occupied the bed just inside the door. Her eyes were shut, her mouth was open, and she was snoring loudly. The outline of the coverlet revealed that she was an amputee—half of her left leg was missing. Just beyond this bed the flimsy green privacy curtain was drawn. Two figures were silhouetted against it.
Elizabeth hesitated, not wanting to interrupt whatever was taking place,
visit? care procedure? Should I knock on the door?
A muttered conference seemed to be taking place on the other side of the curtain.
“This is bad, Payne. After all this time—”
A man’s hand grasped the edge of the curtain and tugged it back, rings rattling on the metal rod. His dark eyes widened at the sight of Elizabeth. “Yes? Were you looking for someone?”
“I’ve come to see Nola.”
The slumped figure in the wheelchair coughed as the second man lowered the paper cup he had been holding to her lips. He reached into the pocket of his suit jacket, withdrew a pristine white handkerchief, and carefully wiped Nola Barrett’s trembling lips as she slowly turned her head to look at Elizabeth.
“I hardly recognized her. Her hair’d been cut—standard procedure for long-term care, the doctor said. And she didn’t have her glasses on, or the makeup I’d always seen her in. Her face looked so naked. And her eyes…it was as if she was pleading with me, but when she tried to talk, it was just garble. Phillip, I hope I drop down dead before I find myself in a nursing home.”
She stretched out luxuriously in her bed, holding the phone close to her ear. Phillip’s voice was a pleasant antidote to the bleak memory of her visit to the Layton Facility.
“There was a physician there? That’s pretty unusual for a nursing home. What—”
“He wasn’t part of the staff. He has a practice in Asheville but his brother’s the pastor who called about Nola. They were both there visiting her. Evidently the doctor came out as a special favor. His name’s Pritchard—Dr. Pritchard Morton.”
The Morton brothers had been a study in contrasts. Payne, the pastor of Dewell Hill Beulah Bethel Church, wore shiny black trousers and a permanent-press white shirt. His dark hair shone with hair cream and his ruddy complexion bore the scars of adolescent acne. His brother, the older of the two, wore a beautifully cut, or so it seemed to Elizabeth’s untutored eye, tweed jacket and immaculate wool trousers that broke gracefully over perfectly polished and probably quite expensive loafers.
“So could this doctor tell you anything about the old lady—excuse me, about Miss Barrett’s condition?”
“He said she’d probably had a stroke—but they haven’t run any tests yet and he’s not actually Nola’s doctor. But that was his opinion.”
“Did your friend recognize you?”
“I’m sure she did, but—”
“She couldn’t communicate, right? I know a lot of the time people who’ve had strokes can’t find the right words for what they want to say. But then after a while, maybe with some therapy, they improve.”
“Dr. Morton was saying something like that—though he didn’t sound as if he believed that it would happen in Nola’s case. But listen, Phillip, a really odd thing happened.”
She cleared her throat and continued. “After the Morton brothers left, I sat with Nola a while. I’d brought a book of poetry—I told you how she loved poetry. Well, I had the idea that if we couldn’t talk, then I’d read to her a bit. And I did and she seemed to enjoy it. But when I got ready to go, I took her hand to say good-bye and she held it in a death grip. She was trying so hard to say something but the words wouldn’t come. Then, all at once she began speaking in her old voice—perfect, precise diction. Phillip, she was quoting from
Hamlet
.
“Jeez—I hated that play. We had to study it in freshman English. That guy Hamlet just drove me crazy—couldn’t make up his mind.” Phillip laid a hand over his
Elizabeth hesitated, not wanting to interrupt whatever was taking place,
visit? care procedure? Should I knock on the door?
A muttered conference seemed to be taking place on the other side of the curtain.
“This is bad, Payne. After all this time—”
A man’s hand grasped the edge of the curtain and tugged it back, rings rattling on the metal rod. His dark eyes widened at the sight of Elizabeth. “Yes? Were you looking for someone?”
“I’ve come to see Nola.”
The slumped figure in the wheelchair coughed as the second man lowered the paper cup he had been holding to her lips. He reached into the pocket of his suit jacket, withdrew a pristine white handkerchief, and carefully wiped Nola Barrett’s trembling lips as she slowly turned her head to look at Elizabeth.
“I hardly recognized her. Her hair’d been cut—standard procedure for long-term care, the doctor said. And she didn’t have her glasses on, or the makeup I’d always seen her in. Her face looked so naked. And her eyes…it was as if she was pleading with me, but when she tried to talk, it was just garble. Phillip, I hope I drop down dead before I find myself in a nursing home.”
She stretched out luxuriously in her bed, holding the phone close to her ear. Phillip’s voice was a pleasant antidote to the bleak memory of her visit to the Layton Facility.
“There was a physician there? That’s pretty unusual for a nursing home. What—”
“He wasn’t part of the staff. He has a practice in Asheville but his brother’s the pastor who called about Nola. They were both there visiting her. Evidently the doctor came out as a special favor. His name’s Pritchard—Dr. Pritchard Morton.”
The Morton brothers had been a study in contrasts. Payne, the pastor of Dewell Hill Beulah Bethel Church, wore shiny black trousers and a permanent-press white shirt. His dark hair shone with hair cream and his ruddy complexion bore the scars of adolescent acne. His brother, the older of the two, wore a beautifully cut, or so it seemed to Elizabeth’s untutored eye, tweed jacket and immaculate wool trousers that broke gracefully over perfectly polished and probably quite expensive loafers.
“So could this doctor tell you anything about the old lady—excuse me, about Miss Barrett’s condition?”
“He said she’d probably had a stroke—but they haven’t run any tests yet and he’s not actually Nola’s doctor. But that was his opinion.”
“Did your friend recognize you?”
“I’m sure she did, but—”
“She couldn’t communicate, right? I know a lot of the time people who’ve had strokes can’t find the right words for what they want to say. But then after a while, maybe with some therapy, they improve.”
“Dr. Morton was saying something like that—though he didn’t sound as if he believed that it would happen in Nola’s case. But listen, Phillip, a really odd thing happened.”
She cleared her throat and continued. “After the Morton brothers left, I sat with Nola a while. I’d brought a book of poetry—I told you how she loved poetry. Well, I had the idea that if we couldn’t talk, then I’d read to her a bit. And I did and she seemed to enjoy it. But when I got ready to go, I took her hand to say good-bye and she held it in a death grip. She was trying so hard to say something but the words wouldn’t come. Then, all at once she began speaking in her old voice—perfect, precise diction. Phillip, she was quoting from
Hamlet
.
“Jeez—I hated that play. We had to study it in freshman English. That guy Hamlet just drove me crazy—couldn’t make up his mind.” Phillip laid a hand over his
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