Hilltop House

Maeve, Seven

Next to her, the old man coughed, spraying some of his breakfast. Maeve took an unused napkin and patiently wiped the scrambled egg off her sleeve. She proceeded to round the back of the wheelchair and, in the good-natured tone they were all expected to feign, made small talk as she pushed Mr. Schuyler down the hall toward his room. The man muttered some things about his family coming to visit (which they never did) and about the meal being delicious (which she knew it hadn't been). She nodded and made forgettable small talk as they passed through the long hallway that connected the kitchens and dining room to the corridors of bedrooms. The hall was made of glass, windows all the way down on either side, one half looking out on a browning wildflower and bird garden, the other half facing the parking lot. Rain beaded and ran down the glass. Thunderstorms had been playing in the sky all night and into the morning, and there was no sign of them letting up. But at least it wasn't one of those days that was so beautiful it made one regret being indoors.

A few other elderly people passed them, one with a walker, another using her slippered feet to push herself slowly along in her wheelchair, murmuring to herself all the while. The low lights and strange quiet depressed Maeve, not to mention the random and clustered old bodies lying and resting and hobbling in various positions and directions, waiting around to die. Working in elder care was a constant reminder of how terrible elder care was. Even though the home was as clean and well-run as could be expected (which was more than most such places could boast), it was, like every other facility of its kind, unconditionally lonely. Of the inhabitants who were lucid enough to hold a conversation, only a few ever wanted to, and those usually spoke of forgotten pasts and loved ones who clearly didn't love as much as they'd been loved. And those were the coherent ones--most of the patients suffered from various stages of dementia, making some nonsensical and others downright volatile. Maeve had learned which rooms to avoid when and whether she should bring another person with her.

Most of her time was spent cleaning the rooms she'd been assigned and helping the patients in her hall get around, and while she always presented as friendly and efficient, she was able to fake at least one of those two qualities at any given time.

"I met a strange lady, yesterday," Mr. Schuyler was informing her as they passed the circle desk from which all the residential hallways spiraled.

"Is that so?" Maeve responded blandly.

"She's crazy," the old man went on. "Says everyone in her family thinks she's dead."

Maeve nodded absently, not even paying attention to the fact that he couldn't see her. They were moving down a better-lit hall, now, no windows, just rooms.

"Says they think they buried her, but she's still alive."

They entered the old man's room, and Maeve turned down the television he'd left blaring. "Do you want to stay in your chair, Mr. Schuyler, or would you like me to help you back into bed?"

"Are you listening to me?" he asked a bit cantankerously, his bristly old face trembling. "She's crazy. Says she burnt down her own house."

Maeve paused in straightening the clutter on the bedside table and finally actually looked at the man. "She burnt down her house?"

"It's what I said!"

The woman's mouth opened slightly; she narrowed an eye, tilted her head a bit in Mr. Schuyler's direction. "Who was this woman? What was her name?"

He raised his shoulders a few times as if annoyed. "Can't remember. Room's in St. Ann."

Maeve's breath caught. A few weeks back--that woman that had come in, who'd seemed so familiar. But she'd checked the woman's name . . . and yet . . .