Red Girl Rat Boy Part 7

One was having a bowel movement.

One thought again, The aides could just heave me out that window when I die.

The third dreamed of a boy in a photo alb.u.m.

Soon crows began to curse. Phones rang, trolleys clunked, and old Mr. Chang traversed the floor at a rate of six round trips per hour.

Pus.h.i.+ng a trolley bearing sanitizer, tissues, lotions, wipes, Lily arrived in 17-A. Snapped on fluorescents, clashed curtain-rings, poked the nearest resident.

"Turn over, Sally."

"Mrs. Knox to you, f.u.c.king clumsy! Watch my jigsaw."

Sally's bloated body didn't resist, though, and her s.h.i.+t (the workday's first stink) was neatly formed. In a fresh diaper, the resident snoozed again.

Lorraine a.s.sessed Lily's steps for irritability.

"Good morning!"

"Everything late already." The aide jabbed a b.u.t.ton. Lorraine's bed angled up, pinching her spine. "No fun for you today. Transfusion."

"Please, save my menus?"

Lily yanked Lorraine's bedside drawer open, flapped at the sheets of Creamy Veg Potage, Garden Pasta, Vanilla Delight. "Too many already."

"Please?"

"You, you wait for Transfer." She crossed to the third resident's bed. "No games today, Annabel. Behave! Or Boss Lady throw you out too."

"Who too?"

"Wanderer."

Annabel gaped.

Lorraine managed, "Where on earth could she go?"

Annabel kicked the aide, whose cry woke Sally.

Then Lily wrangled the flailing Annabel into her wheelchair. The resident scooted to the toilet, pulling herself by banging her heels, scooted back. Next her nightie got dragged off, underpants and camisole on, while she struggled, giggling. Resisted arms into blouse. Undid her skirt's Velcro.

"Score!"

Lily bent close, whispered. "Your brother, he's wait for you." Closer. "Take you out, breakfast treat, Canada Day!"

"Eric's here?"

"Dining room."

Annabel grabbed the Velcro.

"Stupid!" Sally.

"Don't believe her!" Lorraine.

Ninety-five pounds and years, her hair a thick silver crown, Annabel scooted out, her heels so keratinous they sounded tak-tak-tak.

Across the hall, a TV blared. In the criminal justice system the people are represented by two separate, but equally important, groups: the police, who. . .

Whir whir, the Wanderer's chair.

Clack clack of stilettos. "Hey you! Thief, and dangerous driver. You've been expelled before. Don't think it can't happen here."

Then to Teevee-gal, shouting, "I said, Keep the volume down!"

Next across the hall to 17-A, shoving at Lily's trolley. "How many times have I told you, Don't leave supplies by an open door!" She brandished a litre of surface cleanser, ivory in her black hand. "Do you speak English?"

Stone-faced, Lily exited 17-A and waited for Josie, another aide, to accompany her into Mr. Chang's room. Its other resident, Big Man, attacked staff.

"Remember," the Boss Lady told Sally and Lorraine, "these people keep you alive. I want no complaints."

Transfer arrived.

SALLY'S BUSY MORNING Maybe there'd be pancakes for breakfast?

Waiting. Calendar, meanwhile.

Always she ticked off the weekday Activities-Mon Bingo, Tues News & Views, Wed Crafts, Thurs Flower Arranging-not that she attended. I like to relax. By Fri Baking, no tick appeared. Thought so! Canada Day tomorrow. Can't fool me, Lily. Turning the page, she examined the photo of July fireworks at English Bay. Pretty. Was I there once?

Waiting, she fiddled with her sunflower jigsaw.

Whir whir, an electric chair rolling in. That heavy old woman. Feet, gone. Face creased, a softening gourd.

"Not here, no. You live with Teevee-gal in 17-B. Bee bee bee!"

The Wanderer s.n.a.t.c.hed at Van Gogh, wheeled to the window and threw a piece out, looked excitedly at Sally, threw another.

"Stop, I'll tell!"

The visitor U-turned and yanked the privacy curtain round Sally's bed.

"Pull that back!"

Invisibly the wheelchair departed. Sally rang her buzzer, rang. In time, hunger changed her priorities. "Where's my d.a.m.n breakfast?"

With the cold food came extra Aunt Jemima.

As Sally ate, 17-B roared again. The police who investigate crime, and the district attorneys who prosecute the offenders. These are their sto. . .

Sally watched the doorway. Who's got her remote this time? TV's all Teevee-gal has. I hate Lily. Why don't Melia or Josie tell her off? Roberto? She licked her plate.

Nap-time.

More waiting, jigsaw.

Moving pieces fruitlessly, Sally recalled again Lorraine's saying, "The others are younger. From the same island, same village even. They can't make her do a thing."

To physio next, heavy on the walker, escorted by the aide.

En route, Boss Lady.

"Lily was mean to Annabel!"

"Lies. I've no time for this."

Sally said to Lily five times, "I told on you! I did!"

So far. Then many exercises. Too many. So much bending. Knees sore. Back sore. Never a snack.

Back in 17-A at last, Sally said, "You've twisted this walker, Lily."

"Ten times maintenance fix for you."

"f.u.c.king did not!"

Lily knocked Van Gogh bits off the table, took the mobility aid and left.

Sally couldn't find her picker-upper.

Chicken noodle, maybe? How can Annabel love that stupid brother? He never visits. Is he dead? Crackers. Apricot yogurt. One brownie, never ever two. Why'd she throw out my puzzle? Throw out Lily! The Boss Lady'd be so mad.

ANNABEL'S EXPLORATIONS Usually in the mornings Annabel 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 inst.i.tution'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, s.h.i.+t- or food- or coffee- or puke- or lipstick- or snot-stained, perfumed, precious; laden also with gla.s.s bottles, squeeze bottles, jars, tubes, tubs, ampoules, aerosols, Styrofoam and tins, empty, full, necessary, scorned. He missed the Van Gogh bits.

The sack sc.r.a.ped 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. Bas.e.m.e.nt. 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! a.s.s-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.

"What'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 pa.s.sed, 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.

"What?" 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 basket's contents down the chute.

LORRAINE, DOING TIME ALL DAY.

Transfer was today embodied by Lily's second cousin Felipe, a.k.a. Hot Wheels.

Soon after he'd started at the care home, Big Man's picker-upper tripped him. The Boss Lady ordered X-rays, a union rep sympathized. Felipe was fine, but corridor 17 made him nervous. To be done with it, he came early. No breakfast didn't matter to Lorraine, yet his arrival typified time served in care: rush rush, or so slow that rage beckoned.

Once, Lorraine's transfusions came months apart. She'd spent her days in the garden (the fountain, the fountain!) or the library, and enjoyed meals at a lively table where everyone had their marbles. Now fortnightly she was shunted through a tunnel to the hospital, to be topped up with blood. The process granted little vigour. She felt, afterwards-not better, though, with her body chemistry so out of whack, naming sensations was hard.

The gurney moved.

Do names matter? If only I could read my file.

After good morning to Mr. Chang, Felipe hung a left, then paused to flirt at the nurses' station.