If I can get through the next hour and a half, then I can get through tonight.

Maybe.

I noticed Mr. Grayson hovering around the front desk and rolled up beside him with the snack cart.  I remembered him from the last time I worked on the fifth floor, so I didn’t expect him to sit down and eat a snack.  He would probably take a glass of juice then go pace the hallways like last time.

Auntie said that’s what gran does now.  She rarely speaks and paces the hallways all day and most of the night.

The cups on the snack cart started to blur.

Don’t think about this now.

I swallowed my emotions, and the cups slid back into focus.

Mr. Grayson pointed to the orange juice, so I poured him a cup and handed it to him; he slammed it back like a shot, then saluted me.  He was a war veteran with a young mind trapped in an old body.

The elevator near the front desk dinged, and the diversion mural of a bookshelf opened, as if it were a secret passageway into another world.

Mr. Tanner stepped out and stood in front of the elevator until the doors closed.  He knew the drill—he played piano at Greensprings Care Home every Saturday.  Mr. Grayson’s eyes searched the mural for a moment, then flitted away somewhere between the walls and the floor before walking down the East hallway; out of sight, out of mind.

My eyes followed him down the hall, imagining Gran with her recently dyed mahogany brown hair—she hated sporting the salt and pepper look.  Of course, it would be coiffed in preparation for tonight.  Her long faux mink coat swayed with each step.  I could see the backs of her favourite white heels walking further and further away from me.

“Hello, Nikki.  Are you working on the fifth floor now?” Mr. Tanner’s voice pulled me from my thoughts.

He knew almost all the staff members and what floor they worked on.  He had been playing piano at Greensprings since I started working here four years ago.  So he also knew about the staffing shortage and that it was normal for us to get shuffled between floors like decks of cards.

“No, they pulled me from the first floor fifteen minutes ago.  The girls are really behind.  They passed snack cart duty off to me since I only know a handful of the residents.”

“I see.” He nods sympathetically.  “well, do you have any exciting plans for this evening?”

The two tickets on my bedside table drifted into my mind and I quickly pushed them out before the heaviness in my chest followed.

“Um… probably Netflix and a cookie dough milkshake.”  I told him, wearing the mask of a smile.  That was probably true since I would not be using those tickets.

“Sounds relaxing and delicious.  Enjoy.” He smiled back at me and tipped his head in a goodbye gesture before walking towards the common area to the piano.

I sighed, my footsteps felt heavy as I made my way down the West hallway.  There were not too many stops left to make.  The girls told me that most of the residents in the West hallway had their snack in the common area, and I had completed my rounds there.

The sound of call bells reverberated in my ears and I watched the girls zip in and out of rooms to answer them.  I quickened my pace so that I could finish and help them.  As much as I was not happy to be thrown into fresh chaos so close to the end of my shift, I could not help but worry about what would happen when the noises from the day quieted and I was alone with my thoughts.

A stirring piano ballad saturated the halls as I made my way to the last room at the end of the West hallway—room 510.

I knocked softly on the partially closed door, and peaked in, immediately recognizing Everett Chandry.  He originally lived on the first floor where I worked, but was there less than a month before he was transferred to the fifth floor.  He had a mild form of dementia and was the pleasantly confused type—but after slipping through the front doors one time too many, and being found wondering along busy streets, it was safer for him to be transferred to the secure unit.

“Hello, Everett.” I was genuinely happy to see him, but a little surprised.  He was a bit of a social butterfly on the first floor, and was rarely in his room, especially at snack time.

Everett gave me a half smile, acknowledging that I could come in.  He was sitting in his recliner, staring past an episode of M*A*S*H.

“I just came to see if you wanted a snack, and maybe some coffee, tea or juice?”

He gave me a brief nod but appeared to be lost in his thoughts.

“Everett, are you alright?”

He nodded.  “My wife and I used to dance to this song in our living room when we were first married,” he shut his eyes, “and sometimes the kitchen and into the bedroo—” he opened his eyes and did his best to repress a smile.

I broke into a grin and gave him a pat on the shoulders.  “Sounds like you could use a drink.  Coffee or tea?”

“Coffee, just black.”

“What about for a snack? We got cookies, cheese, and crackers—”

“A wagon wheel.” He interrupted.

I chuckled, “a wagon wheel? I’m afraid we don’t have any of those.”

“When my wife was pregnant with John, she wanted to eat wagon wheels all the time.  We would stay up late watching M*A*S*H and eating wagon wheels.”

I went into the hall and got some coffee and a couple of cookies from the snack cart, while trying not to let my empathy get the better of me. He was missing his wife that was dead and gone, and I was missing my gran who was gone but not dead. I took a deep breath before I went back into his room.

“I got you some cookies. They aren’t wagon wheels, but they’re the closest thing we have to them.”

He gave me an appreciative nod and took the snack.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go have your snack in the common area? You could watch Mr. Tanner play the piano. He takes requests.”

Everett looked at the picture of his late wife on the wall, then back to the television. “No, that’s okay, dear. I just want to rest in my room and watch M*A*S*H.”

I glanced at the picture of his wife—she was striking with her long black curls and dark almond-shaped eyes. In their wedding photo just across from it, her dark curls were a stark contrast to his blond ones—they were a beautiful couple. They both wore matching bright smiles that showed off their teeth. They looked so young.

The faint piano notes of their beloved song lingered in the air and when I glanced back at Everett, I imagined I could see the young man with the blond curls weighed down by the wrinkled folds of Everett’s eyes, peaking out at me—desperate to be seen.

And I wanted to see him—I really did.  Happy, and in his prime, not weathered away by time with his mind blurred around the edges—shrinking and fading away into the background day after day.  And I silently preyed that the staff at Scotsman Care Home wanted to see my gran too.  She had no sense of the past, present, or future—all she had left was whoever was in front of her for the moment.

I tried to visualize the Everett in the photo—youthful, energetic, and in love, dancing around the living room with his wife, perhaps whispering sweet nothings in her ear.  But the old man with sagging skin and a mottled scalp with a sparse fringe of white hair was just too good a disguise.

I wanted to stay with him and comfort him.  Wishing that I had the time to listen to him travel down memory lane, so I could connect with the man beyond the resident.

But the girls were drowning in call bells.

I put my hand on his shoulder, “when I work next, I’m going to bring you some wagon wheels and we’re going to stash some away in your drawer.  Then you can stay up late watching M*A*S*H and eat wagon wheels.”

He smiled at me, “Oh dear, you don’t have to do that.”

“But I will.”

The call bells beckoned through the changing tones of the piano as Mr. Tanner transitioned into a new piece.  I wheeled the cart quickly down the hallway and into the kitchenette.

Carla came out of room 517 with the hoyer lift and saw me at the edge of the common room.  “You’re done snack cart?”

“Yeah.  Do you want me to answer call bells or assist with toileting and laying them down for naps?” I asked, gesturing to the residents with total care needs in the common area.  One was trying to stand up in his Broda chair, while the other was reaching out for something that only he could see.

Carla bit her cheek as she scanned the residents.  “No, Sam and I better assist them.  They’re agitated as it is and you’ve never dealt with them before.”

Carla’s eyes settled on an elderly woman with a purple silk blouse, and medium-length grey hair, slumped in her wheelchair, staring out the window.  “Over there. That’s Vera Morgan, and she’s new—room 520. She’s a one-person pivot transfer and is very easy to assist. She never talks, only shakes her head yes or no apparently, but I’ve never seen it. She usually uses the washroom around this time and then lays down for a nap. Just make sure the bed alarm is on.”

I nodded, and walked over to Vera, “Hello, Vera.  My name is Nikki.  I’m going to assist you to the bathroom, then into your bed for a nap.  How does that sound?” I asked her gently.

Vera didn’t acknowledge me, but I didn’t expect her too.  I worked with many residents like her before, and they lived in a world of their own.

Like gran.

Of all the floors to get sent to today.

I was almost halfway down the East hallway when I heard someone call out my name.

“Nikki?”

I turned around, Sam was at the front desk on the phone with her palm covering the mouthpiece.  “It’s Arlene.  She’s coming in early, but she’s stopping at Tim Horton’s for a coffee run and the corner store for treats.  Do you want anything?”

“Yeah, a large coffee with one cream.” I thought for a moment, “and a box of wagon wheels. Thanks.”

Sam seemed to find my choice of treats amusing, but they weren’t really for me.

I wheeled Vera into her room and as I glanced at the clock on her wall, my eyes were drawn to the large oil painting beneath it.  I froze as a wave of repressed emotions hit me.

The painting detailed a ballerina gracefully posed centre stage amid a dark, twilight blue background. White feathers seemed to sprout out of her sparkling white bodice. The colouring was a dramatic play of light and dark, and the contrast made it look as though she was being followed by a spotlight, creating a sense of movement.

I walked closer to it so I could read the inscription carved on the bottom of the small gold plate: Vera Morgan Prima Ballerina.

“Vera… you were a ballerina.” My voice barely above a whisper.

I turned back around to look at her—to really see her.

Vera stared distantly ahead—millions of miles away from the present. She was a stark contrast to the woman in the painting with her grey hair, wrinkled skin, and feeble limbs. Oddly enough, I could not see the resemblance… but I could feel it.  And I felt connected to her.

I took a deep breath to keep my voice steady, “I love the ballet.  My gran took me every year since I was four-years-old, sometimes twice.  I even have tickets for tonight…” I couldn’t trust myself to finish the sentence without my voice breaking.

I shut my eyes briefly and focused on all the happy moments, and how the ballet brought us together.  I tried to erase the sorrow in my mind, just as alzheimers had erased me from hers.

“She always bought our tickets early because they had to be in the middle row.  She insisted that was the best way to view the ensemble.”

“Graceful gran.” I bit back a smile.

“Her name is Grace, so our entire family calls her graceful gran,” I let out a soft chuckle.  “Anyway, we would spend hours getting ready—it was important that we matched the glamour on the stage.  She always wore her special lilac perfume for the occasion.”

The memories flooded through me like a rainbow—each one distinct and radiant in colour.  Being ushered to our seats and chattering excitedly as we read through the evening program booklet detailing the actors and story line, discussing how it might be different this time.  Laughing and reminiscing on previous performances.  But the moment the orchestra started playing, we never spoke a word—instantly carried away by the story told in movement.

It always ended with both of us giving a standing ovation.  Gran would clap wildly beside me—her excitement like that of a child.  It was a contagious sound of jollity that seemed to affect everyone around her.  When I thought of true happiness, I thought of that sound.

“We always stayed behind until we were one of the last ones there.  And we never missed a photo opportunity with the dancers.  I have a photo album of us doing silly poses with the ballerinas.” I couldn’t help but let a little laugh escape.

Last night I went through my ballet album.  One of my favourites was taken after The Nutcracker when I was eleven.  The ballerina posed gracefully between us while we posed clumsily beside her with our tongues out.  The ballerina managed to hold in her laughter until after the photo.  Luckily, the audience member we got to take the photo captured that candid moment.  The three of us mid-howl with graceful gran in a comical squat that no-one in those white heels should be doing.  Her mahogany brown hair and long black faux mink coat dancing in different directions.  It was a picture that was passed around at family gatherings a time or two.

That photo was the cover of my album, which was on the bedside table, under the tickets.

“My grandma was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s just over a year ago and… she went downhill unusually fast,” I paused, and my tone of voice drops a little, “She’s in a secure unit in Scottsdale Care Home and she doesn’t know who I am.  All those amazing memories at the ballet… and now I’m the only one that has them.” I could feel my eyes filling with tears.

This will be the first year we don’t go.

I composed myself and crouched down to Vera’s level, “I wish gran and I could have seen you perform.”

Vera stared past me—her hazel eyes cloudy with cataracts.  But for a split second, they flitted to the dresser.

I looked at her dresser.  All it had was a brush, a CD player, and a few CDs—Swan Lake, The Sleeping Beauty, and The Nutcracker.  Swan Lake was in the CD player—I pressed play and the familiar music filled the room.

A flicker of emotion crossed Vera’s eyes, and she closed them.  She slowly extended one of her thin arms and bent the other at the elbow as she brought her head up.  Her eyes opened and so did the cloudy curtain that hid the prima ballerina.  Vera’s eyes were now bright, clear, and glinting with purpose.

The cheap florescent lighting in her small room transformed into the bright sparkle of stage lighting against a dark, twilight blue background, and the CD player into an orchestra.

Vera’s purple blouse faded into a white bodice with pale silver plumage and her pants into a white-feathered tutu. Her wrinkles smoothed and her grey hair darkened into a chestnut brown, wound tight in a bun with a white-feathered headpiece.  Her wheelchair disappeared, and she flowed across the stage in a series of transitional movements to the rhythm of the music.

I sat in the middle row of the theatre completely absorbed in her performance, the same way gran and I were when we went to the ballet.

The faint scent of lilac perfume wrapped itself around me.

Vera arched her torso and stretched her long, elegant neck out like a swan.  Her arms rippled, suggesting the fluttering of wings as she seemed to glide along a mirror-like surface of a lake.

As the piece drew to a close, the music crescendoed and Vera transitioned into a series of agile turn sequences.  On the very last note, she fell into the elegant pose, mirroring the one in the painting.

Her hazel eyes sparkled as she bent gracefully to take a bow.  And as she straightened, her chestnut hair faded to grey and the cloudy curtain returned over her eyes as the prima ballerina disappeared behind them.

I could hear the echoes of my gran clapping wildly beside me until they dissipated into the air.

My heart felt lighter, as though Vera’s performance had somehow absorbed my grief.

The next song played, and I assisted Vera to the toilet.  Then I combed her hair, pulled it into a ponytail and twisted it into a bun before helping her into bed.

Her eyes immediately closed as she seemed to drift into a peaceful sleep—perhaps still making those leaps and twirls in her mind.

“Thank you.” I whispered.

I pulled up her bed rails, turned on the bed alarm, and glanced between Vera and the painting once more before switching off her lights—the Swan Lake soundtrack still playing quietly in the background.

My footsteps were lighter, and I felt at ease as I walked down the East hallway.

Sam passed by me with the linen cart, “Arlene is here.  Your coffee and wagon wheels are at the front desk.  Nice choice, by the way.  I haven’t had one of those since I was a kid.  I forgot how good they are.”

I made my way behind the front desk and found my coffee beside two big boxes of wagon wheels, both of them already opened.

I looked over my shoulder at Mr. Tanner, who had finished his piece and was riffling through his sheet music.

I called out to him, “We got some treats back here when you’re finished if you want some.”

“Sounds great, thanks.”

“Hey, do you mind replaying the first song you played when you got here?”

He grinned, then nodded.  “It is a classic.”

He flipped back a few pages, then started to play the familiar ballad.

I heard the faint sound of giggling from the West hallway behind me.

I poked my head over the wall and saw what could only be described as an echo of a young man with blond curls wearing dated clothes waltzing in and out of the rooms with a woman in a print dress—her long black curls swaying behind her.  They danced in a playful, carefree manner, and laughed between short, ragged breaths until disappearing into room 210.

I bit back a smile and grabbed a large handful of wagon wheels from one box and headed to room 210.