Code blue, p.3
Code Blue, page 3
“And?”
“And I’ve seen some very late-night traffic pulling into the side of the other buildings. Always around three.”
“I don’t understand,” Frida replied.
“Me either. That’s my point.” He shrugged. “Probably my imagination running wild.”
“How often does this happen? You, going for a walk? Seeing mysterious cars? Or your imagination getting the best of you?”
Henry snickered. “You probably think I’m a bit mad.”
“Not yet.” Frida liked the comfortable exchange.
Henry squinted. He was thinking really hard so as not to scare this lovely person away. “It started about five months ago.”
“Your meandering, or your madness?” she joshed.
“Touché,” he said, and grinned. “It was around three in the morning. I saw a car that looked like a hearse drive up to the long-term care building.”
“I wouldn’t think that was unusual.”
“No, but the staff keeps us posted. Not that I want to know, but gossip runs rampant around here.”
Frida let out a guffaw. “You know what they say about gossip?”
“It’s impolite?” Henry gave her a widely accepted answer.
“It’s not gossip if it’s true!” Frida howled.
Henry chuckled, then continued. “Everything from the shenanigans of the floozies and lotharios who live here, to the employees. I hear there’s a head nurse at the long-term center who they refer to as ‘Nurse Ratched’.” Henry was referring to the cold, heartless nurse in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. “Aside from the telltale chatter, we’re usually made aware if someone has ‘left the building,’” he said with air quotes.
Frida rolled her eyes. “Oh, is that what ya call it?”
Henry sighed. “Perhaps having your mortality staring you in the face every day is not the most uplifting.”
“But you can’t even see the building.”
“Ah, but I know it’s there.” Henry stood. “Maybe I’ve watched too many crime shows, but how is it that the cars always come at three in the morning?”
“That is a good question. How often have you seen this?”
“It’s been at least once a month for the past several months.” He thought again. “Yes. Same time, each time. The reason I know this is because when I returned to my room, I noticed the neon green numbers on my alarm clock. The second time, I checked my watch. A reflex, I suppose.”
“I’d certainly be interested in skulking around.”
Henry balked, “Seriously?”
“I am a big fan of mysteries.”
“Good to know.” He paused. “How would you like to go for a nightcap?”
Frida flinched slightly, not sure what that implied at Sunnydale.
“No, I didn’t mean it like that!” He checked the time. “The wine bar is open until eleven.”
“I would be delighted.” Frida felt relieved. She was betwixt and between as to whether or not this charming, nice-looking man with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair was coming on to her, or if he was simply being hospitable. She decided on the latter. He was hospitable.
He stood and held out his hand to assist her in getting up. Not that she needed it, but she appreciated the gentlemanly gesture. When she stood next to him, she reckoned he was just under six feet tall, and close to her age. Two or three years older, tops.
They entered the wine bar and took a seat at a small cocktail table against the foliage that separated it from the main lobby. Frida leaned closer. “Tell me something. Who are the floozies, and what lotharios should I be mindful of?”
“Oh, you will be able to recognize them immediately. The women look like Blanche from The Golden Girls. They still wear the same hairdo they had thirty years ago. Possibly forty. Bouffant, and enough hair spray to hold a Boeing engine in place.”
Frida hooted. “Funny, yet not so funny.”
Henry cleared his throat. “You get my drift. They wear too much makeup and perfume, and fuchsia lipstick.” He gave her a wry smile. “With our diminishing senses, I suppose that’s how they get a man’s attention. A version of bells and whistles.”
Frida suppressed a cackle. “You are quite the wit, aren’t-cha?”
“I don’t mean to be crass or mean-spirited, but sometimes it’s the only way I can entertain myself. I believe it’s called ‘observational humor,’ and as long as I can still observe, I’m ahead of the game.”
“How’s your sense of smell?” Frida joked in return.
Henry lowered his voice. “Sometimes something smells a little fishy.”
“Like the imaginary lights?”
“Dear Frida. Number one. Lights don’t smell. Number two, they are not imaginary.” He paused. “I invite you to take a walk with me one evening.”
“How will you know when the UFOs are going to appear?”
“Haven’t you heard? They don’t call them UFOs anymore. They are now referred to as UAPs. Unidentified Anomalous Phenomena.” He looked around to see if anyone might be eavesdropping. “I don’t want people to think I’m losing my marbles, but that is now the official term used by the government.”
Frida smiled at her new companion. She decided he was quite amusing, interesting, and charming. “Please don’t tell me you are a conspiracy enthusiast.”
“What’s that expression—‘Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.’”
Frida stifled another guffaw. “Oh for.” Her Minnesota accent kicked in even stronger. “Then tell me which conspiracies ya ascribe to?”
“Not any one in particular.” He made an exaggerated gesture of looking under the palm trees behind their table. “We’re safe,” he said, and smiled broadly.
“Whew. Good to know.” She lowered her voice. “Tell me more about the floozies.”
Henry let out a laugh. “Hot pink nail polish, toes and all.”
“Then how can you tell them apart?” Frida raised her eyebrows.
“Usually, it’s their eyeglasses. Most of them have their initial on the lens, or rhinestones.”
Frida’s face began to hurt from smiling. “Do they flash?”
Henry did a double take and realized she meant the glasses, but he twisted it a bit. “No. But it wouldn’t surprise me if they did.”
Frida immediately caught on to his insinuation and snorted. “You are quite the devil, Henry Pushkin.”
“Nah. Trying to keep him away, actually,” he said, grinning.
Frida stifled a yawn. “Oh, dear. Must be getting late. Even though we’re in the same time zone, I feel like my body clock hasn’t caught up.”
He checked his watch. “It’s almost ten. Shall I walk you back to your place?” He immediately added, “No monkey business, I can promise you.”
She nodded. “Thank you. I’m still trying to get used to the area, and I get turned around a bit.”
“Don’t let them hear you say that; otherwise, they’ll think you’re losing your marbles.”
“Ah, I got another bag of ’em in my bureau drawer.” She winked.
Henry signed the check, another convenience provided by Sunnydale. They would send him a bill at the end of the month, a bill he would pay himself. Henry was not ready to turn everything over to them. He still wanted some control in his life, no matter how little it might be.
The two wandered the concrete path that led to Frida’s duplex. “You haven’t told me anything about the lotharios.”
“We can go over that tomorrow. How about we take the shuttle into town and grab a bite to eat? My treat.”
“That would be lovely. Thank you.”
“Do you have a mobile phone?” he asked.
“I do. Would you like my number?” Frida wasn’t being forward. She was simply being friendly. “Oh, dear. Does that make me a floozie?” she said with a girlish giggle.
“Not even close.” Henry smiled. “You’re not wearing the right shade of polish.”
Frida laughed and gave him her phone number, which he immediately added to his contact list. “I am going to ring you now, so you’ll have my number, as well.”
Frida’s ringtone sounded the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. She plucked her phone from her purse and answered it. “Hiya. This is Frida.”
“Hiya, yourself,” Henry answered, then they both ended the call.
“And do let me know when you’re going on your next midnight stroll.”
“I wouldn’t want to wake you.”
“It’s not as if I have anything else to do. I can always sleep. Checking for unidentified whatever they’re called is something completely different.”
“I’ll text you; this way, you can either ignore it or answer back.”
“That sounds like an excellent plan.” She held out her hand. “Very nice to meetcha, Henry Pushkin.”
“Same here, Frida Larsen. See you around campus, if not sooner.” He waited until she was safely inside her unit—not that there was anything or anyone she should be concerned about.
Chapter Three
Sunnydale Do-Over
Theresa was awake before the sun came up. She was still on Eastern time. It would take another day or so before her body clock reset itself. By then she would be heading home. Home with a few answers, or so she hoped.
She called the front desk, inquired as to when the indoor pool was open, and discovered it was open twenty-four hours. She had a lot of time to kill before her appointment and decided to go for a swim, but then realized she didn’t have a bathing suit. She decided to put on a pair of shorts and sit on the edge of the pool and let her legs dangle in the warm water.
Everything was peaceful. Still. The massage had been a brilliant idea, and now the serenity of the atmosphere gave her time to process her thoughts. Slowly. Calmly. In spite of the tranquility, she couldn’t shake off the odd and uncomfortable feelings she was having. She hoped she could put those to rest after she saw her aunt.
By eight o’clock, she was ready for breakfast and returned to her room to change into something more appropriate for a long-lost niece to visit her long-lost aunt.
Theresa arrived at her appointment exactly on time. She didn’t want to bend any additional rules she might be unaware of. The security guard phoned ahead, nodded, pushed a button that lifted the gate. “Take the first right. You’ll come to an intersection. Take a left and continue. It’s the third building, at the end. Please park in the bays marked for visitors only.”
Theresa thanked him and followed his instructions. When she came to the intersection, she looked toward the right and spotted a security gate that required a code. The mini-clinic–physical therapy center was on the other side of the gate, allowing normal access to the building from the main road. To her left was the assisted living building. Farther down was long-term care. According to the photos she had seen, this part of Sunnydale was discretely separated from the main, senior living area. Then it dawned on her that the virtual tour only included still photos of the assisted living quarters, but no interior shots of the “outer buildings,” for lack of a better term.
There were very few vehicles in the parking lot for longterm care, and she had her choice of several spaces. She thought it odd that the place should appear to be void of visitors, especially during the appointed hours. She tried to shake off her doubts, attributing them to jet lag and a good dose of familial anxiety.
The hot air hit her in the face when she exited the car. She noted this part of the overall complex was remote, and almost half a mile to the main highway.
She approached the frosted double-door entrance. A speaker and video camera were mounted next to it. Theresa pressed the button. It seemed like an interminable amount of time passed before a disembodied voice said something. “Can I help you?”
Theresa announced herself and whom she was visiting. Another few seconds later, the buzzer sounded, and the latch was released. She entered an exceedingly small lobby with a narrow counter. A plexiglass wall with a small sliding partition separated it from the rest of the room. She looked around the limited, cramped space and noticed there were no chairs. It had a stark, institutional feel about it, much like a prison—not that she had ever been in one.
Unlike the curt exchange Theresa received the day before, the woman behind the glass had a permanent smile plastered on her face. Theresa again gave her name and whom she was there to see.
The woman nodded, still smiling, and said, “Someone will escort you in shortly.”
Theresa hoped it would be shortly, since there was nowhere to sit. She also thought it odd that she was the only person in the room, which explained the absence of other cars in the visitors’ spots.
The receptionist informed Theresa that she could only “observe” from a viewing room. That’s unusual, Theresa thought. “Does that mean I can’t speak to her?”
“I’m afraid she has been in a coma for the past several weeks, leaving her immune system compromised.” The smile did not waver. “But someone will tell her you are here. We believe that even if a guest is in a fugue state, they can still hear what is going on around them.”
Theresa was getting a strange vibe from Ms. Cheshire Cat and the facility itself. She heard the sound of a buzzer similar to the one at the main entrance, and an orderly appeared. As he escorted Theresa to the viewing room, he reminded her that her aunt might be unrecognizable, given the vegetative state she was in. Theresa knew her aunt would be unrecognizable regardless of the state she was in, since the only image she had of her was taken sixty-plus years ago.
They walked down a corridor with several viewing rooms. She wondered how many people were in the same condition as her aunt, but all the other rooms were empty until they came upon the one with a placard in the window that said DOROTHY CARPENTER.
Theresa’s heart sank. They hadn’t exaggerated. The woman was unrecognizable, particularly with all the tubes running from her mouth and nose. Theresa leaned as close to the window as she could and squinted, trying to detect any resemblance to the young woman in the photo, but it was impossible. Then she noticed there was no ring on her estranged aunt’s hand, nor did it show the mark of one that had been worn for decades. Would she have given it away? Sold it? Theresa realized there were more questions than answers.
The orderly motioned to a speaker on the wall. “You can push that button and say hello.”
Again, unusual, but Theresa attempted to communicate. “Hello, Aunt Dottie? I’m JoAnne’s daughter, Theresa.” She waited to see if the lifeless-looking body would react. Nothing. Not even a twitch.
The orderly, who had a modicum of humanity, turned to Theresa. “This is why we caution visitors. They come here hoping something will change, or the patient will finally respond. Rarely, and I mean rarely, do we ever see a response.”
Theresa turned toward the orderly. “Have you ever seen someone react to someone’s voice?”
“Me? Personally? No, I can’t say that I have. But I’ve been told stories by other staff members.” Theresa calculated the orderly was in his mid-twenties, surely not a long time in this profession. He then said, “I’ll give you some private time. Please do not extend your visit for more than ten more minutes. You will hear a slight bell when your time is up.”
A bell? I’m on a timer? What if I wanted to stand here all day and stare at my relative? It wasn’t as if the place was bustling. As far as she could tell, she was the only other person in the building who wasn’t a patient or an employee. More unusual rules.
“After the bell, just go back down the hallway, the same way you came in. Someone will release the lock.”
Theresa looked at the young man. “Thank you. You’ve been truly kind.” Or you’re a zombie. As the orderly began to walk away, Theresa asked, “Do you know what happened to my aunt’s ring?”
“Ring? Sorry, I don’t know anything about rings. I’ve been on duty since she arrived, and I do not recall any jewelry.” He continued down the hall.
He may have been telling the truth, but something inside was nagging at her. Theresa realized there was nothing she could do and began to walk back to the lobby when she spotted a woman in a wheelchair, also behind a glass window. Theresa stopped abruptly as she spotted a ring on the left hand of the woman, whose face was slack. Even though the woman was close to ninety, there was a resemblance Theresa immediately recognized. She rushed to the front desk and inquired about the woman in the wheelchair. “There is someone in another room, who I think is wearing my aunt’s ring.” The Cheshire Cat lifted a finger as if to say, “one minute,” and picked up her phone. She turned away from Theresa, making it almost impossible for her to discern what was being said on the other side of the plexiglass. The receptionist ended the call and directed her attention back to Theresa. “Someone will be with you shortly.”
The buzzer sounded, and a hulking woman around Theresa’s age entered the foyer. “What is this about a ring?” Theresa recognized the voice immediately. It was Nurse Ratched, aka Janet Turner.
Theresa explained the story about the ring and how Dottie never took it off, and there was a woman in a wheelchair wearing the ring. Nurse Turner insisted Theresa was mistaken and that her aunt had no such ring or any jewelry when she entered Sunnydale. But Theresa wasn’t taking Janet Turner’s word for it and insisted they go to the woman’s room. Turner seemed to know Theresa wouldn’t back down and agreed to follow her back to the room where she claimed to have seen the woman in the wheelchair. When they got to the room, the woman was no longer there. No wheelchair. No bed. It was as if the person didn’t exist or had vanished.
“You see? There is no woman in a wheelchair wearing a ring.” Nurse Nasty gave her an I told you so smirk.
Theresa wasn’t buying it, but she wasn’t going to argue with the brute force standing in front of her.
“My apologies. Must be the heat and the jet lag.” Something wasn’t right, and Theresa needed to find out more. “I have to go back to Virginia and want to see my aunt one more time.”
