but Nola just sat there. It looked like she was crying and I started to go over and see what was wrong. I got my jacket and boots on and was walking through my backyard to the little gate between our properties. Just then Nola’s back door opened and Tracy called out, ‘You won’t make things any better by getting pneumonia,’ in just the
meanest
tone of voice, and Nola stood up real slow and went inside.”
Lee had paused, remembering the scene, then had added in a troubled voice, “Nola’s always been so straight and elegant in the way she moves, but that night she was walking like an old, old woman.
“Two,
when I called Nola the next morning, Tracy told me she was sleeping in. Well, I’d seen Nola through the window at her laptop, not ten minutes earlier when I took my trash across. I’d waved but she hadn’t looked up. And I’d seen that she was fully dressed, so how could she have been sleeping in? When I called again later, Nola answered but she sounded kind of
distracted
and said she couldn’t talk just then.”
A third finger had been thrust out. “And three, why
did
Nola slam the door on Pastor Morton the afternoon of that same day?”
It was a short trip to the Layton Facility, but there had been enough time to decide that the questions raised by Nola’s neighbor probably all had some plausible, as well as innocuous, answer.
And if they don’t, what can I do? Maybe once I see Nola, it’ll all make some kind of sense.
The one-story complex sprawled on a knoll just off the Ransom bypass, long narrow wings reaching out from the central entry area. A line of pine trees bordered the drive, imperfectly blocking the view of the convenience store and carwash below.
Leaving her jeep in the visitors’ parking area, Elizabeth made her way past an inflatable snowman, sagging incongruously on the brown grass by the walkway. To her right she saw the identical windows of one long red brick wing of the building. A few winter-browned shrubs were planted haphazardly along the foundation, and here and there bird feeders provided entertainment for the residents behind those windows.
“Room 167—down the hall, right at the dining room, left at the nurses’ station. It’s on the left.” The receptionist flashed a perfunctory smile and went back to her computer screen. Sitting in a wheelchair by a sparsely decorated artificial Christmas tree, a withered little woman in hair curlers and a pink robe cuddled a worn baby doll. She nodded several times and said something unintelligible. Elizabeth summoned a cheerful expression and stopped. “Hello. How are you?”
“My baby,” was the slurred answer as the toothless old woman bent her head over the doll. “This is my baby.”
Down the hall, past the dining room, a bingo game was in progress, led by a buoyant, youngish man whose cheerful patter was keeping most of the participants awake. The nurses’ station was ahead, with a gaggle of pastel-garbed aides—some pushing carts of cleaning supplies, others assisting frail residents to totter or roll toward the dining room. There was a pervasive smell of disinfectant with an undertone of human waste, and Elizabeth began to feel very depressed.
A heavy man wearing a shiny black helmet lurched toward her, partially restrained by the aide who clung grimly to the belt of wide webbing that circled his jiggling girth. A growing stain of wetness ran down the left leg of his gray sweatpants.
Elizabeth stepped aside as the pair continued their stumbling progress down the narrow hallway. The heavy man’s face was expressionless and his eyes were blank.
Oh, my god, this is a dreadful place. Poor, poor Nola.
A memory of one of Hieronymus Bosch’s paintings flashed through her mind.
This is Hell and these lost souls are here for the unforgivable sins of poverty, illness, or old age.
The door of 167 was open. Under the number were two names: Ronda Mills and Nola Barrett. A beached whale of a woman
meanest
tone of voice, and Nola stood up real slow and went inside.”
Lee had paused, remembering the scene, then had added in a troubled voice, “Nola’s always been so straight and elegant in the way she moves, but that night she was walking like an old, old woman.
“Two,
when I called Nola the next morning, Tracy told me she was sleeping in. Well, I’d seen Nola through the window at her laptop, not ten minutes earlier when I took my trash across. I’d waved but she hadn’t looked up. And I’d seen that she was fully dressed, so how could she have been sleeping in? When I called again later, Nola answered but she sounded kind of
distracted
and said she couldn’t talk just then.”
A third finger had been thrust out. “And three, why
did
Nola slam the door on Pastor Morton the afternoon of that same day?”
It was a short trip to the Layton Facility, but there had been enough time to decide that the questions raised by Nola’s neighbor probably all had some plausible, as well as innocuous, answer.
And if they don’t, what can I do? Maybe once I see Nola, it’ll all make some kind of sense.
The one-story complex sprawled on a knoll just off the Ransom bypass, long narrow wings reaching out from the central entry area. A line of pine trees bordered the drive, imperfectly blocking the view of the convenience store and carwash below.
Leaving her jeep in the visitors’ parking area, Elizabeth made her way past an inflatable snowman, sagging incongruously on the brown grass by the walkway. To her right she saw the identical windows of one long red brick wing of the building. A few winter-browned shrubs were planted haphazardly along the foundation, and here and there bird feeders provided entertainment for the residents behind those windows.
“Room 167—down the hall, right at the dining room, left at the nurses’ station. It’s on the left.” The receptionist flashed a perfunctory smile and went back to her computer screen. Sitting in a wheelchair by a sparsely decorated artificial Christmas tree, a withered little woman in hair curlers and a pink robe cuddled a worn baby doll. She nodded several times and said something unintelligible. Elizabeth summoned a cheerful expression and stopped. “Hello. How are you?”
“My baby,” was the slurred answer as the toothless old woman bent her head over the doll. “This is my baby.”
Down the hall, past the dining room, a bingo game was in progress, led by a buoyant, youngish man whose cheerful patter was keeping most of the participants awake. The nurses’ station was ahead, with a gaggle of pastel-garbed aides—some pushing carts of cleaning supplies, others assisting frail residents to totter or roll toward the dining room. There was a pervasive smell of disinfectant with an undertone of human waste, and Elizabeth began to feel very depressed.
A heavy man wearing a shiny black helmet lurched toward her, partially restrained by the aide who clung grimly to the belt of wide webbing that circled his jiggling girth. A growing stain of wetness ran down the left leg of his gray sweatpants.
Elizabeth stepped aside as the pair continued their stumbling progress down the narrow hallway. The heavy man’s face was expressionless and his eyes were blank.
Oh, my god, this is a dreadful place. Poor, poor Nola.
A memory of one of Hieronymus Bosch’s paintings flashed through her mind.
This is Hell and these lost souls are here for the unforgivable sins of poverty, illness, or old age.
The door of 167 was open. Under the number were two names: Ronda Mills and Nola Barrett. A beached whale of a woman
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