Remembering Jack

Past; four months earlier

This had been the beginning of it all.

“Someone’s looking beautiful today, Mrs. Sanders,” Frank, the male nurse, complimented, wheeling her breakfast to her. He opened the blinds slightly to allow sunshine in on her and helped her sit up in bed, adjusting her pillows for her so that she was in a comfortable position. Mrs. Sanders liked Frank; he was easy-going. He had short, fuzzy dark hair and deep, brown eyes and chocolate colored skin. He was medium height, thin, and at least thirty, around Deanna – her daughter’s – age.

“Oh you’re too kind,” she replied, patting her long thin white hair. “Where’s your wife, Lucille?” she questioned, moving the fork about. She would only eat for Frank and Lucille, though no one in the nursing home knew this. “She’s helping other residents,” he patiently replied, smoothing out her covers.

“You’re so kind to me, Frank,” Mrs. Sanders sighed and grabbed his hand. Her old wrinkled, pale skin looked ghastly next to his dark skin; he kindly wrapped his hand around hers and sat in the chair beside her. “I don’t feel like you’re just doing your job,” she confided, “That’s how they all act. But you and Lucille, you are so kind.”

“Well thank you Mrs. Sanders,” Frank said, smiling. There was a comfortable silence that passed between them as they both looked at the screen, at some Soap Opera. Frank shook his head and laughed, “Last time I watched this with you, those two were getting a divorce and he was sleeping with her mother. And now, they’re in bed again.” He shook his head again and looked at Mrs. Sanders, who no longer paid any mind to it.

She looked at him solemnly, her lips pursed. “Frank,” she sighed and repositioned herself as best she could. “I don’t have much longer, I know. And I don’t have anyone to leave my things to.”

Seeing where this was going, Frank stopped her. He was used to this; this being the residents’ irrational fear of dying before leaving their things to someone. Not getting closure.
It wasn’t unusual for them to tell some crazy story to him, expecting him to somehow magically believe it when none of their other loved ones would. Most of the time, he did.

“Now, now, Mrs. Sanders. You got your daughter, and she has a family.”

Mrs. Sanders shook her head. “Do you have any children, Frank?”

“No, Ma’am, I don’t,” Frank shook his head and smiled sadly. “We were going to have a boy… but my Lucille had a miscarriage.”

Swallowing, Mrs. Sanders turned away. “I… had a son, once,” she looked at him, “but he died, a long time ago.” Touching her cheeks in dismay, she told him: “Count yourself lucky,
Frank, that you never had children.”

Frank smiled sympathetically towards her, “Surely you don’t mean that. You just miss him, that’s all.”

“Well you never miss what you don’t have. So trust me Frank, you and Lucille are better off.”

“Now look here Mrs. Sanders, would you like me to do anything?” There was a light knock at the door and Lucille came in, all smiles. Her hair had gotten the perm she’d been telling Mrs. Sanders about for a while and it was completely straight and smooth looking now. She wore a bright pink smock with blue pants and those sketchers that Mrs. Sanders thought were absolutely horrible looking. But pink was lovely on Lucille; it went so perfectly with her skin tone. Mrs. Sanders told her so and Lucille kindly thanked her.

“How are you today?” Lucille asked, taking a seat next to her husband. The air conditioner lightly hummed, chatter could be heard from down the halls, raised voices were on TV, and Mrs. Sanders was completely content to stay like this for a while.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she replied, looking at the couple. She wished she could be like that – happy, with someone, not alone. “I wish my Jack was here, though,” she whispered, seeming to be in a daze.

“Your son?” Frank questioned.

“No, my son’s name was Joel. After my brother… who also died. Well of course he’s dead. He isn’t here is he? But then again, no one is.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Sanders,” Lucille offered, taking her free hand into her own. “But don’t you know their all in Heaven?”

A weary sigh escaped Mrs. Sanders and she looked away. She couldn’t take their kindness, their understanding. “Well, who was Jack then, if you don’t mind me asking?” Frank watched as she turned to look at him slowly.

“There is something you can do for me Frank,” she told him, ignoring his question.

“What’s that, Mrs. Sanders?”

“You can listen.”

He promised, of course, like all the others. Frank was a good listener; Mrs. Sanders told him all kinds of things during their visits. She had to tell him a story – one more story – before she died. Before she forgot. She had to tell someone – not just anyone.

Someone she could trust to pass it on, generation after generation. Frank was that person, she was sure. But in a week Mrs. Lucille came, teary eyed, to tell her that Frank Allen Williams Jr. passed away three days before, from heart failure and that she would be leaving Ridgewood nursing home and that she was very sorry.

This had been the beginning of it all.



Present; four months later

The distinct sound of heels clicking on the tiled floor disguised the constant droning of machines in the resident’s rooms. Deanna’s blonde hair was swept in a fancy up-do; her face painted with an absurd amount of makeup. Her long, painted nails clasped onto the strap of her silver purse, and her knee-length silver dress was covered by a black rain coat. She looked strangely out of place with her family, like she was an actress in a TV commercial, promoting quality family time, when in real life she despised the very concept.

She walked straight at attention, avoiding speaking or having contact with anyone passing her by. “I hate nursing homes,” she muttered, taking a sharp left. She had lost her family in the process of doing so and had already reached the room when they finally caught up. Upon entering the room, she nearly lost it.

Observing her mother nervously, she felt intimidated. Even if she was up in years, she was relatively young and her presence was still a very commanding one. Deanna’s mother had the poise and grace she had always wanted to possess. Mrs. Sanders was sitting in a wheel chair, her arms placed neatly over a picture frame in her lap. Her hair - which was once as yellow as the sun - was now white as cotton and only a few wisps of it remained.

Her face was wrinkled and decayed looking, and the creases in her neck were even more visible because her head was titled downwards. Her shoulders remained strong, however. They were broad, and looked unnatural on her skinny frame and wilted skin.

She wore a light yellow dress, with a crème colored shawl hanging loosely around her. She gazed out the window, her face full of longing and sadness – sadness no one understood, nor cared to. To the grandchildren, she was just a silly old woman who would die soon. All old people died eventually, didn’t they? Perhaps another older person with more understanding would realize it was almost as if she were waiting for something. Or someone.

Deanna lost her composure before she even reached her mother, tears falling down her face. She fell to her knees in front of her mother and leaned her head in her lap, her hair cascading all over the chair. She felt like a child once more and wanted to be comforted. She wanted d to be tucked into bed and told a story; and she wanted her mother to light her scented candle at night for her. The thought of being so weak made her cry even more. She had always been so strong --her mother used to tell her she was like her father -- and now here she was, crying in front of the very woman who told her crying was unacceptable.

“Mom,” she sobbed, grabbing and clawing at the woman, holding on to her desperately, as if that would keep her alive. The old woman remained silent, staring down at her daughter, a frown on her face. She offered no comfort, and sat rigidly still – like she was waiting for the whole ordeal to be over with, so that she could get back to her gazing and longing.

“Mom, please talk to me,” Deanna begged, looking up at her. “I’ve missed you so much.” It was a partial lie. Deanna had been so busy with her own life that she knew hadn’t thought about her mother nearly as much as she should have, but she always told herself it was because she had a career, children, and a husband to keep her occupied; her mother had been in the same position at one time, so surely she would understand.

Her mother stared back out the window, indifferent to her daughter who had been brought down to a child-like state. Crying bothered her; being touched and crowded bothered her. She wanted to be alone during the last days of her life; she had been alone for years now, since they had brought her here. They hadn’t cared before, but now that she was dying, it was a whole different story. It was about her money, of course. With people, it was always money.

The day her daughter checked her into Plumbee Nursing Home was the last time she had spoken -- that she knew of; she had a tendency to talk in her sleep, though the nurses kept quiet about it as not to ruin her pride. She hadn’t thought she was getting senile, or feeble, but apparently her daughter, who she had raised – as well as multiple other children – thought she knew what was best for her. It had started with the time she forgot her name, and then the time she forgot where she lived and went to the wrong house.

The police found her there, in an old abandoned house, sitting in a chair, staring into space – only because a light had been on, if it hadn’t been, she would have probably sat there until she died (so they said; she knew exactly what she had been doing there, however – even if she couldn’t remember it at this very moment). And then there was the time she forgot to put her car in park and it rolled down the driveway and into the neighbor’s fence.

After that, she was forcibly moved into her daughter’s house and it worked out for about two months. Then they decided to move her to this nursing home because she had almost set the house on fire while they were gone; they had no idea why, because she kept muttering about someone they had never known, and having odd episodes, so they figured she had Alzheimer’s. That had been five years ago, and in those five years, she had only been visited twenty times (she knew this for a fact because she made a mark on her wall every time someone came).

She could even name all of her visitors: Frank, Lucille – it still hurt her to think of them, Deanna, once or twice, Deanna’s family, and then an old man who lived down the hall. He couldn’t remember his name but for some reason he was sure that Mrs. Sanders was his wife. But she wasn’t, of course; her husband had died long, long ago.

“Mom,” Deanna muttered, breaking the woman’s train of thought. She narrowed her eyes and her head snapped to her daughter. She opened her mouth, to say something, until she remembered that she had made a pact – one she intended on never breaking – to never say another word to Deanna, as long as she lived. So she shut her mouth tight and pushed her feet on her daughter. Deanna, surprised by her action, fell backwards and then climbed up, her face flushing red in embarrassment.

Her mother smirked and turned her wheel chair so that she was fully facing the window and she ignored her daughter. Deanna’s husband broke his silence. “Deanna,” he said. She looked up; her face flushing a deeper shade of red, because she hadn’t even realized anyone else was in the room with them. She wiped her face away vigorously and straightened her clothing and hair, before adjusting her shoulders and walking over to them.

“Oh dear,” she said, laughing a bit. She ruffled the hair of her youngest daughter, Morgan, before walking past the crowd of four and out into the hall. She breathed out and blinked her eyes, forcing herself not to cry anymore. She knew it was ridiculous for her to cry; her mother wouldn’t die. The nurses and doctors were clearly stupid. She was as healthy as ever.

When she felt sure she wouldn’t break down again, she re-entered the room and smiled lovingly at her husband, placing an arm around his waist and kissing him. “Want me to get you something?” he asked, breaking the kiss momentarily, his eyes wild. “Yeah,” she murmured, kissing him once more, before remembering where she was. She sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder, now staring at her mother.

“She won’t talk,” she muttered, closing her eyes tightly.

“We should go.”

She shook her head and opened her eyes. “No, she’s my mother.” She released him and took a few steps forward. Her eyes fell upon the uncovered food dish and out of curiosity she went over to it and lifted the lid. The food hadn’t been touched. Her nostrils flared and she placed the lid back down. She looked at the piece of paper which said what the food was supposed to be; she laughed. “Steak,” she read out loud, her voice dripping in sarcasm, “with gravy, mashed potatoes, collards, and low-fat vanilla ice cream. That’s a joke; this shit doesn’t even look edible.”

She looked disgusted as she pushed her way to the door and out in the hall. Her heels clicked even more furiously as she went in search of a nurse. The first one she happened to come across was sitting in a wheelchair, one foot crossed over the other, clipboard and pen in hand. “Excuse me,” Deanna said, looking down at the woman. “Yes?” the nurse asked pleasantly.

“What’s your name?” she demanded, noticing that the woman didn’t have a name tag on. The woman looked down at her uniform shirt and then back up at Deanna, embarrassment written all over her face. She stood up quickly and reached out her hand nervously. “I’m Nurse Rebecca Ormond.”

Deanna nodded. “You’re the nurse that called me about my mother.”

She nodded in return, a grin spreading across her face. “Yes. I’m so glad you could come. I know she-”

“Why isn’t she eating?”

The nurse shrugged. “She isn’t eating?”

Deanna furrowed her eyebrows in disgust. “Shouldn’t you be checking on things like that?”
The woman, obviously noting her sudden change in mood, wiped the stupid grin off her face. “If she isn’t eating, then she must not want to.”

“I see,” Deanna answered curtly. “So that’s how you take care of your residents?”

The nurse smiled and began walking away. She turned over her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I have important things to do.”

Deanna placed a hand on her hip and rolled her eyes skeptically. “Yeah right, your fat ass isn’t worried about anything but the next piece of pie you can eat.”

The woman paused and turned - her face red. She sputtered a moment before finally being able to get any real words out. “Excuse me?”

Deanna crossed her arms over her stomach and stared at the woman. “You heard me.” And then she turned on her heel, and went back to her mother’s room. She smiled as she walked past her startled husband, composed once more, seemingly her usual self. She picked up her mother’s medicine that still hadn’t been consumed and walked over to her mother, suddenly finding confidence.

“Here,” she said, loudly. Her mother remained indifferent to her, as usual. “Take your medicine,” she ordered. Her mother still ignored her. “Take it,” she repeated, through gritted teeth. The room became deathly quiet, while everyone held their breath. Her mother had been known for her temper tantrums in the past when medicine was forced upon her. She usually would give whoever was trying to make her take it a good cussing and scream bloody murder until the concerned neighbors called the police. She had even gone as far one time as to tell the cops that she was being abused.

The old woman turned her head, looked first at the medicine, and then at her daughter, and laughed. She reached up and snatched the medicine out of her hand before feebly throwing it to the floor. The pills scattered across the floor. Satisfied that she had some control, she smirked at her daughter and shook her fist at her before hollering at the top of her lungs. The padding of feet was immediately heard and a nurse came in. she looked at Deanna scornfully before going to the woman.

She stopped hollering when the nurse made contact with her and smiled. “Annie,” she cried, in a raspy voice.

“Yes, Mrs. Sanders, it’s me, Annie,” the woman replied. Deanna gasped at the sound of her mother’s voice and glared jealously at the woman as she rolled her over to her bed in the wheelchair. What Deanna didn’t realize was that the nurse was equally surprised at her mother talking, because she hadn’t done so since she had been there (except of course, in her sleep).

“Would you like to lie down, now, honey?” Annie asked. Her mother nodded and Deanna watched as Annie picked the old woman up, her ivory skin contrasting with her mother’s ghostly wrinkled skin. “Annie,” her mother said, a smile on her face. “You’re too kind to an old woman like me. Just like your Aunt Lucille and Uncle Frank.”

Annie smiled down at her and helped her onto the bed. She removed one of the pillows and Deanna angrily stalked over. “She likes three pillows.”

Annie turned to her and smiled calmly, making Deanna feel inferior. “Not anymore; it’s been two for a while now.”

Deanna frowned, her face turning red once more. She wasn’t accustomed to being embarrassed as much as she had been today. She watched as the nurse helped situate her on the bed and cover her legs. “She’ll get cold,” Deanna said, interrupting her once more.

The nurse smiled at Deanna kindly, still, only making her feel worse. “She only likes her feet to be covered.”

Deanna rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t matter what she wants. She needs to be completely covered.”

The nurse sighed and stood up. “Mrs. Woolard, I know it’s hard for you to understand that you won’t have a mother much longer, but I want to make her as comfortable as she can be. And if she doesn’t want any cover at all, then she won’t be covered. So please let me do my job.”

Deanna remained silent as the nurse went back to tending her mother. Annie picked up the picture she had held moments ago off of the wheelchair. “Would you like your picture?” she asked. The elderly woman let out a startled gasp and started bawling. She curled up in a fetal position, tossing and turning and moaning as she gripped her head. Annie leaned down on her knees and tried comforting her as best as she could. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

“No it’s not,” the woman replied, angry tears falling down her face.

“Why not?”

“I almost forgot,” she replied, letting out a powerful wail. “I almost forgot,” she kept repeating.

“Forgot what, Mrs. Sanders?” the nurse asked. The woman fell silent and released her head. Annie placed the picture in between her hands and smiled at her. She kissed the woman on her forehead and stood up.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Sanders,” she said sweetly, even though it wasn’t night. It was always what she said, though. Deanna and her family couldn’t possibly know, but Annie was her favorite nurse nowadays. She would always come and visit with her every day, even though the woman didn’t talk.

“Jack,” the old woman said. Deanna stepped closer and stared down at her mother, confusion all over her face. “Jack,” she said.

“Who’s Jack?”

The nurse shrugged and replied quietly, “She says his name a lot in her sleep.”

Deanna shook her head. “It must be a mistake. She never knew a Jack.”