Regina Whittle couldn't take the sound anymore.
That constant knocking on the door, his voice coming in and telling her to just come out and talk to him, that this isn't fair to him, to keep cutting him out like this, but she didn't want to listen anymore. She leaned against the door of the bathroom and poured herself another glass of wine as she wiped her eyes on her arms. She downed the wine and then she ran one hand down her arm, looking at the scars on her wrists. She wanted to tear them open, watch them flow with blood. She wanted to cover the entire bathroom floor with her insides. She wanted to. But she didn't. After all, she had to work in the morning. *** "You know, between Angela Lansbury and Matlock, television really convinced me that I'd be knee deep in detective work when I reached old age," Burt said, making Boris laugh. "You're telling me. In the end, it turns out that the only mystery I'm trying to solve is how I ended up here," Boris said, as Carol walked in and handed Boris a can of soda. He thanked her as she took a seat beside him and watched the tv. "MORE fucking Matlock? Seriously?" Carol asked, "Have you no shame?" "You know, there's this great place called your bedroom that you can sit and NOT insult my viewing choices," Burt said. Carol mocked him, making both men laugh as the front door opened and Whittle entered, looking pale and exhausted, her eyes red, like she'd been up all night crying and then had to tried to cover it with makeup so as to dissuade any questioning. As she walked past them, she smiled at Boris, who nodded back at her accordingly, before she headed into the back of the nurses station. Boris looked back at Carol, who was sipping her soda and he sighed. "Whittle looks like shit," he said. "And you look like a basket of roses," Burt said, "Don't talk about a womans appearance like that." "No, I'm not being derogatory, I'm being concerned, asshole. I'm saying she doesn't look well, like she is feeling bad or having a hard time dealing with something," Boris replied. "We're all having a hard time dealing with something Boris. It's called life," Carol said. Boris stood up and walked to the door that exited from the nurses station into the hallway and leaned against the wall, waiting. Eventually, it opened, and Whittle walked out, holding a small tray with tiny paper cups on them. She was surprised by his presence at first, but then acknowledged him and the two walked together down the hall. "What's going on?" Boris asked, "You seem...kind of...not...good." "Boy, for a writer, you sure are a real conversationalist," Whittle said, making Boris chuckle. "I'm just concerned. Is everything okay?" he asked, as Whittle stopped and looked at him. "Meet me outside, in the gazebo, in about...twenty minutes? We can talk then," she said, and he nodded as she went about her way, delivering medicine to house citizens. Boris got something to eat from the cafeteria and then headed out to the gazebo and waited for her. Leaning against the rail of the gazebo, chewing on his cookie, he watched the knitting club and saw Larry toiling in the dirt nearby, seemingly trying, badly, to do some gardening. After a few minutes, Whittle showed up and sat down on the floor of the gazebo, exhaling. "Want some of my cookie?" Boris asked, holding it out to her, but she smiled and shook her head. "No thank you," she said. "Good, cause I didn't wanna give you any," he replied, eating the rest and then groaning as he too sat down across from her; he wiped his hands on his pants and then asked, "So...what's going on? You usually seem sort of perky. What's up?" "I don't want to do this anymore," Whittle said, "I don't...I don't know what it is I wanna do, but I know it's not this." "You're a trained medical professional, you can do anything," Boris said, "There's lots of jobs in that field for someone with your expertise." "It's not just that, I just..." Whittle said, trailing off as she pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, "...I'm really unhappy with, like, EVERY decision in my life. I don't wanna do this job, I don't wanna be where I am, at work or at home, but I don't know how to fix any of it." "Nobody knows how, and because the idea of change is so scary, so many often don't even try and they remain unhappy until they either die or wind up in a place like this," Boris said, "Do you wanna wind up in a place like this?" "I already have," Whittle said, making him laugh. "Sure, but, voluntarily. I mean like us. Like Carol and myself. Not by choice." "...you're here by choice," Whittle said, making him furrow his brow. "Listen, we're here to talk about YOU, okay?" he said, "I remember being extremely unhappy when I was married and working, and that nothing, no matter what it was that I tried, seemed to help. Eventually I just sort of accepted how I felt and left behind the concept of gaining fulfillment of any kind. Society would have you believe that having a family makes your life complete, but I think that's only true when that's a goal you actually want to achieve. Point is, you're a lot younger than I was when you're realizing how screwed up your life is and that you want change, and I admire that." "Yeah, but I don't know how to do anything about it," Whittle said, "That's what's so frustrating, man. Like, where do you even START? I..." She glanced away and rubbed her eyes as Boris finally sitting down, cross legged, across from her. He cocked his head, waiting for her to continue, and she finally cleared her throat and undid her ponytail, letting her bushy brown hair down. "I hate my boyfriend," she finally said, very matter of factly, "He doesn't know this, obviously, nor does he really deserve it. I just...I don't think I'm capable of being in long term relationships with people. My sister can, she's fantastic at it, she's been with her husband for like 10 years, but I just...I can't do it. It's not even a fear of commitment, it's just that eventually I get tired of people and nobody ever really understands how I feel, even if they swear up and down that they do and I try to talk to them about it." "I sort of get what you mean," Boris said, sighing, "I was very unhappy in my marriage because I felt like I wasn't good enough. Like my wife deserved better. Then, when the fighting started, after the accident, I took the hatred I had for myself and merely redirected it towards her, because it's easier to hate others than it is to hate yourself, at least for me it was." Whittle ran a hand through her hair and glanced around at the gazebo, taking in the architecture. "I don't even know that I wanna stay in this field," Whittle said, "...did I ever tell you how I started getting into the nursing field?" "No, but please do weave your tale for me," Boris said. "I was actually in college for something else. I was about three months into my sophomore year, working towards my culinary degree, when my aunt took ill. She was my favorite aunt, and she'd gotten really sick and it looked really bad, so I started spending a lot of time with her. It got to the point where I was spending more time caring for her than I was working towards my degree. After a while, I decided that I needed to do more with my life than cook soup, that I needed to help others, so after she died, I changed my major to nursing and decided instead to dedicate my life to the care of others. But the thing is, the sick, irrefutable thing is, I don't really CARE about others. I mean, I DO, but...but I don't want to dedicate my life to them, but to say that, to admit that I don't want to spend my life doing that, feels so cruel, so instead of following my dreams and shit, I just continue to live with a man I no longer love and work at a job I no longer enjoy." "...I think you should leave him and go back to school," Boris said, "I know, I know, that's so easy for me to say, but I think it's the only option. Look at how miserable you are now, imagine how miserable you'll be if you stay in this situation. You have to do something. That's...that's the one thing I've come to learn this past year. I have to try and move forward and be a better person, even if only for myself, because otherwise it was all meaningless. I want my life to end with an exclamation point, not a question mark." Whittle smiled as Boris handed her a fresh cookie, still wrapped in plastic. "Thanks," Whittle said, taking it and trying not to cry, "I guess you're right. I guess I'm the only one who can do anything, and that that's what I should do, is something, anything. Otherwise I'm doing nothing and look at what doing nothing has netted me. It's netted me nothing." "Exactly." "I can do better," Whittle said, opening the wrapping and biting into the cookie. "We all can," Boris said, opening yet another fresh cookie he'd pulled from his jacket. "What's with all the cookies?!" she asked, mouth half full of cookie, trying not to laugh. "I stole 'em from the cafeteria," Boris said. *** Father Kricket was sitting in someones room reading his bible by the dim light of a small table lamp when he heard a soft knocking on the door. He turned to see Boris standing there, coming in quietly. Father Kricket smiled and nodded at him as Boris shut the door behind him. Boris sat down in a chair across from Father Kricket and leaned forward, hushing his voice, so as not to disturb the sleeping woman. "You're here an awful lot," Boris said, as Father Kricket leaned forward too, but didn't whisper. "You don't have to be quiet, she's deaf," he said, making Boris laugh, "Yes, I'm here a lot. It's a nursing home. I'm all a lot of these people have, as you should well know. Lots of folks end up here completely alone, and it's up to me to give them some sort of comfort and guidance in their final days." "Is this woman dying?" Boris asked, looking at the woman sleeping in the bed and Father Kricket shook his head. "Nah, I just come in here cause she sleeps a lot and is deaf so I can't bother her. I'm actually on break," Father Kricket said. "The word of god takes breaks?" Boris asked. "Well, I'm only human underneath this cloth," Father Kricket said, shutting his bible and setting it on his lap gently, "So, what's on your mind?" "Not much, just wanted to see how you were doing. I had a long conversation with Nurse Whittle today about the things she does and doesn't want from life, and it made me wonder if I was even qualified to be giving out advice, considering how well I screwed up my own life. I'm likely the LAST person who anyone should be coming to for life advice." "I don't think that's true. Those who screw up are actually, in my experience, the ones with the best advice for how not to fail because they've already failed. If anyone is qualified to steer others towards success, it's those who have failed. They can tell you what NOT to do," Father Kricket said, "You know I'm not a therapist, right?" "That's fine, I don't need a therapist. I need a friend," Boris said, making Father Kricket blush a little as he looked at his cross necklace he was playing with in his hands. "Well, I'm glad I can be that for you," Father Kricket said, "I know all too well what it's like to feel like you don't have any companions. If I can alleviate some of that pain for you, then so be it. I'm here to bring comfort to those who need it, as I said." "...you don't think I'm a bad person, right?" Boris asked. "I don't, no, but I gotta tell ya, I'm gonna get very annoyed with you if you ask me every week," Father Kricket replied, making Boris laugh loudly. "I have to confess, I stole some cookies from the cafeteria today," Boris said, "But I did share them with Nurse Whittle, so." "The lord taketh and the lord giveth back," Father Kricket said, licking his lips, "You wouldn't happen to have any of those cookies left would you? I need to keep my blood sugar up." "I do, yes," Boris said, reaching into his jacket and tossing Father Kricket a wrapped cookie before leaning back in his chair and sighing, "I guess in a way I AM sort of like Columbo. Earlier today we were watching Columbo, and I thought how weird it is that there was a trend of old people being detectives, but I think, really, all old people are detectives. We're detecting new ways to help others, help ourselves, always solving one problem or another in any way that we can. I discovered Whittle had a problem and I helped her with it." "Another case closed, Columbo," Father Kricket said, raising his cookie to him before taking a bite. Yes, Boris thought, another case closed.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
About
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
|