LITMIR.BIZ

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Rough night?’ Dorothy asks.

      I shrug, biting my lip. I wonder if I should tell her. I don’t know her yet. I don’t want people to think I’m – what? What would they think? I did nothing wrong.

      ‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘Some crazy things happened.’

      ‘Crazy in a good way?’ Dorothy asks.

      ‘Crazy in the way that someone was standing over my bed last night.’ I tuck a long, grey strand of my greasy hair behind my ear.

      Dorothy shakes her head. ‘Babbling Barbara.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Babbling Barbara,’ Dorothy repeats, slowly this time. ‘I could almost bet my life it was her. She’s the floor’s lunatic. She’s madder than mad. Been here since before me. I think she’s too bonkers to die, you know? She wanders this place like a vagabond. Not even sure the staff know where her room is anymore. She gets lost all the time, even at night. One time I caught her sleeping in my bed while I was in it. Frightening but harmless. Nothing to worry about, dear. Nothing at all. She’s truly not capable of hurting anyone, although her crazy babbling is enough to send even the sanest of us to the loony bin.’

      ‘She hurt me, and it was pretty frightening. Look what she did,’ I reply, rolling up my sleeve to show Dorothy my wounds.

      ‘Oh my goodness,’ Dorothy gasps as she shakes her head. She leans in to examine my arm more closely. ‘Barbara did this?’

      I sigh. ‘I suppose, if it was truly her. Yes. It was awful. She mauled me and wouldn’t stop.’

      Dorothy shakes her head. ‘She’s never done anything like this. It’s peculiar. She truly has been harmless. But goodness, that’s terrible.’

      Dorothy’s gaze lifts from my arm, and as she stares into my eyes, I get the sense she’s telling the complete truth. She shakes her head again before sighing and moving on with the conversation. I want to shove the worrisome event aside, to pretend it didn’t happen. Still, as Dorothy blabs on about some of the soap operas she watches and her grandchildren, I stare into my tea, thinking about Barbara’s words.

       You’ll die here. You will. Get out now. Get out while you can.

      For a mad woman, they sure were coherent phrases. Why did she choose those words? Does she say them to everyone? And above all, if what Dorothy said is true, why am I the only one who has been attacked by her? It’s too frightening to think about. I try to forget the worries, but they sink their teeth into me, gnashing and grinding conspicuously in the recesses of my memory to be rustled out later.

      ‘It’s a shame you missed breakfast, you know? I would’ve introduced you to some of Floor Three’s finer residents. But don’t worry. There’s still time, of course. We’ve got plenty of time. Hopefully.’

      The woman beside Dorothy chuckles at that, like it’s the funniest joke. I do not.

      After a long while, I stand from the table. ‘I think I’ll go ring my daughter,’ I announce, suddenly feeling confined in this room. There’s too much furniture here. I don’t like how everyone is just sitting around. I need to be alone. I suddenly, mercilessly thirst for solitude.

      ‘Are you sure? I think the painting class starts in two hours. Be certain to come. It’s really fun. And the university boy they bring in is a real dream. If I were just a tad younger, I’d have a go at him. Give him something really special to paint.’ Dorothy winks before readjusting her glasses to underscore her point.

      ‘Okay,’ I reply, turning with my almost-empty Styrofoam cup, slightly surprised by Dorothy’s forward promiscuity. My fingers crunch the cup until a piece falls in on itself.

      But before I even turn the whole way around and pointing in the correct direction, I startle, dropping the cup.

      ‘Get out while you can. Get out,’ she gurgles, her craggy face scrunched up as her finger wags in my line of sight. Her milky eyes are crusty today, the bright whiteness of them alarming in a foreign way in the light. The words strangle in my throat, and I’m suddenly sputtering and coughing, clasping my chest as I back up, almost upsetting the table.

      ‘Barbara, dear, you’re scaring Adeline. Stop it,’ Dorothy orders, standing from her chair.

      Barbara clenches my arms, though, aggravating the fresh scratches she left last night. She leans in close, her musty breath careening into my face. Her milky eyes laser into mine, sending a shiver through me. It’s as if she can see straight through me, even though common sense tells me she can’t. Her fingers are sticky.

      ‘You’ll die here. You will,’ she whispers, and tears form in my eyes as a creeping, crawling feeling reverberates through me. Before I can respond, though, she hoots, smiling, and releases my arm. She clunks off down the corridor in the other direction, slightly leaning to the right and mumbling about daisies and the red rain.

      I stand for a moment, staring down at the cup on the floor. It’s crunched up and broken, the few drops of tea that lurked in the bottom spattered about it.

      ‘There, there, dear. Here you go,’ a nurse says, stooping down to pick up the cup. ‘I’ve got it, Mrs Evans. It’s fine.’

      I look into the brown eyes of the nurse. Tightening my face in confusion, I grab my head. ‘Who are you? I don’t know you,’ I say, needing this woman to back up, to give me space.

      ‘I’m Grace, dear. Remember, we met yesterday?’

      I stare at the woman, so desperately needing to know her. I will myself to place her. But I just can’t. Fear bubbles inside, and I place a hand on my chest.

      ‘It’s okay. No problem. You had a hectic day yesterday. Come on, let me take you to your room. This way now,’ her voice reassures. I’m still stressed, but her voice is kind and her eyes reassure me. I follow her.

      ‘I’ll check in with you later, Adeline,’ a voice calls. I turn around to see the woman at the table, knitting. Dottie? Dorothy? I think it’s Dorothy. I’m pretty sure. But then again …

      I hate it when this happens. I hate it when I can’t remember. I hate it when I forget simple things. I hate it when I feel out of control, like I’m not even in charge of my own self. The forgetfulness comes and goes, some days better than others. The doctors say it is to be expected with this disease, but they don’t understand how frustrating it is. From day to day, from moment to moment, my mind warps and twists so quickly. Some moments, everything is as clear as a crystal. And others, a murky fog settles in, threatening to obliterate every basic memory and thought and rendering me incapable of the smallest task. How helpless can one be? My hands ball into trembling fists, and every joint screams in pain.

      The nurse leads me back to my room, and I unfurl my fists, giving my fingers a chance to relax. I reach up to the wall outside of my room and let my fingers trace the black numbers. 316. I live here in 316.

      ‘Need anything? More tea?’ the nurse asks.

      I shake my head, staring at the tray of cold breakfast foods beside my chair. I inhale, but before the nurse can leave, I reach out and touch her arm.

      ‘Wait. My daughter. I want to talk to my daughter,’ I assert.

      ‘Certainly. Do you know the number?’

      I look at the phone sitting on the nightstand as I cross the room slowly, my feet shuffling along. When I finally get to it, my hands reach for the phone. Do I remember? Can I do this? I’m so afraid I won’t remember. However, I know I need to get a hold of myself. I’m not a quitter. I don’t back down.

      ‘Yes,’ I say confidently, even though I don’t quite believe it. My fingers slowly reach towards the numbers, and I pause, wondering if they’ll be able to accomplish the feat. I sigh when they methodically dial the familiar numbers. They remember even when I don’t. All isn’t lost, I realise, assurance surging through me as I hear Claire’s voice on the line.

      ‘Mum,

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