Duet for Three (10 page)

“And how does she feel about coming here?”

“I don't think we've really come to grips with it. Neither of us having seen it. We can't make a decision until we see.”

“Well then,” and he stands, not a very tall man really, a couple of inches more, maybe, than her five foot six, “why don't we take the tour? What about her? Will she be coming for a look?”

“I hope so. She didn't want to today, though.”

“When she does, just let me know. Perhaps I'll be able to reassure her if she's uneasy. Most people are. It's quite an upheaval.”

This man will be breakfast for Aggie. He'll find it quite a challenge being reassuring.

“I'll tell her, thank you.”

“Now out here,” gesturing past his doorway, “is one of the lounges. We have several, of different sizes, for the residents and for when they have visitors. Of course, there's visiting in the rooms, but unless a resident is bed-ridden, most people find that a little awkward. The rooms are quite large, as you'll see, but they're not really meant for groups of people.

“I should explain how we've divided the place. Down there,” gesturing left, “is pretty well set aside for people confined to their beds, or the senile. It doesn't sound as if that would apply to your mother, so we might as well go the other direction, and actually, the rooms are all the same anyway.”

They turn right, where there is, first, a large, bright office with a board of red lights and clipboards on a counter and several young women in white.

“We have a large nursing office, and, as you see, it's simple for a resident to get help. They each have a buzzer beside their bed that sounds in here, and the red light goes on. And aside from that, staff are in and out of rooms, so supervision is pretty well constant. I gather your main concern is that your mother might injure herself while you're out?”

“That, and if she did, I might not be able to help her even if I were there.”

“It's quite a burden, the worry, isn't it?” Maybe he really is sympathetic. Has she not wished for sympathy? He sounds, however, more sanctimonious than anything else. If Aggie were here she'd put him in his place.

“I know,” he continues, “it's really quite a heart-breaking dilemma, and a big step for everyone concerned. But we know that, and we're here to help.”

Shut up, she would like to say; but of course one doesn't do that.

There are two women sitting in wheelchairs in the corridor. Another, gripping a handrail, is taking a very slow walk. “We try to encourage people to exercise as much as they can.” Creeping along a wall doesn't look like exercise, and June, who does so much brisk walking, tries to imagine the state of body that would require such slow, concentrated, and painful effort. Harder to imagine is the determination the woman must have to set out on this journey, eyes down, watching her feet, willing them steady.

As June and the administrator reach her she stops, looks up. “Supper will be on soon and you'd better get the table set. The men will be in shortly, you know.” Her sharp eyes are commanding.

June looks, bewildered, at the administrator. “She thinks you're her daughter, I expect. Older folk sometimes get confused about time and people. Never mind.”

But the old woman is watching, waiting. “I will,” June tells her, nodding. “I'll do it right away.”

“That's fine then, dear.” The eyes return to the feet, and the walk continues.

“I thought you said the people with serious problems were at the other end?”

“Oh, well yes, but you see there's a difference between senility and confusion. I often think it's comforting for them, slipping into the old days occasionally. Like that old girl, sometimes she just takes a little trip into the past, that's all. Especially when they don't have visitors very often, sometimes they mistake other people for their family.”

Aggie would love being called an old girl.

“It's a kindness, really, just going along with them.”

Maybe so, but what does he know? He's not old. When she is old, June doesn't want to be humored by strangers.

Although that's what she just did, herself.

What would it be like if Aggie caught this disease, this confusion? What if she went off to live in some other time, maybe back to childhood, with her mother and her sisters, whom she has spoken of so fondly? What if she failed to recognize June, and mistook another woman for her daughter?

Wicked thought. But it would be something to see Aggie lose something, like her mind. If it just happened; not something wished for.

“Down here is the dining room for the people at this end, and over there's the big television lounge.” Here is more plastic-covered furniture, including two couches and a variety of wheelchairs. Ten or eleven people are in here looking at a game show turned up too loud, although whether they are watching it is another matter. All the colors in the place, June notices, are vivid: oranges and yellows and greens. She supposes it's intended to be cheerful, but it feels false, lacking dignity, considering this is a place for people who are, when it comes down to it, likely to die pretty soon.

But what's the matter with her? If it were dark she would criticize that, too.

A couple of people seem to be nodding off; two or three others are knitting or crocheting. There are only two men. “It's mostly women,” she remarks. “Are the men somewhere else?”

“Oh no, it's mixed. But you know,” and he grins, “you women outlive us men. There simply are more old women than old men.” He speaks as if this is a point for women. How could it be, if this is what more years come to?

But it's clean and bright. No doubt the care is excellent. Aggie would be fine here. Look at all the people — and she must get lonesome, after so many years of women popping in and out of the bakery.

The dining room is filled with long tables, with straight-backed chairs with seats covered, inevitably, in plastic.

“What about meals? What sort of food do they get?”

“The best. They're designed by dietitians in our head office; they do complete monthly menu plans particularly designed for the elderly, and we stick right to them. You'd probably also like to know that besides government inspectors, the company sends around its own, so even if we wanted to, which of course we don't, there's no shirking in the care.”

“But visitors can bring food in too, can't they? My mother has quite an appetite, quite a sweet tooth.”

He frowns dubiously. “As long as she can manage it on her own, I don't expect that's a problem. But it isn't necessary, you know. As I said, we provide adequate, healthy meals, and snacks, too, in the evenings — cookies and fruit juice. Now,” he moves on, “there's also a general-purpose and meeting room. Ministers and priests come in and hold services, and sometimes there are concerts. School children and so on. And once a week we have a crafts instructor. We do encourage people to be active and take part in things.”

Just about what she'd expected; but even seeing the place, it's hard to picture Aggie squeezed into the television lounge, overcrowding it all by herself, or bent over some creation in yarn or clay. “Mostly my mother likes to read.”

“Well, that's fine. Active minds are just as important as active bodies.” He'll get no argument there from Aggie.

“Now you'll want to see the rooms.” Actually, she pretty well has seen them. All along the hall, not one door was closed. She has seen something like a dead man, lying fully dressed on a bed, eyes closed and hands folded across his chest. Also a woman curled up in a ball, her dress hiked around her hips, thighs showing. June is permitted to stare as if they were paintings, or sculptures.

“Why are all the doors open?”

“Mainly for supervision, so staff can keep a quick eye that nothing's gone wrong. It's a safety thing.”

“Don't they mind?”

“Who? The residents? Oh, I don't think so. I expect they know it's for their own good.”

“My mother is quite a private person.”

“Well, you know, for private things, like a doctor's visit, the door's closed, of course.” But surely privacy is more than that.

“Now, as you see, we have several types of rooms. There's the single for just one person, fairly expensive though. Then a semi for two, that's the most common, and what we call a ward, for four.”

Each room has a large window and a narrow bed, or two, or four, with metal sides that can be drawn up, like cribs. Each bed has a white curtain that can be drawn around for privacy of sight, if not of sound. The walls are light yellow. There is a small closet for each person, and a plastic-covered chair beside each bed. There are bedside tables, and bureaus, and people's faces staring out from photographs on walls and tables. These must be reminders of those who have been loved, out in the world. Does it help to have those faces handy, or would it hurt?

“It can't be quite like home, of course, but we've tried to make it cheerful and bright, and, as you see, residents are welcome to bring small things with them. Photographs or knick-knacks, nothing big, naturally, but those small things can be so important.”

What would Aggie bring? A picture of Frances. Books. A small refrigerator full of food. An oven, perhaps. Her own bulk would fill a room.

“There are a couple of things to consider when you're deciding what type of room your mother might prefer. The costs, of course, and I'll give you a brochure when we get back to my office about all that, and also some photographs, so you can show your mother. And then what kind of person she is. If she's someone who likes to be alone and you can afford it, a private is something to think about. On the other hand, if she's gregarious she might prefer a ward. Mind you, it's possible to change if one arrangement doesn't work; there are also internal waiting lists. It may be that when a bed does come up it'll be in a ward, and if that isn't what she prefers she'll be able to move as soon as another type of room is available. You see?”

“Yes.” But what's best for someone both private and inquisitive? “I would guess a semi-private,” June says, but realizing it is only an unhappy compromise. Aggie will not fit so neatly. Bathrooms are shared. Aggie, who likes to read on the toilet, would find this yet another irritation.

It's a funny thing about revenge: here are all sorts of possibilities, and here she is, horrified. Maybe it's the thought of outsiders that offends. It has always been the two of them, and something is broken when others come into it.

“Now let's go back to my office and I'll give you those brochures, and you can ask any questions you may have.”

Heavens, it's expensive. “The government pays a share,” he explains. “And there'll be her pension. Still, that will leave a certain amount for you to pick up, depending on the type of room.”

“It's a lot for a bit of a bed and meals.”

“Oh, but it's much more than that, after all. I always think it's worth a great deal to know that the people you love are getting the best possible care and that they're safe and well supervised. And, too, it's not all expenditure, if you think solely of costs. You'll have fewer expenses at home, and when you add in the value of having the total burden of care taken off your shoulders, well, that's just incalculable.”

True enough. Priceless, really.

“Now,” he says, closing files, “have you decided if you'd like to put her name on our waiting list? I should warn you, there's a steady demand. It's best to move quickly, although I wouldn't want to rush you or your mother into anything. It's just that even with her name down, it could be several months. Or it could be only days or weeks. You understand, these things are somewhat unpredictable.”

So this is it. How stupid, to hesitate. After all, she can put down Aggie's name and it doesn't mean much, until the time actually comes. She tries to recall the anticipation of freedom. It only needs a signature to step toward it.

She thinks, walking home, they will both adjust. It's only that she would have expected to feel lighter, not this weight.

Oh, but she would hate living in that place herself. Being called dear, and wheeled around willy-nilly, handed a book, or not, at the whim of someone busy with other things. Maybe being fed unnecessary pills, and sleeping too much. Aggie would get hungry just knowing there was a limit to her food. It would make her crazy, not to be able to go into the kitchen to whip up muffins or a pie. She would flail and curse; maybe they would tie her down and muffle her.

June shivers. What if this is also her own future? What if she falls and breaks a brittle bone, or the car she imagines comes swerving around a corner now? To be crippled, or hurt, and suddenly old. But that doesn't bear thinking about. Everyone adjusts. Either you die or you get old, and the latter requires certain adjustments, and that's all there is to it.

She can just hear Frances. “It's awful, Mother,” she will say. “It's a terrible thing to do to her. She'll hate it.” She will be perfectly sincere, of course, reflecting on its awfulness, but she will not say, “I'm strong, you've done your part, I'll come back and take care of her.” Sacrifice, even for someone she no doubt loves, is not one of Frances's gifts.