Waiting for the Past to Call
written by: Jim Bartlett
Even with his longer legs and determined pace, Isaiah remains two steps behind Judy, his coach/advisor/supervisor, as she rounds what seems to be the umpteenth corner in the complex labyrinth of corridors that make up the sixth floor of the Mountain City Memory Care Clinic. In all fairness, he really hasn’t been trying that hard. Or, at least that’s what he keeps telling himself.
After all, that song, that children’s song, has been stuck in his head since they visited Mr. Simmons’ room just a little over an hour ago. Yet, even with all the time that has passed, he can still hear Mr. Simmons singing it over and over and over again.
“One fell off and bumped his head…”
Simmons had been their fifth stop of the morning, this bright sunny Monday, the first day of the third week of his new career. The first two weeks he’d spent down on the third floor, an unruly, almost anarchistic group who would sometimes slip off into the “lounge” for a game of poker or blackjack, adding a nip or two of something into their “coffee” for a little more kick. Now and again they’d even duck out onto the emergency exit balcony for a smoke.
Or toke.
And while the team faithfully made their rounds and kept their residents content, they seemed to have lesser regard for the “rules.” With that, when they learned Isaiah would be next headed to the sixth, where he might well be permanently assigned, they, quite familiar with Judy, passed along the most oft used of the many monikers with which they’d christened her.
“Drill Sergeant.”
Most of the rest were much less flattering.
“You’ll find the Drill Sergeant to be a stiff, not to mention she’s pretty demanding. And, man, oh, man, she’s REAL meticulous when it comes to adhering to the policies and procedures,” they had said, fighting back a chuckle. “By the end of the first day with her, if not sooner, you’ll definitely know you’re not in Kansas anymore!”
When he arrived this morning, having told himself he would not be swayed by their sarcastic idiom, he’d come fresh and resolute, promising himself to keep an open mind. The more he’d thought about it over the weekend the more it seemed that, if anything, the flying monkeys had made their home back on the third floor.
But the strength of his determination was quickly put to the test, as when he first stepped off the elevator, she stood in wait, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. And despite her petite size, she greeted him with an imposing stature that seem to fill the lobby, nearly crushing his resolve. Even now, as he tags along behind her, peeking up here and there from his world of thought, he finds himself bemused – or maybe more so amused – that despite her cadence – much more a march than a stride – not a hair dare peek out from her tightly wrapped bun. Not a single wrinkle gives thought to even a cameo appearance on her starched skirt or neatly tucked blouse.
He gives his head a shake. Through most of the morning, aside from learning from Judy and meeting the residents, he’d wasted a good part of his time lamenting: Had all those years he’d spent preparing for a career in helping the forgotten been worth it? After all, having worked his first two weeks with a group a bit too “loosey-goosey” for his taste – okay, a lot too “loosey-goosey” – and now a morning with this hard shell of a woman – yes, much more professional, but with a little too sharp of an edge – he’d found himself wandering into a dark pool of doubt.
He was nearly knee deep in that doubt when they’d approached Mr. Simmons’ room. It was, however, a muted rhythmic thumping accompanied by a muffled (but still loud) crooning coming from inside that kidnapped him from his valley of uncertainty, returning him, quite unwillingly, to the present moment. He turned to Judy and tipped his head in a silent, “What the…?” But she seemed quite unfazed, taking it as if it were just another day at Room 623.
As was her routine, she gave her courtesy knock, then opened the door, sliding in undaunted at what she obviously knew was to come. But Isaiah was taken aback. For there, hopping on his bed, was the eighty-something-year-old Mr. Simmons singing (at the top of his lungs) the children’s bedtime song, “Five Little Monkeys.”
He was down to monkey three as they stepped up next to his bed.
Judy, her head bobbing with every one of Simmons’ hops, handed Isaiah her tablet. “Why don’t you do the bathroom checkoff? I’ll take care of our preschooler here.”
With a bewildered nod, he was off. By the time he’d gone through the list – all good – Judy had a winded Mr. Simmons sitting in his recliner chair taking his pulse and making sure he took his 10:00 a.m. meds.
And then they were off, back to business “as usual.”
Except that planted song’s seed was now worming its way through his head.
“This is Mrs. Langley’s room.”
Judy’s voice pulls Isaiah from his reverie, bringing him to a stop just to the side of what appears to be the last door in this section of the hall.
“She’s eighty-five, not quite the oldest of our residents, but she’s definitely been here the longest. Her disease is progressing, but much more slowly than had been anticipated, so we try and do our best for her.”
Though it’s the same sort of preamble she’s been giving just before entering each of the previous resident’s rooms, Isaiah senses something different in Judy’s tone of voice this time around. Nothing striking, just a subtleness that catches his ear.
“Of course.”
Once again, she gives the courtesy knock, then steps through the doorway, Isaiah following close behind. The room, one of the few with several windows, is alive with sunshine, its warming rays bouncing off the cheery yellow walls. A bright-eyed woman, slightly plump, but “pleasantly so,” as his grandmamma used to say, with a cascade of gray hair flowing down the front of her flowery full-length dress, sits in a rocking chair adjacent to the largest of the windows taking full advantage of both the sun and the chair’s to and fro. Next to the chair, a turquoise-colored phone, one of those old-fashioned types with the curly-corded handset positioned in its cradle, sits dead center on a little end table, with her hand, as if ever in the wait, resting atop. She beams with a smile every bit as welcoming as the sunshine the moment they enter.
“Hello, Mrs. Langley.” Judy gestures toward Isaiah. “This is Isaiah Mosley. He’s going to be helping me and helping you.”
The smile, though not seemingly possible, grows across her face, and her eyes glow even brighter.
“Oh, my, you’re an African American.” There’s glee in her voice rather than any malice, and she almost releases her tight grip on the phone – almost, but not quite – as if wanting to reach over and touch him. Make sure he’s real.
As Isaiah’s face warms – he’s sure at that moment he’s turned much more red than black – Mrs. Langley shifts her gaze toward Judy.
“My daughter’s drummer is African American.” Then, before Judy can reply, she quickly spins back toward Isaiah. “Today’s my birthday. My daughter is going to call me.” Her face lights up as if that wondrous sunshine has somehow been trapped deep inside her. “She always calls me on my birthday.”
“Well, happy birthday, Mrs. Langley,” says Isaiah.
Reaching out with her free hand, she grabs Isaiah’s wrist. “Thelma. You can call me Thelma. What’s your name?”
“Happy Birthday, Thelma. My name’s Isaiah. Isaiah Mosley.”
“Did you know it’s my birthday? My daughter is going to call me today. She always calls me on my birthday.” Her eyes twinkle. “She’s famous, you know.”
Judy, pointing at the iPad still in Isaiah’s hand, gestures toward the bathroom. “Why don’t you take care of her checkoff, and I’ll make sure she gets her meds.”
Isaiah nods and slips into the bathroom. It’s a larger one with a non-slip floor and a good-sized walk-in tub. Though the window is high above the tub and features softly frosted glass, the sun makes its impression in here as well, and the walls practically dance in its warm rays.
It’s a quick check – everything’s neat and in order – and he steps back out to see Judy testing Mrs. Langley’s blood pressure. Mrs. Langley’s eyes go wide, and she reaches up to Judy, forgetting about the band wrapped around her arm.
“Now, now, Mrs. Langley. Let me just finish this really quick.”
“But look,” she says, a new smile breaking across her face, “there’s an African American man right there.” She leans forward, catching Isaiah’s gaze. “You know, a really nice African American man plays the drums for my daughter. He always makes me laugh.”
Judy taps her lightly on the shoulder. “This is Isaiah. Remember? He’s here to help.” Judy looks across to Isaiah, giving her shoulders a slight shrug.
“Oh.” She goes back and forth between Judy and Isaiah a couple of times, then locks back in with his eyes. “Did you know it’s my birthday? My daughter’s going to call. She always calls me on my birthday.”
“Happy birthday, Mrs. Langley,” says Isaiah.
“Okay, we’re going to be going now, Mrs. Langley. We’ll be back before dinnertime.” Judy gestures toward the door and Isaiah, taking the hint, heads that way. “Happy birthday,” Judy says, following him out into the hall.
As she shuts the door and turns toward the main corridor, Isaiah stops and smiles.
“That’s pretty cool it’s her birthday today. And that her daughter will be calling. So many of these folks are forgotten by their families. Does the kitchen make up a little cake, or at least a cupcake? Might be fun to watch her blow out the candle!”
Judy stops, spinning back his way. For the first time in their morning dealings, Isaiah sees the tiniest crack in her rigid façade. There’s an emptiness in her face, and her shoulders, always stiff and straight, ease ever so slightly, giving in to a bit of a sag.
“It would be ‘cool’ if only it were so. Unfortunately, this is her third birthday in the last five days,” she says, her words retaining the stiffness that her body seems to have released. But then she looks away for a moment, taking in a long, deep breath. When she continues, even her voice has lost its edge. “Her daughter died of a heroin overdose well over 30 years ago. It was 1987, I believe. You may have heard of her. Her name was Christine Langley, though she went by her stage name, ‘Prissy Chrissy.’ She was the lead singer for the band Corrugated Metal.” She lets her gaze drift up the hall, yet her eyes are much more distant. “She’s a member of the 27 Club.”
“Prissy Chrissy, eh? Hmmm…” Isaiah shakes his head. Something about the name tickles a thought, but he can’t quite chase it down. “Wait, what’s this 27 Club?”
“It was a name given to a group of celebrities, mainly rock stars, that died at the age of 27. Quite a list of them.” She puts a hand to her chin. ”Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain, Amy Winehouse, Brian Jones, just to name a few off the top of my head. A good number of them, including Christine, died of overdoses.”
“Oh, man. So, she was only 27?” The reality hits Isaiah hard. He just turned 27.
“Sad, but true.” She turns and begins her standard gait down the hall. “They never really figured out if she got carried away celebrating, got some bad stuff, or just wasn’t ready for all that was about to happen. Most of the band thought the latter.”
“What was about to happen?”
Her “march” eases a bit, almost becoming a regular walk. “Oh, yeah. That’s the real heartbreaking part of it. The band had just signed a huge record deal. The sky was the limit, so they say.”
“Tom Petty.”
His reply gives her cause to stop, and she turns to face him. “Yes. Into the Great Wide Open. I’m impressed, you really know your chops. I wouldn’t have expected you to have heard of Petty.”
“Actually, I owe it to my Gramps. He must have played in a hundred different bands before I was born. He did pubs and bars and clubs and county fairs, weddings and reunions… just about any gig he could get. My mom went to see him a few times at one of the clubs he played now and again, and she said he was really good. I guess when he wasn’t doing gigs, he would drive his beat-up old van to LA and do session work at a couple of different studios. What’s really sad is that, as good as he was, and as hard as he worked, he never made the ‘big time.’” Isaiah rubs his chin and gives his head a shake. “I never got to hear him play, he was in some kind of accident – I think he was taking side jobs to keep afloat – and ended up messing up his arm and one of his legs. Mom said he really gave it a go, trying to get back his moves, but neither his arm nor leg ever found their rhythm again.”
Isaiah looks away, off in thought. “I guess little by little his spirit broke, along with his finances, and Mom had him move him in with us right after I was born. She was a single working mom, and most certainly couldn’t afford childcare, and he was broke, couldn’t afford life, much less rent. It worked out for everyone. Especially me, though I don’t think I realized it at the time. Rather than Jack and the Beanstalk or The Three Little Pigs, he’d put me to bed with ‘rock and roll’ stories from his never-ending days out on the road. He’d fill my head with romantic and adventurous tales of faraway places. How he loved being on the stage. The lights, the crowds – though, more often than not they were sparse. But mostly it was about the music and the people who played it. I must have heard him say at least a thousand times that music – all music – was the essence of our soul.” He smiles, giving his head another shake. “But, oh, man, how he loved the rhythm and blues. By the time I was ten I knew more about Tom Petty and Bob Dylan and B. B. King and The Beatles than math or science.” His smile grows wider. “That got my mom fired up, and she started right then and there drilling into my head how important college was. She’d point her finger at me and say over and over: ‘Music fills the heart and soul, but lordy, it leaves the wallet empty.’ And mine sure would have been. I couldn’t carry a tune even if you could pour it into a bucket.”
They laugh together, then Isaiah goes quiet. He wants to say more, but can’t really find the words.
“What’s your grandfather doing now?”
Isaiah sighs. “He got Alzheimer’s. Passed about ten years ago.”
“Which brought you here. Hoping to help others struggling like you did.”
Isaiah nods, or thinks he does. “Yeah, I was with him a lot during those last days and watched him go through it all. When I got to college, I couldn’t help but think of how my mom kept saying she saw something in me during those troubling times, and she was sure I was meant to help folks.”
“Well, I bet she’s proud of you now.”
“I’m sure she would have been. She passed, too, a couple years back.”
“Oh, no. What happened?”
“They say her heart gave out. I say she worked herself to death. She was working three jobs, and I was working a couple myself just to get through college.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks.”
As they turn to continue down the hall, Isaiah stops yet again.
“Wait… wait.” He gives his head a shake and looks down, lost in thought. “What did you say Mrs. Langley’s daughter’s band was called?”
“Corrugated Metal. I think they were a sort of heavy metal punk group.”
“Oh my gosh. Oh. My. Gosh.” He gives his forehead a slap. “Corrugated Metal! The ‘African American’ drummer. That was him! That was my Gramps! He played for them! Mom used to talk about his many ‘almosts,’ and how that was the closest he ever came to making it over the hump. Prissy Chrissy. Of course. I knew that name sounded familiar. Wow. I can’t believe it!”
“Well, that is more than just a coincidence. You two have a connection.”
Isaiah nods. “Indeed.” But then his enthusiasm ebbs, and his shoulders slump ever so slightly. “Man, I can’t even tell her, can I…”
Judy eases out a breath. “No… you most certainly can’t.”
After a moment of silent mulling, they once again set off down the hall, Judy’s pace now more of a slow stroll. As they reach the main corridor, she stops and turns toward Isaiah.
“It’s close enough to noon. Why don’t you head over to the lunchroom, and we’ll meet again in an hour.” She points to a set of double doors on the other side. “I’m not sure if you brought your lunch, or need to grab something, but there are some vending machines in there as well.”
“Okay.”
But as she turns to head up the hall, he catches her name tag. It’s the first time he’s really looked at it, and for that moment, the world spins.
Judy Garland – 6th floor.
Garland. Holy moly, as Gramps would say.
“Judy Garland?” he says in a shocked voice.
She stops, gives her head a shake. “Yeah, my parents loved The Wizard of Oz.”
“I couldn’t understand the ‘yellow brick road’ jokes, much less, ‘Make sure she doesn’t drop a house on you!’ But now it all makes sense. You’re Dorothy.” He smirks, holding back a laugh, then risks going further with the thought. “Well, I know I’m not the lion, so… am I the scarecrow, or the tin man?”
“Toto,” she says with a genuine smile.
Letting that drift in the air, she turns and, resuming her “normal” cadence, marches up the hall, disappearing around the corner. It’s then he realizes he still has her iPad, and more so, he’s not quite sure where to meet her after lunch.
Trying not to run, but without doing so it’s hard to even hope to catch up at her pace, he races to the corner. As he turns the bend, he sees a door about halfway down the side corridor just closing, and he slows to a walk until he’s there.
The door is still a bit ajar, and he pulls it open to peer inside. Judy stands on the far side of the room – some sort of office – to the front of a desk. She’s turned away from him, facing the window, and holds the phone to her ear.
“Hello, Mom. Racing around here in Atlanta, getting ready for the concert to start, but I knew it was your birthday and I just had to call and wish you the best.” She twists the cord around a finger as she listens to the reply, then nods her head as she continues. “I know, another birthday. I hear the more birthdays you have the longer you live, so that’s a good thing, right? Oops, they’re calling me to the stage, Mom, so I’d better go. Have a happy birthday, and we’ll see you soon, okay!”
There’s another pause, and Isaiah watches as she wipes her eyes.
“Yes, Mom, I love you, too.”
She hangs up the phone, then hangs her head for a moment. But, as if “feeling” that someone else is in the room, she slowly turns, meeting Isaiah’s gaze.
“How long have you been there?”
“Long enough.” He holds up the iPad. “I forgot to give this back. And now I’m so glad I did. You call Mrs. Langley and wish her happy birthday, pretending to be her daughter, don’t you?”
“Yes. She’s just so lost, both in her mind and in her heart. It seemed such a simple thing, and I think it makes her feel better. Better than any of the meds we can give her.”
A smile breaks out across Isaiah’s face – probably as big and bright as the one he imagines to be on Mrs. Langley’s face when Judy calls. He spreads his legs just a tiny bit, then raises up on his tiptoes and clicks his heels together three times.
“There’s no place like home…”
Judy, a confused look washing across her face, cocks her head. “What was that?”
“I know they’re not ruby red slippers, but I’m pretty sure I just found my way home. This is where I want to be.”
Judy smiles. “Welcome home, Toto.”
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