Blue

MONICA

MONICA

It was Monica’s turn to monitor the Saturday evening shift. She was grateful for

the justification to be busy on what most unattached people of a certain age considered

“date night.” With the excuse of work, she’d be off the hook for making up any explanation

about what she’d done during her off time.

Monica hated weekends. When it came right down to it, Monica pretty much detested

life in general these days. What did she have to look forward to? Frozen TV dinners

and Late Night with Jon Stewart? Monotonous shifts with memory care patients? Somewhere

along the way, her life had taken a sharp turn from dull to dead end, and she had

no idea how she was going to back herself out of it. At times like this, she wasn’t

sure if she had the energy to even try.

In the Stratford Estates’s community center, things were ramping up. It was the twilight

hour, perhaps better described as the twilight zone. During the late afternoon, until

dinner was served, the residents often went through major personality swings, and

the staff stood on high alert for extreme behaviors. Monica’s job tonight was to

make sure nothing untoward happened, like a few years ago when the supervisor had

gone off her post during the twilight hour and the male tenants had organized a boxing

event in the downstairs laundry room. One of the cleaning people had found about

fifteen residents gathered around a makeshift boxing ring, cheering and hooting and

hollering while two male octogenarians took swings at each other with oven mitt-clad

hands. Fortunately, no one had been seriously hurt, but since that time, the supervision

duties were observed more diligently.

“What were you thinking?” the supervisor on call had inquired of the fight club members.

“We needed to feel alive,” they had responded. Monica knew exactly what they meant.

She wished she had the gumption to do something as brave as they had.

As Monica entered the community center, she spotted the once-dashing Mr. Louden,

picking up speed with the aid of his walker as he chased Mrs. Johnson around the

lounge area and tried to pinch her sagging behind. His primary challenge was that

in order to have a free hand to reach her, he had to stop his walker, at which point

his prey scuttled further ahead.

Mrs. Johnson looked flushed with girlish anticipation. She glanced coquettishly over

her shoulder, somehow giving the illusion of scurrying away from her suitor. Even

in her fog of dementia, she always remembered to apply lipstick. Tonight it was a

brilliant shade of red. No doubt Mr. Louden was in high hopes that those scarlet

lips would soon be pressed against his. That is, once he chased her down and held

her in his once-muscular arms, now turned spindly.

On the couch nearby sat a whisper of a woman: Edna, curled up with a ragged baby

doll. “Ice cream,” she murmured. “We want ice cream.” Her eyes brightened as she

saw Monica. She patted the seat next to her, beckoning Monica to join her and the

doll. Monica was aware of this subterfuge and normally avoided moving toward Edna’s

lure. For some reason, however, tonight her resolve wasn’t firm. She collapsed on

the worn divan next to the child woman.

As soon as Monica was within reach, Edna released the baby doll with one hand and

latched onto Monica’s arm with frail, claw-like digits.

“Ice cream,” she pleaded as she looked directly into Monica’s eyes, her sharp grip

tightening. “We want ice cream.”

Monica knew better than to try reasoning with Edna, but she responded. “Edna, you

know we don’t have ice cream at this time of day.”

“Ice cream,” came Edna’s mournful response, the increasing grip on Monica’s arm defying

the frail appearance of the small bird-like woman.

Monica’s attention had only been turned away from the group for a minute or so. She

looked up just in time to see Mr. Louden push his walker out of the way and dive

headlong toward Mrs. Johnson’s waist. Mrs. Johnson tittered like a middle school

girl and lithely sidestepped the advance, causing Mr. Louden to grasp only air and

fall headfirst into the table at the end of the couch.

Edna, nonplussed, continued her mantra, “Ice cream. We want ice cream.”

At the same moment, Mr. Forbes yelled: “Fire!”

Pandemonium broke out from all corners of the room as Monica tried to extract herself

from Edna’s death grip. Blood poured from Mr. Louden’s head, one of those gushing,

non-threatening surface wounds. Mrs. Johnson continued to circle around the room,

giggling all the way. Mr. Forbes climbed on a nearby chair, shouting about the imaginary

fire.

“Mr. Forbes, get down, please! You’ll hurt yourself.” Monica tried to put an air

of authority into her voice. “Edna, let go right now.”

The residents weren’t listening. The chaos carried on: thumb-sucking, wailing, and

all variety of hilarity. One man sat in the corner gently rocking to and fro, calling

for his mama. Edna was relentless in her cry for ice cream, and even as the noise

in the room intensified, she maintained her steady mantra and her ironclad grip on

Monica.

Chairs were knocked over. The man in the corner wet his pants. Blood dripped from

Mr. Louden’s wound onto the carpet. A woman began to cry hysterically and scream:

“Dead! Dead! We’re all dead!”

Monica’s eyes darted wildly around the room as she finally yanked her arm free, shaking

her captor like fresh sheets. Edna, unfazed, quietly reattached to her doll and disappeared

into the sofa’s corner. Monica reached for the alert button in her pocket just as

Mrs. Johnson strolled up to her and peered directly into her eyes.

“Hi, honey. Do you know you’re the spitting image of my daughter Ethel?”

With that single sentence, the room went dark and the pandemonium ended for Monica.