Betty Senior grunted. “Who are you?” she asked Alice again impatiently.

“I’m… I’m Alice Strong, Mrs. Cranston. How are you today?”

“Terrible. I’ve been so thirsty lately. Water, Joyce.”

Joyce held a cup with a straw. Betty Senior sipped greedily until it was empty.

“Okay,” Joyce said. “We’ll go get your breakfast tray now.”

Alice was pleased to realize she remembered the way to the kitchen. Because the new wings had been added on in a curious fashion, she easily got turned around. They took a large cart and wheeled it to the 300 hall.

“We’ll drop off the trays to the ones who can still feed themselves first, then we’ll go to the ones we have to help.” Deftly, Joyce handed Alice two trays and indicated where they went. “Uncover everything and ask if they need help. I open the milk cartons for them because they can be tricky.”

After Alice had delivered several trays, she asked Joyce, “Why do some people have different food?”

“The doctors order diets for various reasons. Some residents are over- or underweight. Anyone with kidney or heart problems might be restricted from certain foods or salt. It’s really important people with diabetes get the right diet. Lots of older people get diabetes late in life. Usually if they follow the diet, they don’t need any medication. But sometimes, even with the right diet, they need a shot every day or several times a day. Like Mrs. Cranston. She’s been diabetic for years.”

“Oh,” Alice said as Joyce handed her two more trays.

“More than you wanted to know, huh?” Joyce smiled at her. But Alice found it all sort of fascinating. Even though some of what she had to do was really awful, the medical things interested her.

After Alice handed out the last two trays to the residents who could feed themselves, Joyce said, “Now we’ll feed Mrs. Cranston.” She gave Alice a tray, then closed the cover on the cart. “To keep the rest at the right temperature. For infection control, too.”

A vile odor greeted them as they entered Betty Senior’s room. “Oops. Need to change you first, don’t we?” Joyce said.

Alice set the tray down on the bedside table and tried not to gag as Joyce changed the fetid diaper. The other aide looked at her sympathetically. “You’ll get used to it. Imagine what it was like before disposables!”

“Hurry up, Joyce,” Betty Senior said. “My nose still works, you know. I’m glad you came when you did. I was about to yell.”

“All done,” Joyce replied. “You hungry?”

“Yes, what have we got?”

Joyce went to wash her hands, then returned and took the cover off the plate to reveal bacon and scrambled eggs. There was also orange juice, milk, and toast.

“I bet those eggs are cold and nasty. Tell me the truth—do they use real eggs in the kitchen or something that comes out of a carton?”

“I’m pretty sure they’re real,” Joyce said as she scooped some onto the fork and raised it to Betty Senior’s mouth. “I’ll ask Margaret the next time I see her.”

Betty Senior opened her mouth for another forkful of eggs, swallowed, and said, “Oh, Margaret. Do you think she’s as stupid as she seems?”

Joyce paused while offering a bite of toast. “I don’t know. I never thought much about it.”

“How can she run a big kitchen and not be able to say a simple sentence without stammering all over herself? Why Alice there seems to be brighter than Margaret.”

Betty Senior grinned at Alice, who jumped a little, surprised the elderly lady remembered her name.

Joyce laughed and offered orange juice with a straw. “Maybe you intimidate her.”

“Ha!” Betty Senior exclaimed. “Who, me? Now there’s a thought. But what can I do to her, laid out here and unable to move anything except my eyes and my mouth?”

“Uh, that may be it, Mrs. Cranston.” Joyce offered some more toast.

“What, my mouth? Why, you rascal.” Betty Senior laughed and started choking. Alarmed, Alice took a step toward the bed as Joyce lifted Betty Senior away from her pillows and patted her gently on the back. When the coughing slowed, she offered more juice.

“Now see what you did to me,” Betty Senior said after taking a couple of sips. “I’ll have to report you to my daughter.”

“You’re going to report me for making you laugh? Can I be here when you do it?”

Betty Senior laughed again, without choking this time. “Joyce, I like you. Now get out of here. I’ve had enough breakfast and enough fun for a while. I’m going to take a little nap.”

Gently, Joyce wiped Betty Senior’s mouth with a napkin, then picked up the tray and went out to the hall, Alice trailing. Betty Senior made her feel a little better.
If she can joke and be cheerful in her condition, what right do I have to feel sorry for myself
, Alice thought.

“Okay,” Joyce said. “You saw how to do that. Why don’t you go to 312 and feed Mrs. Lacy? I’ll go to 314 and help Mrs. Boyd.”

Alice nodded and set off down the hall. Feeding Mrs. Lacy was harder than she thought it would be. The woman didn’t speak but obediently opened her mouth each time she saw the fork lifted toward it. Half the time Alice got a little food on the edge of Mrs. Lacy’s lips and had to wipe her face. Finally, they got into a rhythm. Alice then felt she should talk to the lady, not just mechanically put the food into her mouth.

“Does it taste good?” Alice asked. “I hope it does. Sorry.” She wiped a speck of egg away. “Let’s try again. Toast? It feels cold. Hope it’s okay. A sip of milk now?” She held the carton with the flexible straw to Mrs. Lacy’s lips.

She’s like a baby,
Alice thought.
I wonder what she was like before
.

Mrs. Lacy finished every scrap of food Alice gave her.

“Good job,” Alice said, picking up the tray. “I’ll be back to see you later, okay?”

She waited a moment as if Mrs. Lacy might reply.

When both Alice and Joyce had finished feeding everyone, Joyce explained how to document how much each resident had eaten. They did this in the charts kept at the rotunda before returning the trays to the cart and heading back to the kitchen.

A woman stood at the doorway, arms crossed over an ample bust. Alice thought the blue hairnet she wore over her gray hair seemed odd. She had on a large butcher’s apron. Of medium height, a little overweight, she had a plain face and lots of freckles.

Joyce and Alice said hello. The food service director turned abruptly and went into the kitchen without speaking.

“Nice lady,” Joyce muttered and headed back to the 300 hall, where they found the activity director, bracelets jingling, in room 312, trying to get Mrs. Lacy to touch a stuffed bunny with her contracted fingers. When that didn’t work, Yolanda rang a bell and held a vial of perfume under the resident’s nose.

“What’s she doing?” Alice whispered.

“Sensory stimulation,” Joyce answered. “She has to do five minutes a day with any resident who can’t leave their room. Sight, sound, taste, touch, smell.”

Yolanda wrapped Mrs. Lacy’s hand around the little bunny and batted at a mobile of birds over her bed, making them move crazily. Then she popped a party mint into Mrs. Lacy’s mouth, retrieved the rabbit, and put it into a basket she carried. She left the room with a cheery, “See you tomorrow, dear,” directed at Mrs. Lacy, and an “Oh, hi, girls,” for Joyce and Alice. She entered the room across the hall, jewelry jangling.

Joyce shook her head and said, “Time to change beds and positions. Nancy showed you how to change the beds yesterday, didn’t she?”

“Without people in them,” Alice said.

“Right, of course. We can start with Mrs. Lacy. The ones who can’t turn themselves have to be turned every two hours to prevent bedsores. So, of course when we change the beds, we change their positions, too.”

Alice nodded.

After making eight beds and turning five residents, Alice’s back began to ache. Joyce saw her put her hand over her left flank and said, “Hey, time for a break. They have back supports on order, and we’ll be wearing them for this type of work soon.”

They dodged around a housekeeper and her cart, two residents, and another aide on the way to the break room.

“Pretty Nails in the activity room in fifteen minutes,” the loudspeaker blared. Yolanda repeated the message; there was static for a moment, then silence.

“What’s Pretty Nails?” Alice asked as they entered the break room.

“They have a couple of volunteers do manicures. Some of the residents love it. Even some of the men.” Joyce greeted four others in the room, grabbed a soft drink from a machine, and sat down with a sigh.

The other employees discussed the weather and a movie three of them had seen on television the night before.

In fifteen minutes Joyce stood up, as did Alice, and they made their way back to the 300 hall. The break hadn’t seemed nearly long enough.