“No, Ruk, I’m the HT for Team Smile. But we’ll see each other all the time.” He studied Eric for new injuries or bruises. Nothing that he could see.
“Wicked cool.”
“Hey, Eric!” his HT called. “You left your pajamas in the bathroom. And you forgot to comb your hair.”
“You’d better go,” Wes said. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”
Becca raised an eyebrow as Eric turned back to the bathroom. “Wussy?”
“You know, Wesley, Wussy. Eric had a hard time pronouncing my name. Don’t think he even hears the difference.”
“The first time another HT hears that, nobody else will be able to pronounce your name, either. Looks like you got yourself a nickname.”
“Yeah, I thought of that already.” He shrugged. “Could have been worse. My parents could have named me Percy.”
She laughed. That was good. Wes already had the impression that this job would be harder than he’d first thought. The last thing he needed was to start off with the reputation as the jerk who couldn’t laugh at himself.
“You’re serious about this?” Becca asked.
“Of course I’m serious.”
“What I mean is, you’re not going to screw me over, right? God knows I can use all the help I can get, but last night I started thinking. You’re here on your own agenda. And if you think there’s something going on with your brother, it’d be easy to get your revenge by messing things up when the state inspectors are here.”
“That’s not me at all. And besides, I’m writing a paper. How is that going to go over with my advisor?”
“Or what if—just an example—you go check on your brother and leave your residents alone. You know you can’t do that, right?”
“Of course. Look, Becca, I’m studying patient advocacy. And I’ve been taking care of my brother all my life. I know this isn’t a game. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m going to take this seriously. I’m not some trust fund kid who doesn’t know how to work. And I’m not afraid of or disgusted by the mentally handicapped.”
“Then come on. Let’s wake your team.”
They entered Team Smile’s room. Even with two of them on the job, it took a half hour to get the four residents out of their hospital gowns, into fresh diapers, and dressed. Becca showed Wes where to find their clothing and which closet held whose personal belongings.
“If Aaron starts to scream, pop one of those classical CDs into his player. Almost always works. Jan finds a warm breeze through the window comforting. That is, when you can get a warm breeze in Vermont.”
There were four members of Team Smile, three men and a woman. Normally, Becca explained, Riverwood segregated the teams by gender, due to bathroom issues, and the fact that the residents may be retarded, but their adult bodies still had natural sexual urges.
“You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff that’s happened here over the years. Some of it would get people arrested in the real world. No worries of that with Team Smile.”
She said it helped to think of Team Smile as a nursery of infants with very high needs. “Only they’re ten times as hard to move and not nearly as cute. You’ll never see one of these guys signed out by family.”
“Never? They don’t have any visitors?”
“Someone came to see Chad Lett once. A sister, I think. Other than that, I’ve never seen anyone in three and a half years. Except for Jan, they’re all middle aged. Their parents are dead or very old. But even so, none of these guys are like your brother, or even like a baby, for that matter. They don’t recognize people, they don’t smile when they see something pretty. They respond to pain, heat, and cold, but that’s about it. Chad doesn’t even do that. His muscles move and twitch constantly—that’s why he’s so damn heavy—but you can give him a shot and he won’t flinch. Makes it tough for family to bond when you’re pretty much a vegetable.”
Maybe so, but it disturbed Wes to think of people rotting in this place for year after year after year, alone and forgotten.
Becca said, “We lost a guy on Team Smile last fall. Died of kidney failure at fifty-eight. Your life expectancy takes a hit when you live your life moving between bed and wheelchair. He’d been institutionalized since the 50s. Turned over to the state at the age of three months. Fifty-eight years in a place like this. Can you imagine?”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. Well, good luck with graduated advancement with this crowd. Your classes are tracking an object, recognizing their names. Stuff like that. I’ll show you the book later. Goals and methods and a log you need to keep. My opinion is that it’s more useful for you—make you feel like you’re doing something other than changing diapers—than for the residents. You’ll come and go and ten years from now someone else will be giving the same class and not one of these people will be able to track an object or recognize his name. Just be damn sure you’re teaching the classes when the state inspector is watching. Other than that, mark the book, but don’t sweat it too much.”
“God, you’re cynical.” He couldn’t stop himself from voicing it aloud.
“Realistic, not cynical. I fight the battles worth fighting.” Becca gave him an appraising look. “But I get the feeling you’re the sort who likes noble quests. This might just be the perfect place for you. You’ll find plenty of hopeless causes if you stick around. After you get knocked on your ass a few times, I suspect you’ll take a more realistic turn yourself.”
It was the second time in as many days that someone had implied he was a crusader. Well, what of it? That’s why he was going to law school, his sights fixed not on something like corporate law, where the money was, but on medical law. To reform places like this, to bring dignity to people like his brother, Eric.
“Look, I’m not saying you shouldn’t care,” Becca continued. “All I’m saying is that if your IQ is in single digits—hey, I’m not kidding. Jan’s the brains of the group and her chart says she’s got an IQ of nine. All I’m saying is you’re not going to teach them a damn thing. But if you want to make their lives better take a page from Rosa’s book.”
“Rosa is the woman who quit last week?”
“Right. Rosa was always rubbing their feet, moving their limbs, taking them into the fresh air, that sort of thing.” A frown passed over Becca’s face. “Weird how she just walked off the job. Wasn’t even her shift; she’d taken over for Kirk, who was sick.”
A few minutes later and they had the residents buckled into their wheelchairs and ready to go. The chairs were elaborate contraptions, with head restraints, full support for legs, and about thirty settings, none of which, Becca told him, were typically used.
Physically, the work wasn’t difficult, other than the effort of lifting them from bed to chair, and yet the experience was uncomfortable. He used his whole body to bear their weight, holding them so close he could smell them. He touched bare skin on arms, legs, back when dressing the residents, and held their torsos and heads in place while fastening restraints. Intimate, that’s the word he was looking for.
Wes and Becca made two trips to wheel Team Smile into the dining room. They weren’t the first to arrive, but not the last, either. One guy from Team Challenge—walkers, but not talkers, Becca said of the team—grew angry about something and stripped just inside the dining room. When ignored, he hit himself on top of the head and made as if to bang his head against the wall. Most residents, however, came and sat down without incident.
Kitchen staff served Team Smile’s eggs, toast, and sausage in piles of yellow and brown paste. Team Challenge shared a table and were lucky enough to eat their food chopped into pieces instead of pureed. Kitchen delivered plates for Becca, Wes, and Team Challenge’s HT. He eyed the food with little interest.
“Not hungry?” Becca asked. She spooned food into a resident’s mouth, then took a bite of toast. “Or did you eat before you came?”
“Something like that.” He alternated between Chad and Jan, pushing it back until reflex took over. Half of it came back out ag
ain.
“Try the toast, first. Or maybe the juice. Give it a couple of days and you won’t think twice.” She nodded at the woman feeding Team Challenge. “This is Carolina. She’s from Peru.”
Carolina smiled and held out her hand, which Wes reached across the table to shake. “No English,” she said with a thick accent. “Sorry.”
“Admin wasn’t too happy about that,” Becca said, “but frankly, it doesn’t matter with Team Challenge. They’re only one step above Team Smile. English skills aren’t as important as patience and reliability. And the English will come. How is your English class?” she asked Carolina in a slow, deliberate tone.
Carolina shrugged and waved her hand in a ‘so-so’ gesture.
“Estás en los estados unidos desde cuando?” Wes asked. How long have you been in the United States?
Carolina gave a surprised smile. “Llegué hace unos seis meses. Eres Tico?” I came about six months ago. Are you a Tico?
The question surprised him. Tico was shorthand for Costa Rican. She’d placed the accent. He’d been speaking Spanish since he was a child, and thought he spoke pretty well, but almost nobody recognized the accent.
“Show-off,” Becca said in a good-natured voice. “Where did you learn Spanish?”
“My grandfather owned a beach house in Costa Rica. I spent a lot of time on the Golfo Dulce when I was a kid. Surfing, deep-sea fishing, the typical stuff.”
“Sure, the typical stuff.”
He turned to Carolina and answered in Spanish. “No, I’m not a Tico, but that’s where I learned Spanish. You must have known someone from Costa Rica.”
“Rosa was a Tica.”
“Really? The one who quit?” Wes asked.
“That’s right. Is today your first day?”
“It is. My name is Wesley. Wes. My brother is Eric Pilson on Team Progress.”
She looked at him more closely. “I can see that. You look like him.”
Becca interrupted again and Wes felt the awkwardness of talking back and forth between two people, neither of whom understood what the other was saying. “The Spanish thing might come in handy. Presuming you stick around.” She finished her juice, then stood up with a slice of toast in hand. “I’ve got some stuff to check on and then I’ll be busy getting residents onto the bus. Just keep feeding these guys until they start spitting it back again. You’ll have to use discretion with Chad. Can you stick with Carolina until I get back? Oh, and if you quit, at least be decent enough to wait until the end of the shift. Then, you can phone in whatever lame excuse comes to mind.” This time, at least, her tone was light.
“I’ll still be here when you get back.”
“Good. I’ll give you your tax stuff after lunch.”
Shortly, the other residents finished and dispersed to the bathrooms while Carolina and Wes kept feeding their residents. Carolina didn’t seem in a hurry, so he took his time, too. Every time he glanced her way she was watching him.
They took their residents into the lounge on the far side of the dining room when they had finished eating. Carolina turned on the television. The channel was set to CNN. Four of her residents sat passively on the couch, enthralled by the moving figures, while Dale, the one who had tried to strip before breakfast, made a beeline for the doors. Carolina kept bringing him back, sitting him down, then repeating the exercise.
Meanwhile, the higher-functioning residents streamed back through the dining room and lounge on their way to the bus. HTs picked up boxes from the kitchen filled with sack lunches. The first group left and a second, smaller group followed a few minutes later. It was much quieter then, with only the sounds of the kitchen staff from the next room and the television. It was only 8:30.
“Tell me,” Carolina said after a few minutes. “What part of Costa Rica?”
“Where we spent our vacations? Called the Golfo Dulce. On the Osa Peninsula.”
“That’s near Puerto Jiménez, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” he said, surprised. The south was sparsely populated and isolated by terrible roads. He’d met people in San Jose, the capital, who hadn’t known where to find Puerto Jiménez on a map. “Have you been to Costa Rica?”
“No, never.” She got up to chase after Dale again. When she returned, she asked, “Can you keep an eye on my residents for a minute?” When he agreed, she disappeared toward the kitchen. She came back a few minutes later with another woman by her side. The second woman dried her hands on her apron as she approached.
She wore a sleeveless shirt beneath her apron, in spite of the season, and plenty of makeup, in spite of the early hour. Her reddish-brown hair—dyed, he was certain—was pulled into a tight bun behind her head.
“Buenos días. Soy Yamila,” she said. Mexican accent. And then, in accented, but good English, “You’re Eric’s brother?”
“Buenos días. Yes, I am.” He stood and offered her his hand.
Instead of taking his hand, she turned to whisper something in Carolina’s ear. The younger woman nodded and whispered something back. Wes didn’t like how they looked at him. There weren’t many Spanish-speaking immigrants in Vermont, and even fewer native Vermonters who spoke Spanish. Spanish-speakers were invariably friendly and chatty when they encountered someone who spoke their language. More so someone like Carolina, who spoke little English. These two looked just shy of hostile.
“Is something wrong?”
“Yes,” Yamila said. “Something happened to our friend Rosa. And we think you know something about it.”
Chapter Four: Wes looked back and forth between Yamila and Carolina with growing confusion. “Me? You think I had something to do with it?” He switched to Spanish. “Como es que yo tendría la culpa?”
“Stick to English,” Yamila told him. “Your Spanish isn’t as good as you think it is. And Carolina can understand the English, too. Tell us about Rosa Solorio.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” he said. “I’ve never met her. They told me she quit.”
“Mentiroso,” Carolina muttered. She retrieved Dale and sat him on the couch yet again. She changed the channel to a children’s show, but Dale ignored the TV, and the other residents didn’t seem to care.
“I’m not lying,” he protested. “I never even heard of Rosa before yesterday. I don’t know why you think I’m involved. Is it because of Costa Rica? Totally a coincidence. Thousands of Americans go to Costa Rica every year.”
“We should go to the police,” Yamila said. She turned and said the same thing in Spanish to Carolina, who nodded.
And now Wes knew they were bluffing. “You think something happened to Rosa, but you can’t go to the police, can you? You’re not legal. Was Rosa legal?”
“I don’t know,” Yamila said. Her voice took a brittle edge. “But why that matters? Because she is illegal it’s okay that something happened to her? Because she doesn’t have no papers?”
“No, I’m just thinking. Maybe she was deported.”
A snort. “In the middle of her shift? They come and arrest her in the middle of the night and deport her without telling Riverwood?”
“Fine, so she quit. Maybe she’s running from an old boyfriend. Or maybe she found out her sister has cancer and she hurried back to Costa Rica. Who knows?”
“She wouldn’t leave without telling us,” Yamila said. “Never. We go to her apartment. She leaves her things. Why? Her landlord don’t know nothing. She doesn’t tell no one that she was going. Rosa was a woman, very…seria, you know. She wouldn’t disappear like this.”
“Did you call her family in Costa Rica?” Wes asked.
“We don’t have the number.”
“Then I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know anything about it. How could I?”
“Because you know her, don’t you?” Yamila asked. The Mexican woman folded her arms and glared. Both women watched him as if expecting him to fold under this new information.
“I already told you. I never met her before in my life.”
“That’s just coincidence,” he said. “My grandfather had a house in Costa Rica. Puerto Jiménez is the only town of any size on that part of the Osa Peninsula so yeah, I’ve been there a bunch of times. So what?”
“And your mother?” Carolina asked in a quiet voice, in Spanish.
“What? My mother?”
The Peruvian continued, “Yes, your mother. Your brother is Eric Pilson, right? Well, your mother looks like you, too. So don’t deny it. And she comes to get your brother.”
“Yes, I know. But so?”
“And she comes in the middle of the day, too. When the place is nearly empty and everyone has left for work. I’ve seen her talking to Rosa.”
He frowned at this. Mom only picked up Eric evenings and weekend days off. Why would she drive out when he wasn’t here?
“She must be here to talk to the nurse about Eric’s meds or something.”
“Right,” Yamila said. She refused to speak Spanish to him, as if that were a privilege he hadn’t earned. “And that’s why they go into Team Smile’s room to talk in private, instead of the nurse station.”
Yamila, working in the kitchen, must have heard these things from Carolina. And if they were right about Mom, then no wonder they focused their suspicions on him. But come on. But then Wes remembered the conversation he’d overheard from the previous night. His mother, talking to someone on the phone who was not his father. And pleading for Wes’s safety. What about that?
Yamila studied his expression. “You know something.” It was not a question.
“No I don’t.” He tried to clear his face of whatever had drawn Yamila’s attention. “And it’s none of my business anyway.”
“Carolina and me, we can do nothing.” Her voice softened. “Will you help us, please?”
He thought about it. Say he tracked her down. He wasn’t Rosa’s brother or her boyfriend, or even just a friend. She’d think he was some kind of weirdo.
The Devil's Deep Page 3
