Page 89 of The Troll’s Summer Flame
I don’t know what’s wrong.
The VA moved Earl into Mint Woods Senior Care this year. Earl and the docs at the VA nursing home agreed Earl didn’t need that level of care. And hell, they were right. You ever seen a blind man trying to get a bunch of eighty-something veterans in wheelchairs to raid the kitchen to get enough jello cups to make a slip-and-slide ramp? No? Neither had they.
So, Earl was happy to be set free from that place (without getting arrested), even if he was pissed he couldn’t go back to living alone. Mint Woods Senior Care is like an assisted living place, where he gets some looking after, but not enough to make him rebel and lead an octogenarian mutiny.
At first, things were okay. His sugar was under control. He was eating regularly. They even let me spring him for my brother’s wedding. Those little “glamour pendants” from the Pine Ridge magic shop really work—although Len reassures me we don’t need ‘em. Humans can’t see the paranormal for shit, not unless it bites ‘em on the ass, or in my brother’s case, crashes down at someone’s feet.
Then about... Oh, six months ago? Things started going downhill at the place, but Earl was still okay. First, it was the company. They cut staff. Then they cut the care. As someone independently able to dress, feed, and bathe himself, Earl gets to go to meals in the dining room if he wants—but they won’t make him. Won’t check on him. He gets his meds dropped off in a big plastic box with days of the week stamped in braille on the lids—but no one checks to see if he takes them.
There’s no medical care other than his annual check with the VA doctor and his endocrinologist.
I think something is really wrong, and even though I’ve now learned that humans can’t necessarily see monsters (and their brains just see us as something else), I’m still helpless. I’m not kin. I’m a visitor—and I’m supposed to leave at six on the dot.
I do—and then I fly back up to his second-floor window in a cubby of an apartment that smells of menthol, talcum, and antiseptic. But those smells have been fading. Other smells, like urine, stale food, and body odor, are taking their place.
“When did you check your sugar, Earl?” I ask, my feathery setae feeling wet on my palms. I’m sweating.
“Huh?”
“Fuck this.” I have seen him do this enough times. If a blind guy can do it, I can do it.
I take Earl’s hand and prick his finger. He doesn’t even react.
“Three hundred.” Holy shit, that’s not good. That can’t be good. “Earl. When did you last eat?”
“Scrambled eggs.”
Breakfast. Did they bring him breakfast? I know Earl doesn’t cook on the little two-burner stove they give him.
I look around and see no evidence of cooking. If his blood sugar is this high without eating...
I grab the white phone attached to the wall. A static-y voice answers me, tinging and pinging.
“I need a nurse to my buddy’s room. Now!”
“Thank you for calling the Mint Woods Group, sir. Which facility are you calling from?”
“The one I’m in! I’m calling from the second floor. I want to talk to the nurse’s desk!”
“I’m sorry, sir, this is the call center. Are you in a Mint Woods Senior Care facility or a Mint Woods Nursing Home?”
“Senior Care! In Two Saddles, West Virginia. And it’s not me, it’s my friend!”
“Let me find that location, sir...” The voice pings and tings some more as Earl’s head droops.
“Fuck. Hurry.”
“All right, now you would like to make an appointment to see the nurse?”
“No, I need a nurse here, to room 217, now!”
“Ah, that is only possible at Mint Woods Nursing Homes, sir. You can schedule a visit for... Thursday at 10:30 with the visiting clinical staff on rotation at your location.”
“There’s no nurse on site?” My voice is warbling and shaking all over the place, red eyes glowing and blinking so fast I must look like a neon disco ball.
“There is, sir, but not after hours. To retain a place in Mint Woods Senior Care home, you cannot need ‘round-the-clock care or skilled nursing.”
“My friend doesn’t need skilled nursing all the time, just right now! He’s sick!”
