The One Who Got Away. L.A. Detwiler
just got curious. I’m in my fifties, and I don’t know that much about you two, in truth. I never knew my grandparents. I know you didn’t like to talk about them, but it’s like the both of you wiped away your past. It was a hidden secret hanging over us. I got curious. Dad told me about Langley Green and how much he loved it there. He told me about how you two met, about how he would travel to West Green to visit you. He told me how much he loved you from the beginning. I don’t know, I guess after he died, I just felt like it was a sign. Maybe that’s where I’m meant to be. It seems like a good place to start over.’
Vomit rose in my throat. I tried not to cry. How could you, Charles? After so many years, you planted this idea in her head? Searing anguish I thought had died decades ago had risen in my chest.
‘What else did he say?’ I asked tentatively. Fears rose. But there are things even Charles didn’t know. There were secrets even Charles couldn’t tell.
‘The same thing you two always said when I asked you. “It was complicated.” Mum, I know Crawley was a dark place in those years. But I don’t know, I think I could be happy there. I think it would be nice to be somewhere strange yet familiar in a weird way. You lived in West Green, close to where I’ll be. Dad lived there. My grandparents, whom I never got to meet, lived there.’
That conversation haunted me for weeks. I was angry at Charles. I was terrified for Claire as old fears surfaced. But eventually, I’d talked myself down.
Decades and decades had passed. It wasn’t the same place anymore. Heck, most of the people I once knew were probably long since gone, moved on in one way or another.
Still, I didn’t understand why Charles would open such wounds. After trying to escape from Crawley’s clutches for all of those years, to have my daughter reconnect me with it – it was the thing of nightmares, enough to drive me truly bonkers if I’d let it.
Yet, even after insisting to Claire I’d never go back, no matter how much she begged – here I am. Back in Crawley’s hands, back in West Green more specifically.
It was all so long ago, I remind myself. It doesn’t matter anymore. But I know that in truth, it always matters. It will always matter. I shudder at the thought, tension rising as I try to shove it back down.
As I follow the woman and Claire down the corridor, peeking in at the faces I will be seeing too much of from now on, I sigh. Now that I’m here, facing the prospect of a life staring at these sterile walls, I’m having regrets. Maybe I should’ve fought a little harder. Maybe this was a bad choice. This place rattles me, strangling me like the vines creeping up the stone walls outside.
Or perhaps I’m just being paranoid. Of course Smith Creek Manor wouldn’t feel like home yet. How could it? I just need to give it a chance. I’m tired from mulling it all over incessantly, my brain throbbing already. In a few days, I’ll adjust to the atmosphere, and it won’t seem so terrible. I just need time.
I peek in at the rooms of my neighbours as we parade down the corridor to my own. A man sits on the single chair in his room, staring at the telly. In another room on the right, a woman rocks what appears to be a baby doll, singing a lullaby. I pause at the opening to another living space, perusing the scene with fascination and horror. A woman stands, lopsided in the centre of her space, half of her face distorted. She is completely naked, and she walks in tiny circles by her bed, singing the words to some unrecognisable song. She laughs in between choruses, over and over, her sagging skin marked with burns and scars. I want to peel my eyes away, but I can’t. The storm that is this woman is on full display. How long has she been stuck in this merry-go-round of terror? Why isn’t anyone stopping her? It’s unbelievable that a human being would behave this way – or be allowed to behave this way in such a place. What is this? What is this, indeed. I peel my eyes away, feeling embarrassed for witnessing her in this state.
I continue on down the corridor, room after room presenting new views. It’s like I’m wandering about a zoo, staring in at the exhibits of various species. Some mad, some sane, some essentially gone. All of the doors are open, wide open, except one. When we get to Room 312, I notice that the door is closed. For some reason, it’s like the door calls to me. I think about reaching out and touching that knob, curious what the door could be hiding. Inside, I hear a cough, weighty and raspy. It startles me. I don’t know what or who is behind the door to 312, but there’s something unnerving about the space. A chill rattles my body and I shiver, a darkness surrounding the room even from the corridor.
But it’s also unsettling to see so many doors wide open, patients in all state of dress and activity out in the open. Is there no privacy here? Has everyone truly lost their sense of dignity that they’ll let everyone peer into their lives in their tiny little rooms? Will I lose mine as well? Will I even be me here? I shudder involuntarily as I plod towards the new ‘home’ that awaits me.
The woman in heels leads us down the corridor on the third floor, down, down to the very end. She stops at the room on the left, which is next to a staircase. There is, of course, a locked door at the staircase, the tiny code box beside it reminding me that I’m not free anymore. I suppose escaping isn’t something they look favourably on around here.
‘Here we are, dear. Room 316. Your new home. Welcome. I do hope we’ve managed to arrange the things your daughter sent over correctly. If not, we’ll be happy to help you set things up just as you wish. Come on, let’s get settled in and meet your roommate.’
I stop at the threshold of 316, staring in at what has become my whole world. My home with Charles was never a castle. It was a modest house, tiny to most. But compared to this space, it was a palace.
I step inside, willing myself not to cry. Claire is here, after all. I can’t break down. She needs me to be strong. I can’t be more of a burden than I have been already. I peer about the room that is more hospital than home, and my stomach plummets. This is it. This is where I’ll reside for the rest of my days, the icy, bog-standard room surrounding me with its monotonous bleakness. I shake my head at the prospect, my hand reaching up to tug at my long, stringy hair.
‘Ms Evans, I’d like to introduce you to your roommate, Ms Rose Wright. All right, Rose?’ The woman prances over to the other side of the conjoined room, a curtain that presumably divides our halves pulled to one side so I have a full view of my new companion. I hate that I have a roommate here. Certainly, Claire told me I’d have my own room, didn’t she? Most facilities do, after all, offer individual rooms. Why is this place different? I shudder at the realisation that already, my new home isn’t meeting my expectations.
I glance over to the woman on the other side of the dividing curtain, trying to move beyond the fact that I won’t be alone. She is sitting up in bed, leant against a pillow, her mouth partially open. Drool drips visibly down her chin, and she’s wearing a transparent blue nightshirt. She stares, deadpan, straight ahead at what, I can’t determine. Her breathing is raspy, every single inhalation rattling something in her chest. On her bedside table, a statue of what seems to be a religious figure perches. I can’t tell exactly what it’s supposed to be. It’s chipped and warped. Its demeanour is more ghoulish than holy. Angled, it appears to watch her, its unseemly eyes bulging out. I don’t like it. I wonder if she hates it too.
Behind the statue is a noticeboard, just like I have on my side of the room. A child’s drawing of what appears to be a rose is pinned there, centred on the board. At least I will be able to recall her name, I realise. Rose, just like the picture. I lock it into my mind. Wouldn’t do to forget my roommate’s name, after all.
Our fearless tour guide and master of ceremonies plods forward, walking to Rose’s side to stroke her thin, dishevelled hair. The woman doesn’t move. I blink, turning to Claire. I don’t know why, but I recoil at the sight of this Rose woman, more dead than alive, who fights for every breath. Her delicateness irks me, stirring an uneasiness I can’t explain. It makes me feel guilty for thinking these things about a suffering woman. Nonetheless, the woman doesn’t offer any reaction to my presence. Our tour guide looks back to us, smiling gently.
‘Rose won’t be much of a bother to you, I suppose,’ she reassures, and although