And then there was the ever-talkative Janet, of course. The upside of that was, since Janet liked to talk so much; it should be easy to find out anything and everything about Room 913.
The slightly ditsy aide may have been a chatterbox, but she was right about one thing, the service elevators definitely were slow. Real slow. And a little scary. The jerky motion and periodic clinking noises reminded Cynthia of an old wooden roller coaster. The kind that was notorious for falling. She grimaced, hoping they didn’t suddenly start racing down some unseen track.
At least they didn’t ride too far at any one time, stopping on each floor with Janet going up and down the hall, blabbing away, rattling off the names of the tenants along with their room numbers.
“Should I be taking notes?” Cynthia asked with a half-worried frown.
“Nah,” Janet told her. “There’s really not that many people here. You’ll learn their names - eventually. Even if you forget, they will remember you. Most of them anyway,” she laughed. “There are a few who have trouble remembering their own name. But almost everyone here is normal - as sane as you and me.”
Deciding to reserve judgment on just how sane Janet was, or was not, Cynthia wisely kept silent.
Oddly, she noticed, many of the doors on the lower levels were open but as they moved on to the higher floors, most of the tenants’ doors were closed. She mentioned her observation.
. “The upper stories are hotel residents who can pretty much manage on their own,” Janet explained. “While the lower floors are for the assisted living. They like to use us to run errands and other things. Nothing too strenuous. We might take out the garbage, vacuum, hang a picture on the wall, type a letter, find their meds, or anything else they have a problem with. We’ve even been known to help wash the dishes on occasion. So, you’ll spend most of your time on the first three floors. That’s the people we assist the most. Ha! I guess that’s why it’s called assisted living, huh?”
“Probably,” Cynthia agreed.
“Oh! Did they tell you,” Janet said, “about the guy in Room 913?”
“Sort of, but not really. Only that we were not to go inside - or talk to him.”
“It’s not so much that we’re not allowed,” Janet said. “We can’t. The door hasn’t been opened in years, and even if you try to talk, he won’t answer you.”
“So, you’ve tried?” Cynthia asked. Then she almost laughed out loud. Of course Janet had tried, the girl couldn’t stop talking.
“I’m not admitting to anything,” Janet said.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish