Mercy House Page 3

  “Yes, Harriet?” she said, the raised eyebrow from Don a reminder of his former wiseass days, back when he’d been happy. The gesture was a ray of hope that after this was done they could meld themselves back together, heal and begin again.

  “Now that I’m gone, are you going to change my room back into a nursery, or have you given up?”

  Dementia had a way of turning subtext into text, but Harriet was having a moment of lucidity and was able to hide at least some of her meaning. What she meant to ask was, would they be disassembling the motorized hospital bed and reassembling the crib that Harriet had gotten them as a wedding present. The way those things went, there had probably been twelve product recalls on that Fisher-Price crib since it’d first been purchased.

  “Well, yes. Maybe,” Nikki said, the answer noncommittal but still forward enough to let herself into whatever trap Harriet was setting. Nikki wasn’t crazy over the idea of kids, she’d seen how reproducing had worked out for some people and she wasn’t thrilled by the prospect.

  Don wrung the faux leather of the steering wheel, moving his hands far closer together than ten and two, leaving his fists both a few minutes to and after twelve. He’d either been a part of or overheard too many discussions like this one since they’d told Harriet about her new home; he knew where this was going and decided to field the question himself.

  “Actually, Ma, we were thinking of adoption,” he said.

  “Is that right? Very noble—” Harriet started to say, but Don cut her off.

  “Isn’t it? There are so many kids out there that don’t have loving mothers—”

  “Don, don’t, please.” Nikki rubbed his knee, having to strain against her belt to reach. He shook his leg and she pulled her hand back.

  “We’re especially interested in kids from underprivileged countries. I’m leaning toward Africa myself.”

  Nikki sank in her seat and used the rearview mirror to watch Harriet’s eyes shadow over. The joke was finished, the old woman realized she was being played with and hugged herself tighter to stop the tremors in her hands and forearms. She was crying now, licking at her tears, and when the tears were gone just licking to lick, the oral compulsions of her disease kicking in.

  “Oh, don’t pull that,” Don said. He would pay for these words later, Nikki knew, once he rewound all the episodes from this drive and played them over again in his head tonight as they stopped at a Motor Inn somewhere between here and Narberth, if they didn’t go straight home.

  “If I said I was sorry, would it matter? If I said that I’ve been sick and confused and angry and sad, would it matter? No! I’d just be that racist bat that hurt your little Nubian princess’s feelings! You’ve won! She’s won! There’s no reason to torture me any further.” Harriet’s voice got lower as she spoke, cutting out completely at the end, not like she’d finished but as if she’d run out of fuel.

  Harriet pulled her skinny legs up as high on the seat as she could and turned her face to the window. It was the body language of a teenager transposed onto a woman in her seventies. It had to have hurt her joints.

  Seventy-four? Nikki thought, trying to remember if she’d ever known the exact birth year of Harriet Laurel (née Fulbright).

  The remaining twenty minutes of the trip were spent in silence. The mood was more oppressive than it had been when Harriet had done her best to needle them. Now that the woman had resigned herself to quiet contemplation, the drive was much worse.

  The radio continued to play, the songs audible for thirty-second snippets until they crashed into static and white noise. The mountains along the way were bouncing the signals around, the dial a mix of local and New Jersey stations, none of them coming in clear enough to offer Nikki an escape.

  She should have brought her iPod, even if she risked forgetting it when they returned the car.

  “Could you turn the thing back on?” Don asked, motioning to the GPS system that he’d had her turn off mid-trip. Don’s phone could have gotten them there just as well, but the GPS came with the rental, so there was no reason to waste the data. They were on a tighter budget now that they had to pay for Mercy House.

  Nikki held the button on top of the GPS and the screen became bright, finally resuming their trip but still searching for a satellite transmission.

  “You’re lost?” Nikki asked.

  “No, I just want to make sure I don’t miss the turn.”

  As if on cue, a white sign appeared around the next bend, at the base of a dip that led to a freshly paved road. MERCY HOUSE: HOME FOR THE ELDERLY, the sign read in burgundy lettering with gold accents. The placard looked more like it should be posted in front of an expensive bed-and-breakfast than a clinic. Good to see that all the money was going to the patients.

  “Destination is on the right,” the quasi-British voice of the GPS said.

  Useless and a liar, Nikki thought about the device as they drove through the dense woods toward Mercy House, the long road less a driveway than it initially seemed. Behind her, Harriet shuffled, uncurled her legs, and sat straight up in her seat, her eyes fixed out the window.

  They made it, eventually, and when they did, Nikki wasn’t quite prepared for the sight.

  Despite the fresh paint, power-washed stone, and stucco accents, it was impossible to look upon Mercy House and not have the word gothic float to the front of your brain. The word here did not denote teenage mall rats who’d pierced their faces in all the wrong spots and dressed in black denim, but the older meaning. The high double doors, no matter how well sanded their grain and polished their fixtures, would still have looked at home on the hinges of the Castle of Otranto.

  Yes, there was machined steel mesh over the windows, whitewashed to appear as welcoming as possible, but the frames of those same windows still arched upward, turning the three-story facade of Mercy House into a head with too many evil eyes to keep tabs on.

  There were antennas, satellite dishes, and even the obsidian shine of solar panels angled off the roof, but none of those modern touches made the building feel like it was a part of this era. It was the Tower of London, U.S. edition. Shirley Jackson’s wet dream.

  “Wow, look how nice, Mom. It’s even better than the pictures,” Don said. Nikki was unable to tell if he was serious or not. Everything he’d said to Harriet over the last week had carried the sheen of affectation, a child talking to his new kitten, even when he knows it could claw him at any moment.

  They pulled around the loop of the driveway, the car rocking over the cobblestones. They moved past the small stone fountain, there was no algae visible on any of the pumps, but it was still old-looking. The car turned, offering Harriet and Nikki a better look at the details of the building: all of them clean and well tended, but none of them inviting.

  “It looks like a hospital crossed with a crypt. I’m going to die here,” Harriet said, her voice defeated.

  Don didn’t have time to address the comment, because one of the doors to the building opened and two figures slipped out, one of them waving to the car. The male was tall with close-cropped black hair and wearing pale green scrubs, the female was small and blond, her hair long and primped enough that she didn’t look ready to see patients, if she were in the medical profession as well. The woman’s pantsuit didn’t read as that of a doctor, and she carried the officiousness of a politician.

  Don brought the car parallel to the two as they walked down the stone steps. After a moment fumbling to find the correct button, Don rolled down the window on Nikki’s side.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Laurel?” the blond woman asked.

  “That’s us,” Nikki said, the tension that had filled the car for hours seeming to dissolve, now that they were all forced to put on their civilized faces.

  “You can leave your keys in the ignition and Teddy will bring your car around back to the lot. I’m sure you’re anxious to stretch your legs,” the blonde said. This close it was apparent that the woman was older than Nikki had originally thought. Her cartoonish, sq
ueaky voice, highlights, and makeup were all smoke and mirrors to fool you into thinking coed, when the truth was closer to baby boomer. In a way, the woman was like Mercy House itself: the shine of new paint splashed over a classic chassis.

  Don opened his door and Nikki followed suit.

  “Ms. Donner? I think we spoke on the phone, I recognize your voice,” Don said. It was no coincidence that he emphasized the word voice, but a joke meant for Nikki.

  Before their life had taken this melancholy turn, back when they used to go out, they had shared jokes like this at parties. It was not to prove that they were better than anyone but just to show each other how tuned they were to what the other was thinking. When he pulled this trick Nikki would often have to stop herself from laughing, but now in the shadow of the gussied-up stone castle, she was not in the mood to laugh at the blonde’s Barbie voice.

  “Yes,” Ms. Donner said, reaching Nikki first and offering her hand. “Gail Donner, chairwoman of the facility. Welcome. Please call me Gail.”

  Nikki said her own name and shook, Gail bouncing to the rear window without missing a beat, her footsteps practiced, almost musical. Nikki could tell that this must be her favorite part of the job, putting on a show for the newbies. Either that or the woman was naturally this enthusiastic, in which case Nikki felt a strong blend of awe and pity for her.

  “And this must be Harriet,” she said, pulling open the door for Don’s mother. She yanked the old woman along with the handle until she let go, Nikki’s mother-in-law late in realizing that the door was being opened without her power. It was a small mistake, but one that made Nikki sad, seeing a woman who used to be so lively defeated by a car door.

  “So sorry about that, Mrs. Laurel,” Gail said, offering Harriet her arm for support, the cuffs of her suit jacket exquisitely crisp.

  Harriet waved her off. “I can manage.” She put a bony had on the top of the door and pushed her feet out, her awkward and jerky motions resembling those of an astronaut climbing from a capsule after reentry, trying to acclimate to the atmosphere.

  Nikki forced her eyes away from the struggle, toward Don, who was beside her now, his hand on her lower back. Nikki wished she hadn’t sweated so much during the drive. She felt gross. No matter the circumstances, if Don’s hands were on her, she wanted to feel fresh.

  Don nodded to Teddy, the nurse or orderly, or whatever he was. The big man gave them both a blank-eyed smile that could have been shyness, or the look of someone who hated his job and was just barely hanging on. Nikki guessed the latter.

  Gail took a step back and opened her arms. “Please, follow me. It’s much nicer inside, there’s none of this wind.” She made a brrrr sound with her lips and hugged herself tight, even though both Don and Nikki were able to comfortably wear short sleeves. This was part of her act: Old people were always cold, thus Gail Donner was always the first to point out how chilly it was. It was a nice touch. Nikki was impressed.

  They walked to the doorway, Gail letting Harriet dictate the pace, walking beside the old woman, vigilant as Harriet took the stairs. “These steps are part of the original foundation, so you can see how they curve in. We recommend that everyone use the handrails.”

  Don sipped the Kool-Aid and grabbed ahold of the banister, Nikki did not. She saw no point in it, the stairs were perfectly even.

  Gail scurried ahead to open the door. Behind them the rental car disappeared around the corner of the building.

  The inside of Mercy House, at least this first room, was incongruous with the observations Nikki had made out front.

  The room was decadent, to be sure, but not the crumbling decadence of aristocracy. Instead it was like a modern excess of a dentist’s waiting room with too much money spent on the fixtures.

  The tall ceilings were carved oak that curved down to meet bright (which Nikki took to mean repro) Art Deco wallpaper. There was thin carpeting underfoot, soft enough that it had some give, but not so spongy that elderly guests would have trouble walking on it. Pushed against two walls was a collection of seats and couches, all either brand-new or recently upholstered, the edges not rounded like antique furniture but angular, suggesting that they came from somewhere slightly pricier than Ikea. There were bookcases stocked with cozy mysteries and a half decade’s worth of New York Times bestsellers and, in front of the couches, coffee tables with recent magazines stacked on top, the titles facing the wrong way so passersby could read them, a cross-section of topics to interest every member of the visiting families.

  Gail had been right, it was warmer in here, but uncomfortably so for Nikki. It was probably just the right temperature for Harriet.

  “You can hang your coats up behind you,” Gail said to Don and Nikki. Don did, while Nikki took her own off but decided to keep it with her, draped over her forearm. Gail moved behind her to help Harriet with hers and, surprisingly, Harriet allowed herself to be helped. She likes it, Nikki silently beamed.

  “This is just a waiting room for families who come to visit, but as you can see, we try to keep every aspect of Mercy House to a rigorous standard. Now, Harriet, would you like to rest for a little while or do you want to accompany the kids on their tour?”

  “I’m not tired and she’s not my kid,” Harriet said.

  “Ha,” Gail said, apologizing with her eyes to Nikki, but still moving forward with the laugh. “You are a pip, Harriet. I think you’re going to like it here at Mercy House. Don’t you?”

  Harriet pointed her face down to their shoes. “The place smells like rotten milk, no matter what you try to cover it up with.”

  That didn’t quite seem fair; all Nikki could smell was the acrylic tang of new carpet.

  Chapter 3

  On days when she was taking over a shift from Flores, Sarah Campbell would always arrive at work an hour early. Flores was no less qualified than her, she was a very kind woman with an effortless rapport with the patients, but she was dead set against the idea of sticking around any longer than she had to and giving Sarah a proper sign-out.

  To make things a little easier on herself, and to provide the best care she could, Sarah gave up one hour of her free time every other shift.

  Sarah was not paid extra for this and was not gunning for a promotion that she knew was unlikely, but still she derived a personal satisfaction from these proper post-shift briefings. Even if it meant that she sometimes had to drag information out of Flores. If the other woman thought Sarah was irritating or smug, so be it. As long as the work was getting done.

  Sarah took the folding clipboard from her pocket. The clipboard had the most common conversion tables and dosages printed on the back, just in case she should suffer a brain fart and have to double-check herself (she never did). She marked the date at the top of the chart and began sign-out.

  “How is Three-FF?” she asked, starting from the top east-most room with a patient— resident, if she were going to speak the word aloud.

  “Mr. Acker? He’s fine, slept most of the day. I checked his tubes. Everything’s clean, no crud,” Flores said, ducking down to press the fresh blanket under the mattress. She was tucking Selma Dobbs of room 3C into her bed, swaddling the old woman as she watched television. This was not a service that all nurses offered, and probably why the patients preferred Flores.

  Sign-outs had to be conducted on the fly, Sarah following Flores into patient rooms as she finished up her shift.

  Even if Ms. Dobbs wasn’t listening, Flores should not have been using names in front of other patients, but Sarah had long ago given up asking her to stop. Flores claimed that they were not in a hospital and she was not a doctor so those rules didn’t apply. Besides, Flores would also argue, all the residents of Mercy House knew everyone else’s business. From their prescriptions down to who had a crush on whom. HIPAA violations were not something Flores worried about. To her, those “violations” were all the gossip that the abuelos and abuelas had to cling to, sometimes.

  Besides, Flores was the only nurse who would indulge
Sarah’s need for sign-outs, however reluctantly. The rest of the nurses were either too firm in saying no, or scared Sarah off in some other way.

  Sarah clicked her pen to green and drew a soft line under Mr. Acker’s name. Her pen was a tricolor ballpoint, which she had ordered in bulk after deciding that they were the best pen for the job. A green line indicated a patient with no pressing issues. Patients with blue underlines were in need of something that would have to be tended to before her shift ended, and red ones were priority, patients she would visit right when Flores had punched out. It was a system of her own invention, one that none of the other nurses found necessary to adopt, no matter how hard she pushed the issue at staff meetings.

  “Three-EC?” Sarah asked, moving down the north hallway. The two resident floors of Mercy House were nearly identical in construction, each with a main hallway, north and south, but there were far more patients stocked on the second floor.

  “Bea didn’t eat much, but that might have been because she spent lunchtime room jumping,” Flores said. She winked at Selma and the old woman blushed. “She may ask to go to the commissary after hours.”

  “Room jumping” was Mercy House slang for sexual intercourse, not that Sarah would ever use the term.

  “Harold, that big buck,” Selma said, smiling to Flores while ignoring Sarah. The reference was to Harold Beaumont, one of Mercy House’s youngest residents and one of the few people of color. Apparently Selma hadn’t been that absorbed in her show.

  Sarah decided to underline Beatrice “Queen Bea” Spencer’s name in blue, a reminder that maybe the two of them needed to have another discussion about safe sex. For the residents of Mercy House who were healthy enough for it, sex was a popular pastime. Even the ones who weren’t healthy enough would sometimes try it, a practice that had led to more than a few broken bones and embarrassed red-button calls.

  “I know you like to joke, Selma, but remember what we’ve all learned about sexually transmitted infections,” Sarah said, leaning over the bed as Flores rolled her eyes and walked out into the main hallway.