car keys. After a short drive, I pull off at my favorite candy shop where they make the best truffles on the planet, and I walk out with enough chocolates for him to snack on for a week. And I may or may not have gotten a few for myself.
When I walk through the doors at Hillcrest Manor, the memories of the time I spent in these walls flood my mind. The sharp, sterile scent mixed with pine cleanser is exactly the same, and even the wallpaper and furniture haven’t changed at all. Of course, it was just eight years ago.
“Please tell me you are Makenna Madison!” a woman calls from behind the reception desk. Her short, stocky frame does a little bounce before coming around the counter, her scrubs stretched dangerously tight across her stomach and her white leather shoes squeak in rapid succession as she makes her way to me.
“It is you! I knew it!” Her heavy southern drawl strings the words out unnaturally, and I catch myself leaning in to wait for the sentence to end. A person’s dialect could never be more fitting to their name.
“You’re right, Mrs. Georgia, it’s me.”
“Well, I knew that, darlin’. I mean, your hair is longer, and you grew bosoms where there were just skeeter bites, but I noticed that pretty face as soon as I saw it.”
Yep, nothing around here has changed at all, including Mrs. Georgia’s fascination with talking about breasts. “Uh, thank you, I suppose. It is still visiting hours, correct?”
“Yeah, sweetie pie, there’s still another couple of hours. You looking to volunteer today? Of course, you’ve been gone a while, so most of the folks that were here before are long gone, but the old turd, Mr. Dorner is still here.”
Oh, my. Mr. Dorner. He “accidentally” groped me every time I came in to see him. I brought his tray in to him one day, and as soon as I turned to leave, he poked me in the butt with his fork, claiming that he had almost dropped it and was trying to catch it.
“Oh, no. No volunteering for me these days. I’m a teacher over in Fairhope now, so my time is limited. I am here to see someone though, but I can’t remember his last name. His first name is William.”
“Honey, asking for a William here is like asking for opinions in a room full of men. You’ll come up with a bunch of ‘em.”
I didn’t think about how common the name is. “Okay, is there a William that is blind? One that doesn’t like people to tend to him at all?”
She gasps, her artificially pink lips gaped open. “Mr. Lincoln? Are you kidding? Honey, you’d be better off with Mr. Dorner.”
“I’ll take my chances. I’m just doing a good friend a favor.”
Her knowing eyes narrow as she smirks. “Oh, a favor for your good friend, huh? I see. Well, I won’t stop you, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. He’s on the second floor, room 206. Be prepared to duck when you open the door.”
Wow, Sawyer wasn’t kidding, was he? Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I opt for the stairs, remembering the way the elevator always groaned as it moved, and I easily find his room right across the hall from the stairwell door.
I repeat to myself “I’m doing this for Sawyer” a few times before I raise my fist to the door, rapping softly three times. No answer. The door is partially cracked, but all I can see is a wall, so I decide to push it open and peek in to see if he’s even in here.
It’s not long before I have my answer. As soon as I stick my head through the door, an airborne pillow narrowly misses me and slumps to the floor with a soft thud. A gruff but weak voice follows. “I said I don’t want a bath today!”
I gather what little courage I have left and nudge the door open a little more and step inside. A frail skeleton of a man is pulling the blankets up to his chin, determined to get his way with skipping his bath. “Are you William?”
He pauses. “Nobody here calls me William.”
Here goes nothing. “Well, sir, that’s because I don’t work here. A
When I walk through the doors at Hillcrest Manor, the memories of the time I spent in these walls flood my mind. The sharp, sterile scent mixed with pine cleanser is exactly the same, and even the wallpaper and furniture haven’t changed at all. Of course, it was just eight years ago.
“Please tell me you are Makenna Madison!” a woman calls from behind the reception desk. Her short, stocky frame does a little bounce before coming around the counter, her scrubs stretched dangerously tight across her stomach and her white leather shoes squeak in rapid succession as she makes her way to me.
“It is you! I knew it!” Her heavy southern drawl strings the words out unnaturally, and I catch myself leaning in to wait for the sentence to end. A person’s dialect could never be more fitting to their name.
“You’re right, Mrs. Georgia, it’s me.”
“Well, I knew that, darlin’. I mean, your hair is longer, and you grew bosoms where there were just skeeter bites, but I noticed that pretty face as soon as I saw it.”
Yep, nothing around here has changed at all, including Mrs. Georgia’s fascination with talking about breasts. “Uh, thank you, I suppose. It is still visiting hours, correct?”
“Yeah, sweetie pie, there’s still another couple of hours. You looking to volunteer today? Of course, you’ve been gone a while, so most of the folks that were here before are long gone, but the old turd, Mr. Dorner is still here.”
Oh, my. Mr. Dorner. He “accidentally” groped me every time I came in to see him. I brought his tray in to him one day, and as soon as I turned to leave, he poked me in the butt with his fork, claiming that he had almost dropped it and was trying to catch it.
“Oh, no. No volunteering for me these days. I’m a teacher over in Fairhope now, so my time is limited. I am here to see someone though, but I can’t remember his last name. His first name is William.”
“Honey, asking for a William here is like asking for opinions in a room full of men. You’ll come up with a bunch of ‘em.”
I didn’t think about how common the name is. “Okay, is there a William that is blind? One that doesn’t like people to tend to him at all?”
She gasps, her artificially pink lips gaped open. “Mr. Lincoln? Are you kidding? Honey, you’d be better off with Mr. Dorner.”
“I’ll take my chances. I’m just doing a good friend a favor.”
Her knowing eyes narrow as she smirks. “Oh, a favor for your good friend, huh? I see. Well, I won’t stop you, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. He’s on the second floor, room 206. Be prepared to duck when you open the door.”
Wow, Sawyer wasn’t kidding, was he? Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I opt for the stairs, remembering the way the elevator always groaned as it moved, and I easily find his room right across the hall from the stairwell door.
I repeat to myself “I’m doing this for Sawyer” a few times before I raise my fist to the door, rapping softly three times. No answer. The door is partially cracked, but all I can see is a wall, so I decide to push it open and peek in to see if he’s even in here.
It’s not long before I have my answer. As soon as I stick my head through the door, an airborne pillow narrowly misses me and slumps to the floor with a soft thud. A gruff but weak voice follows. “I said I don’t want a bath today!”
I gather what little courage I have left and nudge the door open a little more and step inside. A frail skeleton of a man is pulling the blankets up to his chin, determined to get his way with skipping his bath. “Are you William?”
He pauses. “Nobody here calls me William.”
Here goes nothing. “Well, sir, that’s because I don’t work here. A
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