hill and was almost to a stop by the time it hit her, but still the impact was enough to send her sprawling. One of the sacks burst, and papers and flowers and several pairs of white cotton underwear fluttered across the neighbor's yard.
The sounds of the accident didn't reach the shower room, where two aides were struggling to give Myra Larsen a shower. 'You'd think we were trying to kill her!' Abby shouted over the old woman's shrieks and the din of water against tiles. 'Why does she hate it so much?' Arthritic fingers tangled in Abby's hair and left red scratches across her cheek. 'Myra, cut it out! We just want to get you clean!' Myra Larsen had never taken a shower in her life, and the sound of the water against her flesh assaulted her.
In a quiet room at the end of the hall, Viviana Pierce was trying her best to die. She and Mrs Quinn had sat companionably at the same table in the dining room, but she didn't know about the accident either.
Viviana was more than ready to die. Some time ago she had put her teeth into a cup on her bedside stand and refused — gently — to eat or drink. She had tried it before, but always she had weakened. Ice cream or orange juice or a little homemade soup became just too tempting, and then she'd be back to eating again. This time she wouldn't weaken. Her family was with her. It was peaceful in her room. There was a nice breeze. In and out of her doorway, in and out of her window, a frothy pastel figure floated, but Viviana didn't invite it in, for, especially now, she knew who she was.
In the sunny activity room, where a group was fixing toys for the children at the State Home and Training School, someone asked Colleen, the Activity Director, 'Where's Mrs Quinn? She knows all about these doll-clothes.'
In the kitchen, steamy and much too small, Roslyn Curry, the head cook, distractedly peeled potatoes into a huge bucket and thought about the astonishing fact that she was in love with another woman.
The car came to a stop a few hundred feet down the hill, and its occupants jumped out. 'Jesus Christ!' cried the driver. 'It's a little old lady!'
'Probably from that place.' The passenger gestured toward The Tides. 'Why the hell don't they watch these people? They wouldn't be in a nursing home if they could take care of themselves.'
'Is she hurt? How bad is she hurt?'
'Don't move her.'
'Here comes the ambulance.'
The ambulance wailed down the Elm Street hill and two attendants leaped out with a stretcher between them. Rebecca stood helplessly among residents and staff at the curb, while inside the facility phones continued to ring and buzzers to buzz. Dexter McCord strained to see over the rosebushes and roared, 'I told you she was a senile old woman! I told you she was fixing to leave! I told you!'
When the ambulance pulled away, Abby went to gather up the papers and underwear scattered into the depression where the lake used to be, though neither Abby nor Beatrice knew about the lake or its improbable tides. The sacks split, so she had to carry Beatrice's personal things exposed in her arms. Before long somebody came to get Dexter for dinner, pulling him backward in his chair without letting him know where they were going, so as not to get him upset.
'She should have been restrained,' the Director of Nursing declared.
Rebecca brushed tears out of her eyes and shook her head. 'I still don't think so, Diane.'
'Then she should have been in a locked facility. We certainly can't take her back when she's discharged from the hospital. If she's ever discharged.'
'That doesn't seem right,' Rebecca faltered, suddenly unsure of herself. 'She's been here a long time. Years. This is her home.'
Someone inside the building called for Diane and she hurried away without saying anything else to Rebecca. Rebecca stood at the curb for a few more minutes, at loose ends, near tears, mind skittering. Then with a sigh she turned
The sounds of the accident didn't reach the shower room, where two aides were struggling to give Myra Larsen a shower. 'You'd think we were trying to kill her!' Abby shouted over the old woman's shrieks and the din of water against tiles. 'Why does she hate it so much?' Arthritic fingers tangled in Abby's hair and left red scratches across her cheek. 'Myra, cut it out! We just want to get you clean!' Myra Larsen had never taken a shower in her life, and the sound of the water against her flesh assaulted her.
In a quiet room at the end of the hall, Viviana Pierce was trying her best to die. She and Mrs Quinn had sat companionably at the same table in the dining room, but she didn't know about the accident either.
Viviana was more than ready to die. Some time ago she had put her teeth into a cup on her bedside stand and refused — gently — to eat or drink. She had tried it before, but always she had weakened. Ice cream or orange juice or a little homemade soup became just too tempting, and then she'd be back to eating again. This time she wouldn't weaken. Her family was with her. It was peaceful in her room. There was a nice breeze. In and out of her doorway, in and out of her window, a frothy pastel figure floated, but Viviana didn't invite it in, for, especially now, she knew who she was.
In the sunny activity room, where a group was fixing toys for the children at the State Home and Training School, someone asked Colleen, the Activity Director, 'Where's Mrs Quinn? She knows all about these doll-clothes.'
In the kitchen, steamy and much too small, Roslyn Curry, the head cook, distractedly peeled potatoes into a huge bucket and thought about the astonishing fact that she was in love with another woman.
The car came to a stop a few hundred feet down the hill, and its occupants jumped out. 'Jesus Christ!' cried the driver. 'It's a little old lady!'
'Probably from that place.' The passenger gestured toward The Tides. 'Why the hell don't they watch these people? They wouldn't be in a nursing home if they could take care of themselves.'
'Is she hurt? How bad is she hurt?'
'Don't move her.'
'Here comes the ambulance.'
The ambulance wailed down the Elm Street hill and two attendants leaped out with a stretcher between them. Rebecca stood helplessly among residents and staff at the curb, while inside the facility phones continued to ring and buzzers to buzz. Dexter McCord strained to see over the rosebushes and roared, 'I told you she was a senile old woman! I told you she was fixing to leave! I told you!'
When the ambulance pulled away, Abby went to gather up the papers and underwear scattered into the depression where the lake used to be, though neither Abby nor Beatrice knew about the lake or its improbable tides. The sacks split, so she had to carry Beatrice's personal things exposed in her arms. Before long somebody came to get Dexter for dinner, pulling him backward in his chair without letting him know where they were going, so as not to get him upset.
'She should have been restrained,' the Director of Nursing declared.
Rebecca brushed tears out of her eyes and shook her head. 'I still don't think so, Diane.'
'Then she should have been in a locked facility. We certainly can't take her back when she's discharged from the hospital. If she's ever discharged.'
'That doesn't seem right,' Rebecca faltered, suddenly unsure of herself. 'She's been here a long time. Years. This is her home.'
Someone inside the building called for Diane and she hurried away without saying anything else to Rebecca. Rebecca stood at the curb for a few more minutes, at loose ends, near tears, mind skittering. Then with a sigh she turned
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