The Elephant in the Room by Barbara O’Byrne

Across from her, Mabel was spooning her poached eggs while Emily rambled through a litany of complaints. Today it was the eggs, over-cooked, the night nurse tapping on her door at night, “You can’t hear her, can you, Frances? So annoying.” Frances nodded. Anything else would invite more exchanges with Emily, who laced every conversation with a side order of disdain. A smoke. She needed a smoke. Where was Jerome?

 Frances took a swallow of coffee and gazed around the dining room. Twenty-eight tables, four chairs apiece. Five were empty, including the one across from her. The women dwarfed inside pastel sweatshirts, herself included. The men in khakis cinched high with leather belts or worse, those polyester pants with elastic waistbands. A sharp voice drew her eyes to the kitchen, separated from the dining room by a long stainless counter. Behind the counter, a perspiring cook grabbed a tray with half the food still on the plate and pointed at the garbage bins. A pair of aids in pink and blue scrubs shrugged.

How long had she been here? Betsy Ross and Uncle Sam figurines with oversized grins were on the table when she arrived. Today, it was a plastic pumpkin and a pair of dancing skeletons. She fumbled in her handbag, her fingers finding the edges of her Pall Malls. Fifteen minutes. That’s all I need, Frances bargained with herself.

Frances had found the bench outside the facility during her first week at the Cedars. She would bring a cigarette to her lips, inhale deeply, pause, and gently release undulating ribbons that dissolved in the air the way snow melts in water. In the distance, a thicket of trees separated the facility from the highway. It was mostly scraggly pines and a few maples. A fallen birch lay undisturbed. Clumps of moss formed around the jagged edges of the fractured trunk, spreading velvet fingers across the grey bark. The sight always relaxed her. If she could have her smoke alone on this bench, she could survive.

A wave of anger rose in her stomach every time she remembered how she ended up at the Cedars. The hospital. The long, silent drive to her son’s home, not her own place. His wife’s harsh whispers seeping through the walls of their bedroom. “She can’t live on her own and she can’t live here. She’ll burn the place down or worse, kill herself. Do you want that?” 

Frances had never cared much for her daughter-in-law. Veronica was one of those brisk, taut women, forever rubbing the ends of painted fingernails, calculating advantages, costs, and margins, a woman who spoke her mind, and made demands. She once berated a harried Save-a-Lot manager about a four-dollar tray of muffins sold one day after the expiration date. Henry was still embarrassed a week later when he told Frances about the muffins. Her son had never been able to stand up to Veronica’s iron will.

Veronica came home with glossy brochures from senior facilities in the area, reviewing the features and limitations of each site with a pair of sharp realtor eyes. At night, she wore Henry down. Henry would end up like the red-faced Save-a-Lot manager, apologizing and apologizing for something he could not control. In the end, Frances could not bear to see her son humbled by that woman. She gave up her apartment and signed the papers for the Cedars.

Compared to other assisted living places, the Cedars was one of the better ones. Veronica had told her a dozen times it had been reviewed favorably by AARP and its residents included the mother of a local politician. It was all true. The Cedars had kitchen and cleaning staff, a gardener, two nurses, a doctor one day a week, a dietician, two beauticians, and a host of aids. You so much as farted, and someone was at your side, asking how you were. Legions of eager and sincere volunteers led the residents in singsongs or bingo on Wednesday evenings. The Kiwanians brought in dogs once a month and Kids Care read to the residents on Friday afternoons.

When Frances moved into the Cedars, Henry presented her with an elegant cane. The head was a magnificent steel elephant, thumbing its trunk at everyone. He positioned an armchair so she could look out the window. Once or twice, Frances tried to open the window, but it remained frozen in its aluminum casing.

On a Sunday visit, Veronica found Frances outside on a bench having a smoke. She grilled Mrs. Spence, the facility manager, demanding to know why Frances was walking alone outside the facility, why Frances didn’t have her cane. Frances could see Mrs. Spence nodding, agreeing with Veronica, apologizing for no reason. It was the four-dollar muffins all over again. After that, whenever Frances went outside, an aid had to accompany her.

Frances kept her eyes peeled for Jerome, a dark-haired boy of about twenty who swept the floors after meals. If she could catch him, she’d have a chance. She’d sought him out after the edict came down from Mrs. Spence. She liked Jerome because he left her alone on the bench to smoke. “See you in a bit, Ms. Frances,” he’d chime. A five-dollar bill sealed their deal. Where was he today? A soft buzzer announcing the end of breakfast brought Frances back to herself. An aid was hustling them into the day room. Damn. No cigarette this morning.

 Two representatives from the Senior Care Council came to provide information on changes in insurance plans that could include a physiotherapy add-on. “Just an option,” one of the reps cooed, “something you and your family can discuss.” One of the residents asked if it were covered under Medicare. “No,” the rep answered, “this is an extra, but it will be your choice to accept it.”

 “Of course, we’ll all have a choice with Medicare Part Z,” a voice sang out, “z coffin or z oven.” Frances laughed and laughed harder at the gaping mouths on the fresh faces of the pair from the Council. It was her first belly chuckle since coming to the Cedars. “Who’s that?”  She asked. “That’s Gabi,” Emily whispered, “all mouth.” 

After the session, Frances dug out her Pall Malls and looked around for Jerome.

 “You want to go for a smoke?” Gabi asked. “I’m dying for one myself.”

“I’m supposed to have an aid with me.”

“Says who?” Gabi snapped back, “You have that great cane, and you have me. Let’s go.”

They walked to the back patio area, a rectangle of concrete surrounded by an undulating ribbon of grass, behind which stretched a wooded area. A couple of benches and some picnic tables created the appearance that residents spent time outside.

Drawing on her cigarette, Gabi snorted, “As if any of us care about physio plans. Why do they keep reminding us we’re nearing the end of the line?”

Frances nodded. “I never thought of myself as old until I came here.”

 “So how did you end up at the Cedars?” Gabi asked.

Frances looked out over the field at the back of the Cedars and crushed her cigarette into the concrete before responding. “Stroke. Was recovering just fine at my son’s place. I burned their coffee table with a cigarette. After that, his wife would not let up. Said I would fall on their stairs or set the place on fire.”

‘So why didn’t you go back to your place?”

“Veronica insisted on assisted living. Kept telling Henry another stroke with no one around, and he’d fine me dead on the floor.”

 “Sounds like Veronica rules the roost.”

It was true but Frances hated to hear someone else say it. She stared at the trees and asked, “What about yourself. How’d you get here?”

“Broke a hip. Couldn’t manage on my own. Someone at the hospital told me about this place. I hated going into assisted living but for several weeks I needed it. The hip’s healing and I’ll be moving into that senior apartment. The Excelsior. I heard the old mayor, and his wife are living there “

The Excelsior was for people with money. It was featured in one of the brochures from Veronica’s placement campaign. The realtor in her had sized up Frances’s resources and determined it was out of reach.

“So, when are you planning to leave the Cedars?” Frances asked.

“Soon enough,” Gabi replied. “Maybe you can take a unit at the Excelsior.”

Frances laughed. It wasn’t possible but she savored the thought.

  Gabi took the empty chair at her table. She was always there with a joke, with a smart remark. Even the visits with Henry and Veronica were bearable. The four of them had lunch together one Sunday. Pointing to Veronica’s stiletto nails, Gabi quipped, “Hope you don’t jab a resident with those. Mrs. Spence will be calling for an ambulance.” Veronica pursed her lips in a tight smile. For once, she was silent. Henry and Frances chuckled.

Frances liked Gabi’s mouth, sharp, and long past giving a damn. It reminded her of her days at the marketing firm where she had worked as a secretary for decades. She missed the off-color jokes, the explosive laughter. Everyone is firing on all cylinders.

What disturbed Frances the most about the residents at the Cedars were their eyes. Frances had noticed them the day she arrived. It was a fixed look somewhere between startled and bewildered that reminded her of the staring plastic eyes of dolls. Some nights, these eyes invaded her sleep, disembodied orbs that hung in the darkness.

In the mornings after such dreams, Frances could count on Gabi to pick up on her mood, and urge, “Let’s go for a smoke.” Outside on the bench, Gabi would share a zinger about one of the residents.

 One glorious late October morning, the sun warming the air, Gabi burst out, “Got this brochure in the mail. There’s a senior bus trip to Vermont to see the last of the fall colors. We’d be on the bus most of the time, but it will get us out of here. Costs $450.00, everything included.”

“Veronica would never agree. And Henry can’t stomach a fight with her.”

“Don’t tell them. Send a postcard from Burlington. It’s a two-day trip. We’ll be back before they get the card.”

 “You know I need the cane.”

“Most of the people on the bus run like old cars, slow and choking on every incline. And I’ll be right beside you. Get me a check and I’ll mail our forms.”

That evening, the idea of the trip melted in her mouth like the layers of a chocolate truffle. It was hard to decide which she enjoyed more. Being sprung from the Cedars or anticipating Veronica’s expression when she got the postcard.

 Frances came down to breakfast the next morning to find Gabi’s chair empty.

 “Heart attack. They took her away in the middle of the night,” Mabel announced. “The night nurse found her sitting in her chair, with one those stupid brochures she brought with her when she arrived years ago.”

“Years ago?” Frances gasped.

“Oh, come on, Frances, didn’t you know? Gabi’s was an old timer here. She’d been here at least five years. All of us heard her dreams of travelling, of moving to the Excelsior. All pipe dreams.”

“No family. No money. All mouth,” Emily interjected. Glancing in the direction of the kitchen, she added, “I hear they’re adding salmon to the menu. I bet that cook dries it out in the microwave.”  

It was horrifying, a macabre joke, like those dancing skeletons on the table. Frances itched to sweep them off the table. She needed to get away. She reached into her purse for her cigarettes, her fingers crumbling one corner of the check she had written. She eyed the open cafeteria doors that led to a corridor exit. She might just be able to slip out in the hubbub of voices and the clank and thud of cutlery and ceramic. If she went around the outside of the tables, she might have a chance. She rose silently from the table, grabbing her cane from the back of her chair. Mabel shot her a glance but said nothing. She was halfway around the dining room when Mrs. Spence, seated at one of the tables near the door, caught sight of her.

“Agnes,” the director called to an aid idling near the kitchen, “see what Frances needs.”

“Where do you want to go, honey?” Agnes asked.

Frances pushed back a shock of grey hair that had fallen in front of her face, “To the bathroom.”

Agnes led Frances to one of the facilities strategically placed along the long corridors. Inside the cubicle, Frances squatted and reached inside her handbag. Surely one or two puffs would not set off the fire alarm. Agnes’ voice interrupted her thinking.

“Do you need any help? Don’t be shy.”

Agnes had not withdrawn to the hall as most staff did. Frances sighed, put away the cigarettes and flushed.

Frances considered asking Agnes to take her outside to the bench but thought better of it. Agnes was neither smart enough nor sly enough to leave her alone for her smoke and pocket the money. As they passed the elevator in the hallway, Frances said, “I’d like to go back to my room.”

“Sure thing,” Agnes crooned, pushing the button for the second floor, and guiding Frances into the elevator.

In her room, the heavy base from the downstairs exercise class vibrated through the floorboards. Frances imagined the empty, bewildered eyes, the bodies planted on chairs, the disjoined movement of arms and legs. She pulled her Pall Malls from her purse. I’d kill for a smoke, she agonized. Just one. If she could raise the window an inch. No luck. The frame would not budge.

The blue eyes of the elephant at the end of her cane sparkled in the pale morning light. Frances grabbed the cane and swung the heavy snout. She was long past giving a damn.

Barbara O’Byrne

Image: google images. – Silver elephant head handle of a walking stick.