Page 44 of Wish You Were Here
‘Cancer?’
‘Cunt.’
‘Oh, right. Is that what she said to Gordon Canning?’
‘She said she never used the C word, and claimed Gordon Canning has dementia.’
‘Does he?’
‘Probably,’ says Rhonda, sitting down behind her desk. ‘But some of the things he told me she said, I wouldn’t repeat to my worst enemy. Anyway, Sassie, how can I help?’
I tell Rhonda all about Lou Sanders, and how he’s always spoken about his son, but as far as I know, he’s never been to visit. In fact, no-one has ever been to visit Lou, and I’m worried about him. He seems to be going downhill fast, and I’d like to find his son and ask if he could visit before it’s too late. Rhonda listens to me then she turns to her computer, and starts tapping away on the keyboard. I wait silently, taking sips of my coffee, hoping she has a contact number for Lou’s son.
‘It says here,’ says Rhonda eventually. ‘That Lou Sanders has no next of kin.’
‘What? That can’t be right. Lou said his son pays for him to be here. He does well, makes lots of money and lives in Melbourne.’
‘Sorry, Sassie. The computer never lies. No next of kin. Not even an emergency contact.’
‘But what about his son?’
‘No idea. Sometimes old people get confused or make things up. Who knows. Maybe he doesn’t even have a son.’
‘But he talks about him all the time.’
‘Like I said,’ says Rhonda, standing up. ‘Who knows, eh. Right, I have a mediation meeting to attend. Two groups have both booked out the activity room at the same time and neither of them are backing down. It’s Tai Chi versus life drawing. Absolute fucking chaos if I’m being honest, Sassie.’
‘I meant to ask about that. Do they have actual nude models in life drawing?’
Rhonda laughs. ‘No way, it would cause a riot and they’re far too expensive. Although, Maureen Kelly, you know, Big Mo from 7B, offered to do it for free. She said she used to be a nude model back in the day, and had no worries about getting her kit off, but we couldn’t let her do it for legal reasons.’
‘Oh, right,’ I say, although my mind is already thinking about what I’m going to say to Lou when I see him today, and not what Big Mo from 7B looks like naked.
Is it possible that Lou doesn't even have a son? I’m starting to think that maybe the Lou Sanders I think I know, isn’t real. Maybe his cognitive decline is worse than we think, and he imagined everything, or perhaps there is just an issue with the computer and everything Lou says is true. I know Rhonda said the computer never lies, but it also only knows what she has entered, and do I trust her administration skills when her officeis one small mistake away from going up in flames? I know the only way to get to the bottom of it is to ask Lou straight. The thing with Lou is that he can be quite aggro, and I have seen him spit the dummy out before about things far less important than this. I once saw him threaten to fight someone over a chicken parma.
I knock on the door, walk into Lou’s room and he’s still in bed. I checked with the nurse who did the morning rounds and she said Lou isn’t doing great. He has general age-related physical and cognitive decline, and the fact he hasn’t led a particularly healthy life doesn’t help. He smoked heavily until recently, drank too much, ate too much red meat, has high blood pressure, high cholesterol, signs of kidney disease and most importantly, he seems to have given up on life. He also refuses to take medicine because he says, ‘it’s just going to prolong the fucking inevitable, eh’. He’s being monitored as someone who might need to be moved into the care facility, which I know is the last thing Lou would want. Once in there and the doors close, that’s it. They attach you to a machine and pump you full of medicine to keep you comfortable until eventually you pass away. The residents call it ‘God’s waiting room’.
‘Morning, Lou,’ I say brightly, hoping for something of a reaction. When Lou first moved in, he was talkative, full of life and had an opinion about everything. ‘How you going?’
‘Shit,’ says Lou, still in his pyjamas, and according to reports, he didn’t make it down for brekky again. They brought him a couple of slices of toast to eat in bed, but I see it’s still there and untouched. Cold, slightly burnt and covered with a thick layer of butter. There’s also a cold cup of tea next to it, also untouched.
‘Sorry,’ I say, pulling a chair across and sitting down. ‘You know it’s almost December.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yeah, Lou. Chrissy is just around the corner.’
‘You still not shagging?’
‘That’s not … I wasn’t going to talk about that. I wanted to discuss—’
‘Because you know the best present for a dying man.’
‘You’re not dying, Lou.’
‘Fucking feels like it.’
‘Have you told the nurses how you feel?’
