Page 25 of Sing it, Sam

Chapter Nine

“Helen told me you were in here on the weekend,” Kathleen says as she slides a folder onto the bookshelf.News sure travels fast around here.

“Oh, yeah. I came in to deliver a book to Sam. Um, I mean Mr Marshall.”

After an afternoon of reading, Helen came in to take care of some things for Sam—medication, and I’m assuming she helped him shower. I thought it best to leave then. The forlorn look on Sam’s face told me he was torn between wanting me stay and needing to take care of personal stuff.It must suck having to rely on strangers for simple day-to-day stuff like that.

“Jane, you can call him Sam. It’s fine.”

“Okay,” I reply, and look over to Sally-Anne at her desk to see if she’s paying attention to our conversation. Her head is turned toward her computer, the blue Facebook page lighting up the screen, so I’m guessing no. It’s like she doesn’t even care that Kathleen could catch her doing personal stuff.

“I hear he’s in better spirits today,” Kathleen says.

I can’t stop the wide smile spreading across my face. “That’s great.”Did I have something to do with that?

“You’re a good egg, Jane. It’s quiet for now. Why don’t you go check in on him?”

I spring out of my chair, then wonder why I’m so keen to leave my desk.Way to be subtle.

“Sure. Um, well, as long as that’s okay? I’ll put up the new programs in the dining hall on my way.”

The walkie-talkie on Kathleen’s hip screeches, startling us both.

“We’ve got a spill in aisle nine. Over,” a female voice announces.

“What on earth?” I say, looking at Kathleen for an insight.

“Oh, forgot to mention that, didn’t I? We’ve had a good run of late, so it hasn’t come up. It’s code. Incontinence is a problem as people age. Some residents just forget, others take their nappies off and we don’t find out until they have an accident. Rather than draw too much attention to it, we call it a spill. Aisle nine is the dining hall. Most accidents, for some reason, happen in there.”

Hearing that some of the residents have that problem is heartbreaking. Imagine having no control, and being reduced to wearing a nappy like a child. There are parts of growing old that really suck.Note to self: do pelvic-floor exercises more often.

“That would explain the smell of disinfectant then,” I say.

“Bingo. Anyway, I’ll sort this out. Go see Sam.”

“Thanks.” I swoop up a few coloured flyers from my desk. In a few weeks, Scrapbooking 101 is going to be big hit—I can just feel it. Mrs Cassidy has been asking for a class for months, apparently, so I’m happy that she’ll finally get her wish.

I stick a flyer on the notice board on the way to the dining hall, and when I reach the big open room I take down the floral workshop flyers, dispose of them in the nearest bin, and put up new notices in their place. I tack the last notice on the wall a few doors down from Sam’s room.

“Knock. Knock,” I say as I rap gently on his door.

“Come in,” he says from the bed. He looks over at me and smiles. “How was the rest of your weekend?”

“Okay I guess. Housekeeping stuff. And I took Butch for a walk and spent some time in the garden.”

“Butch?”

I take my phone out of my pocket and sit on his bed. I scroll through my photos until I find the pic I want.

A smile spreads across his pale face as he eyes the selfie of me and Butch, snuggled up on the lounge. “Huh. He’s cute. Not so butch, though.”

“Oh, he’s adorable alright. My little rolly-polly sausage dog. He’s on a calorie-controlled diet at the moment. His belly’s been known to scrape on the ground. He’ll eat anything in sight. He’s a walking vet bill.”

“I bet,” he says and chuckles.

“Did you do any more reading yesterday?” I ask as I spy the book on his bedside table.

“Can’t find my glasses, remember? Besides, we’re in this together now. You’re my personal Audible.”

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