Read Online Red Girl Rat Boy by Cynthia Flood - Free Book Online Page A

scooted to visit friends. Not today. Alone in 17-A’s corridor, she hunched in her chair, whimpering Eric, Eric. She thumbed an old Canadian Living , its cover a cake resplendent with piped cream. Dozed.
    A nurse cruised by, to check on this resident’s psoriasis.
    Tired from weeping, Annabel slept again, even when Julio arrived. He came from Lily’s island though not her village. After dry-mopping 17-A for the thirty-seven seconds availed him by the institution’s short-staffing, Julio dragged out the garbage bag swollen each and every day with plastic and paper opaque, clear, printed, stretchy, squashy, hard, infected, crackly, sticky, inky, fuzzy, torn, unused, wet, shit- or food- or coffee- or puke- or lipstick- or snot-stained, perfumed, precious; laden also with glass bottles, squeeze bottles, jars, tubes, tubs, ampoules, aerosols, Styrofoam and tins, empty, full, necessary, scorned. He missed the Van Gogh bits.
    The sack scraped over the floor. Annabel’s dreams dislimned, and as Mr. Chang wheeled by she woke. They smiled. Julio didn’t.
    What about lunch? Not dining-room, not after howling for Eric there, but yesterday she’d scored loonies from petty cash. So. Basement. Vending machines.
    From 17-B the lawyers blared Objection, your honour!
    Withdrawn. My colleague would have you believe. . .
    Lily emerged, with Teevee-gal’s remote.
    Annabel tak-takked after her, mouthing, “Tattletale! Ass-licker!”
    The Wanderer, at the cash machine again, nodded.
    Eating barbecue chips and a Mars bar, Annabel watched the nimble thick fingers till the Wanderer shrugged, quit.
    â€œWhat’s in your basket today?”
    Under a ratty cardigan lay Windex, instant coffee, jelly beans, rolls of TP.
    Annabel laughed. “Let’s go!”
    Smiling, the Wanderer unlocked a utility closet.
    Their baskets soon loaded, the women wheeled to a washroom where they filled a toilet-tank to overflowing with bottles of Javex and Pine-Sol. Using packaged rags, they blocked the paper-towel feed. Although the tampon machine defeated them, they easily squirted out all the liquid soaps.
    In the corridor again, they saw doctors approaching. The women stilled, heads sank to chests, eyelids drooped. Annabel’s knees flopped apart. Her tongue protruded.
    After the talking white-coats passed, she suggested, “Home now?” But the Wanderer rolled away, wet wheels hissing as she headed for Delivery.
    Near the great door, Annabel slowed. She hadn’t exited the building since ninety, but the Wanderer rolled right out.
    No one there. Under a dumpster, a darting rat. Two. The women laughed at them, at the sun’s warmth, the fresh air whose garbage tang included none of the chemicals used indoors to mask decay.
    Now the Wanderer’s heavy arms mimed throwing towards the dumpsters. Huge throws. Her body jerked, her footless legs waved.
    â€œWhat?” Annabel turned back.
    Sighing, the Wanderer re-entered.
    On their floor, many residents were still at lunch.
    In one room the Wanderer chose a watch with a green strap, Vogue , moisturizer, a BC Ferries ballpoint pen on which a tiny boat slid up and down. She mimed towards Annabel, who shook her head. A room emptied by death was different; she’d pick out jewellery, photos of grandsons. Treats for Eric, canned nuts, foot rub, jam.
    Now the Wanderer’s cardigan bulged. She looked about, intuiting, Annabel knew, today’s right site. Keys bloated her fanny pack. Rumour said the Wanderer slept with it latched round her belly, gripped it even when bathed. The boiler room? That fat monster scared Annabel. No! Happily tak-tak followed whir-whir as the chairs sped past Mr. Chang, the nurses’ station, dining area, kitchen, to the linen room with its towers of dry scalded sheets, face cloths, gowns, robes, towels, pads, pillowcases, coverlets, bibs.
    In one wall, a square of steel. Annabel pulled the handle, and the Wanderer dumped her