Escape From Brookside

The sterile darkness of Room 304 at the Brookside Nursing Home was suddenly obliterated when the door opened and the nurse’s aide snapped the lights on.

Adeleine Murray put her weathered hand up to shield her eyes.

“Who is it?” she quavered.

“It’s me, Mrs. Murray,” the aide said cheerily. “Time to get up now. Breakfast’s gonna be here soon.”

The aide yanked open the closet door and grabbed a dress.

“Come on Mrs. Murray, sit up. Here’s your dress. Put your arm through the sleeve now. That’s a good girl.”

Adeleine put her arm through the sleeve. She had no other choice. It was always the same. She had to hurry up, get up, get dressed, then wait an hour for breakfast. She would never, ever get to sleep until noon again.

She allowed the girl to dress her. She had learned long ago not to resist. If she got dressed quickly, she could sleep in her wheelchair until the trays came.

“Ok, Mrs. Murray, now let’s get in your chair. That’s it.”

Adeleine allowed herself to be dumped in the wheelchair. A lap robe was thrown over her knees. A sweater was dragged on over her dress. The aide brushed her thin, grey hair straight back from her face, made the bed quickly, then rushed from the room.

“Good morning, Mrs. Johnson. Time to get up now.” Adeleine heard her say in the next room.

Adeleine put her chin down on her chest and drifted off to sleep.

Later that day an activities aide came to get her.

“Could I have my glasses please?” Adeleine asked.

“Sure!” the girl said brightly and pushed the glasses onto her nose.

Adeleine looked through the lenses and saw how dirty they were, but it was too late to ask the girl to clean them. They were already whizzing down the hallway.

“We’re having watermelon today,” the girl gushed. “Isn’t that exciting!”

They arrived at the dining room, where other residents were parked in their wheelchairs. A radio was blaring music in a corner and the activities director was tapping around in her high heels, leaving a cloud of heavy perfume in her wake.

Someone brought a piece of watermelon with a plastic fork stuck in it.

“Here you go, Mrs. Murray.”

Adeleine had dozed off again, and didn’t notice the plate of melon being put in her lap.

She dreamed she was sitting on the back steps of the farmhouse she grew up in. Papa was plowing the fields and the distant grind of the tractor was as familiar as the sound of Mamma humming while she washed dishes. Her baby sister Katie was playing in the dirt beside the steps, and her older brother Mark was spitting watermelon seeds, trying to see how far he could get one to go. He planned to win the contest at the county fair next week.

Someone was calling her name.

“Adeleine!”

“Mrs. Murray! Wake up!”

Who was Mrs. Murray, she wondered, and ignored the person shaking her shoulder.

“Oh my God,” someone said. “I can’t feel her heartbeat.”

“Let me try,” someone else said.

Adeleine looked out at the countryside and saw her father had stopped the tractor. He was standing in the field, taking a long cold drink from the jug of water Mamma always sent with him when he went to plow.

“Adeleine…” he called, beckoning her to come to him.

Adeleine jumped off the porch steps.

“Papa!” she hollered. “I’m coming! Can I ride the tractor with you?”

She took off running into the field, arms stretched wide, legs pumping, joyously running to meet her Father.