All the Single Ladies

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Oh, my word! This place is getting wilder all the time,” I said, thinking no matter where the duck was I really didn’t want to know. “Does Dr. Black know about this?”

  “Of course. The duck has been confiscated, sterilized, and is sitting on Dr. Black’s bookshelf with his other trophies,” Margaret said.

  “Good grief. So did we lose anyone this weekend?”

  “No, other than a rousing game of Hide the Duck, it was pretty quiet,” Margaret said. “Mr. Child appears to be slipping away. His family was here this weekend pretty much around the clock.”

  “He’s such a sweet man,” I said.

  “Yeah, he sure is.” Margaret agreed.

  “His wife, Lee, has been by his bedside for weeks. She says she just knows if she leaves the room he’s gonna leave the world,” Judy said.

  “She might not be wrong,” I said. “How many times have we seen that happen?”

  “Too many to count,” Margaret said.

  “Personally?” Judy said. “I like the ones that sprinkle their comatose relatives with holy water and read the death psalm.”

  “That is so medieval,” I said.

  “Oh, hell yeah,” Margaret said. “Let’s pray Daddy into the grave! Good idea!”

  “Remember that woman who said she saw her sister’s soul fly up through the ceiling?” Judy said. “What was her name?”

  “I can’t remember,” I said. “But hey, it’s bad enough to have to go through someone else’s illness and death one day at a time. I think ­people tell themselves what they need to hear. You know?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I surely do,” Margaret said.

  “Hide the Duck?” I said.

  “Can you imagine the look on my face?” Margaret said.

  “I’ll bet you didn’t even raise an eyebrow,” Judy said.

  “Yeah, Margaret, you’re a pretty cool cucumber,” I said, and laughed.

  “It was some sight, ’eah?” Margaret said, and shook her head. “You might want to check on a new resident if you have the time. Mrs. Brooks in The Docks. She’s not too happy. Her husband has big-­time Alzheimer’s and a broken hip, so he’s in the SCU and she took an apartment to be near him.”

  “Oh Lord,” I said.

  “She’s not adapting well.”

  “Well, let me see what I can do,” I said.

  “Her family didn’t think she should be driving back and forth from her house west of the Ashley all the way over here at eighty-­six years old. So they took her keys, found this apartment, and convinced her to move in.”

  “And Mrs. Brooks didn’t have a whole lot to say about it?” I asked.

  “You got it. She probably feels like she got robbed of her life.”

  “I’m sure. I’ll look in on her,” I said.

  Margaret gave me Mrs. Brooks’s apartment number. Her first name was Marilyn. If she was resentful, I didn’t blame her. But the greater truth was—­and I knew this before I even met her—­that she was far and away better off with us than alone at home.

  I took all the DVDs to the media room and put them away. Next, I took the books to the reading room and put them on the shelves. Then I started doing rounds, delivering meds. When I came back to the nurses’ station, my cell rang and I pulled it out of my pocket to check the caller ID. It was Suzanne.

  “You busy?” she asked.

  “Nope. I was just going to get some lunch.”

  “I won’t keep you but a moment. Carrie and I were talking and we decided if we’re going to keep eating donuts and drinking wine we’ve got to exercise. We just have to. My behind is growing at the speed of light. Carrie’s on the prowl again and wants to drop some weight. The gym’s too expensive. So we’re going to walk the beach every morning except when it rains. Would you like to join us?”

  “Why not? Sure! Thanks!”

  “Bring Pickle too. How’s seven tomorrow?”

  “See you then!”

  Pickle was going to love this. We liked to get up with the birds anyway.

  Margaret said, “So, you made a new friend?”

  I said, “Yeah, it looks like it. Suzanne and Carrie wanted to know if I wanted to get some exercise with them.”

  “Good for you! Those girls were amazing to Kathryn,” Judy said.

  “You can’t place too high a value on friends like that,” Margaret said.

  “Absolutely,” I said. “I think I’ll grab a ­couple of turkey sandwiches from the kitchen and pay Marilyn Brooks a visit.”

  “Good luck,” Margaret said.

  I left the main building through the doors in the dining room that overlooked the swimming pool. There was a walking path that led to the group of apartments we called The Docks. They were surrounded by man-­made lagoons that were visited by egrets and the occasional osprey. It was a very picturesque setting with benches along the banks. The fencing across the front lawns was fashioned of thick rope threaded through large holes in low columns of sun-­bleached wood, giving The Docks a bit of nautical detail. I thought it would be peaceful to sit on one of those benches and read a book. Maybe someday I would. In January. Not in the dead of summer.

  I found Marilyn Brooks’s apartment and knocked on her door.

  “Mrs. Brooks?” I called out. “It’s Lisa St. Clair. One of the nurses? I’ve brought lunch?”

  The door opened and there stood a tiny lady with thick white hair cut into a stylish bob. She was wearing a freshly starched white shirt and purple cropped pants. Large purple reading glasses hung from a matching chain around her neck. Her iPad, which was tucked under her arm, had a hot-­pink Kate Spade leather cover. This lady had style.

  “Hello. Can I help you?” She gave me a thorough appraisal and decided I probably wasn’t there to do her any harm. She opened the door wider. “Come in. Please.”

  I stepped into her living room. It was furnished in authentic midcentury antiques, including a large Andy Warhol lithograph of the iconic Marilyn Monroe, a turquoise sectional sofa, and a tangerine velvet pouf. Her taste was the polar opposite of my parents’, and frankly, I fell in love with her living room at first glance.

  “Thank you! Wow! This is fabulous! It’s so optimistic!”

  “I’ve always liked strong colors,” she said. “One should never be afraid to be bold.”

  “I see that! And I agree. Anyway, I heard from my nurse buddies that you’d just moved in, so I thought I’d just take a few minutes to welcome you.”

  “Well, that’s awfully nice. May I offer you some iced tea?”

  “Sure. Thank you. I brought sandwiches to share.”

  “What kind?”

  What kind? Was she allergic or vegan?

  “Turkey. Turkey on white bread with a little mayonnaise and lettuce. And cranberry sauce.”

  “Cranberries? Who puts cranberries on sandwiches?”

  “It’s actually pretty good. Are you allergic to something?”

  “No, I was just being an old fussbudget. Come sit. I’ll get us some plates and some tea.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “No. Please. Just have a seat. I can still pour a glass of tea. You know, my family thinks I’m an invalid or too decrepit to do anything.”

  “Children are deathly afraid of seeing their parents get older,” I said.

  She stopped and turned around to face me.

  “Do you know what?” she said. “That’s the first really honest thing anyone has said to me since I got here.”

  “I’m sure. It’s a shame but it seems like there are just some things that families don’t know how to say to each other.”

  “Truly.” She turned back toward her kitchen and opened the refrigerator, taking out a pitcher of tea. Lemon slices and mint sprigs floated in the top. “And you know what else? They’re not merely afraid. They’re terrified. I th
ought my son had more spine.”

  She filled two glasses with ice, then handed me two plates and paper napkins. She moved back and forth deliberately and then with the halting gait of her years. Uncertain for a moment and then surefooted again. She should probably be using a cane for her balance when she leaves her home, I thought, but that was up to her doctor, not me.

  I opened the bag and began unwrapping the sandwiches at her small dining table.

  “Well, this is a very big change for you and your whole family,” I said.

  “You’re telling me. Here’s how this started. First my son, Alvin, and his wife, Connie, invited me to this Come to Jesus meeting.”

  I laughed at that.

  “It always starts with a big talk. Was the car talk first or this place?”

  “No, it really started because of Marcus, my husband of sixty years. Sixty years. Can you imagine how long that is? Marcus has terrible Alzheimer’s.”

  “Yes, I heard that from the other nurses, Judy and Margaret. You’ll like them a lot when you get to know them. But back to Marcus. I am so sorry to hear it. I really think Alzheimer’s is the meanest disease on the planet.”

  “It certainly is. My poor sweet Marcus. Forgive me for speaking so plainly, but I don’t like to play games.” She sighed dramatically and sat down across from me. “Who knows? I could go any minute.”

  “No, you won’t! I don’t like to pussyfoot around either,” I said, and smiled.

  “Good. Anyway, it was obvious, even to me, that I couldn’t take care of him by myself anymore. He’d put on three pairs of pajamas, leave the house, and take off for who knows where. I’d realize he was missing, get all upset, and call Alvin to go find him.”

  “And Alvin did what? Called the police?”

  “Do you know my son?” She looked at me with an odd expression and for a moment I thought she was serious.

  “No, I . . .”

  “Please! I’m kidding! Alvin is just . . . well, dramatic. He always jumps the gun. Everything is a bother and a burden to him. He lives out in Summerville and I guess there was just one emergency phone call too many. I took care of my parents in my home for years but they didn’t have Alzheimer’s. Things were different in my day.” She finally took a bite of her sandwich. “Say! This is pretty good! Cranberries. I’ll be darned. I think I might be glad you came by.”

  At least she wasn’t just complaining. Reasonable social skills could definitely work to her advantage.

  “My pleasure. I like to know who’s coming and going around here.” I smiled at her. “The kitchen is actually pretty good. They roast fresh turkeys every week. None of that ‘cold cuts with nitrates’ business. And the dining room is packed every night.”

  “Well, that’s nice to know. Anyway, we had another episode of Marcus disappearing, and the next thing I know, Marcus’s locked up in a ward. And me? I’m suddenly without my car and my home. It’s all pretty depressing, I’ll tell you. I’m not sick. Marcus is sick. And because of that, I can’t even go to Belk’s when I want to.”

  “I’m sure it’s a pain in the neck but they try to make a shuttle bus schedule that works for everyone. Wednesday is seniors’ day all over town. You can save some money at Publix. Five percent, I think.”

  “Well, that’s something, I suppose. This move is just going to take some getting used to. I guess I just don’t like change. At least I’ve got some of my favorite pieces of furniture and so on here with me.”

  “And they are lovely. You have the coolest apartment of anyone here.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes, I know so!” I reached across the table and patted the back of her hand in solidarity. “I know you think this place is a prison but I’m going to tell you something that you will most likely discover soon and it’s the truth.”

  “What’s that?”

  “At some point? If we are all lucky enough to live long enough?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s our house that’s the prison.”

  I looked at Marilyn’s face. The sun was streaming in through the window on a particular slant that made her seem, in that moment, to be a much younger woman. And very beautiful. It was as though I could see who she once was. Then a cloud must’ve passed over the sun because the illusion disappeared. Now she seemed to be on the verge of tears. Her eyes were rimmed in scarlet and her face held hundreds of tiny wrinkles.

  “Is anyone ever happy to come here?”

  “The truth? No. I mean, just as you said, it’s an enormous change. As we mature, we like our routines more and more. And there’s some comfort in really simple things, like knowing where all the light switches are. But unless I miss my guess, if you’ll just give this place a chance, you’ll be on the go and doing things with a whole lot of new friends.”

  “Maybe. I’ll give you a maybe. We’ll just have to see how it goes.”

  “Hmm. Well, I’m sure they’ve told you about all the clubs and so forth?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve got a welcome package that looks like a phone book from Atlanta.”

  “I know,” I said, and took a bite of my second sandwich half. “It can be very overwhelming.”

  “And depressing. You know what I mean? I feel like I’ve given up too much of my personal life. I have a whole host of strangers—­not of my own choosing, may I add—­who know what medications I take. And Marcus? He doesn’t know I’m here anyway. He doesn’t even know me.”

  There was no response I could offer that would fix that. I wiped my mouth with my napkin and took a sip of tea.

  “You know, Mrs. Brooks, I think I have a pretty good idea of how you must be feeling. There’s nothing you can do for your husband except watch over him and see that he’s being well taken care of. Which he will be. It’s simply a terrible thing to see someone you’ve loved, for most of your life really, in this shape. And you know, no one can tell you whether Palmetto House is right for you except you.”

  “Tell my knuckleheaded son and his knuckleheaded wife that.”

  I smiled then and she did too.

  “I will, if you’d like. They wouldn’t be the first children I’ve told where the bear goes in the buckwheat. Anyway, what I’m thinking is that you seem like a pretty strong lady. You have a fabulous sense of style—­”

  “Thank you,” she said, and brightened up a bit.

  “And I don’t think you’d let anyone really railroad you into something you really didn’t want to do.”

  “Yes. I suppose you’re right. You know what it is that has made me so unhappy?”

  “No, ma’am. You can tell me.”

  “The love of my life has disappeared into oblivion. And I’m a bit frightened. As long as I was in my own home, I could tell myself that nothing had changed, that I wasn’t this old. I could tell myself that maybe Marcus would snap out of it. You know, some days he’d tell me he loved me even when I wasn’t sure he knew it was me he was telling. Now he doesn’t even know his own name. And being here is hard evidence that my life is almost over too. It just makes me a little sad, that’s all. I thought we would have more time together.”

  “Then you have to do what I tell other residents to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Make good use of every day.”

  She was quiet then while she considered my Pollyanna advice.

  “You’re right, of course. Right now, though, this is like wearing tight shoes.”

  “Yeah, you just need to break them in.”

  “That’s right. I just need to break them in.”

  “Tell me; what are your favorite hobbies, Mrs. Brooks?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose a good book and someone to take a walk with. I like old movies. And I love live music of all kinds.”

  “For starters, why don’t you go to the reading room, pick a book off the she
lves, have a seat on our newly upholstered sofas, and see what happens?”

  “Really? Just walk in?”

  “Absolutely! We just got a huge donation of all sorts of novels and biographies. When the residents hear about it, they’ll be gone in a flash. We have lots of book lovers here and several book clubs too.”

  “Well, maybe I will.” She smiled and exhaled. “I guess I shall have to take charge of my own happiness. Right?”

  “Yes! That’s the spirit!” I drained my glass of tea and said, “I’d better get back to work.”

  “Thank you, Lisa. For lunch and . . . well, for this conversation.”

  “You’re welcome for lunch. And I enjoyed the conversation too.” I got up and took my plate to the sink.

  “Just leave it there,” she said.

  I walked toward the door to leave.

  “Mrs. Brooks?”

  “Yes?”

  “If you need anything at all, just call the desk and ask for me. Lisa St. Clair.”

  “Okay, Lisa St. Clair, on one condition.” She was smiling.

  “What’s that?”

  “That you call me Marilyn and that we do this again sometime.”

  “That’s two conditions! Ha ha! But it’s a deal!”

  I left her then and I felt that her spirits were lifted a little. The transition from private life to fishbowl living could be almost impossible for your emotions to reconcile, especially if you were perfectly healthy. There was always some demoralizing price to pay. Loss of privacy. Condescending health care workers. Nosy residents. But my money was on Marilyn Brooks. She would adapt because she knew that she should give this new life some effort. It was only fair. And if she decided that she didn’t like living at Palmetto House, she was free to leave and her son could go scratch his mad place, like my mother used to say.

  Later that day, as I was walking out after work, I passed the reading room. To my surprise, there was Mrs. Brooks seated at the library table on one side and the frisky Mr. Morrison sat opposite her on the other side of the table, smiling wide. There was no evidence of a duck. I wondered if Mrs. Brooks would succumb to his charms and quickly decided she would never dishonor her marriage. However, if Marcus Brooks died, things might take another path. It was interesting to consider. It was just as important for me to remember, though, that familiarity with the goings-­on of our residents and patients did not add up to a personal life for me. As friendly as I was with Judy and Margaret, they were wonderful professional colleagues, not really my personal friends.