Today I’ve made a decision to not say anything to anybody, and I can see how uncomfortable this is making her feel, but it’s not really my problem, is it? I’m interested in flowers and she’s not, and that’s about all there is to it. I didn’t ask her to sit with me, so if she wants to go that’s fine. But at least it’s a nice day and we can sit outside. For the past two days it’s been teeming down and it’s been really depressing being stuck inside in the recreation room with the television on, and half-finished jigsaw puzzles everywhere, and people milling about and trying to behave like they’re normal. She doesn’t know how lucky she is to be sitting outdoors in the garden, with her clunky shoes and that silly tight blouse. My feet tend to perspire when I get anxious, but today they are drip-dry. I’m happy here in the sun with my flowers, and sitting under my overdressed tree that’s keen to hide its brittle bones. Winter will be the undoing of it, but as it’s still autumn my tree is allowed to flaunt herself. The nurse has no idea that I’m happy. She sneezes, then discreetly blows her nose into a proper handkerchief. I think she’s got allergies. However, one thing that I can say about her is she’s clean, and around these parts such things count.
I have to give it to them on the cleanliness front in this place. Every day they scrub the showers and the bath tubs, they empty the wastepaper bins, and then they mop and polish the tiles on the floor so that you can almost see your face in them. I can set my watch by the appearance of the two young women, with their long, stringy-haired mops and plastic buckets. Ten o’clock, every day on the dot. First they sweep, then mop, then give it all a good waxed buffing. If cleanliness is next to godliness, then we’re living pretty close to heaven in this home. Except at night. We’re not allowed anything like scissors or a razor or tweezers, even. I’m not used to going to bed untrimmed and unpresentable. But it’s not allowed, so that’s that. And then they come in every hour with their torches, shining them in my face to make sure I’ve not done anything to myself. They try to be quiet, but I always hear them. The breath patrol, listening to make sure that we’ve not slipped over into the next world during the night. I expect that would mess up their bookkeeping. And then in the morning, just like in the real world, I put on my day face. Actually, most of them don’t bother with this part, which is partly why they’re in here in the first place. They just shuffle around looking miserable, as though death has tried to talk to them in the night. Well, it also tries with me sometimes, but you’re not forced to listen. There’s nothing that says you have to pay attention.
I won’t meet the eyes of the nurse. I prefer the flowers, but I know that she wants to talk. She can’t take any more silence. I’m being difficult with her, but I suppose it’s not her fault, none of it is. I look at the poor woman sitting in the uncomfortable chair, and I realise that there’s nothing to be lost by being nice to her, and so I smile at her and then watch her closely as she smiles back in my direction. It occurs to me that there’s nothing much wrong with my exotic nurse that a slash of red lipstick and some make-up couldn’t fix. And then I wonder, perhaps she does have an interest in flowers? Perhaps we can talk about them, and this would give us something in common. And I could share with her my only fear in this regard, which is to do with how secretive they are, for flowers grow so slowly that you never quite know what they’re going to turn into. There’s no talking to them about this, for they’re quite cunning. The nurse puts her book face down so she’ll know what page she’s on, and then she walks out of the shade towards me. She continues to smile. The nurse is trying too hard to be happy. She asks me a question, but I say nothing in reply. I simply look at my nurse. I’ve no desire to keep her here against her will. If she wants to leave, then she’s free to do so. Really.
Dr. Williams has come to visit me. They have a tendency to call him when things are difficult, but it must be very annoying for him because it’s not as if he doesn’t have anything else to do. He’s a very busy man. He’s looking at some papers and occasionally glancing up at me, but that’s about it. He isn’t saying anything. I hear my stomach rumble. I’m hungry, but I hate the dinners because everything in this place is so childish. First, we all have to gather in the dining room, which is also the place where you have to meet for announcements and group activities such as jewellery-making, modelling clay, and art. Sometimes they don’t even bother to clear up the activities things, and they just shove them to one side of the room. Then three orderlies roll metal trolleys of food into the room and you pick up a tray, then squeeze into a space on a bench and plonk the tray on the table top. There are two tables, with long benches on either side. We have to sit and eat off the trays, looking at each other and deciding whether or not we have anything to say to the person opposite who’s watching us gulp our food. There is a colour television set in this room, but during dinner half the residents want it on and half want it off. Eventually the nurses made a decision to keep it off, but when dinner’s over they turn it on whether anybody’s watching or not. At least until midnight, when it has to be shut down for good. That’s their idea of how to do things.
Dr. Williams stops looking at his papers and he glances up at me, then back to the papers, and now he looks at me again. He pushes the papers away and brings his elbows up and onto the table. (“So, Dorothy, tell me how things are?”) I stare at him, but it’s difficult to know where to begin. I feel as though I’m wasting his time, but I’ve got to say something. I think about telling him that there’s a room near here where some of them play table tennis. I pass this games room on the way to my own room, but it’s far too bright to go into it. They have those long neon lights hanging from the ceiling. There’s always a nurse in there, just sitting and watching in case things get a little out of hand. But hardly anyone plays table tennis, except two young girls who look so sedated that it’s a wonder they can lift the bats. They’re thin, and they must have that eating disease. If you ask me it’s a bit of a waste of time having the nurse there. She could be far better deployed in some other part of this place. Or answering the question, where are all the men? There are a couple of men who shuffle around with their trousers half-hanging off, and a younger man who dresses nicely, apart from some stains on his blue polo-neck jumper. They look like food stains. I suppose men drink their problems away in the pub. Or hit people. Maybe Dr. Williams knows why there are so few men in this place. I think about asking him, but instead I begin to laugh at the absurdity of it all.
He says nothing, and he looks at me as though whatever it is that he’s going to say will be difficult for us both. (“You don’t appear to be getting any better, Dorothy.”) But he doesn’t understand, there are good days and there are bad days. I thought today was a good day, but apparently today was a bad day, which is why they called him out. But I am happy. However, I just don’t have the time for this. I’m sorry, but this is a waste of my time. (“Don’t you want to return home?”) I mean, it’s not that I’m not grateful for everything that these people have done for me, but there are things to be done. When I look back at my life, only now do I realise that I’ve thrown away hundreds of days thinking that I could always reclaim them. But, sadly, I now know that this is not the case. There are things to be done. Solomon must have some family. I mean, how would you like it if your son or brother went abroad and you never heard from him again? They’ll be living in pain for ever, unless I go and help them. They’ll want to know that the three murderers are locked up in prison, and that apparently Carla and her mother decided that it was best to leave Weston and settle somewhere in the Midlands. Telling them all the facts is the decent thing to do. It’s compassionate. It gives them a chance to heal. (“You’ll still have to be monitored, but these days there are many care-in-the-community programmes.”) But it hasn’t sunk in with this man, has it? I look at him, but I don’t want to argue. In the past I’ve felt let down by him, but as time’s gone by I’ve grown to understand my specialist, probably better than he thinks. He stands up and I look at him, all neat and tidy. Now that he takes care of himself he reminds me of Solomon. He didn’t used to, but being over forty I can see that he’s finally made the decision to fight back. (“Get some sleep, Dorothy. I’ll stop by and see you later in the week.”) He’s not a bad man. When he goes I know what will happen. I understand the routine. They’ll take me back to my room and give me tablets with some hot milk in the hope that I’ll sleep properly. But I won’t sleep.