The phone rang, jarring me from my liquid trance. I looked down at the screen and sighed. It was after ten-thirty and all I wanted was to finish my whiskey and go to sleep. “Goddammit!” Reaching the phone on the stained wooden coffee table, I knocked the empty Chinese food container onto the floor, spilling the last of the crappy lo mein.
Tax season, another fucking tax season and now the managing partner was calling, and I’d barely gotten in after another fifteen-hour slog.
“Yes, hello, this is Kevin.”
“Kevin, it’s George Porter. I need you at Sunny Acres Nursing Home tomorrow to finish up the audit.”
I stared at the phone and took a long pull from the third tumbler of whiskey.
“Uh, Mr. Porter, I’ve never worked nursing homes before. I have no background here. I don’t mean to, I mean, you know I am a team player, but honestly…”
“Kevin, I’m fully aware of your lack of experience in this area. But this isn’t a request. Get to the facility by 8:15 sharp. The audit team fell sick and I need the patient turnover report finished by tomorrow. It isn’t a big deal, but it needs to be done. See the head administrator, Ms. Kirkpatrick. Needless to say, the firm appreciates you jumping in like this.
“Oh, and by the way, my mother Sally is a resident there. Make sure you say hello and that I wanted you to stop by and check on her. Got it?”
Click.
What just happened? I thought, looking around the living room. If possible, it was more tired than I was. The rust-colored couch and mix and match chairs sat on a dingy brown rug. It needed upgrading, but I really didn’t care that much. After all, it was just me. Ever since Joni left, I doubted I’d find someone to share the space, let alone my life. It was good enough and all I deserved.
Joni, Joni, what the fuck? Our relationship was so strong, so loving, so close; or so I’d thought. She never let on, there were no clues; at least none that I picked up. I remembered that July evening, walking into our new home, she was sitting on the couch with her friend and yoga instructor, Emily, wine glasses empty. “Kevin, hi, would you sit down, we, uh, I have something to tell you.”
The memory flooded back and only the flush of whiskey kept me from crying. I needed to get off this line of thinking. I was beyond tired, out of shape, a little drunk and now facing a day of hell.
I’d heard these audits were the worst assignments. The audit rooms were small, and typically close to patients. The guys talk about the overwhelming smell of piss, shit, incessant crying, and the sight of patients strapped to chairs or beds.
I was new at this firm and still learning the ropes after leaving my last firm. Well, to be honest, my drinking did have something to do with it. Life in CPA firms could be a drag. As soon as you finish one assignment you get moved to the next.
I’ve done a lot of different types of audits in my career, from the simple to the complex, from working in nice neat professional settings to disgusting and awful. I remember my first audit at a chicken processing plant; the horrendous smell and wailing screech of poultry being murdered. I was young then, barely out of college, excited at the prospect of each new challenge. When I asked the audit manager how to take the inventory, the smart-ass veteran said, “Son, count the legs and divide by two.”
“Fuck!” The last of the whiskey hit the back of my throat. I checked out what remained in the bottle. By all accounts, I was going to need it.
##
The alarm went off, like chickens being murdered at 6:30, chasing the slaughterhouse dream. Only the thought of getting canned was enough to motivate movement. A spike of pain shot from my eyeballs through my brain. The taste of stale whiskey and greasy Chinese food coated my mouth in a sickening symphony of morning nausea. I felt my flabby belly, feeling the rumbles of protest.
Twenty minutes later, I finally felt a semblance of being human. Icy needles of water hit my skin. It always did the trick and brought me back to awareness. A quick shave cleaned up yesterday’s shadow.
The coffee pot chirped in the kitchen. I didn’t remember setting it up the night before. Oh boy, that’s not good. “Tax season, fucking tax season.” But I knew it wasn’t just that, it was the lifestyle, the loneliness, the boredom, but mostly the booze.
I checked my reflection in the mirror; I needed a new suit. It still looked okay on the hanger, but once on, it hung on my six-foot doughy frame like a flour sack. The collar on the white dress shirt was frayed and suffered from a shade of dingy not found on a color chart. I tugged up the knot on a rendition of a half-Windsor and grabbed a bottle of Febreze, spraying myself from shoulder to pant cuffs hopefully freshening the scene. I grabbed a bottle of Aramis and added a layer of scent that was sure to cover the stench of alcohol. Nothing gets through Aramis; it’s like a suit of armor.
Before leaving, I checked my briefcase and the contents of the flask. It should get me through the day. I threw my case into the back seat of my faded blue 2010 Chevy. It was Joni’s choice. It was nice and clean once, but now it felt like it was held together with duct tape and teemed with junk. I needed to clean out the car, the empty bags of fast-food containers and assorted stuff gave it the look of a dumpster. It would have to wait until tax season was over.
The sky was overcast with steel gray clouds streaking the cold winter sky. March was the worst month. It was the last long slog until Spring and with my luck, would sink its claws in and stay well into April. It hadn’t snowed in a few weeks and what was on the ground was crusted in grime, garbage, and Winter’s general bad attitude. The air in the car smelled of used-up air fresheners mixed with old food odors, clung like an unrelenting virus.
As I pulled onto the parkway, there was an endless mass of cars waiting for me. This was it, this was my life in a snapshot. Everything that could go wrong did. Whether it was the divorce, being invited to quit the last job, my sadly out-of-shape body, lack of a social life, and reliance on alcohol to get through the day. I knew my life needed to change, and soon.
There was even a time I’d fallen to the depths and considered swallowing a bottle of sleeping pills after Joni moved in with Emily. But I didn’t, knowing I’d probably fail at that too. I remember when my life was full of hope and promise when we’d met and fallen in love. “Love! That’s a joke.” I’d even passed the CPA exam on the first try, which, according to statistics was top 20%. But that was then; now is just disappointment and failure. Hope was just another four-letter word and promise now came from a bottle.
I finally got to the parking lot of the nursing home at 8:40. Starting off the day slightly hung over and late wasn’t part of the plan. I looked up at the sky, looking for any ray of sunshine: no answer there. I wondered what was waiting for me behind the sliding glass doors. No hope above and none ahead.
##
“Good morning, I’m Kevin Casey from Porter-Shrinder. Here to see Ms. Kirkpatrick.” Addressing the gray-haired woman at the front desk. She was surrounded by flowers, balloons, happy-face posters, and the smell of disinfectant unable to cover up the lingering smell of feces, urine, tears, and death.
“One moment, I’ll call Ms. Kirkpatrick. Meanwhile, you can sit over there.” She pointed her white pug nose towards a light tan couch.
Sitting back into the cushion, I felt my butt disappear into the foam. I tried to scootch forward feeling the couch holding me firmly in place. I shifted my hips and grabbed onto the front edges to drag myself forward. Goddamit!
“You’re late!” came an austere voice from above.
My eyes shot upward, into the face of a scowling woman. Her long pale face matched her unusually long frame and severe features. I glanced down to see a pair of black three-inch pumps sitting beneath black stockings, black skirt, black jacket and blood red blouse erupting from beneath the lapels. She wore a name badge “Patricia” over her right breast pocket and a golden wolf pin with blood-red ruby eyes on her right. The line of bright red lipstick drew attention to her mouth.
I jerked myself off the cushion and extended my hand. “Sorry, there was an accident on the Parkway. I’m Kevin Casey from…”
“Yes, yes, I know. Follow me.” he said in a firm directive voice, spinning on her left heel, executing a perfect 180-degree turn.
There were no patients in the lobby, but I heard muffled moans from behind the double doors. I followed her towards those doors, a cold dread creeping up my spine.
“I’ve you set up near the nurses’ station in one of the exam rooms, though it might be a little loud at times. There’s a coffee machine at the nurse’s station. You can go to the dining room if you feel like a snack or lunch. Any questions?”
Questions? I have no fucking questions! I just want this day to end! The thought of coffee and the flask of happiness flashed into my brain. OK, I’ll get through this. I thought, taking a deep breath.
She swiped her ID across the security pad to the right of the double doors. We entered a hallway that was dark in comparison to the lobby. The lights were low, tinged in a reddish color. I felt slightly sick at the radical change in light and temperature, like I had just walked into a greenhouse. The air felt warm and damp and smelled of lavender-tinged bleach. I tasted copper in the back of my throat.
“We keep the lights low, and the temperature elevated to keep the patients comfortable, and we pump in scents that are pleasing to our patients. It helps keep them calm,” she said after seeing the obvious discomfort in my eyes.
We walked past several rooms where I saw patients in chairs and beds. The hallway was empty and soft music wafted down from ceiling speakers. I heard snippets of Golden Girls, I Love Lucy and Murder, She Wrote as I passed.
She stopped in front of the fifth door and pointed inside. I entered a room that held an examination table pushed to one side, replaced by one small square table and matching chair.
The table was pink plastic and didn’t look that sturdy. A thick and well-worn red-rope file-folder occupied the table, along with some crumbs of unknown origins and a few coffee rings that looked permanently embedded.
“Mr. Porter said that the patient turnover report is the last bit to finish.” She mused, more to herself. “I’ll leave you to it! Here is your Visitors Pass.”
I opened my case and removed the laptop, pads, and collections of chewed yellow pencils and Bic crystal pens-only black ink allowed. I read through last year’s audit report and workpapers to get a sense of what was done before, what sources were needed, and what the finished report was supposed to look like. It was a basic review of the number of patients who entered, who left by various means, the average stay per patient, and how many remained at the end of the year. It was like a bank reconciliation. This shouldn’t be too bad. I checked my watch, almost 9:45. I’d better get moving, no telling what problems await in this seemingly simple analysis. While this was my first foray into nursing home audits, this wasn’t my first rodeo.
A shriek pierced the air shaking me out of my thoughts. Rubber-soled shoes pounded down the hallway and garbled voices amidst the cacophony tried to mediate the problem. “There, there, Mrs. Adams, it’s ok. Mr. Sobers didn’t mean to take your sandwich, now did you, Mr. Sobers?” the nurse said in a sweet sing-song voice. “My roast beef sandwich,” the woman moaned. They were probably twenty feet down the hall and the sobbing and carrying on filled the air like smog in Beijing. The scream hit my nerves like a toothache.
What I really needed was some coffee with a quick deposit from my ‘friend’ just to take the edge off. Leaning heavily on the tabletop, I pushed myself off the unsteady bridge chair. My back will be screaming by the end of the day from sitting in that chair. I paused at the doorway, looking left and right, making sure no one was in the way, so I wouldn’t get run over by a wheelchair, and headed towards the nurses’ station and coffee machine.
From behind me, a voice demanded, “Where’s your badge?”
I looked for the source of the strident inquiry, spotting a woman in light blue medical scrubs and a name tag hanging off the pocket. Donna Domingo, LPN stood off to the side of the counter, patient chart in one hand, coffee in the other.
“Uh, oh sorry,” I said reaching into my rumpled jacket pocket. “I forgot to put it on. I’m Kevin Casey, from the accountant’s office. Mrs. Kirkpa…”
“Coffee cups and lids are in the cabinet, milk’s in the fridge. There’s sugar and sweetener in there too.” She looked me up and down slowly. I looked at her in fleeting glances, catching a peek at her ringless hand. Good auditors are constantly gathering and sifting information.
The coffee pot was one of those pod machines. The box of pods that offered too many choices. There was everything from pumpkin spice to blueberry crumble. All I wanted was plain black coffee, but finding none, settled on Hazelnut Sugar Cookie.
I saw her move towards me. She stopped just short of invading my personal space.
“You have a sweet tooth, huh?” Donna said as I started to take a step backward.
“Uhhh, I guess. Actually, I couldn’t find any regular coffee in that box. I’m a pretty boring guy and plain old black coffee is my go-to.”
She smiled and opened another cabinet on the other side of the machine and came out with a handful of pods.
“Here ya go, Kevin. I should have been more specific in my directions, sorry.” She touched my arm handing me the plain black coffee pod. A long-forgotten twinge shot through me.
My brain lit up like a Christmas tree. I hadn’t felt this shock since the day I met Emily. Shaking free of that memory, I wondered if she was coming on to me or if this was just my imagination. She was kind of cute, I thought, maybe she was interested in me. Taking a breath, I forced an awkward smile.
“Thank you, Ms. Domingo, that was really nice.” I searched for something else to say, but “Have you been working here long?” was all I could muster.
“It’s Donna, please. Oh, it’s nothing, sweetie. I might have been a little, uh, terse, when I first saw you. That was unkind. This is my first week here. Still trying to get the lay of the land, so to speak. I haven’t seen you before. There were a few guys here yesterday. What happened to them?”
“I was assigned here last night. It seems they all came down with the flu and the job has to be finished, so I got picked. I’ve never done nursing home audits before, but this doesn’t seem like a big deal.”
“You must be pretty good to get called in to tackle this without experience.” She said in a sweet voice. Her eyes flashed.
I laughed. “Hey, lady, I know my way around a spreadsheet!” Not sure where that came from, we both laughed.
“I’ll bet you know your way around a lot of things.” She cooed, eyeing me up and down.
“CODE BLUE-CODE BLUE-ROOM 144 STAT” blared over the speaker. I looked up at the source of the interruption, then the sound of feet running down the hall. She was cute, short brown hair, nice smile, and a petite body, probably in her mid-40’s.
Goddamit!
##
Illustration by Albert M. Nikhla
I spent the rest of the morning working through the audit program amidst the intermittent screams, cries, shouts for help, shrouded under a lavender scent, and strains of elevator music.
My brain bounced between thoughts of Donna Domingo and an incessant pain behind my right eye that even the coffee couldn’t relieve. Hopefully I’d see her at lunch or at least before I leave. Another shot or two from the flask and maybe I’d have the courage to ask her out. “Maybe, my luck is changing,”I whispered to myself.
I smiled at the thought. The coffee was barely palatable, but with the high-test additive, it was passable. I immersed myself back into the analysis, noting the number of patients who became residents, those who died, and those who left. The number who left vertically was shockingly small, but figured this wasn’t unusual and checked it with previous years’ reports. It all seemed in line and normal. As I waded deeper into the analysis, all I could feel was the sadness of it all. I’d heard the expression that Florida was God’s waiting room, well, Florida had nothing on this place.
“Excuse me.” A voice in the doorway. Startled, I looked up into the stern countenance of Patricia Kirkpatrick.
“Oh, sorry, how can I help?”
“I just got off the phone with Mr. Porter and he asked me to remind you to check in with his mother. He expects you to, as he put it, ‘brighten her day.’”
“Oh yes, of course. I suppose I can go see her before I leave.”
“Why don’t you go see her now. She’s probably in the dining room for lunch; that might be best.”
At no point in her statement did I sense this was a suggestion. I felt my jaw tighten and blood pressure spike. Not only was I on this assignment that absolutely had to be finished today; but now it was lunch with the boss’s mother. Goddamit!
I nodded and pushed off the chair, signing out of the laptop and storing it in the briefcase. She spun on her heel and click-clacked down the hall leaving nothing but the echo of her steps. I watched her swipe her card as the double door swung opened and swallowed her.
Walking past the nurses’ station, I hoped to see Donna, but seeing her empty chair, guessed she was off to one emergency or another, I felt disappointment crawl over me. I entered the dining room in search of Mrs. Porter.
“Hey Kevin, sorry I had to dash off, but you know…” she let her sentence hang in the air like a hot air balloon. “I hope this isn’t too, you know, wrong, but maybe we can meet for a bite to eat? I get off at 6.”
I felt my heart stop and words stuck somewhere south of my larynx.
“Uhh, sure, that would be… be great. Where should we meet?”
“I’ll meet you in the parking lot, which one is your car?”
Panic set in thinking about the smelly old fast-food marinated Chevy. “It’s a blue Chevy Aveo. But listen, I have to see Mrs. Porter for lunch, and then I need to finish the audit. How about we meet at, what, 6:15?”
“Haha, have fun with that!” she said, rolling her eyes, “She’s right over there by the window on the right wearing the gray track suit. Oh, and great, I’ll see you then.” She turned away from me to answer the buzzing phone in her pocket.
My mind spun, I’d need to get to the car and clean it. Maybe run over to the 7-11 and find some air freshener. I wondered if there was a car wash nearby. But first, I’ve got to get this job done. I entered the dining room on a cloud that tingled with anticipation and spotted Mrs. Sally Porter. She was a tiny prune of a woman, emaciated and pale, entombed in the aforementioned warmup suit.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Porter. I’m Kevin Casey. I work for your son.”
“Why are you standing there, young man? Sit down! The food, at least that’s what they call it, will be out shortly.”
I pulled out the chair across from her.
“Not there, sit here next to me. I won’t be able to hear you from over there. Just so you know, the food here is barely adequate. It’s either tuna salad, some macaroni or that soupy yogurt. We rarely get meat for lunch. What I wouldn’t give for a nice juicy burger!”
I followed her command, accidently bumping the table, eliciting a scowl. I tried to remain calm but failed. I definitely didn’t want the boss to hear that I’d annoyed his mother.
Lunch was light fare; a small salad with a scoop of what I presumed to be tuna salad. Dinner rolls in a basket were placed on the table which Sally promptly emptied into the oversized tote hanging from a hook on her chair. She said nothing, until she waved over a server requesting more rolls.
“My, my, you are very hungry today, Sally.” the young Philippino woman said in broken English.
“I’m not!” she insisted, “this young man just couldn’t control himself.”
“I…” My protest died in my throat, what did it fucking matter.
“So, young man, how long have you worked for my son?”
“I joined the firm almost a month ago, after working for…”
“Do you like being a CPA? I think it’s terribly boring. Don’t know how anyone can spend their time pouring over all those numbers.”
“It’s actually quite…”
“It’s actually quite mundane. Did you know that my son makes a fortune, but not from accounting? He owns this place, and a bunch of other homes. He owns offices, apartment complexes, and other things. That’s how he makes his money, not this accounting stuff. But my son is smart, he doesn’t own it in his name, he uses, what do you call it, you know, that thing that covers nuts.”
What? George Porter owned the nursing home using a shell corporation? I wondered if she was in her right mind or if she was senile. But if she was right, this information raised a major problem. How could the firm issue an audited financial statements when there was a blatant conflict of interest? There were no such disclosures in the footnotes. I didn’t know what to do with this information, but I knew that the firm’s been issuing statements for years. This was a problem that could cost me my job if I brought it up.
“Wake up!” Sally’s voice broke my train of thought. “It’s time to go.”
The recently placed plate of cookies on the table received the same fate as the rolls. Looking into her pale gray eyes was the glint of smug satisfaction.
“Well thank you for inviting me to have lunch with you Mrs. Porter. I need to get back to work now.”
“Sure, but first, I need you to take me back to my room.” She pushed her wheelchair back from the table.
I was trapped.
Tentatively, I stood behind her chair and started to push her wheelchair towards the door.
“Which way?”
“First, I want to see if there’s anything in my mailbox. Let’s go to the mailroom and then we can swing by the day room to see if Mrs. O’Connor is there. She was working on a lovely quilt.”
Feeling the weight of the world pressing down on me, I asked for directions. This place was a maze of corridors. I desperately needed to finish the job and get out to clean out my car before 6pm, but at this rate, I was screwed. I’d passed Donna in the hall several times on the way to the mail room, the day room, the exercise room, the activity center, the snack bar, and then finally to her room. Each time I saw her I felt a sense of panic and a tinge of yearning when she flashed that inviting smile.
“Is everything alright?”
I looked around to find Mrs. Kirkpatrick standing by the doorway to the activity center with her eyes clearly on me. Everything inside of me clenched and I felt the oxygen leaving my body. Fainting seemed like a good idea.
“This nice young man has been helping me this afternoon. Thank you, Patty.”
“I am so glad, Mrs. Porter. You know, our mission is to make our residents happy. Mr. Casey, I appreciate you helping, I know you are busy, but then again, Mr. Porter would only send his best choice for the job.”
With that, the administrator walked off and Mrs. Porter pointed to a woman sitting on a dingy brown couch in the room.
“There’s Ida! Ida, oh Ida..”
A small blue-haired woman looked up from her knitting and waved. I pushed the chair into the room and up to the couch.
“Why hello, Sally, and who do we have here?” she looked up at me with a smile.
“This is the guy from Georgie’s office, his name is Kelvin. He’s been helping me this afternoon, the sweet man.”
Kelvin? I didn’t bother to correct her. At this point, my day, week, month and probably career was shot to hell.
“Kelvin, that’s so nice of you, helping Sally. My, you are a bit of a chunky fellow aren’t you?” Ida smiled sweetly.
I unconsciously buttoned my suit coat. Now I’m getting criticized by the old ladies. What else could make this day worse?
After fifteen minutes of banter, Sally instructed me to take her back to her room. She was tired, after all, she explained, from the busy afternoon. My head throbbed like it was being pounded by a tire iron.
As I crossed the threshold to her room, I looked around noticing a suitcase in front of the chest of drawers.
“Are you going somewhere, Mrs. Porter?” I asked, having nothing much else to say. I checked my watch again, it was nearing 4:45 and I’d given up on the idea of meeting Donna. I’d probably be working until nine or ten tonight to finish.
“Yes, actually, my son is coming to pick me up tonight.”
Now I knew I was screwed. I hadn’t finished the work, and I couldn’t even imagine the blowback. I couldn’t blame his mother; this was an unmitigated disaster.
“Mrs. Porter, I really need to get back to work. I know your son is counting on me to get this assignment completed. I’m sure you understand. It’s been really nice spending the afternoon with you.”
“Of course, dear. You’ve been lovely company. I’ll be sure to tell Georgie. But before you go, would you please help me into bed? I’m rather tired and need to shut my eyes before he arrives.”
I moved over to the chair and began to lift the tiny invalid from her chair. She was light, as if made of smoke. I placed her on the bed.
“Thank you, now cover me with that blanket.”
As I pulled the plaid afghan from the foot of the bed and brought it to her chin, I felt a sharp prick on my neck. Looking down, confused, I saw a wry smile form on her lips.
“Have a nice nap dear.” She smiled.
My eyes saucered before I collapsed, and the world went dark.
My next awareness came as I began to come out of a gauzy state. I heard murmured words and laughter. I saw George Porter, his mother and Patricia Kirkpatrick, above me. I felt cold metal on my skin, shocked to discover that my clothes were gone, and there were bands of restraints immobilizing my arms and legs. I tried to speak, but only an incoherent croak emerged. Panic surrounded me as a cloth was held over my nose. A female figure entered my line of vision as I drifted into the drug induced haze, a long blade clutched in her hand.
“Donna? Am I in the hospital? What happened? Why am I strapped down?” The stream of questions flowed like water as incoherent thoughts tumbled through my brain.
“Oh, Kevin,” Donna cooed, “I know we had planned to meet at your car for our date, but, you know, work does come first. You know what they say, business before pleasure.”
The beam of light coming off the high intensity lamp made it hard to see anyone with clarity, making my disorientation that much worse.
“But, but, Mr. Porter, why are you hear? Where am I? Will someone please help me?”
There were no replies. I felt tears of frustration and panic fill my eyes.
George Porter’s face filled my eyes. A wry smile creased his tanned face as he moved closer to my ear.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you, but your services, at least as a CPA, are no longer needed. You will, however, be of wonderful service to my mother and me.”
As I began to collapse into unconsciousness, I heard Donna murmur sweetly, “Well, Mrs. Porter, looks like there’s fresh meat on the menu tonight.”