Adrift

Irma, a resident of Poseidon Senior Living, shuffles into the lobby. Gayle follows, her legs propelling her wheelchair the way Fred Flintstone’s legs propel his car. Fast enough to deserve theme music.

“I’m going out,” Irma announces.

“We can’t go out,” the receptionist says.

Validate with “we statements,” her training said. Try not to say no. Try to bring joy to lives with limited joy.

The two women circle the lobby once then stop at the reception desk.

“There’s a hurricane coming. It has the same name as you do.” The receptionist smiles at Irma then turns back to her computer screen, where she watches a live video of Lolita the killer whale swimming in her tank in the Seaquarium a few miles away, as the world around her evacuates or boards up for safety.

“Hurricane or not, I shouldn’t be here,” Irma says. “I have a place in the Hamptons. I might try to go there.” She walks over to the one window not yet covered with plywood. “This place is like a morgue.”

Power drills hum as a small army of workers in coral T-shirts cover the lobby’s windows. In this suburb of Miami they don’t need to evacuate, but they need to keep the residents safe. The county is urged to stay indoors. No family visits at Poseidon until the governor deems it safe.

Gayle leans forward, pointing toward the windows. “Something’s going on,” she says. Large beaded bracelets on her wrist rattle as she points.

“There used to be glass there,” Irma says. “They’re burying us alive.” She nods at the video. “What’s that?”

“It’s a killer whale,” the receptionist replies. “This is a livestream from the aquarium.”

“The whale looks as bored as I am.”

“Look at that,” Gayle says with wonder in her voice. “There’s no one in the stands.”

The receptionist hands Irma a pack of markers and a sheet of copy paper. Drawing soothes Irma.

Music and art are therapeutic, the training said. Creative projects foster engagement.

The two women move to one of the tables in the dining area next to the lobby. Irma begins to sketch the fake olive tree in the corner, her head bobbing up and down as her eyes move from tree to paper.

The receptionist pauses her video and offers to get the women coffee. Gayle propels herself to the kitchen behind the receptionist for her own drink, one of the airplane-size bottles of white wine her son sends. She’s allowed one a day.

“What time are you here until?” Irma asks, as the receptionist sets down the coffee, her New England accent clipping Rs from words.

“Ten tonight.”

The tip of the marker breaks through the paper as Irma shades delicate green and white leaves, staining the table with ink. The receptionist goes to a closet for Windex, then to her desk for tape, and another sheet of paper, which she offers to Irma, who shrugs.

“It’s fine as is. It’s not going to auction.”

She’d been a professor at Yale School of Art in a previous life. Raised three children. Buried a husband. At seventy-four, she had her first museum show, just as her memory was starting to fade. When other residents or employees ask about the museum show, she gets surprised. Again and again. She remembers technique. She doesn’t remember the answers to the questions she asks.

Gayle glides back into the lobby. “They’re out of my drinks.” She picks at the skin below one thumbnail, etching anxiety into her body.

“What about Scotch? I could go for a Scotch,” Irma says. She can’t have alcohol because of her medication.

The receptionist returns to her desk and dials Gayle’s son. He picks up on the third ring. She identifies herself and asks if he has time to talk to his mother.

“Can I call back? I’m in the middle of dinner.” Food muffles his voice.

The receptionist thinks of her son at home, on his way to bed. At four, he’s appalled at the idea of going away to college. He wants to live with his parents forever. She calls across the lobby to Gayle: “No answer. We’ll try later.”

Balance dignity and honesty, the training said. Exercise empathy.

The final window is covered with plywood. Irma gives up drawing. She brings the pen and paper over to the receptionist, and Gayle follows.

“For you,” she says with a curtsy and a laugh. She’s signed it with an l-u-v and her name.

“How late do you work?” she asks.

“Ten tonight.”

“Is she lonely,” Gayle asks, looking at the whale video still onscreen.

“Probably,” the receptionist says, throwing therapeutic lying to the wind. “In the wild she’d be a leader. Older females are valued for their hunting and survival skills.”

The three of them watch the whale move in circles in her small tank, the water a murky shade of green.

Lori Barrett (she/her) lives and writes in Chicago. Her work has appeared in Salon, The Wall Street Journal, Necessary Fiction, Barrelhouse, BULL, and Middle House Review, where she was nominated for Best Small Fictions 2020. She’s participated in Chicago’s Live Lit events That’s All She Wrote and Tuesday Funk. She serves as an assistant fiction editor at Pithead Chapel.

Published April 18 2022