Free Natural Order by Brian Francis Page A

Two young men are talking in an office. One of them is wearing a tie and seems agitated. Now who are they? I wonder.
    The other man is wearing one of those hats. What do they call them again? Visors. He looks like he’s just come in from the tennis court. He grabs the arm of the man in the suit.
    “B-5! B-5!”
    I reach for the ginger ale sitting beside the TV. It’ll be warm and flat by now, just the way I like it. Just as my fingers touch the plastic ridges of the glass, the two men step towards one another and kiss.
    “O-73! O-73!”
    My fingers stop. Have I got my channels mixed up? Is this one of those hidden camera shows? I wait for studio-audience laughter, but nothing comes other than the sweeping strains of an orchestra. This doesn’t appear to be a joke. But surely it must be. It’s the middle of the afternoon.
    “Ready for your shower, Mrs. Sparks?”
    A hand touches my shoulder, startling me. I turn my head and see it’s one of the nurses, the fat one with the bright red hair and orange streaks. When did women decide it was attractive to have fire on their heads?
    “Now what is going on here?” she asks, bending towards the TV.
    Shame sweeps over me. I fumble for the remote control. “I don’t know what this is. I turned on the TV and this came on.”
    “The one in the suit is a real looker,” the nurse says. “Just look at those two go at it. There’s nothing they won’t put on TV these days.”
    “Take me to the showers,” I say, louder than necessary. We’re halfway down the hall when I hear a “Bingo!” but the victory comes too late.
    “Let me know if the water’s too cold.”
    A cool shower on my calf. Lilac soap. A drain in the floor like an armoured mouth.
    I keep my head down while the water spills over me. I won’t come clean. Firewoman can ram the shower head down my throat, but this guilt will never wash away. It’s impenetrable. A stain under a crust of ice.
    “Can you lift your arm for me, Mrs. Sparks?”
    My tears, at least, go undetected.
    “Mrs. Sparks?”
    My eyes open. I lift my head. The back of my neck throbs.
    It’s him. Standing in the doorway, a cautious expression on his face. He’s wearing a yellow sweater this time. It looks soft and I imagine how nice it would be to have his arms around me, taking me in. I don’t remember the last time I was hugged.
    “I’m sorry to bother you,” Timothy says. “But Maureen in 407 is worried about Ruth. She asked if I’d check with you.”
    “Pneumonia,” I say. “They say she had it for quite some time. God knows who has what around this place. How is Maureen doing herself? I haven’t seen her in the dining room for the past couple of days.”
    “She’s been having dizzy spells,” he says. “She fell out of bed a few days ago. Her arm is all bruised.” He takes a step back. “Thanks for the information about Ruth. I’ll pass it along. Sorry to have bothered you.” He turns to go.
    “I’ve always been a private person, you see.”
    He pauses. Turns back. Takes one step into the room. My eyes dart down.
    “I gathered that.”
    “That photo you commented on,” I say. “It was taken the day my son graduated from chef school.”
    He walks over to it, picks it up. My heart quickens. “I can see the resemblance,” he says.
    “We had the same nose.”
    I watch him sit down in the chair opposite me and stare at John’s picture.
    “He was a good cook. I couldn’t boil an egg to save my life. My husband wasn’t much good in the kitchen, either. I don’t know where John got his talent. Strange, isn’t it? How people can be so different, even in families.”
    I never knew my son. Not in the way I should have known him.
    “He made a big birthday cake for me once. An apple cake, sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. And writing on the top. ‘Happy Birthday, Mom’ in white icing. I’d never seen anything so—”
    I press my eyes shut to block the tears. I won’t cry.
    “That’s all in the past now. No