No Visitors, Part Three: Oprah and the Good Guys

Sunday. I sign in at the front desk and the first person I see is Mary. Skeletor. She’s lanky and tall, even sitting in her wheelchair. Her hair is slicked back in a ponytail so tight I worry about her circulation. Her skin is the color of cloudy bathwater and so translucent that the blue veins look like one of those pictures from space showing rivers and tributaries slithering everywhere. As I walk toward her I realize she reminds me of Shelly Duvall in The Shining. Not in the early part of the movie when things are fresh and vacationey but more toward the very end when she’s gone bonkers in a numb way. I smile at Mary but she doesn’t smile back. She shoots me a Bela Lugosi stare. She has no idea that I held her hand for a half hour once and listened to the story of her life.

It was about a year ago and my dad and I were in his room watching The Oprah Winfrey Show. Oprah intrigues my father.

“What the hell do you think it is about this broad, babe?”

“I think she’s just really influential and powerful I guess.”

“She’s too much! How long has she been around?”

“A long time. Twenty, maybe thirty years.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it! Everything she touches turns to gold. How long’s she been dong this?”

“A long time. I think she started out twenty or thirty years ago.”

Mary pushes herself by in her wheelchair, just outside the door of my dad’s room. She leers at us as she glides by. Her expression is bordering on menacing. 

“Jesus. Who the hell was that one?”

“I’m not sure. She seems kind of scary.” 

“I’ll say! Christ, I hope I never get like that.”

Moments later, we’re back riveted to Oprah. From down the hall someone begins yelling “HELP” so loud even my dad can hear. He looks at me, alarmed.

“Some of these poor bastards have no idea what the hell’s going on.”

I get up to go check it out. I walk down the hall, following the cries of help, and turn into the door of the room the yells are coming from. I find Mary sitting in her bed. She stares at me as I stand at the doorway. For half a second I think she might be hiding some kind of spear under the sheets that she’s preparing to hurl at me.

“Are you okay?”

“No.” Her tone is beyond monotone.

“I heard you yelling help. Is there something I can help you with?”

“I have to go to the bathroom. I can’t find the button I’m supposed to push to call one of the nurses.” She moves her head just barely down and to the left in turtle slow motion to let me know that this is where the remote should be.

I enter the room, see the remote next to her bed and hand it to her. I tell her my name and she tells me hers. I still think she might kill me. 

“Thank you. You’re very nice. Are you John’s daughter?”

“Yes. Do you know my dad?”

“Yes. He seems like a nice man. He’s lucky to have you.”

I notice that the walls are covered with photos of Mary and her children. I get up to look at each of the photos and, as I do, Mary explains who each of the people are. Sons, daughters, grand-children, dogs. She also tells me that she is miserable here and she starts to cry. I walk over to her and hold her hand. It’s cold and boney.

“Please. Don’t feel like you have to be here.”

“I don’t. I feel bad for you. I worry about my dad being unhappy too.”

“This is not a very happy place.”

I can’t argue with that so I just sit with her and she tells me more details about how a sudden stroke got her here and how rarely her family comes to see her. She seems incredibly smart and I picture her, in her life before Oak Knoll, as a hip, intellectual, wearing flowy trousers and cool scarves and attending various liberal events. I hate myself for thinking she was a serial killer.

After some time, Lily the head nurse comes so I get up to go. Mary gives me a plain and slow “goodbye” and I hurry back down the hall. My dad is standing in the doorway of his room, leaning on his walker looking extremely confused and concerned. He greets me like I’ve just returned from the war. Once his relief wears off he focuses on fact finding.

“What the hell happened?”

“I was just helping that woman, Mary. Just a couple doors down. She’s really nice actually. You’d like her.”

“Jesus Christ. Not only do you help your old man when you should be at work but you run around this place helping everyone else! I tell ya. You’re one of the good guys.”

We return to our assigned seats and finish watching Oprah. 

“So who the hell was that yelling help? Did somebody fall?”

“No, it was that woman Mary. She’s a couple doors down. She just had to go to the bathroom.”

“For Christ sake. And you helped her? My god babe. Did I ever tell you you’re one of the good guys?”

“Thanks, dad. I think you’re one of the good guys too.”

“Now who the hell did you just go see?”

“Mary. Down the hall. She wears her hair in a ponytail. You know the one. She just needed to get one of the nurses to help her go to the bathroom so I talked to her for a bit. She’s really nice.”

“Babe. Did I ever tell you I think you’re one of the good guys?”

“I think you’re one of the good guys too. Now relax and let’s finish watching Oprah. When it’s over I’ll go get you a cup of coffee.”