The One Who Got Away. L.A. Detwiler
I know I should be glad that even with my health problems, I still have mobility and my wits about me. I have a lot in Smith Creek Manor terms. But there’s something about the home that just seems to remind me of all I have to lose. I can already sense a harsh reality few want to uncover; this place divests a person until they’re nothing but a pile of bones under a blanket, mumbling incoherently as saddened onlookers try their best to unsee the realities. I don’t want to face Rose’s fate. I don’t. It feels like there’s a contagion in this place, and the closer you get to someone like Rose, the more likely it is you’ll fall prey to the unseemly loss of all you hold dear.
So I do what so many do in these kinds of homes. I turn my head, leaving Rose alone, as I step further away and into the corridor. The staircase is adjacent to the left, that door guarding it. A code box hangs beside it on the wall, the cool metal of it taunting me as the fluorescent light glides over it. Instantly, my heart starts to beat faster and faster until it’s racing wildly. A sensation rises, a familiar paranoia I try so hard to suppress.
I’m trapped. I’m trapped here. I can’t escape. Even the stairs have a code, one that I don’t know. My breathing increases. I count to three. I need to calm down. I reach for the wall to steady myself, tears forming.
‘Dear, is everything okay?’ a voice says as footsteps echo on the floor. I turn to my right to see a young nurse with brown hair and a reassuring smile. She quickly marches towards me.
‘I’m fine,’ I offer weakly, but my face must say otherwise because the woman quickens her pace. She clutches my arm gently, and I let myself lean on her.
‘There, there. I know. All such a change. I’m Grace. Come on, now. Let’s get you to a chair. Looks like you’ve seen a ghost or something.’
I don’t argue, letting her lead me back into my room, towards the chair I just left. I avert my eyes from Rose, willing myself not to look over there. My heart beats frantically, which causes my panic to rise. I know I have to stay calm. I can’t let this happen, not again.
‘Now, come on. What shall I get you? Fancy a cuppa?’ Grace asks, her melodious voice wrapping itself around me as I settle by the window once more.
‘The code,’ I spat at her, without any thought.
‘What code?’ she asks, stooping down to look into my face.
‘The stairs. I need the code for the stairs.’ My fingers viciously cling to the velvety feel of the chair’s armrest.
She studies me, her smile pitying. ‘You won’t need the code for the stairs. After all, who wants to use them when there’s a perfectly good lift?’ Her smile is warm. I might like her in other circumstances. But thinking of that lift, I shudder. I wouldn’t describe it as perfectly good, or even safe. I think about the creakiness, about the jolting noises.
I persist, hoping she’ll give in. ‘I need the code. If there’s a fire. I need to know it. And that lift is so terrifying. I hate the lift,’ I demand, shaking my head, frustration building. She doesn’t understand. She just doesn’t know.
‘You’ll get used to the lift, love. It’s just a bit old, but it’s completely safe, I promise. And there hasn’t been a fire at Smith Creek Manor, ever. If there were, we’ll be right here in a jiffy. No need to panic, truly. Now why don’t you come with me? I’ll show you the common room down the hall. Do you some good to meet some friendly faces. There are some sweet women down there who love knitting and gossip. And tea. They love their tea, of course. Now how about that cuppa?’
I stare at her, blinking. My mind hurts. I don’t know why I’m so – what am I? Goodness, this is all just confusing. I don’t know how to feel.
So, I say the only thing I can. ‘Fine.’ I let her lead me down the sterile corridor, the lights still blinding as the nurse waffles about this resident and that, as if I’m starting a new school instead of the first day of the end of my life.
‘Listen, trust me. This floor isn’t so bad. Sure, we got a few who are a bit crackers up here. It’s true. And a couple that just, well, between you and me, give me the absolute creeps and all, some creepy ones. But overall, it’s okay up here. Fewer nurses to bother you, and there are even a few sane residents here on Floor Three. But then again, the nurses don’t mind us much up here. We’re sort of the forgotten floor, you know?’
The woman knitting beside me at the table chatters on and on. Dorothy, I think she said her name was. I don’t remember her surname. I clutch the tea that the nurse gave me, my hands warming on the Styrofoam cup. No fine china here, I suppose.
A game show blares in the community room area nearby, and a few patients – residents, I stand corrected – gape mindlessly at it. One woman is parked in a wheelchair in the corner, touching the wall, repeating the name Philip with such angst, it makes my heart ache. Her whimpers rise above the announcer on the show, mixing in a strange cacophony of joy and agony, symbolic of what this place holds.
Dorothy sits, knitting some crooked, scratchy blanket. The nurse sat me at this table, told me I’d make quick friends with this woman. I don’t know. But, looking around, she seems to be one of the few who can hold a conversation. These people are just so – old. So old. So gone. Or maybe this place just does that to a person.
I sigh. ‘Doesn’t sound like a good thing to be forgotten.’
‘It all depends, Adeline. It’s Adeline, right? Did you say Adeline?’
I nod. ‘Friends call me Addy.’
‘I’ll go with Adeline for now, then, if it’s all the same to you. Too soon to tell if we’re going to be friends or not.’
I nod again. I can respect that.
‘Regardless, as I was saying, being forgotten here is not a terrible thing. Fewer nurses means less poking and prodding. It means more peace and quiet. And if I’m going to leave this world soon, I could use some peace and quiet. Of course, I suppose there are downfalls to being forgotten. That woman in 306 found out the hard way a while back.’
I look up from my tea now, staring at Dorothy. ‘What happened to her?’ My curiosity is piqued, but I suppose in a place where magazines, knitting, and some weak tea are the only excitement, it doesn’t take much.
Dorothy shrugs. ‘Murder, or at least that’s what rumour has it. Staff of course claim it was a bad fall. But I’ve never seen someone turn a hue of purple like that from a simple trip, you know?’
I blink, waiting for her to crack a smile, some sadistic joke. She doesn’t laugh, though. She stops knitting and looks at me.
‘Who did it?’ I ask, needing to know but afraid all the same.
Dorothy shrugs. ‘Some say the staff were in there to sedate her with something right before she was found dead. Apparently, she had been raving about some odd occurrences, had been seeing some strange stuff.’
‘The staff?’ I ask, making sure I’ve heard her correctly.
Dorothy looks up at me, peeks left and right as if to see if anyone is listening. Then, she leans in. ‘Did the whole tour guide bit fool you? Gets the best of most of us. But shall we say this place isn’t quite what it seems to be from the little pamphlets they give you? Sure, they give you plenty of tea. But it’s not as cosy as they want you to believe. In fact, from some of the things I’ve seen, it’s downright dangerous here if you’re not careful.’
My stomach churns. This is not what I wanted to hear. Suddenly, a wave of fear slaps into me. Regrets flood over me, a feeling that’s all too familiar. Suddenly, returning to Crawley seems like the worst idea I’ve ever had, this eerie building in an even eerier section of town stirring a sense of foreboding in me.
‘Dear, don’t worry too much, though. If you play it smart and wind your neck in,