Next to her, the old man coughed, spraying some of his breakfast. Maeve took an unused napkin and patiently wiped the scrambled egg off her sleeve. She proceeded to round the back of the wheelchair and, in the good-natured tone they were all expected to feign, made small talk as she pushed Mr. Schuyler down the hall toward his room. The man muttered some things about his family coming to visit (which they never did) and about the meal being delicious (which she knew it hadn't been). She nodded and made forgettable small talk as they passed through the long hallway that connected the kitchens and dining room to the corridors of bedrooms. The hall was made of glass, windows all the way down on either side, one half looking out on a browning wildflower and bird garden, the other half facing the parking lot. Rain beaded and ran down the glass. Thunderstorms had been playing in the sky all night and into the morning, and there was no sign of them letting up. But at least it wasn't one of those days that was so beautiful it made one regret being indoors.
A few other elderly people passed them, one with a walker, another using her slippered feet to push herself slowly along in her wheelchair, murmuring to herself all the while. The low lights and strange quiet depressed Maeve, not to mention the random and clustered old bodies lying and resting and hobbling in various positions and directions, waiting around to die. Working in elder care was a constant reminder of how terrible elder care was. Even though the home was as clean and well-run as could be expected (which was more than most such places could boast), it was, like every other facility of its kind, unconditionally lonely. Of the inhabitants who were lucid enough to hold a conversation, only a few ever wanted to, and those usually spoke of forgotten pasts and loved ones who clearly didn't love as much as they'd been loved. And those were the coherent ones--most of the patients suffered from various stages of dementia, making some nonsensical and others downright volatile. Maeve had learned which rooms to avoid when and whether she should bring another person with her.
Most of her time was spent cleaning the rooms she'd been assigned and helping the patients in her hall get around, and while she always presented as friendly and efficient, she was able to fake at least one of those two qualities at any given time.
"I met a strange lady, yesterday," Mr. Schuyler was informing her as they passed the circle desk from which all the residential hallways spiraled.
"Is that so?" Maeve responded blandly.
"She's crazy," the old man went on. "Says everyone in her family thinks she's dead."
Maeve nodded absently, not even paying attention to the fact that he couldn't see her. They were moving down a better-lit hall, now, no windows, just rooms.
"Says they think they buried her, but she's still alive."
They entered the old man's room, and Maeve turned down the television he'd left blaring. "Do you want to stay in your chair, Mr. Schuyler, or would you like me to help you back into bed?"
"Are you listening to me?" he asked a bit cantankerously, his bristly old face trembling. "She's crazy. Says she burnt down her own house."
Maeve paused in straightening the clutter on the bedside table and finally actually looked at the man. "She burnt down her house?"
"It's what I said!"
The woman's mouth opened slightly; she narrowed an eye, tilted her head a bit in Mr. Schuyler's direction. "Who was this woman? What was her name?"
He raised his shoulders a few times as if annoyed. "Can't remember. Room's in St. Ann."
Maeve's breath caught. A few weeks back--that woman that had come in, who'd seemed so familiar. But she'd checked the woman's name . . . and yet . . .
"Your chair's good for now, Mr. Schuyler. I'll be back in a little bit to check on you."
"What about my program?" he called after her. "I can't hear it!"
But she was already out the door and heading down the hall toward the center of the building. It was too convenient, wasn't it? Too close . . . the house burning down. She passed the circle desk, started down the St. Ann hall, made it all the way to the door of the room where the woman in question was staying. The name on a plaque outside her door read "Martha Heyward," but that didn't deter Maeve, and neither did the fact that the door was closed. But the second her hand was on the knob, beginning to turn it, she was startled by a voice from behind.
"Ms. Heyward is sleeping, now."
Maeve spun to find her least favorite co-worker behind her, a taller, thicker woman who would've looked younger if she'd only dyed her hair or worn a little makeup but who instead presented as ten years older than she was.
"Oh, I--well, I--" Maeve floundered. "Mr. Schuyler, he said--he had a question he wanted me to ask her, about, about a story she told him earlier." She laughed a little, tried to play it off. "You know how insistent he can be, and I--I just didn't want him to get upset, with his heart being at risk."
"Save it," said Pam (whose name may or may not have been Pam but who looked like every version of a Pam Maeve could think of). "This is my hall, and Ms. Heyward needs to sleep. They can see each other at dinner."
Maeve needed this job; she did not need to give anyone a reason to dislike her. So, irritated as she was, she gave a curt nod and a pursed-lip smile and turned away. What an annoying human being, she thought. Pam was one of those people that had literally nothing going on and consequently felt the need to exert whatever small power she felt she had over anyone she could.
Maeve had tried more than once to spot that woman--Martha--out and about, at meals or at the chapel or in the craft room or the physical therapy room or even just sitting in a hallway, but she'd yet to catch her. Whatever. She'd continue to look as she went about her business for the day. She just had to think of what to say to Martha when she did at last meet her.
Maeve sighed. At least it wasn't going to be a long night; she'd be home before Cora went to sleep.
Weekdays were all right. It wasn't that she and Cora spoke much to one another, but Maeve could at least be present for some of the nights, assure herself that her daughter was fine. Not that the girl had particularly given her cause for concern. Cora was doing well in school, and while she'd not made friends there, Maeve was actually happy for that. The extent of Cora's hangouts were with that boy down the street, and while Brian didn't seem to set a particularly good example, he was polite, and he seemed to be respectful of her daughter. Whether Cora and he were somehow involved beyond their friendship wasn't apparent; Maeve hadn't asked her daughter for details, and the one time she'd given a raised eyebrow to something Cora had said about their relationship, the girl had immediately shut it down.
The boy's father was nice, too. Alan. He and Maeve had shared beers a few times, talked about their kids. Alan hadn't once brought up anything about Brian's mother, how that tied in to his general disinterest in women. Maeve hadn't pried, mostly because she didn't want him to feel encouraged to pry into her past. That was a place reserved for her nightmares, for all the black parts of her heart. Alan had also given her some good gossip though--told her that the couple across the street, the one with the grown children, were suspected swingers. That he and Brian had been watching them for years and finally thought they'd figured it out. And the old woman next door to him, on his left, closer to Maeve's own house, had over twenty cats. Alan had gone to the door a few times and not only seen but smelled them. He had little information about Niecey, except that she kept to herself and hadn't ever done more than give grumpy greetings when they caught sight of one another. There was also an elderly man whose house was closest to the little drive that led up into the street, and he was sickly. His relatives visited him from time to time to help, but Maeve was so seldom home that she'd never seen them.
Ugh. Where was her mind? From her mother to her neighbors to her daughter--nothing felt in its proper place, anymore. Maeve didn't know how to successfully monitor her thoughts.
She couldn't bring herself to go back to Mr. Schuyler's room. Instead, the woman returned to her hall and went to the linens closet. She was on linens rounds this week; these people needed their bedding changed sometimes two or three times a day. Pulling at a pile of bedsheets a little too vigorously, Maeve was bombarded when the tower toppled down onto her head. Groaning in embarrassment and frustration, she bent to pick up the fabric off the floor; it'd all have to be rewashed, and now she'd be late remaking the beds.
As she reached for the corner of a pillowcase, an unwelcome memory flashed through her thoughts. A years-old memory, almost twenty years old, of a brief moment in a mall department store. She'd gone shopping with Luce and Nettie and Alyssa some time around the holidays, and the girls had somehow been forced to follow the women into the home goods department for, as Maeve's mother had said, "you girls will be managing your own homes soon enough, and it's best you know how to shop for a household." But Maeve and Alyssa had been bored to tears, teenagers as they were, far preferring to look at shoes and clothing than china and toasters. They'd giggled as they'd played a sort of hide-and-seek amongst the aisles, their mothers nagging at them but eventually letting go. And at one point, eighteen-year-old Maeve had rounded a series of shelves in attempt to escape Alyssa and bumped directly into someone whose arms, which had been full, spilled towels everywhere.
"Oh my gosh! I'm sorry! I'm so, so sorry, ma'am--"
"Do I look like a woman to you?"
Maeve, who'd dropped immediately to the ground to assist in the clean-up, hadn't even bothered to look at the person she'd run into. His peeved voice startled her, and her heart practically stopped in her chest when she looked up. Whoever he was, he certainly couldn't be mistaken for a woman. He was young--couldn't have been too much older than she was--and he was absolutely beautiful. Longish, straight black hair falling across his fair face, deep and angled brown eyes beneath heavy brooding eyebrows, a strong nose and frowning mouth above a clean-shaven chin, and he was dressed in business attire. The suit threw Maeve--maybe he wasn't as young as she'd thought he was.
"Give me those," he ordered in annoyance, and the girl obeyed instantly, lost for words. Huffing a little, the man stuffed the rumpled towels back onto the shelf. Maeve was about to turn and sneak off when he added, "No. Stand there and hold out your arms." She again followed his command, and he took and refolded each towel, one at a time, two hand towels, two medium-sized towels, and two large towels, all in a shade of crimson. As he folded each, he piled them onto Maeve's open arms, and when he was done, he almost took them back from her, but then he paused, crossed one arm across his stomach, held the other's elbow and put a forefinger to his chin. He looked at the girl keenly, as if actually seeing her for the first time. "What's your name?"
Maeve could hear her own breath, felt her eyes move side to side to try to avoid his inquisitive face. "Um, Mae--"
"May?"
"Maeve."
"Maeve?"
She nodded, held out the towels. "Here. I have to go. My--" she almost said mother but caught herself, said instead, "--friend is waiting for me."
"Where do you live, Maeve?"
That'd startled her. He was intimidating, but she wasn't stupid. "I--that's not really--"
"But you're in school?"
"I'm a senior."
"Fine. Where?"
Alyssa suddenly appeared behind the man. Maeve was grateful. He caught her looking over his shoulder and turned to find Alyssa, who stood there unsure what to make of the situation. But he was disinterested in Alyssa. He looked back to Maeve.
"Where?"
Nervous, Maeve didn't know what to do. She found him scary but also incredibly attractive and that made her even more frightened. "I have to go. Here." She shoved the towels at him and began to move past, but he let them all fall again and grabbed her arm.
"What school?"
"I--!" She looked in shock to Alyssa, who marched forward and pulled Maeve's other arm, yanking her from the stranger's grasp.
"Sumner!" Alyssa barked. "We go to Sumner High School."
Maeve couldn't help but glance back as her friend drew her firmly away, and she caught sight of the man smirking, those red towels scattered around his feet like a pool of blood.
A sign, surely. What else could it've been?
Oh . . . it'd all been so long ago. Present Maeve, carting a bunch of bedsheets to the washing room, felt angry at Past Maeve, her stupidity, her unlimited aspirations, her optimism about her future. Present Maeve knew the future: it was bleak, and it was terrifying, and any path that began with a darkly attractive man ended in nothing but trouble.