Baiba Lielkaja punched the combination code and waited for the Nostalgia Neighborhood doors to open. She did not understand why Hodges had to speak to her right this minute. Hodges knew as well as she did that Nostalgia was chaotic between five and six o’clock and that she was needed to orchestrate the multitude of simultaneous activities. The dining room had to be arranged. Meals for a range of dietary restrictions were being delivered from the downstairs kitchen. Residents had to be changed, dressed, and coiffed in a way that would please family members who showed up unannounced to share the dinner hour with their “loved ones.”
These family members knew the Nostalgia Neighborhood combination code and felt absolutely entitled—rightly so, Baiba supposed, given the exorbitant fees they paid—to treat the premises as they would their own home. Thus they went straight into the dining room and snapped their fingers for coffee while the caregivers were trying to seat residents and serve them the correct gluten-free, sugar-free, or sodium-free meal. Some of these visitors pushed tables together and moved chairs, changing the course of well-established walkways. Not only did this make transporting plates to tables more difficult for the servers, but it made navigation next to impossible for still-ambulatory residents whose neural pathways did not adjust well to sudden alterations in the physical landscape.
Just last night, Dottie Lautner, who was in a fairly advanced stage of Alzheimer’s, had walked right into a rearranged chair, fallen onto her left elbow, and cried out in pain. Lorena Vivas, the young but highly competent day nurse, had rushed out of the dispensary in her orange coat and calmed Mrs. Lautner with her soothing voice. But the nurse had not liked the bruise under Mrs. Lautner’s skin or the swelling around her elbow, and Mrs. Lautner could not string together enough coherent words to answer simple questions like “Where do you hurt?” or “Can you bend your arm?” Lorena had asked Baiba to summon the on-call ambulance crew, and then Baiba had faced the unenviable task of calling Mrs. Lautner’s niece, who was only too ready to blame things on the staff.
What Nostalgia needed was a seating hostess for families, Baiba decided as she stepped off the elevator. In fact, she would mention this to Ms. Hodges right now, she thought. But when she reached Hodges’s office, she saw Cheryl O’Brien seated in front of the director’s desk. Why was she here two hours before her shift began? Baiba looked from Cheryl to the stony-faced Hodges and realized they would not be discussing seating hostesses today. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
“Close the door and have a seat,” said the director in a calm, cool voice.
Baiba did as she had been instructed. “What is it?”
“A small complication. Nothing the three of us can’t resolve together.” Hodges turned to Cheryl. “It’s come to my attention, Cheryl, that Julia Merchant had a hidden camera in her mother’s bedroom.”
“A what?”
“You heard me, Cheryl. A camera. Hidden in a clock radio. And that camera recorded you and Brandon last night. Apparently it shows you handing a medicine cup to Brandon and Brandon dispensing the contents to Mrs. Merchant.”
Cheryl cringed. “I tried to do it my—”
“Stop!” Hodges raised her hand like a stern crossing guard. “Let me finish. Please.”
Baiba felt a fireball combust in her chest. Heat spread to her shoulders and neck. Cheryl was going to get dismissed. And she would get fired, too. She, after all, was the one who had allowed Cheryl to violate the dispensation guidelines. What else was she supposed to have done? From her very first shift at Park Manor, Cheryl’s unremarkable face had triggered inexplicable rage within Lucy Merchant. Every time Cheryl came near her, Lucy screamed the same words: Get away from me, Daddy. You can’t make me drink it. Get out. Get out! And only Brandon’s soothing voice could calm her. He alone could inveigle her to drink her meds. So he had accompanied Cheryl into Lucy’s suite on virtually every night shift Cheryl had worked in her six months at Park Manor, and Baiba had allowed it to happen, because rules were one thing and reality was another.
Baiba glanced out the window where snow was falling onto the cedar-planked paths in the now flowerless courtyard. “Julia Merchant is upset by her mother’s death,” Ms. Hodges was saying. “She doesn’t accept that her mother has passed away peacefully. And in her effort to explain the death, she may be reading into the images her camera recorded. I believe she’s under the impression, Cheryl, that you handed Brandon medicine rather than a drink of water to give to her mother.”
Cheryl opened her mouth to speak—to confess, Baiba supposed—but again Hodges raised a hand. “You don’t need to explain, Cheryl. I know what happened. We all know what happened, and more importantly, we know what didn’t happen. You filled the medicine cup with water, and Brandon helped Lucy drink it. All three of us know that you did not violate the dispensation protocol. We know you would never jeopardize your position or a patient’s safety. Isn’t that right?” She stared straight at Cheryl.
And now Baiba understood the purpose of this conclave. Hodges, who had the most to lose if Julia Merchant uploaded that video to the Internet or took it to the press, was proffering a conspiracy of self-preservation. She had crafted a life raft, but the raft would only float if they all climbed aboard.
Baiba held her breath. Cheryl’s face was a pale canvas of panic, guilt, and indecision. Hodges repeated her invitation onto the raft. “You’re a professional, Cheryl. You would never jeopardize a patient’s well-being. Isn’t that right?” And finally Cheryl’s head began to nod, tentatively at first and then more decisively.
Hodges moved around the desk. She leaned on the front edge and continued to look directly into Cheryl’s eyes. “Julia Merchant may ask you some questions.” Her voice was gentle now. “And if she does, I don’t want you to feel alarmed or defensive. I want you to tell her the truth. You gave Brandon water. You and Brandon did your job. You kept Mrs. Merchant hydrated according to Dr. Fisher’s order. You followed the care plan, and I want you to know that Baiba and I have total confidence in you.” She turned to Baiba. “Isn’t that right?” Baiba heard the silent, serrated edge in Hodges’s voice, the subtext intended just for her: I’ll get to you next.
Then Cheryl was gone, and Hodges’s granite eyes locked onto Baiba. Baiba’s throat closed. She found that her muscles could not perform the simple involuntary reflex of swallowing. Hodges spoke in a voice that was simultaneously calm and chilling. “You have to make this right. You have to get him back here and get him on board with the narrative. Whatever it takes. Do you understand?”