Chapter 2
NELLY
Eleven months ago... Tacoma, Washington
Serenity House lived up to its name, which was one of the reasons Grandpa had decided this was the right place for him and Grandmother. It also helped that the memory care unit was the best in the region.
The automatic doors of Serenity House glided open with a gentle whoosh, chilly air instantly kissing my skin and making goosebumps sprout.
My nose wrinkled of its own volition—astringent, medicinal antiseptic warred with gourmand-scented plug-ins dotting nearly every outlet.
The Serenity staff tried, to their credit, to make it smell more like a spa here rather than a medical facility.
Nothing hid Serenity’s real purpose though.
For a split second, I wanted to turn around.
I’d been so depressed lately, nothing working out the way I needed it to.
Stepping into this building weighed me down further.
I pushed through the emotional muck, stepping further into the reception area.
Pistachio walls were lined with brown, ergonomic chairs.
Above tobacco-stained end-tables were mounted magazine holders boasting nearly recent offerings from Omega Housekeeping, Alpha Health Monthly, Pack Digest, and an endless number of medical journals.
I settled my purse more securely on my shoulder and forced a pleasant expression as I approached the reception desk where Marissa sat, typing away at her computer.
The cheerful woman glanced up, her round face brightening with recognition.
She pushed thick-rimmed glasses into place as her faded olive eyes locked onto my face.
"Nelly! Twice in one week! Your grandparents will be thrilled.
" The receptionist beamed at me. She was the kind of person who could be infectious. Sincere joy, no hidden agenda. I think she really loved her job, too. I couldn’t do what she did—be the face of a place which only offered two options, either a short or long goodbye to loved ones.
"I hope so," I said, signing the visitor log with practiced ease. “I told them I’d try to visit more often. I’ve got too much free time lately.” My signature was quick, utilitarian strokes.
I once tried to learn cursive. My grandmother had the most elegant, swooping handwriting when I was younger.
I thought it was beautiful and fascinating, then quickly discovered that I didn’t have the talent or patience for it.
These days, Grandmother had trouble focusing long enough to write anything, let alone something that swooped beautifully across paper.
Marissa didn’t say anything, her head back down as she finished her earlier computer task.
A vacuum whirred softly in the distance, and the soft hum of Marissa’s desktop soda fridge filled the quiet between us.
I swallowed nervously; it wasn’t enough noise.
My head would start buzzing soon with horrible, depressing thoughts.
It wasn’t just this place. The negative thinking was always waiting in the wings, hoping for silence, and an opportunity to assault.
My life was hushed now, so the mental beatings happened often.
I found myself always wanting to fill gaps in conversation.
Everything used to be so go, go, go. Every minute was accompanied by music and movement.
Quiet.
Calm.
Stillness.
The soundtrack of my life had broken. There was no continuous beat beneath my feet.
So, I’d been keeping the T.V. on at home constantly, right up until every channel I flipped to magically was showing something dance related and I shut it off in anger.
Omega Dance Moms. Knot Another Dance Movie.
Dancing with the Knottywood Stars. The Bachelor Alpha contestant this season was even a former Artist-in-Residence with Boston Ballet.
To add insult to injury, the Imperial had an advertisement running about becoming patrons of the company, complete with benefits like season tickets and prime box seating.
Every other commercial seemed to be that one, and it showed a clip of Geoff lifting Lisette.
The soft hum of the tiny fridge.
The soft tapping of the keyboard.
The whirr of the vacuum suddenly paused.
“So, how are they today?” I pushed the words out; they felt thick as they fought the gathering storm inside my head.
Marissa's smile faltered slightly as she glanced up. “Your grandmother had a good morning. She was looking at old photo albums with Nurse Janine earlier. Your grandfather...” She hesitated. “He needed to take a nap after lunch.” She forced her smile back. “But he was much perkier after.”
My stomach tightened with worry. Grandpa just didn’t seem right these days.
We were waiting on a new round of test results.
Earlier panels had shown some abnormalities, but nothing conclusive.
Grandpa hated worrying about things before they were actually a problem.
He called it putting the cart before the horse.
“Thanks for letting me know. Any idea where they are right now?” Cheerful. I was getting good at sounding passably happy.
“Hmm, let me check.” Marissa typed quickly, pulling up the patient roster which tried to keep up-to-date locations listed. Her face brightened, eyes crinkling. “Oh, they’re in bingo before dinner. That must mean your grandmother is still having a good day!”
Relief flooded through me, and I didn’t try to hide it.
Grandmother's good days were becoming increasingly rare. It was important to cherish each time she found her way back to lucidity, even if it was fleeting and oh-so-painful when it faded away. I clutched my purse tighter, the wallet inside passing through my mind. It used to be Grandmother’s.
Age-worn leather, faded bird embroidery, crammed with dozens of small photos she’d collected over the years.
I didn’t actively use it, opting instead for a compact card holder, but I kept carrying the wallet anyways.
"They do bingo in community room three on this level, right?" I asked, not that I needed confirmation. Just filling another lull in conversation.
"Yep. Just follow the voices. You'll hear them calling numbers." Marissa laughed, then continued. "Your grandfather got quite competitive last night during charades. Won a pack of sugar-free gum and acted like he'd struck gold."
I managed to genuinely smile at that. Other than with Grandmother, whom he often let win, Grandpa had always been competitive.
Whether it was Go Fish on rainy afternoons or teaching me chess when I was seven, he rarely took it easy on people.
Some things didn't change, even here in this place which marked the last life transition for so many people.
No, everything always changes eventually, doesn’t it? Nothing ever truly stays the same. Words streamed through my head. Loudly. Persistently. They wouldn’t let me hover in blissful ignorance.
Everything. Always. Changed.
Nothing. Ever. Stayed.
Yes, Grandpa was still competitive. When he had the energy.
When he wasn’t busy taking care of Grandmother.
When. When. When. He’d barely been able to focus during checkers two weeks ago.
Even if a person doesn’t change, life often keeps things from continuing in the same way, at the same frequency.
Free will versus the machinations of reality.
The hallway stretched before me, lined with watercolor paintings of serene landscapes depicting rolling hills, tranquil lakes, and forests bathed in golden light.
They reminded me of that Kinkade artist who once had galleries in malls across America.
Everything here was designed to soothe, to calm, to make you forget you were in a place where people came to wait for the end.
My patent leather flats whispered against the polished tile as I walked; each footfall echoed softly in the wide corridor.
It wasn’t so loud and jarring as striding through the Imperial.
The clacking of my steps didn’t jump off the walls with gunshot intensity.
For some reason though, my chest still tightened with anxiety.
Serenity House hurt me in a different way than my old place of employment.
This place wasn’t taking my career; it was slowly taking my loved ones.
I could hear them before I saw them—a chorus of elderly voices responding to called numbers, punctuated by the occasional whoop of victory or groan of near-miss.
The recreational community room came into view, filled with round tables where residents clutched their bingo cards with varying degrees of focus and enthusiasm.
One woman with bubblegum pink hair was waving her slip of paper in the air triumphantly, apparently having just achieved ‘bingo!’.
She hopped up with surprising agility, darting forward to exchange her used card for a blank one, before making a choice at the prize table.
She snagged a paperback, then immediately turned to tease one of her table mates that she’d gotten the spicy novel with its Fabio lookalike model on the cover first. Her friend gave her a crooked middle finger, but they hugged once the winner was seated again.
A fresh wave of melancholy washed over me.
God, what would it be like to have a friend or a lover that would care for me that way when I was ancient, wrinkled, and standing with one foot in the grave?