Free Bursting Bubbles by Dyan Sheldon

cap shivers up to the desk shouting that there’s something wrong with his phone – it never rings. “Mr Maisel, I told you,” the receptionist shouts back. “We checked it. Your phone is fine.”
His friends are probably all dead, too
. A couple walk past, tense as a tightrope. “I can’t stand to see her like this,” says the woman. The man takes her hand. “It won’t be much longer.”
Because soon she’ll be dead
. The ambulance crew leaves, now carrying what is obviously a corpse.
Good God, are they keeping them alive or killing them here?
    The administrator of St Joan’s is Mr Papazoglakis. Mr Papazoglakis is tall and solidly built. His hair is dark and thinning and flecked with grey; his skin so pale you’d think he must live underground. Georgiana has witnessed a second ambulance’s arrival and departure, and the sudden collapse just inside the entrance of an elderly woman returning from a walk with her daughter before Mr Papazoglakis finally emerges from his meeting. By which time Georgiana has almost forgotten why she’s there.
    Mr Papazoglakis has a green folder in one hand. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he says. “And you are–” he peeks into the folder – “Georgia. Georgia Shiller.”
    “Georgiana,” she corrects him.
    “Most people call me Mr P, Georgia.” He says this without disturbing the even features of his face with a smile. “It’s easier than trying to remember all those consonants.”
    And most people call me Georgiana. It’s easier than using someone else’s name
.
    “Georgiana,” she corrects once again.
    Mr Papazoglakis takes her on a tour. They go to the dining hall, the common room, the guest lounge with its almost-comfortable chairs and vending machines, the auditorium, the activity room (which, to Georgiana’s amazement, includes a row of computers) and the gym. He points out the therapy rooms, kitchen and swimming pool and the corridors of private rooms, and introduces her to several reassuringly cheerful-looking people in white uniforms whose names she will never remember even though they wear ID cards around their necks. They don’t go above the first floor; the second is only bedrooms and the third is a locked unit for those who “don’t really know where they are”. Georgiana doesn’t ask for details.
    While they walk, Mr Papazoglakis explains that the main concern of St Joan’s Nursing Centre is quality of life. Dignity. Respect. Comfort. Security and safety.
    “We here at St Joan’s believe that a person’s last days should be as pleasant as possible.”
    “I thought a lot of people are here for other reasons than because they’re going to die,” she says. “You know, like recuperation and stuff like that.”
    “We are, of course, an excellent care facility with very high ratings, but we do deal primarily with the elderly.” Mr Papazoglakis’s shrug is so slight it’s barely a twitch. “And everybody does die eventually.”
    This is when Georgiana realizes that what Mr Papazoglakis in his dark suit and sombre expression most reminds her of is an undertaker. He may smell like Armani and not embalming fluid, but he looks as if he was born to sit behind the wheel of a hearse.
    “Well, yeah.” She giggles nervously. “But not all at once, right?”
    “Of course not.” Mr Papazoglakis still doesn’t smile, but he does make a sound that could be the first half of a laugh. “We’re a nursing centre, not a plague hospital.”
    Georgiana nods.
Well, thank God for that
. So she won’t have to help dig any mass graves.
    What she will have to do, Mr Papazoglakis explains, is socialize. She’ll be given a resident to visit regularly. She can read to her, play a game or even just talk. Do the little things she might not be able to do herself – thread a needle, iron a blouse, change a light bulb. Take her for walks. Do a little shopping. Depending on her limits and abilities, Georgiana may even be asked to accompany her on a short