It was a gorgeous day, and Carol was determined to take advantage of it.
She took a bath, got dressed in her finest clothes and then headed outside to the garden, only to find Larry and Burt toiling away in the soil. They waved at her as she came out, and she smiled at them before heading to the gazebo, climbing the steps carefully to find Boris sitting on one of the benches inside. "Good morning," she said happily. "Is it?" Boris asked, looking up from his newspaper, "I can never tell anymore." "Cataracts are a bitch," Carol said, making him chuckle as she seated herself beside him, "...so, got any plans for today?" "You're lookin' at it," Boris said, "Nobody's at the apartment, so I didn't wanna be there. Came here just to relax, which is funny, because there's nothing very relaxing about this kind of place." "Hey, I made a lot of renovations in order to make this home much more appealing and welcoming," Carol said, "I'll have you know that since renovations have finished, all I've gotten has been great feedback from people!" Boris smirked and kept reading, letting Carol know he was merely pushing her buttons. She enjoyed having him around again more. Just then they heard the sound of an ambulance pull up to the front of the home. Carol and Boris stood up and walked to the edge of the gazebo interior, watching from the rail as a few paramedics entered the home and, a few minutes later, exited with someone covered in a sheet on a gurney. As they wheeled the metal slab onto the ambulance and started to drive away, everyone stood around somewhat slack jacked. Finally a woman approached Carol. "Who was it?" Carol asked, leaning on the gazebo rail. "It was Alice Holbrook," the woman said, "In her sleep, peacefully,"; the woman then turned to everyone else within earshot and, cupping her hands around her mouth shouted, "who had Holbrook?! Who had Alice Holbrook?!" After a moment a man on a cane came forward, his hand raised. "I did!" he replied, and Carol rubbed her forehead. It was time for something to change. *** "A woman died at the home this morning," Boris said, sipping his coffee as he sat in a booth across from Father Krickett, who was spreading butter on toast from a little plastic butter container that was set on the table. "Sort of an everyday occurrence at an old folks home, isn't it?" Krickett asked, smiling a little. "Sure, nothing new, business as usual, but...I don't know. This felt different. Carol was very upset about it," Boris said, "I can't blame her, really. It's hard watching people around your age croak, it puts you right at the top of the list. Never know when your time is finally up." "God does enjoy playing russian roulette," Krickett said, taking a bite out of his toast and chewing before responding again, "but perhaps it's not the proximity to her own mortality that's upset Carol, perhaps it's something else. Carol's never struck me as the kind to be worried about the end of her life, personally." "You're not wrong, she never has seemed to fear death," Boris said, filling in another section of the papers crossword puzzle before looking up at Krickett, "...do you?" "Do I what? Fear death?" Father Krickett asked, setting his toast down and clasping his hands together on the table, clearing his throat and adding, "...I think people like me, who are religious, don't often fear death because we believe in the idea of eternity with our father in heaven. That being said, I can't deny the idea of nonexistence skeeving me out of a bit, sure. But overall, I like to think I'm not as affected as most, certainly." Boris nodded, then set his paper down and picked at crumbs on the table, his voice low when he finally spoke again. "...I'm scared," he said, "I never was, but...watching Polly die. It changed me. It made me scared. The idea that this, all of this, who I am and what I do and the things I like, just ends...yeah, that's kind of terrifying to me now." "I believe it," Krickett said, reaching across the table and patting the old mans hands, "That couldn't have been easy, and I'm sorry for that loss. I'm here if you ever want to talk about that whole ordeal." Boris opened his mouth, then shut it again and shook his head. In the months since Polly's overdose, he hadn't talked about her, not to Whittle or Krickett or Carol or anyone. He kept that entire debacle to himself, and some nights he'd wake up in fits from nightmares where he was discovering her body over and over again. These nightmares were causing him ridiculous amounts of mental anguish, yet he didn't tell them to anyone. He didn't want anyone to worry about him. He just wanted them to stop. He'd kept the pills Polly had stashed, and took Valium fairly regularly to get through the days and nights, especially after the nightmares. "What's your day look like?" Krickett asked, "Any plans?" "Not really. Just...not really." Boris didn't talk for the rest of the morning. He simply went back to his crossword puzzle, leaving Krickett to read the rest of the newspaper before heading to the church. Despite the lack of discussion, both enjoyed simply having the other for company. Sometimes presence, not interaction, was all that was necessary for friendship. *** "What do you mean you're closing the pool?" Burt asked, "That's the most exciting aspect of living in an old folks home!" "I can't do it anymore," Carol said, "the death pool started as a fun way to compete with one another, but after renovating the home, after getting to know a lot of the people here, I cannot, in good conscience, allow it to stay open. It makes me sad to think of people the age of the deceased profiting from the deaths of their peers." The door to Carol's office opened and Boris entered, shutting it behind him. "Carol's closing down the death pool!" Burt said, turning in his chair to face Boris, almost like a child telling on another child to their parent, "I can't believe this, try and talk her out of it." "I think she's right," Boris said, leaning against the wall, unwrapping then popping a hard candy into his mouth, "I mean, after getting to be friends with Polly, I was devastated by her loss, not ecstatic by what I gained from it. It was a fun idea, but it's time to grow up." "Grow up? We're in an old folks home, how much more grown up could we get?!" Burt asked, making Carol chuckle. "Burt, I'd like you to go gather everyone's sheets please, and inform them that we won't be doing the death pool anymore," Carol said, "I'll join you in a minute." Burt sighed, nodded, then stood and exited as Carol looked up at Boris from her desk. "Something on your mind?" she asked. "...I'm gonna see Ellen and Lorraine today," Boris said, "though, truth be told, I don't necessarily feel as if I want to see either one of them. Most of the time we simply help Ellen with her physical therapy, and when we aren't doing that, Lorraine and I just bicker under our breath so she can't hear it." "Well," Carol said, standing up and smoothing out her outfit as she approached Boris, "I think it's good for you to have things to do. Take your mind off other things, you know? Take advantage of your family, Boris. Polly wasn't able to. She lost everything before losing herself. Do it for her." She patted him on the chest, then headed out of the room to catch up with Burt. Boris stayed and looked around the office. When had things changed so dramatically? It seemed like it'd happened so quickly, almost overnight, and he hadn't even noticed. He was beginning to wish for the days when everyone just sat around, complaining, as old folks like to do, instead of whatever it was they had embroiled themselves into these days. The good ol' days were gone, he knew. Time marched ever onward, stopping for no man, woman or child, and he was lucky enough if he was able to just keep up. *** Sitting in the therapy room, watching Ellen do basic leg exercises best she could with her nurse, Boris couldn't help but feel sick. He felt like he'd put Ellen in this position. He was responsible for the accident that had crippled her in the first place, and then he felt like perhaps the shame she attained from it was secondhand because she thought her parents thought less of her, and thus the surgery that then put her into a coma, was even worse. Now Ellen couldn't still couldn't walk well - though they insisted that would change over time with the therapy - and she couldn't remember her family. "You know," Lorraine said, leaning towards Boris and whispering, "I knew a girl in grade school who had leg braces, and that's all this therapy reminds me of is that girl. Now everytime I watch Ellen try and regain strength in her legs, all I see is that girl and hear everyone laughing at her." Boris rolled his head towards her and smiled. "That's a nice story," he said. "You know what I mean," Lorraine said, half laughing and hitting his arm playfully, "These associations make themselves. I'm not happy about it and I know they're not the same, but because that's the closest I've ever been to something like this before it happened to her, that's what I'm reminded of." "I guess I know what you mean," Boris said, "...do you think she's getting better?" "I do, yes. Slowly, but yes. In a few months, maybe a year, she'll be literally on her own feet," Lorraine said, sighing, "...whether or not she ever remembers us is another matter entirely." "She would be so lucky," Boris muttered, making Lorraine grimace. As her therapist took leave for a few minutes, Ellen rolled herself in her wheelchair over to her parents and smiled at them. "I'm sorry you guys have to come for this," Ellen said, "It's probably awkward, considering I don't really remember you." "No, it's fine," Boris said, waving his hand thusly dismissing the thought, "it's absolutely fine. Whether you remember us or not, we're still your parents, and we should be here to support you." Lorraine was rather surprised by this statement. Boris had, since the accident, remained somewhat aloof and distant, because he felt like he'd failed as a father. What had changed? Why was he so suddenly being so welcoming and comforting? Lorraine looked back to Ellen and smiled. "You're doing great, sweetheart," she said, "Absolutely great. We're very proud of your efforts, and we're seeing real progress." "For what it's worth, even though I don't really remember much, it is nice to have people here to support me," Ellen said, "it...it helps me not feel so alone while dealing with something so challenging." "And there's no shame if nothing changes," Boris said, leaning forward, "remember that. If you don't regain strength in your legs or don't remember us, that's perfectly fine. We'll be here to help, no matter what, okay?" Boris reached out and stroked her hair, pushing her bangs out of her face, making Ellen blush. After the session, once Ellen was back in her hospital room, Lorraine and Boris headed to the parking lot, a flurry of questions swirling in Lorraine's head. As they approached Boris's car - the Gremlin Polly had left him - he spun the keyring around his index finger before unlocking the door. "What the hell was that all about?" she asked, "All that togetherness crap? Who are you and what have you done with my husband?" "Very cute," Boris said, "I think these days I'm just...trying to be more open, more with those I care about." "I know that losing your friend hurt," Lorraine said, "and I can't begin to imagine what that kind of loss must've been like, to find her like that, to feel responsible maybe, but-" "I don't feel responsible. I know she was the reason she did. Sure, I've debated endlessly whether or not I could've, or even should've, tried to stop her, but in the end Polly was going to do what she wanted, and no matter how much we might've mattered to one another that wasn't going to change. She was ready to go. Some people just don't wanna be here for the end, and frankly, I can't blame them." Boris opened the door and climbed inside, shutting the door before rolling the window down as Lorraine bent down and looked into the car. "Boris, I'm...I'm here, if you wanna talk about it," she said. "Why does everyone assume I wanna talk about it? What does talking about it really do besides making me relive something I'd rather move past already? Don't you think I've talked about it enough? Don't you think, if anything, that I'm sick of talking about it? I appreciate the offer, Lorraine, I really do, but I don't wanna talk about the death of my best friend, thanks. I'm trying to move on, not stay stuck." "Okay, I'm sorry," Lorraine said, pulling herself out of the window and patting the roof of his car as he pulled out of his parking spot and drove away, leaving his wife standing there, more confused about who Boris actually was than she'd ever been before. *** That night, Boris was asleep in bed when he woke to the sound of someone walking down the hall. He assumed it was Chrissy, or Whittle, but he climbed out of the bed nonetheless, pulling his robe on over his pajamas and heading out of his room towards the kitchen. He flicked on the light switch but the lights didn't come on, and then he saw her, sitting at the table. Polly. She looked at him, and he froze on the spot. She smiled at him, and he felt his chest tighten. He grasped at his chest, before suddenly waking up, back in his bed. Another nightmare. This was getting old. Boris sat up and scooted towards the bedside table, where he opened the drawer and pulled out a small box. Inside were the Valiums he'd pocketed off Polly before he called anyone, and he took one with a sip from the glass of water he kept on the bedside table. He sighed, ran his hand over his face and coughed. He wanted this to end. Why wouldn't this stop? Boris finally got up and, pulling his robe over his pajamas, he grabbed his car keys. Father Krickett was surprised when he opened his front door, only to find Boris standing on his porch. "What are you doing here?" Krickett asked. "...I hope I'm not disturbing you," Boris said. "No, I wasn't asleep," Krickett said, "I was reading. Please, come in, it's cold out." Krickett moved aside, allowing Boris to enter. Boris walked in circles once inside, looking exasperated and fed up. His eyes were red, like he'd been crying, and his hands trembled. Krickett folded his arms, watching his friend, waiting for him to speak. "There's...there's something wrong with me," Boris whispered, his voice straining not to crack, "I'm scared, and I don't know what's happening. I keep seeing her. I have these extremely vivid nightmares and I keep seeing her, and then I wake up and she's not there, and it's like...it's like I'm living it all over again." "I think what you're experiencing is likely due to PTSD from what happened," Krickett said, "Granted I'm no psychiatrist, but...it would make perfect sense. And there's nothing wrong with that, many people have PTSD and they lead perfectly normal lives. What you went through, Boris, was traumatic. Even for someone like yourself, who acts so strong and sturdy, it-" "That's...that's just the thing, I'm not those, Krickett, I'm not. I would love to be, but I'm not, and I...I need your help, please," Boris said in a hushed voice, approaching the priest and pushing his face against him, crying against his pajamas, squeezing him tight. Krickett, surprised at first, then smiled warmly and held the old man in his arms. "You're fine, Boris, I'm here. I'll help you," he whispered, "I'll help you." That was the thing about Father Krickett. Once he made a promise, he kept that promise, and Boris knew this all too well. He knew Krickett wouldn't let him down, which was what he needed most right now. Boris might not have been religious... ...but he did find some comfort in the arms of the church that night.
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Golden Years follows the exploits of a bunch of old people in a retirement home as they try to have fun, relax or come to terms with the soon to be end of their lives. Archives
April 2024
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