Free Bursting Bubbles by Dyan Sheldon Page A

outing. The centre’s staff is overworked as it is; they have no time for any of the extra niceties.
    As they come back to the reception desk, Mr Papazoglakis opens the green folder. “Now, let’s see what we’ve fixed up for you.” He runs one finger down the page. “Ah, yes.” He looks up, his face still an undiscovered land as far as emotion is concerned. “We’ve given you Mrs Kilgour.”
    “Mrs Kilgour,” parrots Georgiana.
    “Mrs Kilgour doesn’t have any family,” says Mr Papazoglakis, “so her visitors are few and far between.”
    Georgiana guesses that this means she has none.
    He looks back at the folder. “Room 10a.” He points to the left. “Just down that corridor. Come with me. I’ll introduce you. Naturally, she’ll have been told that you were coming. I’m sure she’s been looking forward to it.”
    Room 10a is a cheap envelope of a room with a bed, a night table, a small dresser, a chair that belongs somewhere larger and homier – somewhere with knick-knacks on the mantel, a rug on the floor and a cat – an ancient television set, which is on too loudly, and a window, which is closed. There is a folded wheelchair in one corner and a four-footed walking stick next to the chair. The floor is linoleum and the walls are painted a sad shade of blue. The window looks out on a paved courtyard and a few dead pot plants. The only personal touch is the photograph on the dresser of a youngish woman in a long, flower-print dress holding a bouquet of roses and smiling as if she invented happiness. If this room were a person it would probably run away.
    Mrs Kilgour is slumped in the armchair in front of the television, with her head on her chest and wearing only one slipper, looking like an abandoned doll. She is sound asleep.
    “She’s a very interesting woman,” says Mr Papazoglakis. “But, like many of our residents, she does have a tendency to live in the past.”
    Georgiana glances at the room. And who could blame her for that?
    “Mrs Kilgour.” Mr Papazoglakis taps her arm. “Mrs Kilgour. You have a visitor. You remember the young lady from the high school was coming today?”
    Mrs Kilgour mumbles something unintelligible, but doesn’t open her eyes.
    “Mrs Kilgour. Have you forgotten you were having a visitor today? This is Georgia.”
    “Georgiana,” whispers Georgiana.
    Mrs Kilgour mumbles again, her eyelids closed.
    Mr Papazoglakis’s phone hums softly. “Now what?” He pulls it from his pocket. “I’m afraid I have to go,” he says. “I’m needed elsewhere. She does have a touch of narcolepsy.” Which sounds like she takes drugs to Georgiana, but apparently means suddenly falling asleep. “Don’t you worry, though, these spells never last very long. She’ll wake in a few minutes. She does know you’re here.” He extends a hand for shaking. It’s as warm as a can of soda out of the fridge. “Good luck.”
    Georgiana stands staring at the old woman in the chair for several minutes. If walnuts wore fuzzy pink bathrobes and had hair dyed a red normally associated with circus clowns, Mrs Kilgour would be easy to mistake for one. Georgiana is repelled by Mrs Kilgour. By her lined and sagging face. By her mottled, bony hands, the skin like crumpled tissue paper. She sniffs. Even the air in Mrs Kilgour’s room smells like it’s rotting. If anyone is going to suddenly drop dead, that anyone is sitting right in front of Georgiana with her mouth slightly open and her glasses askew.
    She holds her breath, waiting for Mrs Kilgour to wake up as Mr Papazoglakis said she would, but she doesn’t. Exactly what is Georgiana supposed to do? Throw cold water on her? Or just stand here, like a peacock stuck on a desolate marsh? She knew this wasn’t going to work out. Didn’t she say that? Didn’t she say it was a bad idea? Everybody said she was wrong. Too negative. Too pessimistic. But she wasn’t. She was right. She’d much rather be fishing paper cups and food containers