“Afternoon, Ms. Lang. Looks like you’re enjoying your afternoon snack. Can I get you anything else while I’m here, ma’am?”
Turning to look at the dining room attendant, Wynter responded with controlled exasperation, trying to remember that more flies are caught with honey. “It’s good,” she said. “Thank you, Leo. I love the mango with the cheese. And, yes, a glass of Chardonnay would be nice.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Lang, but it’s only 3:15, and you know that I can’t serve you alcohol in the bistro or pub before 5:30.” Her exasperation now turned to something bordering on contempt, and her first reaction was, “Then why ask me if I wanted anything else?” Picking up a slice of cheese and cocking her head to one side, she responded, “Yes, yes, but exactly why is that, Leo? There are no children here. I’m not setting an example for anyone. How old do I have to be to have a glass of Chardonnay with my snack?”
“Ms. Lang, it’s just the rule. I don’t make ’em, ma’am. I suspect it’s because if others see you having a drink, they may want one as well, and not everyone is as fortunate as you. Some of the residents cannot have any alcohol because of either medical or medication reasons. So, we open the bistro at 5:30 PM.” Smiling and staring at the man, what Wynter wanted to ask was, So, at 5:30, those who cannot drink for whatever reason still cannot drink, is that right, Leo? Recognizing her smile as a danger zone and not wanting to engage further, Leo tried to compromise.
“I’ll be happy to bring your snack to your lovely apartment, where you can drink whatever you wish in privacy.”
“I prefer to have it in this lovely bistro area for which I pay thousands of dollars a month to enjoy.”
“How about I bring you a nice glass of iced tea, Ms. Lang?”
“Fine. Hold the ice and preferably serve it in a wine glass.” Moments later, Leo returned with a wine glass of cold, sweet tea, and as he placed it in front of her, he winked and said, “You’re an evil woman, Ms. Lang.” Chuckling, Wynter thanked the man. Pulling out her cell phone, she logged on to the internet. As she began playing a solo game of Bridge, she smirked tauntingly as other residents passed by, whispering among themselves, believing she was having an adult beverage.
Two women staffers entered, and Wynter paused her game, wondering why they were in the residents’ dining area rather than on the business side of the facility. One of the women excitedly opened a shoebox to show off a new pair of shoes. “Are these gorgeous or what!” she boasted.
Deliberately clearing her throat to make the women aware of her presence, Wynter watched them turn, and upon seeing her—even sipping from a glass that had to appear to be a cocktail—they ignored her and returned their attention to the shoes.
“Oh, my goodness!” one of the women exclaimed. “They are beautiful and must have cost you a small fortune!”
“Well, perhaps not a fortune, but I can pretty much guarantee that my husband won’t be buying another guitar anytime soon! And if he does, there are two similar styles of this shoe just waiting with my name on them!” As the women laughed, an emergency light from one of the residents’ rooms broke off their conversation, and they hurried out to investigate. In their haste, they left the shoes on the dining room table. Walking over, Wynter picked up one of the shoes and admired its style and quality. Rubbing her hand along the fine red leather sole, she recalled a time when she would have bought such a shoe in every color. Looking around and seeing that she was alone, she sat down, slipping her foot into the shoe, which was at least two sizes too large. Admiring her wrinkled foot in the four-inch stiletto heel, she tried on the other shoe. This might do it, she thought. As she prepared to stand, she heard someone shouting.
“Wynter! What do you think you’re doing?” Angrily removing the shoes from Wynter’s feet, the shoe’s owner simultaneously railed at her, delivered a stern admonition about respecting other people’s things, and left Wynter once again alone.
Later in the evening, as Dr. Elaine Perkins, the facility’s administrator, completed her rounds, she stopped to make a special visit with Wynter. Even before the woman spoke, Wynter, anticipating what was sure to come, offered her opinion.
“She should not have left those shoes where I could get them.” Looking at Wynter as one might an errant child, Dr. Perkins just shook her head.
“Oh, Wynter, what are we to do with you? You know, you got Nurse Jenny in trouble. Was that your intention?”
“No,” Wynter replied, shaking her head.
“I didn’t think so, but you’re right, she should not have left the shoes in the dining room. You know, Wynter, you are one of my favorite residents.” Saying nothing but lifting a raised eyebrow, Wynter looked at the administrator with skepticism.
“You have been blessed with a special gift, Wynter, because not everyone at almost one hundred years of age comprehends in the same manner as you. I cannot sit and talk with all of the residents here as I do with you and be confident that they understand what I’m saying. Over the last month or so, you have displayed inappropriate behavior. Recently, while at the park, you tried to jump off the fountain steps, and you exposed yourself twice to the Trinity Pines gardener! What was that all about, Wynter? I have a duty to protect you, the other residents here at Trinity, and the staff. How do you think Nurse Jenny would have felt if you had hurt yourself while wearing her shoes? Is there something you would like to say about that, Wynter?”
As Wynter listened, she was once again irritated by the Trinity Pines staff’s tone, even if this time it came from the administrator. She was not a child, and given what it cost to live there, she would not be spoken to as if she were one.
“Yes, I have something to say. I don’t know how Nurse Jenny would have felt, but you would have felt differently, because had I fallen from those—those—those stilts, you would not be speaking to me, but to my lawyer!” No sooner than the words were out of her mouth, her thoughts were momentarily redirected to her lawyer.
Dr. Perkins stiffened, pausing to choose her next words carefully. “Well, this is your last warning, Ms. Lang. Any more of this type of behavior, and I will remove you from anything other than group activities. You will be under constant monitoring and will not be able to come and go on the premises unless assisted by staff. I also intend to speak to Mr. Glover. You leave me no choice.”
Wynter Lang had resided at the Trinity Pines Assisted Living Facility, north of Chicago, for nearly ten years. Her long life, undoubtedly, no different from anyone else’s, had been filled with difficulties, blessings, heartbreak, and days, good and bad. Once a successful fashion model, she had, over the years, with the help of some shrewd business associates, invested well. To ensure further financial stability, her attorneys had created a revocable trust. Now, after many years of arduous work in various industries, she had amassed enough money to live more than comfortably. However, she had not expected to live this long. At ninety-nine—nearing one hundred, as Dr. Perkins had so aptly pointed out, she had outlived two husbands, two children, and most of her friends and family.
Dr. Perkins’ threat of talking to her trust’s trustee had gotten her full attention. While she had many years of association with the law firm of Lawrence, Chatham, and Glover, most of her contacts were now gone, and she was not familiar with its new young superstar, Malachi Glover. It troubled her to have someone she knew so little about hold such control over her life. It also disturbed her that, after more than a year, he had not bothered to visit her. After all, it wasn’t as if she could hop on the CTA and see him. She had to admit he paid all her bills like clockwork, and in most cases, she got whatever she requested. Still, considering that she didn’t talk to him, she most definitely didn’t want anyone else talking to him about her business affairs. At the same time, she recognized the greater issue: in a world where everything seemed foreign and out of place, she could no longer find a reason to exist, and she now spent an exorbitant amount of time trying to find a way to end her life without actually doing it by her own hand.
With an overwhelmingly strong belief in God, she hated transactional religion—those she referred to as Bible-thumpers, who, after a night of partying, drinking, and whoring around, got up and went to church on Sunday, sat in their preferred seats, dressed to the nines, and declared to all who would listen how much they loved Jesus. While her belief in God acknowledged that straight-up suicide was wrong because it violated the sacred trust of stewardship of one’s own body, as if that were not enough, she viewed it as incredibly selfish and cowardly. Still, it took some effort to convince herself that God was not so busy tending to a corrupt world that He had forgotten about her, and that He would surely not only understand what she was doing but might also appreciate her ever-so-gentle placement of one finger on the scale of her lifeline.
Walking into the small kitchen of her apartment within the facility, Wynter opened the refrigerator, taking out the open bottle of wine. How ridiculous, she thought. One little glass of Chardonnay was all she had requested. She knew her manner confused the Trinity Pines staff; she confused herself for the same reasons. She had undergone a series of tests, and while she showed signs of some age-related dementia, she appeared to have enhanced cognitive functions, which included better working memory and increased intelligence. She had been referred to by at least one doctor as a cognitive super-ager. Along with these enhanced capabilities, she was by nature prone to excessive talking. Sitting for hours reading the Chicago Sun-Times and The New York Times, she was heavily opinionated, mostly about the world’s plight. Her wordiness made many people ignore her, and the more she was ignored, the more she acted out, which now included subtle ways to assist in her death.
Sitting alone to reflect after Dr. Perkins’ visit, Wynter sipped the wine as she reclined in her chair, raised her legs, and wrapped herself in a blanket, thinking over the warning, no, on second thought, the threat she had received. She liked Dr. Perkins and was sorry for the trouble she had caused, not just today but over the last few weeks. She recalled every action in vivid detail and wondered what Dr. Perkins’ reaction would have been if she had understood what was really going on.
While on a Trinity Pines group outing at the park, Wynter had sat watching as several teenage boys on skateboards jumped off the fountain steps. Perhaps, she had thought at the time, that might work. Not having a skateboard, of course, her idea to join in was to go old-school and jump off the stairs. Walking toward the steps, she had interrupted the boys’ competition as they stood watching her walk to the top of the stairs. Shifting her weight to the balls of her feet, with her arms swung back and her torso leaning forward, she bent her knees and prepared to jump.
“Hey, Lady! Are you crazy or something? What are you trying to do!”
Startled by the commotion, within minutes, before she could leap, she was apprehended by the Trinity Pines security staff, who escorted her to the Trinity Pines bus, where she was told to remain. She had come close to her goal, even without jumping, because the skateboard twerps’ yelling had almost scared her to death. Then, there was the issue with the gardener. For some time, she had been watching the Trinity Pines worker. He was an ugly, vile, elder-abusing creep whom she had seen on numerous occasions making eyes and other inappropriate gestures toward some of the residents. She had lifted her skirt to him twice, the last time purposely wearing no underwear. He had angered her so much, always gawking at the women, that she wanted to scream, “You want to look at something? Well, look at this, you creepy bastard!” Even now, thinking about it, she couldn’t understand how she didn’t have a stroke. What Wynter didn’t know was that the man became so repulsed by her actions that he had the nerve to threaten to quit. There was no need, however, because he had already been reported by the groundskeeper, who was aware of his ogling of the women residents. As it turned out, he was fired sooner rather than later. As for today’s antics regarding the shoes, just looking at the height of those heels, she was certain that, had she been able to take just a couple of steps before being caught, she would surely have fallen and broken her neck, and that would have done it.
Some weeks earlier, after her annual medical examination, Wynter’s doctors decided to perform a routine colonoscopy. Given her age, the decision had not been made lightly. Because her mother had died of colon cancer, the measure was considered, overall, the best. The day after her conversation with Dr. Perkins, she was scheduled for the routine procedure. Routine for some, that is. Only moments into the procedure, Wynter Lang flatlined. Then, as though summoned from the deepest chamber of her own biblical references, she felt herself lifted from the surgical table into an unapproachable light. Trumpets sounded. Voices rose like angels in the skies. Whether from Heaven or from the last trembling edge of consciousness, Wynter came unafraid into what she understood to be the presence of God.
Wynter, my child.
“Lord?” she said, the word breaking from her like breath. “Father—is it truly you? I have waited so long. I thought perhaps you had forgotten me.” The radiance held, but the singing fell away, and the trumpets became still. In the silence, Wynter felt her own heartbeat rise in her throat. “Have I come home?”
Wynter, I did not call for you. You came on your own.
“Only because I believe you have left me behind. I am so old, Lord. So tired.”
How could I forget you? I have been with you in every sorrow, every burial, every lonely morning, every step. I know the desires of your heart. I know, too, the small bargains you have tried to make with your life. These recent acts are beneath you, Wynter, and certainly beneath Heaven. Your hour will come, but not by your own doing. When I call, you will know it. The trumpeter will not mistake your name.
“Please, Lord, do not send me back. Everyone I loved is gone—my mother, my children—all gone. I am alone there. The world I knew has passed away, and what remains feels strange to me. If there is anything left for me to do, teach me. Only do not leave me in that place.”
You have not been left without witness. Do the trees no longer give shade to you? Do the birds no longer rise and sing? Have I not kept watch over what is small, and over you as well? You must go back, Wynter. Be still. Wait for my call and not your own. There is more for you to learn, even now. Learn to listen. You are always speaking. Learn to listen and watch. For a time, you will see and hear, but you will not speak.
Then came muffled voices—low, urgent, and strangely distant—as though they were reaching out for her through water or sleep. The light thinned. The silence broke. Confusion rushed in where certainty had been.
“Dr., she’s coming around!”
“Okay! Let’s administer 1 mg of epinephrine, and let’s pump that heart!” Awakened by the beeping, Wynter opened her eyes, unsure of where she was. Within moments, it became clear she was in the hospital. Following the beeping, she saw the monitor recording her heartbeat. Her mouth was dry, and she could feel the tube in her nose. The weight on her chest was heavy, but as she fought to recall what had taken place, nothing compared to the heaviness in her heart.
“Well, look who’s awake! Welcome back, My Lady. My name is Richard, and I’ve been takin’ care of you for the last three days. Some people are goin’ to be happy to see you! Dr. Thompson is one of them, and he’ll be in to see you soon.” As more hospital staff entered her room, Wynter watched quietly. Had she been dreaming? It was all so real, but now she was unsure. No, she corrected herself; it had happened, and she had felt the breath of God as He spoke to her.
Upon Dr. Thompson’s arrival, he began speaking to her most gently, and she felt an immediate kindred spirit with him. “Good morning, Wynter.” As she looked at the young—at least young by her standards—doctor, she lay wondering what additional bad news might be in store about her little episode. “You gave us quite the scare. We thought we’d lost you!” Wynter closed her eyes at the mere mention of what might have been. “Wynter—can you hear me?” He leaned closer. “Just nod if you can.” Wynter lay still, her eyes following every word the doctor was saying to her. Holding her hand, he continued, speaking softly, “If you can hear me, will you squeeze my finger?” She complied. “Ah, that’s great, you’re doing a remarkable job! We’re going to start removing some of these tubes and contraptions to make you more comfortable, but we need to make sure you can breathe on your own first. Then we’ll give you some water and, a little later, some broth. You’ve been asleep for three days. Do you know what today is?” Wynter remained silent. “Okay, no worries. We’re going to let you rest for now, and I’ll come back to see you later.” Saying nothing, Wynter watched the doctor’s reactions.
Turning her eyes toward the wide window in the ICU hospital room, she just watched, and as the tall pines gently swayed in the breeze, she thought of herself as invisible to the people who scurried about. Aware of her constant stare at the window, Richard asked, “Would you like to move closer to that window, My Lady?” As if expecting no response, he kept talking while gently pushing her bed over and adjusting her monitor. “Now,” he said, “that’s better, huh? Look at the lovely plant you received. It’s a lily. Isn’t it just beautiful? It came with this card. Would you like me to read it to you?” Again, not waiting for her to respond, Richard picked up the card and read. “Dear Wynter, we hope you are feeling better. Please know that everyone here at Trinity Pines wishes you a speedy recovery.” Now, isn’t that nice? And look, My Lady, at all the signatures. You must be special to have so many people wishin’ you well.” Straightening her bedcovers, he continued, “I bet you don’t know what tomorrow is.” Once again, the man, answering his own question, spoke as Wynter just stared. “Tomorrow is Resurrection Day, Easter Sunday! It’s significant that you would wake up from your three-day coma today, My Lady.” Raising the backrest of her bed, she could now look out the window, and as he moved a straw to her lips, she took a few sips of the water. Oblivious to the pain of the water in her dry throat, all she could concentrate on was how the trees swayed through a misty fog.
Continuing to stare at the trees, she was suddenly fixed on one branch, where a red image stood out from the foliage. Focusing, Wynter could now see the open cup of grass and twigs, a clear indication that the bird was building a nest, and she immediately recalled God asking her whether there were no longer any trees or birds. Once again, she wondered if she had been dreaming. While her thoughts of late had been only of death, she was now moved emotionally by the trees’ awakening, which, along with the birds, was evidence of spring’s promise and renewed life.
Thinking of Richard saying that tomorrow was Easter was bittersweet, as two days later, on April 7th, she would turn one hundred years old. Whatever else, she was now sure of the fact that she had been in God’s presence, and the bird was providing evidence of their conversation. But she could feel no joy, as God Himself had also denied her entry to Heaven, and for a moment, the only thing that had made death unappealing to her was the fact that, if she died by any manner involving her own assistance, there was no place, short of hell, for her to go.
As the initial group left her room, she turned to look at the trees again and, feeling groggy, drifted back to sleep.