The One Who Got Away

by L. A. Detwiler

  ‘I see,’ she replies after a careful moment. ‘Mrs Evans, have you been having any difficulty lately remembering things? Have you been getting more confused?’

  I look over and for the first time, I notice she’s taking notes. What is she doing? What is this really about?

  ‘Absolutely not. I’m fine. What are you doing?’ I demand, gesturing to her notepad, my fists tightening now.

  ‘We’re just worried. That’s all. We just want what’s best for you. We want you to be safe and happy here at Smith Creek Manor. Oliver is worried too. We think maybe we need to make some adjustments to your medication to make things easier for you,’ she says. Her sentences are slow and methodical, as if she’s explaining something to a child.

  Anger bubbles. They want to increase my medications. This is all Oliver’s plotting. He’s doing this. He hasn’t lost his touch, and he isn’t backing down.

  ‘That’s insane. He’s the one who needs meds. Look. Look what he’s been doing.’ I pull the note out of my pocket. It’s crumpled and a bit torn, but as I unfurl it, I reveal the words scrawled in red ink. I hand it to her to read, hoping it will set things straight. Her soft, unmarred hand takes the note from me, her warm skin brushing against my cold, sagging hands. The nurse looks at the note, eyeing it and then me. Her face is unmoving, unemotional.

  ‘I see,’ she replies simply, folding the note again. I snatch it out of her hands. She doesn’t believe me. Of course she doesn’t believe me. Tears threaten to form, but I tell myself to stay strong. I sniff the tears back, clenching my jaw.

  ‘And where was this left, Mrs Evans?’ she asks, peering at me over the bridge of her too-thin nose.

  I blink at her, narrowing my eyes. ‘It was left when I was in the reading room down the corridor. I woke up and someone left it there.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ she asks.

  My mind whirls, and I feel as though my head might explode. ‘Of course I’m sure. I was in there yesterday. Or I think it was yesterday. Maybe the day before. But I woke up and it was there.’

  ‘You think it was yesterday?’ she asks pointedly.

  My palms start to sweat. ‘Yes, it was most definitely yesterday.’ It was yesterday, wasn’t it? Or was it the day before? Suddenly, the morning routines and the evenings blend together into a cacophony of catastrophic confusion. The reading room. I went there, didn’t I? The one past the nurse’s station – or is it past Dorothy’s room? My head whirls with possibilities. Which one is right? I can’t recall if it was yesterday or today. I know I was reading a book. I think I was. But where? When? I hate it when my mind does this. It’s the bloody nurse’s fault. It’s her fault. She’s confusing me. Asking too many questions. Anyone would get confused, wouldn’t they?

  I wonder if I wrote it down. I’ve been writing more down lately. I don’t want to forget. I have a case to solve. I glance to the stand, thinking about getting out my notes. They’re stowed in the drawer, out of sight. But I see her eyeing me suspiciously and know I can’t let her see the notes.

  I can’t trust her. I can’t trust any of them. Charles would say I’m being paranoid, but I’m not. I’m really not. Someone’s out to get me, and the staff are out to get everyone. I need to be careful. I need to tread carefully, Charles. I know I do.

  The nurse scribbles down some words as I sit silently. Finally, she speaks up.

  ‘Mrs Evans, look. There’s no harm in adjusting your meds. With your condition, it’s to be expected. And we could help improve your quality of life. Help you remember more clearly and help keep you from getting so upset,’ she continues on, matter-of-factly.

  I glare back silently, shaking my head. Someone is leaving me threatening notes, and this is their response? To increase my medication? To put me in a medicated stupor so I’m not aware when someone is doing me harm? They want me to be a willing victim for whatever comes next? No. I can’t stand for this. I dig deep, finding the fight still left within me.

  ‘I’m fine. I don’t need more medication.’ My words are harsh and direct. I laser my gaze into hers now, and she shifts uncomfortably.

  ‘Mrs Evans, this behaviour Oliver is reporting, well, it’s troubling.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ I spew back. ‘This is all part of his plan.’

  ‘What plan?’ she asks placatingly, and I know that no matter what I say, I won’t be believed. The emphasis she puts on the word plan is mocking.

  I now know for certain the predicament I’m in, the corner he has me trapped in. No matter what I say, no matter who I tell, he will win. He will win again. Who will believe me, after all? He is the calm, collected, charismatic older man the nurses never have an issue with. Just like his younger days, his appeal masks the shadowy truths lurking beneath the surface of his smile, of his bright eyes. I, on the other hand, am the new woman who has a history of forgetting and getting confused. I am the ragged hag who loses her mind over things like the code to the stairs. I am the decrepit old woman with a laundry list of medical ailments who is being stowed here until she passes into the night. Of course I won’t be believed. Of course not.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m fine. I promise. Last night was just a misunderstanding.’ I wave her question away with my hand, as if batting away a mosquito. I inhale slowly, telling myself to stay calm, that all will be fine. They might think I’ve gone completely mad, but I can play at this game. Two can play. Two. And even if only one can win, I’ll just have to ensure it’s me.

  ‘Okay. Well, I’m going to make a note that we keep a careful watch on everything. Just to make sure it’s all right. We want Smith Creek Manor to work for you, Mrs Evans. We want you to fit in here.’ Her pen loops up and down, notes scrawled down quickly. I peer at her notebook, wanting to see what she’s writing, but it’s angled away. Even squinting, I can’t tell what story she’s writing about me. Don’t I have a right to see?

  But she doesn’t understand. How could she? How could anyone? Everyone around here is too busy or too unconcerned or too far gone to question anything that happens. It’s a perfect place to fly under the radar, to commit atrocities, and to get away with them. I shudder. What will he be able to get away with next?

  I want to tell the woman that being safe and happy has nothing to do with the meds and everything to do with the monster walking these halls. But how can I tell her that? I know she won’t believe it – and suddenly, my heart pounds again.

  ‘What about the code to the stairwell?’ I ask.

  ‘Excuse me?’ she replies, troubled.

  ‘You said if I need anything, I can ask. I need the code to the stairwell. If there’s some kind of danger here, I’ll never get out in time. I need to know the code.’ And if someone is harassing me, trying to cause me harm, at least I’ll have another exit. At least I could get away.

  ‘Mrs Evans, you know we can’t give that out. It’s a safety hazard. What if you fell?’

  ‘Someone has the code. I hear banging in the stairwell every night.’

  She looks at me, clicking her pen. Shoot. I shouldn’t have offered that. More ammunition for her case against me. I study her, waiting to see if she jots down the damning evidence in the ‘Adeline is insane’ file. But she doesn’t. She puts the pen down. It’s red, I notice for the first time.

  ‘I’m sure it was only the staff, Mrs Evans. There’s no need to worry. It’s all okay. There’s no danger. I promise. You’re safe here. There’s no reason to be panicked.’

  She crosses her heart like the child she still is. I think about how satisfying it would be to cross her heart with the pen in her hand, to watch the blood stream out from the wound as her perky little smile blackens. I shake my head. Who am I? What is this place doing to me? She leaves after a few more faux pleasantries and promises to check back in with me in a few days. I remain perched in my spot, staring out the window.

  I’m trapped. I’m stuck. And Oliver knows this. If I report what he’s doing, what will come of it? They’ll think I’m mad, the d
ementia completely taking over. If I tell Claire, she will worry – and then the staff will convince her that I’m mad. There’s no one to turn to. No one to believe me.

  Sometime later a warm voice interrupts my thoughts asking, ‘Can I come in?’. I turn to see Dorothy, leaning on her walking frame at the threshold of my room.

  I smile. I have someone to tell. I have someone to trust. Maybe she’ll know what to do.

  Chapter 18

  I lie in my bed, staring at the ceiling, shadows cast about from the brightness of the moon. I think about the days when I was young and would look up at the night sky, watching the stars and picking out constellations. Now, there are no stars in my world. Only shadows. As I look at the stark outlines on the ceiling, Dorothy’s words sift through my head over and over.

  ‘I told you about the woman in 306, didn’t I? The purple skin, the extra medicine. Addy, you need to be careful. You go flinging wild accusations around this place, and the staff of Smith Creek Manor will make sure you have no capability of tossing accusations around again,’ she had warned when I’d divulged the secrets I’d been harbouring. Dorothy’s face had paled, her lips pursed as she’d studied me.

  ‘They can check the cameras,’ I had replied, asserting what had been rolling in my head for a while.

  She’d raised an eyebrow. ‘You think that Smith Creek Manor has functioning cameras? You think they’d take the time to look at them? You’ve been in the lift, after all. They don’t even upkeep that, let alone the cameras. Maybe in the early days, the videos were there. But now? I can guarantee the cameras are just there for show if at all.’

  I’d sighed, knowing I had been grasping at thin air but desperate for answers to my problems.

  ‘I’m telling you, be careful. You’re not going to win in this. They won’t let you.’

  ‘I know. 306,’ I had murmured, my voice barely audible, as if the number itself were some type of prayer to be whispered silently and not shouted.

  Images of my body lying on the floor, paralysed, as my mind races, as the drugs pump through my veins and stop my heart, haunt me. Tears fall. I’m trapped. I’ve got no staircase code. I’ve got no answer. And someone here wants me to pay.

  I didn’t tell Dorothy the whole story, of course. I didn’t tell her about my complete history with Oliver or what I had done all those years ago to enrage him. I didn’t tell her why he would have reason to be so angry. In truth, I don’t know if she believes me about the notes, the Bible verse, and everything else. She’s probably seen her fair share of madness around here. Heck, she sits with some of the residents who are two shakes shy of the looney bin. She probably thinks I’m no different.

  I turn over in my bed, facing the door even though it’s pointless. What use will it be if I see him come in? What will that prove? People wander around this place all the time. Just this afternoon, Babbling Barbara was pulled from Rose’s former bed for tucking herself in and going to sleep.

  Would it be worth trying the cameras? Dorothy’s probably right, I realise. Smith Creek Manor might try to sell itself as legitimate and trustworthy, but after only a short amount of time here, I’ve come to learn how false that notion is. Additionally, could Dorothy be right in her assessment of danger, in reminding me of 306? Is it more perilous to let whoever it is keep leaving notes – or to tell the staff? Perhaps this clandestine enemy of mine isn’t the true enemy. Could the real danger come from the staff, the nurses who have so much to lose if accusations start flying? I toss the possibility around in my mind until finally my eyes close. I go over the frightening evidence, as if I can will myself to remember, to think, to put it together. Babbling Barbara and the painful warning on night one. The mysterious death of the woman in 306 before my time. The note on the board warning me I’m being watched. The Bible verse that scared me. The banging in the stairwell night after night. Oliver Parsons finding me at the staircase, turning me into the staff, leaving the note in the book. Oliver’s eyes that shine with some type of heat, of wrath, of anger for the past that can’t be undone. And then there’s Rose’s death – was it an accident? Jones, who seems ready to take out his need for vengeance at any second. It’s too much, all too much.

  Over and over, the daunting clues pile up and circulate in my weary mind until finally, I can’t take anymore. I drift to sleep, but no peaceful dreams come. Instead, I dream of lifeless bodies, of fire, and of a staircase I can’t open.

  ***

  Footsteps in my room. There are loud, stomping footsteps in my room, I realise as my eyes dart open. The room is dark, and before my eyes adjust, a hand shakes my arm.

  ‘You fucking slag,’ he snarls in my face, spittle landing on my cheek. My groggy brain wraps itself around the image, around the face that is so close to mine.

  ‘What are you doing, huh? Trying to cause trouble? You trying to get me fired?’ Jones asks, rattling my whole body. He is still so close, I can taste his foul breath.

  ‘N-n-no. No,’ I whisper back, not moving a muscle for fear of retaliation.

  Jones smirks. ‘No? No? Is that why I got called in today about not doing a great job at keeping an eye on Floor Three? Is that why I was told by some bloody trollop of an administrator that I need to start keeping a better watch on the patients, that apparently the woman in 316 went bonkers when I wasn’t around?’

  ‘I-I-I didn’t.’

  ‘You didn’t what? So help me God, you keep this up, you’re going to see what cuckoo really looks like, you slag. I won’t have you mess this up for me, you hear? Keep your fucking mouth shut. Or I’ll shut it for you.’

  I stare into the face of the man who has so much to lose. He storms out of the room, punching the threshold on the way out. I shudder. I think I’ve got the answer to my question. Whatever is happening on Floor Three, I need to solve it myself. Because if Oliver doesn’t get me, Jones will. I’m certain of it.

  I cry myself to sleep, thinking about what a mess this all has turned out to be and how I’m never going to get the harmony I so desperately wanted in my final years.

  Chapter 19

  But the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral, those who practise magic arts, the idolaters and all liars – they will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulphur. This is the second death.

  I rock myself back and forth in the chair by the window, looking through the courtyard, the day foggy and grey. I hold the crinkled piece of paper with the familiar scrawl in my hand.

  The note was tacked on the noticeboard when I came back from breakfast, and this time, it read: Revelation 21: 8. Another verse. Another foreboding message. Another warning, perhaps – but of what? And when was it put there? Was it there before I went to breakfast? My mind spins. Think, Adeline, I order myself. When did it happen? Was it there last night, before bed? Maybe it was there and I left it. I do need to take better notes. It’s all too much. It’s getting to be too much.

  But I don’t know. Regardless, it can’t be a good sign.

  I think about my life, about all that’s transpired. I let my mind wander back, back, further back still.

  How peculiar that at the end of my life, Oliver is here, reminding me of my gloomy past. As if I could’ve forgotten that choice, that decision, that’s weighed on me over and over. The secret I harboured that became a lie I carried on – a lie I guarded with Charles, with Claire, with everyone. A lie that led to more tragedy than I could’ve ever anticipated. How would it have all been different if I’d have chosen another path? Or even if I’d have told the truth to Charles from day one? Or if I hadn’t made that choice at all?

  It’s hard to tell. We can’t live in regret – but sometimes, when the past comes flying back into the present, it’s hard not to ponder how it could’ve all been avoided. Life works in mysterious ways – and so do humans, I suppose.

  Guilt racks my body, and my stomach churns with nausea. For so many decades, I’d shoved the thought down, down, way into the depths of my being. I’d
let that horrid scar from my past fade, let the memory dim. I’d moved on as we all must do sometimes. Charles and the life we made together made it easy to forget. It made it easy to tell myself I made the right choice that freezing winter night when I’d snuck out, got in that car with the scribbled address in my pocket, and made the decision that changed everything. But the secret I hid from everyone, even Charles, will burn its way to the surface in my final days. And maybe, just maybe, this whole situation at Smith Creek is karma. I don’t know.

  I stare out the window speckled with rain drops, eyeing the room across the way like I so often do. The familiar yet indistinct figure walks closer, closer to the window.

  But as he presses his face up to the glass in an awkward display, I try to place him. There are still residents of Floor Three whom I don’t really interact with. Which one is he? He looks back at me, and I can tell from here he’s staring, studying, observing me. It chills me a bit, but then again, it doesn’t. After all, I’m doing the same exact thing he is. I’m staring right back. He’s the whole way over there, watching. It comforts me in an odd way, like I’m not going unnoticed. Like if something were to happen, maybe someone would witness it, someone would be there to watch me fade away.

  Sometimes in life, I think that’s half the battle. I think that’s what we all crave – to avoid slipping away, unnoticed. Smith Creek Manor makes that wish more difficult to attain day by day.

  ***

  ‘You doing all right? Any updates?’ Dorothy asks as we sit at lunch later.