Red Girl Rat Boy (7 page)

Once, Lorraine's transfusions came months apart. She'd spent her days in the garden (the fountain, the fountain!) or the library, and enjoyed meals at a lively table where everyone had their marbles. Now fortnightly she was shunted through a tunnel to the hospital, to be topped up with blood. The process granted little vigour. She felt, afterwards—not better, though, with her body chemistry so out of whack, naming sensations was hard.

The gurney moved.

Do names matter? If only I could read my file.

After
g
ood morning
to Mr. Chang, Felipe hung a left, then paused to flirt at the nurses' station.

Shelves just inside its open door held the residents' blue files, thick as encyclopedias, the spines hand-lettered. Lorraine's fingers yearned as she saw her own name, Sally's, Annabel's.

The Wanderer drew up alongside. She touched Lorraine's hand, goggled urgently at her, the folders, her.

“I can't reach.”

Clack clack of stilettos. Hot Wheels jumped.

The Boss Lady fingered a blue folder. “Con-fi-den-tial,” softly. “Au-thor-ized rea-ders on-ly. Big words?
Close that door!
”

The nurse whimpered, the gurney shot forward.

Down down went Felipe and Lorraine.

Through.

Up up.

For hours she lay alone, watching one red plastic pouch and another shrink from fat to flaccid. Her bedsores hurt. Unless her roommates kept today's menus, June would be incomplete. And—her cellphone forgotten by her bed. Why care? I don't answer. But if I wanted. . . I told everyone,
Don't call, don't come.

Also forgotten, her picture book of water gardens.

Going dotty? Shall I unpick hems like Teevee-gal, eat threads?

Enough.

Lily. What to do?

Soon after Lorraine came to 17-A, she'd learned how a former roommate, suffering from a migraine, asked for a cold cloth on her forehead. Wrapped in the chilly white was a turd.

“Lily just said,
Not me
.” Sally snorted. “The Boss Lady didn't do a fucking thing.”

“Ketchup packets,” Annabel giggled. “We squished them anywhere Lily'd touch. Handles, trays. Switches. Messy!”

Now the aide put tissues and eye drops out of reach, opened the window when asked not to. “Fresh air, you smelly in here!” Laughing, she “forgot” to close the door when bathing Sally, who cried in shame. Meticulously the Laundry Lady filed 17-A's garments, yet Lily claimed favourites were MIA. Hampered by mobility aids and failing sight, the women must wait to retrieve crumpled dresses from the closet floor till Melia Josie Roberto Angelique came on shift.

Without the aides, we'd die even sooner.

The second blood-bag and time and energy drained away. At last gentle Melia came, who knew Lily's little Alicia back home.

As the gurney passed the Boss Lady's office, Lorraine glimpsed the woman head-in-hands at her desk.

Next, a gossip at the nurses' station. Oh, how long? In any bed, I'd die happy.

Finally, Van Buren's and McCoy's directives.
Get a subpoena. Get a grand jury. Get on it, gentlemen, get going.

Delivered into 17-A, Lorraine saw that her cellphone was gone.

friday evening: planning

KD in foil-lidded Styrofoam. Yucky coleslaw, and Sally ate all three servings. Canned mandarins. Lorraine gave hers to Annabel, chocolate milk to Sally.

Later, while a languid nurse allegedly searched for the phone in nearby rooms, Lorraine asked, “What to do about Lily?”

“I told the Boss Lady! Where's that black bitch from, anyway?”

“Salmon Arm,” said Annabel.

“How would you know?”

“I get around.”

Sally snorted. “You believe everything you hear.”

Lorraine, again, “What can we do?”

Silence.

“Let's take our diapers off! Do everything in our beds.”

“
I'm
not a baby.” Annabel stuck out her tongue at Sally.

“Don't fight. Please.”

Melia came in, to finish them off. “That stolen folder makes a big trouble. Tomorrow Boss Lady seeing the
Big
Boss.”

“Score!” cried Sally, and was first to grumble herself into a snore.

Next, Annabel.

Was Lorraine fainting? asleep? Warm dark flowed in the window. If only I could float out. That folder the Wanderer got—hers?
These are our stories.
I just have menus.

As June ended, a skunk sprayed the one car still in the parking lot.

 

Celebrating Canada in care

The hottest day yet.

In the dumpsters, smells ripened.

Not a weekday, hence no Activity, no doctors, no Lily.

Instead, nice Roberto, one of Angelique's nephews. Offering walker-less Sally his arm, he steered her to the dining room, where she and Annabel joined a contingent able to anticipate the arrival, hours away, of a sheet cake with Dream Whip and Mexican strawberries atop. Holding maple-leaf flags, the roommates squabbled till the weak sweat of the old coated their flesh. Other residents sat, blank-eyed.

Alone, Lorraine tidied her menus. The italic font's rainbow colours pleased her, the dates one after another, the words poetically arranged.

golden macaroni &

carrot Confetti salad with

artisanal whole-wheat Bun

Macedoine of fruits

shortbread cookie with

selected Milks

and/or tea/coffee

Later, paging through water gardens, Lorraine heard a guitar. A bass led the distant gathering through
Au Clair de la Lune, Frere Jacques, Alouette.

Angelique stopped by, to share berries dipped in chocolate. She came from yet another island and had twin boys.

The first time Mr. Chang waved hello, his chair had one flag taped to the control pad. Two, next time. Then clusters, on the push-bar. Beside him today trotted a hefty sixty-ish daughter and a Jack Russell. Smiling, Mr. Chang held the dog's leash.

The Rec Director also beamed in.

“Howzitgoin?”

“Fine.” Lorraine did like
The Maple Leaf Forever
.

Whir whir whir.

“You stole my phone!”

The Wanderer held some blue envelopes. She folded one into a booklet, proffered this while pointing at herself.

“Give my phone back
now
!”

The big wrinkled face contorted as the Wanderer scrabbled in her fanny pack for keys, clapped them against the booklet. Her eyes pleaded.

Lorraine gave in. Considered this mime.

“How? There's always someone at the nurses' station.”

The Wanderer pointed, jabbed towards Lorraine and at 17-A's other beds. Her mouth (no teeth) gaped in an unheard scream, closed, re-opened.

Lorraine considered further.

“We can try.”

A scarf of violet silk passed from one woman to the other.

Alone again, Lorraine ran the silk through her fingers (thinner every day) while thinking of Lily's Alicia so far away. Of Lily's low wages, her minimal benefits and non-existent job security. Her tedious, often distasteful tasks. Her struggle to keep status among the staff. Her limited English. How her hair went limp as a shift ground on. How, at her touch, some white residents showed disgust. The river of silk ran over Lorraine. And the Boss Lady's life? No strength remained for that. She drowsed till Annabel scooted in, the advance guard before Roberto with Sally clutching his arm.

“Not enough fucking strawberries! Or flags. Not
fair.
My neck hurts.”

“Wasn't that a cute guitar boy? Love to find him in my bed!” Annabel winked. “Eric went to a
real
Canada Day party, so he couldn't come today.”

“Bullshit!”

Then supper came, and happy Sally's leftover cake read
Ca
, in pink.

Lorraine ignored her tray. “The Wanderer has an idea. We can help.”

“She stole your phone!”

“To get our attention.” Lorraine's voice stayed calm.

Annabel frowned. “How can she have an idea if she can't talk?”

“
Won't
talk, dummy. Teevee-gal
can't
. Don't you two want cake?”

“She wants to get back at—them.” Lorraine gestured inclusively.

Annabel scraped cake onto Sally's plate. “Yes!”

“We must be ready. She can't predict when.”

“When
what?
I don't like her. She threw—”

“Shut up!”

Lorraine closed her eyes. Annabel had the gist, and Sally'd need to hear it all again anyway.

 

doing time

Sunday was hot. Zero Activity.

Monday, also hot, was a stat. Zero
Bingo,
zero doctors. The dumpsters grew rank. Gulls perched, swearing, on the closed lids. Julio, sent to Delivery to kill rats, did nothing but claimed the coyotes would eat them soon.

“Another lazy man,” said Angelique.

Lily came back.

As she worked nearby, Lorraine closed her eyes against
rustle click push squirt wipe rub shove
but inhaled the aide's fragrance of tall dewy grass by the bus stop.

Lorraine's skin didn't fit. Her breath tasted bad. She napped.

For Annabel, Lily brought a hair clip and
Chatelaine.

“Real silver!” The old shining head turned this way, that.

“Stupid! Remember how she tricked you?”

The aide said, “Your walker, Mrs. Knox. This time maintenance fix perfect.” Strong hands massaged the resident's shoulders.

Lorraine, waking, found her dresser drawers rearranged

“See? More room for my menus!”

Sally snorted. “Lily just wants back in our good books.”

“To atone,” Annabel offered.

“How come
you
know that word?”

From 17-B gunshots reverberated, and shortly the Wanderer rolled into 17-A.

“Hello there!” Annabel waved
Chatelaine.

Lorraine said, truthfully, “That's a nice dress you're wearing.” The adaptive garment wasn't tucked in, though. A nude thigh, varicose, protruded.

“Such a bitch, Lily, letting you go out like that.” Sally poked the fabric into place.

“Bitch,” echoed Annabel.

Everyone smiled as the Wanderer handed over Lorraine's phone.

 

Doing more time

At Tuesday's
News & Views,
Annabel reported, people talked about Big Man biting an orderly. “We didn't even open the
Province
.”

A doctor visited Lorraine.

After supper a bat landed on 17-A's windowsill. Flapping towels, Annabel and Angelique rushed about till the creature swooped away.

“Close window.”

“Stupid!” Sally cried. “By morning there's no air left.”

“No oxygen,” said Annabel.

“You studied chemistry?”

Angelique rolled her eyes.

Drinking water, Lorraine felt dry as drought.

Josie came by. “Little treat, girls!” Twinkies.

Sally ate them all, left the wrappers on her table and limped to the sink to splash hands and hot face.

“You've spilled, I'll skid!”

“Then skedaddle to your damn friends, Annabel.” Sally grabbed paper towels.

“At least I
have
friends. And family,
Mrs
. Knox.”

“Eric is a retard, Eric is a retard!”

“Fatty fatty two-by-four!”

Wads of wet towel flew, Lorraine sobbed, the Boss Lady entered.

“Quiet time, ladies?” She scanned the room. “Mrs. Knox, obesity shortens lives. Try to control yourself. That cellphone's back? No one told me.”

After she left, a whiff of skunk remained in the air of 17-A.

 

Wednesday

Midnight showers had suppressed the dumpsters' fermenting odour, but it rose again with the sun. The crows didn't attend
Crafts
to explore playdough's tactile pleasures, nor squeeze remotes with bleeding claws. They strutted about squawking while the rats and their babies snoozed in the warm dark rimmed with gold. Yearling gulls chased an eagle until, bored, it soared so its pursuers heeled away down the air.