Thursday, fresh start. To prove it, the sky rains, washing away yesterday’s angst and heat. I can hear the droplets tipping and tapping at the window of my Van Gogh room. I have just returned from weights and vitals, discarded my flower-print robe, and now, back in bed and in my pajamas, close my eyes. This reminds me of Paris.
Today will be a good day, I decide. I shower. Peach blush and perfume. I come down the stairs early for the occasion: coffee, breakfast, and the jumbles. And art class this afternoon.
None of the girls must be in the living room yet; no sound except for the rain. I walk in and jump: Valerie! Valerie, standing in the middle of the room.
Valerie, not moving, feet apart, in a daze. At first I do not understand. Then I smell it, see it, feel nauseated: Valerie has soiled her pants.
Valerie, sweet Valerie, who was so kind to me on my first day. Valerie, whose handwriting is elegant and cursive, standing in a brown mess. I am ashamed for her and look away. Whom should I call? Direct Care? What should I say? I wish Emm were here. Or Maman.
I run out for help then return as quickly as I can, scared to leave her alone too long. An unnecessary precaution; she is still in the same spot, gazing blankly at the wall.
She does not seem to notice I am here, or the smell, or Direct Care trying to clean her up. The look on her face turns my insides cold: nothing. Valerie is not there. Direct Care’s sympathy itself is half-hearted. She is slightly overwhelmed this morning; she has breakfast to orchestrate, medication to distribute, and an important announcement to make.
Today is CPR training day, ladies,
she tells us half an hour later. We are all seated, Valerie’s pants are clean, and breakfast has finally been served.
In between your sessions, you may notice staff practicing resuscitation techniques. This is just procedural, don’t worry. We do this once a year.
The girls seem disconcerted, except for Emm, and Valerie. Valerie does not seem to hear or care. She is chewing and swallowing mechanically. She does not look up. No one knows about her little accident except Direct Care and me.
And Direct Care has other things to think about. I, however, am a mess. My breakfast is too; I spill my Cheerios on the floor. Valerie and the CPR training dolls. The latter are displayed flagrantly, unsightly, on the living room floor for us to see. I notice that the inflatable mannequins are fatter than most of us.
The safety measure is disturbing. Why is such training even needed? Naively, hopefully, I reason:
No one could die here.
Nonetheless, my earlier confidence in today being a good day wavers. And I can still hear the rain outside. My heart sinks: No morning walk.
But, just as breakfast is being cleared, the pitter-patter stops. I look out the window, incredulous. So does Direct Care. The rain has stopped!
Well how about that? You lucky, lucky girls. Looks like you’ll get your morning walk after all.
We dash for our walking shoes and to the front door before she and the weather change their minds.