Marta ~ May 5

 

Marilyn, or Marian, I'm not sure, is always sitting in her wheelchair these days up by the front door. It's a crossroads of three main corridors and gets the most traffic. She used to walk around with a walker on slightly deformed feet, but suddenly a few months ago became wheelchair-bound. She still smiles her church-lady smile in greeting, the most normal-seeming resident here. In the next corridor I pass that vacant-looking woman who has taken to roaming, expressionless, and head down the main corridor of Fred's wing where I glimpse semi-corpses in rooms as I pass. 

 

Fred is slumped over in his chair, deeply asleep. It takes some time to rouse him. The room has been tidied from my untimely departure yesterday, the electric typewriter placed on the chest of drawers next to his bed. "I thought I'd never see you again," he mumbles, hardly present. 

 

"That's what you always say," I tease. Slowly, he comes to and lifts his head, his very-blue-today eyes starting to focus. "Do you want a Coke?" I ask, thinking the bright cold sweetness might help.

 

"That would be nice," he says, and I pull one from his little fridge.

 

"I brought you another typewriter," I say, and open it in its case on the bed, a Smith Corona manual borrowed from a friend. 

 

Fred's eyes light up. "I couldn't make that other one work," he says. "There were too many things wrong with it." 

 

"I know," I say. "Hopefully, this one will be better." I don't think it will be. Certainly, not today. 

 

I notice the lower half of Fred's tee shirt and his lap are damp. I go out to the nurses' station and see a young woman there whose name I don't know. From her size I almost think it's Becky, but it isn't quite. I ask if someone could please come and help Fred change. She does not look up, and says that yes, someone will be right over. I pretend to believe her and return to the room, knowing it will take more requests. It's never great, but it's worse on weekends.

 

Fred is chewing on a saran-wrapped white-bread sandwich. "I think it's peanut butter and jelly," he says, "but there isn't any peanut butter in it, or jelly... Everything hurts," he adds. He is still only half here, caught up in inner forces that have him in their grip. 

 

I find a comb and gently pass it through his hair. "That's nice," he says. I cut his fingernails. He likes that too. I stand behind him and massage his neck and shoulders, rub his scalp and forehead, brush my fingers through his beard. We're both looking out the wide window where the grass is now a rich green, the trees beyond starting to show their baby leaves, the decorative tree in the foreground turning a reddish pink. Birds don't come to the bird feeders anymore. I tried new feeders and fresh food last fall, but it didn't help. Now the stakes on which the feeders hang are half falling over. I must re-plant them all, refill the feeders. But why did the birds stop coming?  Even the squirrels haven't been tempted. 

 

I go out and speak to Crystal, the head nurse on duty, a dark-skinned woman with endless patience. She says that "they," meaning the two aides working with her, have "just" this minute gone to help someone else, but they'll be down to help Fred as soon as they're done. She points to the lifting contraption that is parked outside Fred's door. "See?" she says, "they are already setting up."

 

I am almost tempted to enter her land of make-believe, but instead I say, "No, that's been there since I got here."

 

I go back to Fred. "I feel so strange," he says. He looks at me, his eyes lost. He shivers and I tuck the fleece blanket around his shoulders though it's a warm day. 

 

I see the time on Fred's watch. It is too early to leave, but I realize I must even though I haven't made anything better. His clothes are still damp, he hurts, his mind is still unusually befuddled. I've been defeated. I haven't overcome this place. Usually, we do. 

 

"I love you with all my heart," I say, stooping and speaking directly into his ear. He hears me.