Chapter 2
“See what?” I grabbed my purse and car keys and headed down the hall to the door.
“The respect part. That’s what’s missing,” she yelled after me.
I think someday I will kill that woman. 2: Folk
I parked my beat up Honda Civic in the staff lot, left it unlocked—what’s to steal—then headed up the ramp to the facility. Facility. I’ll think of it that way. Home for the aged just reminds me of all the old—elderly—people in there.
At the top of the cement path, near the facility’s entrance, I reached down and flipped open the childproof lock on the gate, went through to the front entrance, and then made sure the lock clicked back in place.
I knocked on the glass door. I remembered Ms. Andrews saying they locked the front door for security purposes.
To keep them in or us out?
Someone heard and buzzed me inside. The first thing I noticed was the popcorn machine on my right. I remembered seeing it when I came for my interview. The smell reminded me I hadn’t eaten; I also wondered if it was an attempt to cover up other, more nasty smells. I was about to reach into the machine and fill a small bag when Ms. Andrews came rushing around the corner into the lobby. I gave up on the popcorn. It was just as well as one of the patients, sitting in a wheelchair, flashed me a not so nice look.
“Hi, Diane,” Ms. Andrews said. “She lightly patted the woman on her shoulder, and looked down at the phony baby she was holding. “How’s Millie today?”
“Not too good,” the woman said, then returned to cooing over the small doll she rocked back and forth in her arms.
Ms. Andrews came up to me and shook my hand. She was a small woman, almost birdlike in the way she flitted back and forth, her tiny head peeking out over a high-necked dress that was either dark blue or black. She had this way of looking at you but not really seeing you. Her eyes darted off to the side when she spoke and this gave her face a kind of mad expression. “So glad you’re here, Atlanta. We can really use the help today.”
For minimal wage, I’ll do anything
“Call me, Lanta. Everyone does.”
“Fine.” She asked if I’d read the packet of information she gave me. I told her I had. Mainly stuff about the facility; a patient menu for the week; a time schedule for Bingo, crafts, chapel, and other activities as well as the dates and times of weekly field trips into town. This week’s main event was a farmer’s market.
Yippee!
“Didn’t you get your badge yet?” she asked.
“Oh, that. Yes.” I reached into my bag and pulled out a nametag and pinned it to my blouse. “Sorry.”
“You’ll need to wear your badge at all times when working here. We’re big on security.”
I remembered the outside gate, the locked front door and nodded.
The administrator said to follow her down the corridor. We passed residents pushing walkers, wheeling chairs, and a few slowly walking on their own.
Ms. Andrews pushed open a door marked Employees, and if I hadn’t held up my hand when it swung back, it would have hit me in the face.
Welcome to St. Catherine’s
Inside the room, two rows of lockers took up an entire wall. Opposite the lockers sat a sad-looking couch, a few round tables—like the one in our kitchen—and several mismatched chairs.
Someone’s been to a yard sale
Andrews pointed to an open locker. ““You can use this one for your things.
Be sure to lock it.” She reached into her pocket and handed me one of those locks you see just about everywhere along with a key. “Whatever you do, don’t forget. We’ve had some thefts lately so you need to be careful about…your belongings. Especially your purse.”
Careful about other employees or residents?
I stashed my sweater and purse. Clicked the lock and pocketed the key.
“Okay. I’m ready.”
“By this time and with breakfast out of the way, the folk—we call them folk here. Much better than patients or residents, don’t you think? Feels more like family.”
Then she did the weirdest thing. She winked at me.
I nodded. I wasn’t sure what she wanted me to say.
She continued on. “The folk have already bathed and are dressed for the morning’s activities.”
She walked over and read from a schedule pinned to a corkboard. I followed her and did my best to look totally fascinated by all the stuff listed for the “folk” to do.
“Our day starts around ten here.” She glanced at her watch. “Which is just about now.” She rattled on, pointing to each item on the calendar like a kindergarten teacher hooked on phonics. “If you look here, you’ll see that Father Dennis, bless his heart, is saying Mass and offering Communion in our chapel; and here, Miss Dempsey has her craft and writing projects going on in Room A. Bingo happens in B, and there’s a Christian sing-along with those nice volunteers in C. We use letters for the activity rooms—A, B, C, and so forth—so as not to confuse the folk.”
“Patient…uh…folk rooms are numbered,” I added, stating the obvious, maybe trying to impress her on my first day.