Room 46 & Short Story Collection Page 2

  This piece of information gave Grace pause and she eyed Sylvia quizzically.

  Sylvia met her gaze. ‘I know what you’re thinking – why bother? What’s the point of visiting someone who can’t speak back to you?’

  Grace’s cheeks reddened. ‘Uh no, um well, I’m not much of a talker. I thought I would just be replying to what Edith wanted to chat about.’

  ‘Sure, some of our residents are like that, but having read your case notes we thought Edith would be a good match for you.’

  Mortified that her life had been laid bare for strangers to make decisions about, Grace flushed again.

  ‘There’s your age too,’ Sylvia added. ‘Edith loves having young visitors and most of our volunteers are older. And despite the latest stroke Edith is still very much her old self underneath.’

  ‘So is there any chance she will improve?’

  ‘It’s not sounding too hopeful. She’s diligently undertaking all the physical therapy but the brain scans show some pretty devastating damage and because there were still residual deficits, the doctors just don’t know if it can be reversed.’

  Seeds of uncertainty began to bud in Grace’s gut. By all accounts Edith was some kind of living legend, who despite all that she had endured was still positive and full of life. And she, well she wasn’t a typical twenty year old and would be able to offer little in the way of youthful optimism to someone with such a tragic life.

  ‘So what do I talk about then?’ she asked, desperation obvious in her voice.

  ‘Don’t panic Grace,’ Sylvia reassured her kindly. ‘Edith used to be an English teacher. She really enjoys being read to and then for you to give your opinion about the story. There’s a book in her bedside locker.’

  ‘Okay,’ Grace replied, her calm tone belying the churning in her stomach.

  ‘Just relax and don’t focus her physical state. Although her body has broken down her mind is still functioning.’

  ‘Right,’ Grace said, her mind awash with questions but unable to articulate any of them.

  ‘She really didn’t want to move in here,’ Sylvia said as they walked along, ‘and all things being fair she shouldn’t have had to.’

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose anybody really wants to move into a nursing home.’

  Sylvia nodded and chuckled softly. ‘Yes, you’re right about that Grace. As nice as we try to make them, they are not on anybody’s wish list of places to live. But sadly Edith has no extended family which meant no other means of care.’

  ‘Oh, that’s unusual,’ Grace said, feeling she should make some contribution to the conversation. ‘She doesn’t have children of her own then?’

  ‘No, sadly she doesn’t.’

  Sylvia started walking again, pausing outside a door with the number 46 painted on it in a fancy font. ‘I’ll just go in and let her know you’re here,’ she explained, ‘and then you can go in and introduce yourself.’

  Sylvia disappeared inside the room and Grace seriously considered making a quick exit. This was all too difficult, too confronting. She didn’t know anything about people in nursing homes. As a child she had hated those duty visits to Great Aunt Mavis, and had counted the minutes until they could leave while her parents and siblings had seemed totally comfortable with it all. It had been more than ten years since she died and Grace had never been inside a nursing home since.

  If she hurried now she could make a getaway. Yes, she would have some explaining to do with her case worker, but surely anything was better than this horrible uncertainty that was building within her. Had Sylvia not emerged right at that moment and motioned her into the room, Grace knew she would have run back along the maze of hallways and out the front door.

  * * * * *

  It took Grace’s eyes a moment to adjust to the riot of colour. Far from the starkness of the rooms she had glimpsed along the hallway, Edith’s room featured the brightest shades on the Dulux colour chart. A wardrobe of electric blue and a vibrant aqua bedside locker contrasted with deep crimson walls, one of which was adorned with a butterfly mural painted in the brightest fluorescent colours Grace had even seen. Lying supported on a nest of candy striped pillows and a matching doona, Edith herself was dressed in a hot pink bed jacket.

  Grace tried to avert her eyes from the wheelchair and the other medical equipment in the room, but it was impossible not to stare just a bit. It was hard to comprehend that this room was Edith’s reality for however much longer she might live.

  Like the other people she had encountered at Rosehill Gardens so far, Edith seemed tiny and shrunken. Although difficult to estimate a person’s height when they are lying down, Grace guessed she couldn’t be much more than one hundred and sixty centimetres tall. And Edith’s slight body hardly made an impression in the bedclothes. Her hair was another story. Rich plum waves tumbled down her shoulders, putting Grace’s mousey brown ponytail to shame. Was it a wig? Or extensions? Surely the staff of the facility did not have time to style a resident’s hair every day?

  Paralysed by the horrible yet familiar anxiety she had come to know so well, Grace hovered near the door. This was not going to be as straightforward as she had anticipated. Why had she agreed to open herself up to scrutiny? To the possibility of being judged? Why did life have to be so bloody hard?

  Edith turned to look at her apparently attempting to smile as much as the drooping muscles in her face allowed.

  Smiling politely in response, Grace suddenly felt awkward standing still and moved towards the foot of the bed. ‘Hello I’m Grace,’ she said.

  Edith continued to look at her intently and blinked slowly and deliberately.

  Grace smiled back uncertainly. No doubt the blink meant something, but how was she supposed to know what? Why hadn’t she asked Sylvia how to communicate? Shame prickled her conscience as she acknowledged that she had assumed the whole visiting thing was going to be simply about sitting next to an old person and listening to them talk for an hour. Clearly it was much more than that.

  Looking up at the wall to avoid Edith’s continuing gaze, Grace noticed a wedding photo of a younger looking Edith in a delicate lace gown and matching veil. Her groom, much taller and with the freckliest complexion Grace had ever seen, stood proudly beside her. It was hard to match that image with the one before her and she felt a pang in her chest upon realising just what Edith’s life had come to as a result of a random accident. It must be the pits to have your whole life reduced to just one room. To have to rely on other people to care for every physical need. To be bedridden twenty-four/seven.

  Looking around Grace noticed a recliner chair on the far side of the bed. Covered in a faded plaid fabric, it seemed an odd addition to the room but it was clearly where people sat when they visited. ‘May I?’ she asked softly.

  The blink again, which Grace thought was safe to assume was a yes.

  She sat down, immediately sinking low into the sagging springs. Making herself as comfortable as she could, she relaxed a little. Reading she could do. She could rely on somebody else’s words instead of having to dredge up her own.

  Remembering Sylvia’s comment about the book, Grace reached down, struggling at first to get the drawer open. It was crammed full and something was caught that refused to allow it to open more than a few centimetres. Kneeling on the floor, she wedged her fingers into the gap and dislodged the cardboard cover of a writing pad. Once open the drawer revealed a jumbled mess of manila folders, A4 envelopes and old-fashioned stationery sets.

  Grace gasped when her hand touched a plastic folder containing a pad of paper with a floral motif on one side and two sets of matching envelopes, each in their own pouch. She couldn’t help but run her hands over the cover. ‘My grandma had one just like this,’ she said. ‘We always got her a new one for Christmas each year, always the same pattern. She said it was her favourite.’

  Grace wasn’t sure but she thought the expression on Edith’s face was a smile.

  Unable to find a normal paperback Grace extr
acted a bound A4 sized document with a green back cover and a clear plastic front from the drawer. It was simply entitled “Short Stories”. Flipping through it quickly Grace could see it was double spaced with wide margins and printed on one side only. It wasn’t terribly thick, perhaps two hundred pages or so. They wouldn’t get it all read today, but she could make a dent in it.

  Adjusting her position slightly, Edith turned her head a little towards Grace, a movement that clearly took concerted effort.

  Grace felt another pang, realising she had never been so affronted by the suffering of another human being. Opening the plastic cover and flipping through the cover and contents pages, Grace settled back into the sagging springs and began to read.

  # # # # #

  Josephine Wilson woke before her alarm. She set it religiously every night, just in case she should oversleep. But she never did. An old fashioned blue clock with a silver bell on the top, it was the type that had to be wound each night. This didn’t bother Josephine; in fact, it was an integral part of her nightly bedtime ritual. Besides why spend good money on a modern appliance that used power? A few cents a day onto her electricity might not sound like much, but these things all added up over time. No, as long as her clock kept ticking, she would keep using it.

  The same applied to her twenty-year-old bed. It was not the most attractive piece of furniture, but it was serviceable and sturdy. And it had a reading lamp built into it. Sure it was quite a narrow single, but who cared? Although her landlord laughed each time he saw it, Josephine had never contemplated getting a new one.

  Less than five minutes after waking Josephine was standing under a hot shower, one eye on the Brisbane City Council four minute timer to ensure she kept her gas bill minimal. After drying off and donning her dressing gown Josephine seated herself at the tiny laminex-topped table. She took ten minutes to eat a small bowl of porridge and a piece of wholemeal toast with marmalade, and to clear the table. Getting dressed took only another five minutes as Josephine’s wardrobe was conservative, her hairstyle plain and she wore no makeup. At 7.25 am on the dot she locked her door and set off on foot for the railway station. Josephine had never owned a car and had no plans to buy one.

  The train trip to the city took forty-seven minutes which was just enough time to read the paper. As usual Josephine didn’t need to buy a copy as there were always so many discarded ones available for the taking. Today she managed to grab the latest Woman’s Day as well. Glancing at the price on the cover Josephine shuddered. Who would pay that kind of money to read celebrity gossip? Still it was worth a flick through when it was free. She tucked the magazine into her handbag for later and took her usual seat in carriage three.

  Josephine had no idea of the amount of conversation she generated amongst the other commuters on the 7.38 am city service. A group of ten or so had banded together over the years and although she had travelled on the same train every day for as long as any of them could remember, Josephine had never made any effort to join in their group. She would reply politely when spoken to but never went beyond the basic pleasantries.

  There was a long standing bet with a prize pool of one hundred dollars for anybody who could get Josephine to join one of their card games. Jerry, who worked in a sandwich bar at Central Station, would often have a go at drawing her in. Catching the eye of his fellow commuter Amanda, he sat down beside Josephine and smiled broadly.

  ‘How are you this morning Josephine?’ he asked jovially.

  ‘Very well, thank you Jerry. Yourself?’

  ‘I’m fantastic. Can we tempt you to join a hand of gin rummy? Pete is getting a bit cocky and we need a new challenger.’

  Josephine shook her head. ‘Come on Jerry, I’ve told you before I’m not one for cards,’ she replied and turned her attention back to the paper.

  Amanda, who was a teller at Westpac, punched Jerry playfully on the arm as he re-joined her. ‘Well done Jez, you’re as irresistible as ever.’

  ‘You can’t say I don’t try.’

  In addition to the hundred dollar prize pool, there was a bonus of a further fifty dollars for anybody who could extract some personal information from Josephine. Of particular interest was where she worked. Jerry and Amanda had discussed the possibilities at great length but still had no idea. When asked where she worked, Josephine would answer, ‘In the city’.

  One morning Amanda had pressed her further by asking, ‘Where in the city?’, to which Josephine had replied, ‘In Queen Street’. Her tone and body language had conveyed that no further questions would be answered.

  ‘So do you still think she’s a nun?’ Jerry asked as he rummaged in his backpack for a stick of chewing gum.

  ‘It’s quite possible you know,’ said Amanda. ‘They don’t wear the habit and veil any more, they just have to dress conservatively, which she definitely does. It would explain her reluctance to talk about herself and what she does. Aren’t nuns supposed to keep their good works to themselves?’

  ‘I suppose so. But what good works could she be doing in Queen Street? Besides I saw a Woman’s Day in her bag. Do you think a nun would read that?’

  ‘She might be visiting a sick person in hospital and taking some reading material.’

  ‘In between her other good works you mean?’

  Amanda put her hand out for a piece of gum. ‘Scoff all you like but nobody else has come up with a better answer yet, have they? Besides no woman I know would wear such hideous shoes without good reason. I don’t even know where you can buy such fashion disasters.’

  Jerry laughed. ‘You and your shoes. Somebody should tail her one day.’

  ‘Have you seen how fast she walks? She’s the first one out of the train and is long gone by the time anybody else even gets to the escalator.’

  To illustrate her point Amanda tilted her head towards the nearest door where Josephine was standing ready and waiting to exit, even though there were three more stops before they reached Central Station.

  The walk from the train station to her office took ten minutes, although Josephine could manage it in eight if she hurried. Today the train was on time, so she walked at a steady pace and arrived unflustered. She had worked at Blackstone Imports/Exports for the past decade. The previous fifteen years had been spent in a similar job at JTJ Building Industries.

  A large company with a multi-million dollar annual turnover, Blackstone was not shy about advertising its affluence. The office furnishings were showy and opulent, the staffing ratio was more than generous and the technology, working conditions and salary packages were way above industry standard. Positions at Blackstone were highly sought after.

  Josephine nodded briefly at the clique of employees gossiping in the foyer before heading straight for the lift but shook her head disapprovingly at the same group as she waited for the car to reach the ground floor. In her opinion there was far too much time wasted on idle chit chat in this company.

  Wendy, the human resources manager, made a gagging noise after Josephine walked past. ‘Another stunningly cutting edge outfit from Josie’s collection. Is it just me or can you detect the lingering smell of moth balls?’

  Nicki from Accounts laughed. ‘She’s obviously working on the theory that if you keep something long enough it will come back into fashion.’

  ‘She came to see me the other day about a problem with her pay and told me that long nails were impractical for typing. If Mr Green hadn’t been standing nearby I would have really let her have it. Stupid old biddy.’ Wendy picked a small piece of lint off her elegant charcoal Cue suit and examined the glossy red finish of her newly applied acrylic nails.

  Following suit, Nicki examined her own nails and frowned at the chipped pink polish on her left pinkie. ‘How old is she anyway? Fifty or maybe even sixty?’

  ‘She acts like she’s seventy,’ Wendy replied. ‘But I’ll have a peek at her personnel file and let you know.’

  Meanwhile, Josephine was walking briskly along the corridor of the second floor, hea
ding for the kitchen. After putting her lunch in the fridge and her handbag in her locker, she removed a notebook from her pocket and made some notes, careful that she was still on her own time.

  At 8.45 am on the dot she removed her jacket and started her day’s work.

  Ten minutes later, Wendy emailed Nicki revealing that Josephine was in fact forty-six years old.

  At 9.45 am, Josephine made her first rounds of the day with the tea trolley. Understanding that her role was to be of service – yet to remain very much in the background – she did not initiate small talk, but responded politely if any of the staff engaged with her. But with the two stops at the end offices there was no chance of that so Josephine would always start with those to get the worst out of the way first.

  ‘Watch those papers!’ Senior Manager Gerald Pitts snapped as she picked up the teapot. ‘That’s a million dollar contract you’re about to slop tea on.’

  He returned to his phone conversation, but hawk-like watched her every move. Josephine carefully placed his tea and biscuits on the corner of his antique silky oak desk and left the room without a word.

  Her second stop, Frank Pearson ignored her all together, his eyes never leaving the documents he was reading. But when Josephine went to set down his special blend Darjeeling and fruit cake on the desk he shook his head and pointed to the other end of the table. It was a little charade he insisted on continuing. When he was in a particularly nasty mood Frank would “accidentally” knock his morning tea onto the floor and have his secretary order Josephine to clean it up. Sometimes it would take several applications of stain remover to clean the luxurious, deep pile carpet. Yet Josephine never reacted in any way. Frank’s mind games had little effect on her.

  Managing Director David Green was much more courteous. ‘Ah Josephine, right on cue as always. I’m dying for my coffee. How are you this fine morning?’