A Funny Kind of Paradise Read online

  I make a face.

  “So you gave her a hard time, eh?”

  Now I’m a little bit ashamed, even though I’m pretty sure the casual is a stupid cow, so I nod.

  “There. That’s ‘yes.’ Okay, how about ‘stop,’ Frannie.”

  That’s easy. I make the cop-stop, with my palm towards her face.

  “What about ‘no,’ Frannie.”

  I shake my head and flatten my hand, palm down, waving it side to side over the horizon.

  “Yeah. How about ‘no, goddammit!’ ”

  I smack the table with my fist and the girls laugh.

  The casual says, “Yeah, I got a whole lot of that this morning, I’m sorry to say! We were both pretty upset. I had you in a right state, didn’t I, Frannie?”

  She looks me right in the eye, and at the very least, I have to respect her for that. I nod. No smiles now.

  “Oh? What was that all about, Frannie?”

  Don’t get me started! It makes me mad again just thinking about it. I pick things up from my over-the-bed table and slam them down again, hard…my pen, my clock, my tissues, my pile of papers and photos. No, goddammit! The tears come.

  “Ooh. Okay, we gotta get a label made for your table, Frannie. We’re gonna make it say, ‘Please don’t touch or move my stuff.’ ”

  “Where am I supposed to put the wash basin, then?”

  “Use the bedside table here. Trust me, it’s the better way. Happy Frannie, happy nurse. Simple math. In fact, I’ll make another label that says, ‘Please keep this area clear for the wash basin; do not use the over-the-bed table.’ ”

  “Well, that would be a help, because we did not have a pleasant morning, either of us, and I didn’t know what the heck she wanted. I’m sorry, Frannie. Next time I’ll know better.”

  She reaches out to shake hands, and I don’t want to, but I notice that she’s smart enough to reach out with her left hand instead of her right and I don’t want Molly to know that I’m the kind of person who holds a grudge, so I shake, and her grip is surprisingly firm.

  * * *

  Anna, this negative energy is starting to get to me, and it astounds me to think that I used to live in a constant whirlpool of chaos and never thought life could be different. But then, I never had time to notice, and these days, time is exactly what I have most of, although what’s the point in noticing when there isn’t a darn thing I can do about the maelstrom, I ask you? What’s the point in noticing when it’s all so frightful?

  Shakespeare knew, and so we all learned in high school, Anna, though maybe you didn’t, back in the Netherlands.

  Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow

  Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

  To the last syllable of recorded time…

  The rest of the quote is gone. I can’t remember any more of it. Where are the damn words? If only I could lay my hands on them!

  There’s no way for me to look them up and there’s no way I could possibly ask, and what are the chances someone will walk by my bed randomly quoting Shakespeare before I die? Or that it will come on TV? Even if it did, the aides would change the channel, immediately. No. Those words are gone and I can’t get them back.

  Damn it all to hell.

  I am in despair and I sob quietly.

  If the nurse hears me, she will think I’m in pain. She will come with Tylenol.

  I am in pain. But Tylenol can’t fix it.

  I ran my own accounting business. And you ran the diner. You had staff, and I had the kids and we both had endless work and long days and we were busy all the time. And now I’m flattened when someone fiddles with the stuff on my table? Mother of God.

  I can’t call Chris. I can’t call you. And I can’t help Lily at all.

  The very thought of my impotent anger exhausts me even more. I am heavy as sin.

  I close my eyes and sleep.

  * * *

  I dream that I am able-bodied.

  I am young, but at the same time, I am aware of what a miracle my fully functioning body is. Look! I bring both hands to my face, run my palms from the sides of my jaw down my entire side: over the front of my shoulder, down my rib cage, my extended fingers lightly touching the sides of my breasts. The heels of my hands nip into my waist and my full palms and fingers spread over my hips. Oh, how I love my body!

  I have a first-day-of-vacation luxurious feeling…What shall I do first? Run? Stretch? Drink coffee in the sun? Make love?

  But as I reach across my pillow, I begin to wake up, and I remember that I have two children to raise and no man to love or loathe at all, and I have to get up and make myself work. Here comes another day.

  Angrily I sink into sleep again.

  * * *

  It’s Friday. Molly’s second day off. Or would be if she’d been off, really off, yesterday. I remember. I should have Blaire but I guess she’s still sick, because I have another casual I don’t even recognize.

  She’s young and totally green, and scared stiff of looking after Janet.

  Michiko is clearly unimpressed.

  I’ve never taken care of anyone palliative before.

  No difference. Wash her. Turn her every two hours. Talk to her. Watch out for the butterfly.

  Butterfly?

  Yeah. She’s getting a lot of meds by injection, so they insert a semi-permanent needle and tape it down against her skin, so she doesn’t have to get a poke every time they need to give her a needle, get it? But you can get a needle-stick if you’re not careful.

  Does that happen?

  Course. Accidents happen.

  Then what?

  Then sucks to be you.

  Mich flings Janet’s curtains aside and points to the wall at the head of the bed.

  See this decal? That butterfly sticker tells you this lady’s got a butterfly somewhere. Look for it.

  She whips Janet’s coverlet off, and Janet doesn’t move, not even a twitch.

  There you go. Right thigh. That’s a butterfly. Avoid it.

  Then with one quick flip, Michi brings the coverlet back over Janet’s shoulder and stalks away.

  But when the casual does my care, I find I like her. Her hands are shaking and she keeps dropping things and she’s slow as waiting for rain in a drought, but I can tell she’s trying hard.

  “You’ve got muck in your eyes,” she whispers to herself. “Is that the cloth I used for your bits?”

  She makes a face. “Ew. I better not risk it.” She tosses the cloth into the dirty linen and looks around for another one, but she’s used them all, and she stands there hesitating like a fool at a four-way stop. I grab a tissue and swipe at my eye.

  “Other one,” she says. “Here. Let me.” She wipes my other eye gently, gently, baby tender.

  She must be all of nineteen years old. When I pat her hand, she gives me a look of profound gratitude.

  There you go, Anna. I did my good deed for the day. I think you’d be proud of me. Inside, I smile.

  * * *

  Evenings aren’t impressed either.

  Oh my heavens, what was that little girl thinking?

  Which little girl?

  The day-shift girl. Mary is sitting on her seat-belt buckle. No wonder she was making that face.

  Oh dear. She’s going to have a buckle-shaped imprint on her butt!

  Harvey was sitting on his scrotum.

  Ooo. You’ve gotta give that junk a little scoop when you put on the brief, or that happens. Gives a new meaning to the expression “numb nuts.”

  Do they even train these new girls? Sometimes I wonder.

  Ha ha, Stella, you know they do!

  It was a rhetorical question. I didn’t recognize the wee thing. She was brand new. She said it was her first shift. Of course it brings to mind when I was hired, right
off the street, mark you. Back then there was no course or any suchlike for this job.

  Well, I took the course and I remember being so scared every time they called me that I wanted to vomit. I’d wake up from dreams where I was turning people and putting in slings and trying to get the brief centred properly. There was months of that! It took me a good two years to be the nurse I am today.

  You’re a good wee nurse, my dear!

  Well, thank you, Stella. Coming from you, that’s a real compliment. But it’s hard when you’re new.

  It is indeed. I mustn’t forget that. Mary will live.

  That she will.

  * * *

  Molly is back. Thank God. She complains to Michiko as they set out the breakfast trays and feed Mary and Nana.

  Lord, mercy, who was here yesterday?

  Some total newb, why?

  Chaos. I can’t find the socks, there are clothes everywhere. And my hairbrushes are in the kidney basins with the toothbrushes and the toothpaste. I mean, who the hell does that? Hair in your toothbrush and toothpaste in your hairbrush. God!

  She was pretty green.

  Green, sure, fair, but where’s the common sense?

  What happened to that new one you trained just back?

  I saw her working at Starbucks. Said she wasn’t getting the shifts and besides it’s too stressful.

  She had a little one, didn’t she.

  Yeah, five years old.

  Seems like a pity.

  It does, doesn’t it? There’s another four training shifts down the tubes. But on the other hand, if you’re not getting the hours…

  No money, no candy.

  No candy for the baby. Bottom line.

  Molly turns to me.

  “Francesca, at morning report the RN asked us to tidy our resident rooms a bit—get rid of the mismatched socks and the old Christmas cards and such. I guess the housekeepers have been complaining about the clutter.”

  I’m pretty sure this isn’t coincidence, given my temper tantrum with Vega the casual over the things on my table two days ago.

  Molly sighs.

  “I wish family would do it. Some people just seem to have no idea. They bring crap in and dump it. They think Mom’s still gonna slap their hand for sneaking candy from her purse; they’d no sooner go through their mom’s things than fly to the moon, and we can’t throw it out because it’s not ours. So it sits there, totally in the way.”

  I nod sympathetically.

  “Anyone who can keep their own damn room tidy probably doesn’t need to be here. Anyway, the point is, Fran, please go through the stuff on your over-the-bed table.”

  Immediately I take offence, and Molly knows it. She pulls her stern face.

  “None of that, Francesca! Make it neat. When I move the table to do your care, I don’t want a trail of crap flying off it.”

  I mime speed, shake the table for good measure and then hit it. If the nurses didn’t move so bloody quickly, things wouldn’t fly off!

  “Yes, Fran, I know. But reality check: I’m in a hurry. There’s six of you and one of me, and let me tell you sister, if Mrs. X is covered in poop from her ass to her eyeballs, it’s more pressing to me than your darn stuff.”

  I can’t yell, but I can roll my eyes and toss my head and send her blah blah blah right back to her. But I guess the effect is ruined if you’re drooling, because Molly starts to laugh.

  “I bet you were a piece of work before your stroke, weren’t you, Ms. Francesca? I’m freakin’ glad you weren’t my boss. Be a doll. Clean up your table. Think of it this way: better you do it than someone else sneak in and do it while you’re in the dining room like we’re gonna deal to our hoarder down the hall. You with me, sweetie?”

  Molly gives me a hug, the nerve! And flounces off.

  * * *

  When Molly and Michiko are putting Nana and me back to bed after lunch, Michiko shuts the door and lowers her voice.

  I heard Lily came in loaded yesterday evening.

  Oh no! Did they fire her?

  Well, I guess she wasn’t loaded, per se, or Holly would have blown the whistle on her, you know how straitlaced she is…

  Lucky Holly was her partner then; she’s soft-hearted.

  That’s it, but Lily’d obviously been drinking. I guess Holly told the RN Lily was sick and had to go home.

  She’s never done that before?

  Not that I know of. And she better not do it again.

  Who was the nurse?

  Sue. She came down and apparently Lily didn’t say much, just looked ill, and Sue said she’d replace her and sent her home. But they had to go into overtime to cover her.

  I figured they were at the bottom of the list, considering who was in for Blaire yesterday. But do you think Sue knew?

  Well, if she suspected, she didn’t let on; you know Sue. She’s not going to rock the boat unless she really has to, and there was no real harm done.

  Sugar! Damn that Lily. I love her, but…

  I know. I love her too. But she sure picks losers, and then she bleeds. Where does she find these guys?

  Like flies to honey.

  Sure glad I’m not honey.

  Molly laughs.

  No, you sure aren’t. And in case there’s any doubt, you have your clarification bumper sticker to set ’em straight, don’t you?

  I have no idea what Molly means. Catching a glimpse of my expression, Molly laughs again.

  Look at Frannie, Mich—she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Show her! Oh c’mon, Frannie won’t tell.

  Michiko makes a “maybe not—oh okay, then” face. Molly pulls my bed curtains around the three of us, and Michi turns around and exposes her right buttock. Her skinny, muscular bum is almost covered with a fierce tattoo of a snarling tigress. A caption in flowing script reads “Hard Assed Bitch.”

  I make an effort to close my gaping mouth.

  Molly thinks I’m hilarious.

  “What do you say, Frannie? Does she make her point clear?”

  They are turning to go, laughing, off to the next task. “Wait!” I think, but the only sound that comes out is a little choking note, like a duck being squeezed to death. Desperate, I bang the table.

  “Hey,” says Molly, “relax!”

  Sure. Relax. Like dropping a carton of yogurt on the floor of the express queue at the grocery store and watching it explode. I don’t know how to make myself understood. Flailing, I finally think to mime drinking shots.

  “Oh. Lily. Yeah. I’m going to call her tonight. You want me to let you know how it goes?”

  Sick at heart, I nod.

  * * *

  I ignore Molly’s request to tidy up all day on principle, and besides, I have other things on my mind. But by evening I’m tired of worrying about Lily and Chris, I’m fed up with my memories and ready for anything that will take my mind off my troubles.

  It’s not like I don’t have the time.

  So after Fabby puts me back to bed, I start sorting the things on my table, and putting them in order. But you know, Anna, if I had a tray with a ledge…or even the lid of a box.

  Without thinking it over, I ring the bell. As soon as I see Fabby’s harried expression, I regret it. I start to try to explain, but within seconds, Fabby’s done.

  “I don’t know what you want. I’m up to my…This obviously isn’t urgent. I’ll deal with it later, whatever it is.”

  She’s gone.

  The truth is, I’m afraid I’ll forget what it was that I wanted to ask. Things slip away so quickly now.

  Besides, how was I supposed to know she was so busy?

  Cow.

  It’s hard not to take it personally.

  I don’t feel like sorting anymore.

  * * *

  I’m having trouble with my bot
tom—it’s very sore. Molly says I’m breaking down. The skin is getting fragile. So she puts me back to bed right after lunch, and I try again to organize my things.

  I’m able to make Molly understand and she brings me the lid from a box of photocopy paper. It’s a little deeper than what I had in mind, but at least my things won’t fall out. I start sorting through my papers. Grudgingly I have to admit Molly was right: there’s a lot of useless crap here. There are letters from the hospital management—they look like satisfaction surveys; how do they expect me to fill those out? There are advertisements and promotions and a few personal cards that Chris brought in for me, there are photos and darn, are those bills? Surely not; Chris looks after my mail, but even so this paper garbage multiplies, apparently.

  There are far, far too many words for me to read in my present condition. I can read…that is, I can pick out words, but for some reason my eyes won’t scan a line, and by the time I’ve come to the end of a sentence, I’ve forgotten the meaning of the beginning. I want to scream with frustration and humiliation.

  A memory pops into my mind, of sitting at the kitchen table with Angelina. See Jane run.

  “Try it again,” I urged her. “Sound it out, from the beginning!” Thinking how can you not do this?

  Angelina tore the book from my hands, ripping the pages as I held on too tightly. I feel the anger now, both hers and mine, in my bones—a superpower emanating energy, a cartoon character steaming from the ears.

  I leave the papers scattered on my bed and pull the quilt over my face.

  When the girls come to put away the personal laundry, I can hear them talking about me.

  Molly, look at this.

  Oh dear.

  Did you ask her to clean up her stuff?

  I did. My mistake. I guess it’s too much for her.

  Y’think?