Gone Tonight: a Novel by Sarah Pekkanen

Author:Sarah Pekkanen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CATHERINE

I fold the copy of the RJ’s application my mother filled out and tuck it in my purse. I have what I came to Sunrise for, but I don’t want to go home. I can’t bear to be around my mom right now.

I exit the Memory Wing mindfully, aware that in my distraught state I’m more prone to making mistakes. I double-check that no residents are watching as I input the code—and after I step through the blue door, I test it to make sure the lock is engaged. I take these precautions even though it’s daytime and so many staff members are on the premises that it’s difficult for a wandering resident to go far.

Nighttime is a different story. There’s only a skeleton crew of a few nurses, a handful of aides, and one security guard in the whole building.

I ride the elevator down to the lobby and wave to the receptionist, then step out onto the green lawn and breathe in the moist, late spring air. Several Daily Assisted and Extended Care residents are on the porch playing cards, while others work in the gardens. A few are sitting in Adirondack chairs in the yard, and even though it’s seventy-five degrees, one has a blanket tucked over her lap. They’re all women, with thinning hair and weakening bodies and limited time. They probably all have children.

I wonder if they, too, have betrayed their daughters.

As I head toward the parking lot, I spot a walnut-colored old Cadillac pulling into one of the spaces closest to the building. I wait until the couple exits the car, then walk over to greet them.

Of all the patients I’ve worked with, George and June Campbell have a special place in my heart. Even today, in the mood I’m in, I can’t pass up a chance to say hello to them.

George and June moved to Sunrise after her stroke six years ago, shortly after I began working here. She needed access to physical and speech therapists to learn to walk again with a cane, and—in a bit of modesty I found sweet—she didn’t want her husband of fifty-two years to be the one helping her bathe and use the toilet.

I was one of the aides who helped June with her daily needs, which is why they refuse to let me call them by anything other than their first names. As June once said to me as I bathed her, “Sweetie, now that you’ve seen me in my full glory, I think we’ve moved past the ‘Mrs. Campbell’ stage.”

June is a type 1 diabetic, and she requires insulin injections several times a day, which I used to administer as part of her care. It’s how I got so comfortable giving shots.

Despite the hardships life has thrown at the Campbells, they are two of the most positive people I’ve ever met. Even though I no longer work with them directly, we’ve stayed in touch, and occasionally they call or text and invite me over for lunch or a drink.

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