“Baby, Do You Pay Here?”
by Jamie Watson
When life is boiled and distilled, this is what remains— naked souls circling the halls wearing mismatched socks.
Sporting an Indian headdress, he squeezes his accordion. The punch bowl is filled and the place is hoppin’, but the entertainer has competition at this party.
There is Betty who calls cigarettes “potatoes” and all her friends “Baby.”
“Hey, Baby!” she says when she sees me. Betty is a pixie woman wearing an oversized, polyester dress and knee-high athletic socks—one with a green stripe and the other an orange stripe. It’s hard to know if Betty really likes me or if she’s just an expert brownnoser. I supervise smoking and Betty is addicted.
We are in the dining room of a geriatric psychiatric facility.
There are others at the party. Vashti, a woman with flawless skin who gives beauty advice and always wears a hat; either her face or her hat is crooked, I’m not sure. Wanda, a big-boned woman in a long, red velour robe, asks where she might catch the streetcar, and Frank, a tall rigid man, stops to confess that he can’t find his keys. He pats his pockets repeatedly as if he knows they were there only moments ago. Residents are allowed few personal items.
Bingo!
George strides into the Bingo Room. Well over six feet tall, he is gangly and thin. His face is sunken—he resembles a life-size apple doll.
Bingo is popular with patients because they win candy bars as prizes. George likes Three Musketeers; we don’t offer Snickers because few patients have teeth.
I supervise the game. There are long pauses between shouts of “Bingo!” As I call out numbers, a bald guy announces trains and their destinations as if the numbers I call represent trains departing from particular platforms.
Louis, a toothless patient in a wheelchair, wins a Three Musketeers bar; achieving his objective, he takes the candy and wheels from the room. Helen, a bright manic-depressive patient, is legally blind; I play her card for her. Helen doesn’t care much for bingo, but craves socialization, at least when she is in a high. Helen and I have become friends. She shares recipes with me and was the first to introduce me to bacon-and-avocado sandwiches. Helen loves to read and, since she can’t see, has convinced me to read aloud to the patients—mostly to her, of course.
Bill, a hefty man, is a notorious visitor to the Bingo Room, or for that matter to any room where patients are smoking. As Bill approaches the room, patients yell, “Here he comes!” He enters the room at a limping gallop focused intently on the ashtrays. He snatches a hot cigarette butt and stuffs it in his mouth. Walking away, Bill pats his behind—his signature “kiss my butt” gesture after eating cigarettes—his way of flipping us off.
The end of the day
I pass the dining room to see Louis sitting alone in his wheelchair. I hadn’t seen him since he left the bingo game with his candy bar. I approach and call his name. There is no response. As I circle his wheelchair, I see that his head is slumped to one side, and he is drooling the Three Musketeers. I touch his arm. I find a nurse, who checks his pulse; there is none. I go home, knowing that Louis choked to death on his winnings.
My senses assaulted
When I interviewed for this job I was escorted through the locked doors into the hallway of parading patients. Over the PA system, someone called, “Housekeeping to the dining room.” No catheters, nor Depends; they just let it fly.
Some patients were sitting in a large reception room, but most were walking the halls. Those not walking were restrained in wheelchairs. Mr. Alvarez slipped from his restraints while singing “The Star Spangled Banner.” He was stuck on, “What so proudly we hailed.”
I guessed I was supposed to behave as if all of this was not unusual, but it seemed damned unusual to me. I tried to remain calm.
After the interview I left through the locked doors and stepped into the lobby that suddenly seemed remarkably quiet and still. What could I do but take the job? I felt like someone was daring me.
Remnants of religion
Alan, an Orthodox Jew, keeps to himself. Each time we meet, he greets me with a handshake, as if it were the first time. Alan obsesses over his food because he’s sure it isn’t kosher. Served the same thing every day—no meat, mostly mushy vegetables—always tasteless. One day I bring kosher bologna and saltines. He is reluctant to trust me, but I show him the Hebrew National wrapper and Alan enjoys the snack so much that it is as satisfying to me as it is to him.
Religion can be a sticking point in what remains of patients’ lives. There is Grace, a tiny, withered woman whose eyes are squeezed shut and mouth is screwed sideways. Grace is a devout Catholic, but when the priest comes to give Communion, she refuses the host. She keeps her mouth shut tight against the wafer, managing to squeeze out a “Noooooo.” Grace feels she is not holy enough.
For John, religion equals guilt, and he is constantly sorry. John wears a hat and black horn-rimmed glasses; he is thin, like most patients, and taller than average. John shuffles—a side effect of the Haldol medication. The shuffling can get in the way of what John likes to do best: dance. On rare party occasions and sometimes when there is no music, John finds a dancing partner. They smile at each other for a moment, but John feels too guilty to continue: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Those who find some comfort in religion usually receive it from music; they enjoy hearing hymns played on the piano and some sing to themselves. It’s not the doctrine that reassures them but the litany of songs they remember from childhood. Maybe they have vague recollections of standing next to a parent in a church pew singing “Love Lifted Me.”
Safety in numbers
I sign out a few patients to walk to the neighborhood supermarket. George goes regularly and John likes to come along. Mary, a sweet woman whose daughter still visits, joins us. The four of us stick together–safety in numbers.
George is the most fun at the store. Like a scientist, he wants to test everything. He makes me guess the weight of the sugar. He wants to know if I think an orange would float. George investigates the produce and we have the entire section to ourselves as the regular shoppers scatter. Mary feigns appropriate facial expressions and reacts as if George is an amusing, errant child.
We place our purchases on the counter in the checkout line. We have what we’ve come for—bingo prizes, for the most part, plus a single orange to see if it will float.
Dining in the Bingo Room
It is something of an honor to dine in the Bingo Room. George is a regular and sits in front of a shelf with a globe on it. He studies the globe and asks me if I have visited various worldly sites. George maintains a level of sanity here, but he has his idiosyncrasies. He loves to examine shoes while they are on your feet, and always inquires where they were purchased. It would be trite to call it a fetish as nothing about George is mundane. He is a one-of-a-kind guy—a lifelong learner. Most residents take regular medication; some are more heavily sedated than others; several are practically out cold. George’s prescription consists of a single can of Coors each evening.
Wanda also dines in the Bingo Room; however, at times she’s too critical. She declares of a resident at her table, “This woman is not a member of the Ladies’ Guild.”
Betty is not welcome in the Bingo Room. She’s too bossy. Betty’s aphasia prevents her from focused and polite repartee, so she persists with a strong will and a shit-eating grin. She huffs and puffs and clacks her false teeth, which don’t fit. She is beside herself when she cannot garner a Bingo Room reservation and pleads, “Baby, they’re shoving me out. Why?”
While there is no place for Betty in the Bingo Room, she still has a reservation at home. I know because I have been there. Betty once insisted that her husband take her home for a visit, and they took me along. A tidy house. Betty gave me a tour, including the contents of her husband’s sock drawer. She took me into the kitchen and, pointing at each of two placemats, she said, “Hey, Baby, him and me—here, here— the two of us.”
They’re better off
The first time I said it was when they took Alice out in a bag. I saw the bag and I imagined Alice inside. Alice, lover of music, always had to have something in her mouth; I usually had bingo peppermints and gave her one whenever she asked. When she couldn’t find something suitable to suck on, she would find something terribly unsuitable, and if I saw her I would tell her to take it out of her mouth. She would shake her head, her eyes watering and tell me that it wasn’t what I thought. “Oh no, I wouldn’t do that,” she insisted.
And so, when Alice left in a bag, I said, “She’s better off.”
All souls are visible
Patients receive regular visits from a psychiatrist. Most of the doctor’s time is spent charting. Everything must be documented. If accurate documentation were possible, what would the good doctor write? How can any description do justice?
When life is boiled and distilled, this is what remains. No posturing, no excuses, no egos, no religion, no wallet, no keys, no teeth—just naked souls circling the halls wearing mismatched socks. The Manor is a living, pulsating allegory; each resident is Everyman, from Frank, who can’t find his keys, to Wanda, who is frantic to find the streetcar. The protective coating that separates those on one side of the doors from those who are locked within is wafer-thin, and we are keenly aware of it. It is little wonder there are few visitors; coming here is like having your fortune told.
It’s not all a frightening work of art
Some souls are bared to reveal genuine goodness. There’s Oda who cradles her imaginary baby in a makeshift bundle, and Mary who just wants everyone to get along, and Helen who loves to listen to good stories because she can no longer read them. There is Betty who has lost all the right words but still tries to connect with a kiss on the cheek.
And there is George, King George of the Bingo Room, who loves his wife even though they are divorced and see each other rarely.
The doors are locked
We have become co-dependent, the Manor folks and I. I find it difficult to leave this place that I initially found repulsive. My husband picks me up every evening and I subject him to a review of the day’s events. He asks why I insist on reliving everything. He knows the patients well; at least
he would were he to listen, but I am often too intense in the retelling.
How did I begin to feel at home here? Do I believe I can make a difference? The truth is if I were gone more than a few days, I would be forgotten, but it’s safe here. The doors are locked.
Unlike the residents’ families, I didn’t know the residents before they arrived. I accept them for who they are when they pass through the doors. I don’t mourn the loss of their previous personas. Just as I accept them, they appreciate me for what I have to offer, whether it’s a cigarette, a story, or a walk to the store. Expectations are manageable, and we all live in the moment.
A few residents believe that I am also a patient—one with privileges. Sometimes I let Betty join me in my office. She enjoys stepping out of the race for a moment—to feel special. She is able to think more clearly when she is away from the others. This afternoon I offer her a cigarette, and she notices a jet making a trail through a crystal blue sky. Pointing, Betty says, “I used to go in them back East.” She looks into my eyes to inquire, “Baby, do you pay here?”
I tell her, “No.”
She seems slightly confused attempting to piece it together. “Oh, you don’t. I thought they were working on you.”
JAMIE RITCHIE WATSON has worked as a director of educational outreach programs and served as the Associate Director of Admissions at Wabash. Prior to her career in higher education, she acted professionally and she continues to appear on the stage. Many years ago, while pursuing theater in Los Angeles, she worked in a geriatric psychiatric facility.
“Baby, Do You Pay Here” is reprinted with permission from Rkvry Quarterly.
Grandma’s Hands
I couldn’t remember the last time I had held hands with Grandma. I’m sure it had been years.
By Kim Johnson
One of the last times I visited Grandma, she was cold. Grandma was always cold. But this time I sat down beside her and she took my hand.
“Don’t you think my hands are cold?”
“Grandma, they’re freezing,” I said, rubbing them furiously between my own.
“Yours are warm,” she said.
Yours are soft, I thought. And small. Thin. My wedding band clicked against the ring on her finger as my hands moved over hers.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had held hands with Grandma. I’m sure it had been years.
grandma’s hands.
They started just like mine, only 50 years earlier. Ten tiny fingers—the perfect baby hands to kiss and coo over.
Her hands grew to carry a bucket of coal every day to keep the house warm.
They gardened with her grandfather, tended the farm with her father, and baked pies with her mother on Saturdays.
They grew from the hands of a schoolgirl doing arithmetic to the hands of a budding young woman setting out for college. Purdue Boilermaker hands.
From Boilermaker to homemaker, a new ring and a promise, now they were the hands of Mrs. Bill Carter. Soon they became mother’s hands, changing diapers, feeding toddlers, bathing babies.
Those hands dried tears, soothed tummy aches, and sometimes created new aches with her infamous knack for misdiagnosis and a homemade enema remedy.
Her hands mended clothes and tended to scraped knees and bent-up new bikes that had been wrecked in the driveway on first launch.
As the hands aged and she moved from life on the farm into town, they turned to typesetting at The Times, where they designed ads and wrote copy.
Her hands shuffled cards for decades with friends, cared for the sick, and soothed the injured.
And they became Grandma’s hands.
My Grandma’s hands.
They hosted huge family gatherings— Christmas being my favorite.
Her hands picked out presents and hid them until the right time—and sometimes even beyond.
Each gift was wrapped and placed around the tree with those same two hands.
Every kid, grandkid, and dog had their own stocking hung along the mantle each year. I never saw them go up and never saw them come down. But I’m sure her hands were involved in making sure they were perfect, and correcting Grandpa when they weren’t.
Grandma’s hands cooked feasts—mac and cheese, oyster dressing, and usually some lamb.
They cleaned up the mess and washed all the dishes.
They signed cards and wrote birthday checks.
Grandma’s hands pinched cheeks and gave hugs that never let go. They cut lilacs from the big bushes along the sidewalk in the back. They cleaned berry stains from fingers and faces and made sure the bowl in the foyer and the cookie jar in the kitchen were full of sweet treats.
Her hands returned crawdads to the creek when we weren’t looking, then scrubbed the saucepans we’d used to catch them.
Those hands searched through purse after purse for money for tickets for the train to Metamora, to the Muppets, the circus, movies with Han Solo, and even the zoo.
With the wave of one of those hands at a wedding she called, “7-Up for the kids, please,” so we could feel big and toast with the rest. No matter how old or how young or how new to the family you were, her hands welcomed and held the door open wide.
Grandma’s hands applauded at twirling, at random songs sung, and more than one impromptu show in the living room. They clapped for her kids and grandkids and for other people’s kids she barely even knew. At swim meets and volleyball, Jr. Miss, dance recitals, band concerts, cheerleading, Christmas programs, graduations, and weddings.
They dialed the phone to say, “Thank you,” “I love you,” or just “Come see me sometime.”
Grandma’s hands drew baths, fed the dogs bacon, and tucked in tired faces for the night.
They folded in prayer and turned out the lights.
As I struggle to keep writing to hold off the inevitable goodbye, I’m thankful for all that Grandma’s hands taught me about family. How blessed I was to be one of only 10 people in the world who can say, “Those are my Grandma’s hands.”
KIM JOHNSON is director of communications and marketing at Wabash. “Grandma’s Hands” is edited from a remembrance she wrote for and read at the funeral of her grandmother, Dorothy Carter, who died May 27.
Ida Jane
My granddaughter’s name is Ida Jane
and she makes me fall in love again.
May she say my name forever,
or reach toward me. May she feed
me a cloth sandwich. Let me
live by the light of her smile
for as long as I can.
—Bert Stern, from What I Got for a Dollar