Print this articleHealing
Short Story
by Jonathan Fischer
None of the clocks at this place told the correct time, and none of the nurses bothered to fix them.
Kate and Ravi must be back home by now. They had finally gotten him off their hands, and were probably throwing a fine dinner to celebrate. It was just as well; they had been getting on his nerves from when he had first moved in. At least his grandchildren were well-behaved. It would be different not to have them around anymore.
It seemed to have been only a few months ago that he had been in his office on the eightieth floor...his mahogany desk, exotic plants he had picked out (he assumed the maid kept them watered), and bookshelves filled with the writings of great thinkers and their impressive achievements. Below his office streamed the narrow rivers of cars, busily making their ways here and there—it was pleasant for him to sit by his window, overlooking all that lay below, above the hubbub and pettiness of city life.
He had once been there too, working every day after school at a grimy restaurant on Tenth Avenue. Thankfully that had not lasted long; he had found a prestigious internship during college, and after earning his MBA, had pushed his way over the years to where he was now: a Partner in one of the biggest venture capital firms in the country. He had climbed every step from that street far below, to finally arrive where he now sat in ease, overlooking the cityscape as traffic grew even more congested with evening drawing near.
He had made that life. He had recognized potential in fledgling companies and provided the funds they had needed. He had acquired a hefty portfolio over the years—security for any difficulties that might arise in the future. He had raised Kate by himself after her mother left. He had sent her to the top boarding school in the country. He had done all this.
Why didn't he work at the firm anymore? He vaguely recalled a memory of investments gone awry, and others pushing him to retire. They didn't want to share the power. A few months of living with Kate and Ravi, then this.
"Goshen Forest Homes" was tiny, and even as he walked in with Kate and Ravi that afternoon, he could tell that his chances of finding stimulating conversation would be slim. They had signed the paperwork...all that psychobabble and labeling for the benefit of those who just didn't want him around any longer. Then they had hugged him goodbye—a show for the nurses—and left. One nurse had tried to help him with his luggage, but he had shaken off her patronizing attempts. He could carry his own bags.
His room was on a corner of the building, furnished with a bed, a chest of drawers, two chairs, and a floor lamp. Kate and Ravi would bring more of his furniture the next day, but he knew that only a fraction of it would fit. They would keep the rest.
The one picture window in his room looked west, with a poplar tree on one side and a juniper on the other. The manicured lawn climbed up a few hundred yards before reaching a cluster of houses, and then woods. Stow his suitcases in the corner of the room, check the bathroom—it seemed clean—and make a mental note of the bent corner of the window blinds. He would make sure they fixed it.
He left his room and closed the door behind him. To his left were the rest of the residents' rooms, from where a white-haired woman was slowly making her way towards him with the help of a walker. He turned away from her and went straight. As he walked down the hall, steadying himself on the handrail, he could see the dining area to his right. The schedule was on the wall: breakfast at nine, lunch at one, and dinner at seven. There were a few activities in between meal times, but nothing that interested him as much as his own reading or work. He was retired, but that did not have to stop him from pursuing new personal investment plans. Futures in oil, maybe. He would have to check his portfolio.
In such a place, he would have to depend upon himself to find stimulation and mental exercise. No matter; he had spent much of his life working his way up the corporate ladder, passing those who were less competent or less bright. He could do so again.
Further down the hall, there was a room about half the size of the dining area. It had a few sofas, some chairs, and two tables. He opened the door and went in. Older men and women sat scattered around the room, some watching television, one talking with a nurse. Two others were working on a puzzle at one of the tables, but their unsteady hands made the task difficult. He quickly turned around and went back out into the hallway. On his way back to his room, he passed the woman with the walker whom he had seen earlier, but did not return her glance; these people would drag him into their world if he let them. Just let him retreat to the company of Franklin, Virgil, and Machiavelli.
Turning right to follow the hall, he continued down to the residents' rooms. But the names on the rooms were not any he recognized...and what name was he looking for? He entered a room on his right to find an older man sitting up on his bed as a nurse gave him water and his medications to swallow. Such a small task, and the man couldn't do it himself. He despised him. Closing the door, he wandered back up the hall. Oh yes—there it was: "Charles Baker." That was his room. And it was in the corner of the building; it would be pleasant to have the extra privacy. He would have to talk to them tomorrow about changing the nameplate to Charles Baker, MBA, VC.
Fortunately, he had thought to bring one of his books with him so that he would not have to sit in boredom until Kate and Ravi brought the rest the next day. A Biography of Charlemagne: his most recent interest. Sitting down in a chair by his bed, he opened where he had left off and started reading. A few pages later, however, he found writing in the margins—unusual, as he had bought this book new. Ravi must have been reading it. But no—it was actually his own handwriting; he must have already been further along than he had thought, though he could not recall what it had said. He paused, started to close the book, opened it again, and then, placing a bookmark on the last page with his notes, he turned off the light and went to bed. He was probably just tired.
That night after dinner, as he was falling asleep, the grandfather clock in the hall sounded four times. It was dark out.
Kate and her husband would be coming soon. One nurse had reminded him of their visit—apparently they came every Thursday. He didn't think much of those times; it was good to see the grandchildren every once in a while, but to Kate he was only another time slot in her schedule. Go shopping, put out the trash, say hi to the neighbors, visit him....
He made his way from his room to the common area. He hadn't spent much time there before; he mostly preferred to stay in his room. But a change could be nice. A chair in the corner was empty, and he went there; next to him was the older lady he had seen the first day. She told him her name was Sally. Her cheeks were immortalized with the wrinkles of a ready smile. She greeted him: "I'm Sally. What is your name?"
"Charles."
A pause, but he could not help commenting. "You smile a lot."
"Oh, He's blessed me with so much, I guess I just can't help it."
There it was again—that smile. And in this place? She must be pretty far gone.
The clocks seemed to chime a little faster when he was sitting with the others and Sally, and soon they were calling everyone for dinner. More nurses, lending a hand on the way to the dining room. Wasn't he fast enough?
They would be coming in to take him to lunch soon, but he would beat them to it. Easing out of his chair, he supported himself on the doorknob as he opened it. A moment to recover his balance, and then out into the hall. The journey to the dining area had grown tedious, but he made it without aid. The room was dark when he reached it, and the door was locked. Lunch should be going on, but they must have changed the time. Why? Most likely to keep him wondering.
He turned around, and back down the hall, a younger man and woman rounded the corner, waving when they saw him. What did they want? The man was darker, and the woman had blonde hair. Dad? They were pretending that they knew him. He would go back to his room. They followed; perhaps they had visited before. He would let them in. Was it Thursday already? They said it was good to see him. He was not sure what most of the conversation was about, but it was a pleasant time. They were nice, and they listened. Maybe they would come again.
Nurse? He needed to use the restroom.
The day felt clearer; less foggy outside than earlier. There were many rainy days with fog afterward in this warm spring weather. Hard to see the houses outside his window. Some people came to visit—hopefully they had a good time, he certainly liked talking with them. Also with the others in the rooms near him—they had some interesting stories to tell. One had grown up on a street adjacent to his own in Queens. He still tried to read his books once in a while, but the pages didn't turn as fast as they used to. Maybe the others would read to him when they visited...that would be nice. At his age he couldn't entertain them much, but they came back anyway.
He heard the gonging from the old clock in the hall. Hadn't it just gone off? When was dinner? The nurses would tell him when he had to go.
Not sure what time it was, or whether he had woken up from a nap or from a night's sleep. But it seemed to be morning. He tried to get dressed, and a nurse buttoned his shirt for him when she saw his difficulty. On his way to the common room, Sally greeted him. They walked together, and sat in adjacent chairs in silence. It was a gentle silence.
Lunch, then back to the common room. No, it was the other way down the hall. Turn around and go back. He found his usual chair, and sat down. A minute, then he got up to look for something—what?—and sat down again. A nurse brought him his medication, and he gave her back the cup of water afterwards. Nice of her to bring them to him.
Where was he? These long hallways pressed in closer around him. He would get out and go—where? Somewhere. Who were these people? They kept saying a name—"Charles." They had taken his map. He would have to find his own way. That door was locked: of course. The other opened outside, but there was a wall around the garden there. Where was he going? Nowhere. It was time for dinner, but he had to find his way. Supper would be on the table soon. Everyone was staring at him. Did they want his money?
There was the friendly, white-haired lady walking by. She smiled: "Hello, Charles." Her words felt to him like a pillow. Soothing.
A young woman was saying something to him. Blonde hair, a smile. He did not respond, but something about her allowed him to forget that he needed to escape. She seemed familiar, and with her presence the walls in the hall expanded and allowed him to breathe a little more freely. She put his arm in hers and walked with him down the hall; it was okay now. She would take him wherever he needed to be.
Thank you.