Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes (8 page)

He
heads up the stone steps which have recently had a lick of dark
crimson paint added around the door. There, he sees Mrs Colby clearer
as she leans back in the arm chair.

She
is waiting.

In
her own words, she calls it, “waiting for the impossible to
arrive.” And, so far as he can tell, that outcome has yet to
change.

He
glances back towards the street to see the odd person going about
their business and fewer cars, then knocks.

He
has always opted for the light rap and wait approach compared to the
letter box. To knock on the glass startles the residents and the
doorbell tune is an upbeat, yet irritable chime which has no business
being here. So, he goes for his usual.

While
he waits for a nurse to answer, he hopes Mrs Colby will be in one of
her lucid moods. Even when she slumps in a vegetative state, she
seems to listen while he reads, but the entertainment value is dull.

He
doesn't have to come. More so, he doesn't have to submit to her
requests as often as he does, but if he's honest, he likes it. She
reminds him of his mother, despite the forty years difference. And
her love of poetry sure sets her apart from anyone in his life.

She
told him it would be difficult to find a person her age who didn't
like poetry, but to be honest, it isn't about the poetry. It is her
he adores; her story inspires him. It isn't only the way she presents
herself, but how she never gives up even when her world is falling
apart. The hope that one day those feet will step through that gate
and come trotting up the path is patience he wishes he could adopt.

“
Hey,
Bobby boy, you're back again?”

When
the door opens, a middle-aged brunette steps aside with a weary
smile. Orange foundation clumps together to make her wrinkles more
visible, defeating the purpose of wearing it. A light sheen swamps
her hairline and trickles into her eyebrows.

She
must be earning her wage today, and then some.

She
wipes her hand of the clear liquid on her apron and the remnants of
bubbles disappear from her fingers. After, she signals him to come
through.

The
silver pin on her breast pocket reads her name as Margaret, but he
knows her well enough to know she hates the name. Everyone around her
calls her 'Smiles'.

If
it is not already evident to why, Bobby once saw her clutching her
ankle at the bottom of the stairs after tripping. Even though she was
in pain, her smile didn't diminsh for a second. After that, he doubts
anything on the planet could make her resort to a bumbling mess of
tears and snot.

Bobby
taps the backpack light-heatedly. “We've got reading to do.”

With
the biggest smile he can conjure—pushing it into the realm of
falsity—he steps past the welcome mat. The vinyl has no
miss-placed sentiment on such as, 'home', or 'sweet', or even
'welcome'. Instead, it only has vague black shapes amongst the brown
bristles. From the other side it appears to look like an abstract
mess. From this side, with the natural light staring through the
door, it appears to be a featureless woman bending over in a cloak.

“
What
is on the menu today?” Smiles gives him an award winning grin
as she closes the door with his neglect to do so, but it bothers her
none. “Some
Poe
,
perhaps?
Wilde
?
I found
Sylvia
Plath
interesting
in my teens. Her poetry has many layers, although I never understood
the German parts.”

Bobby
cannot wrap his head around Smiles reading
Plath
whether
she is fifteen or forty.
Sylvia
Plath
was
well-known for capturing her madness before her suicide in 1963, not
sunshine and rainbows.

There's
no way anyone can be this upbeat and read poetry like hers.

As
she withdraws, her loose curls bob against her shoulder. The motion
sends a mild scent spilling toward him—a natural odour of skin
and spirit.

Smells
like a forest after a rain storm.

“
I
hope there's n
o
Emily
Dickinson,
or
Walt
Whitman
.
We both know how she acts after reading them.” Smiles drops him
a wink, then scoots down the hallway. Her pumps produce as much sound
as a ghost on the floorboards. “She's just in there, love.
She'll be glad to see you.”

Bobby
watches her until she disappears into the kitchen with a beat in her
step, the steps into the front area.

Sylvia
Plath? More like Julia Donaldson.

No
bookcases, or shelving units line the walls because the residents
don't approve of any clutter in here. But Mrs Colby doesn't approve
of the “lifeless” cream paint that decks the walls of the
building. “It's like an empty shell. It doesn't have a soul
like back home,” is how Mrs Colby describes it.

She
also told him of her house on the opposite side of the city. “Books
lined the walls. I'm not talking bland shades here, darling, but
pink, limes, violets—vivid colours that tell a tale straight
from the heart. The fireplace in the evening was beautiful, I tell
you. That was a real home.”

She
rarely complains, but it's easy to see she misses her old life.
Having to be a burden here is not her idea of living, but preparation
to go out of this world with a whisper. She rarely admits that
either, but her eyes tell the tale of her inner workings.

“
Hey,
Mrs Colby. How are you today?”

The
arm chair creaks as she turns to greet her visitor with a delighted
smile.

Smile's
daughter is a hairdresser who pops by to give a trim here and a
blow-dry there. She also perms and tidies up the residents who either
cannot venture further than the garden, or do not wish to. Judging by
Mrs Colby's hair she does a fine job.

In
the years he has known her, and what he has gathered from their
conversations, Mrs Colby isn't one to grow old with grace. She has
her hair dyed the deepest shade of orange to match the lipstick she
prefers.

She
keeps a photograph of her as a teenager in the 40's tucked in every
dress she wears. In the photo, she wears a full length flared dress
which lifts to reveal her shins. Her hair drapes past her shoulders
in voluminous waves. Although the photo is minus colour, he can tell
the shade matched her fuller lips.

The
woman sitting before him, with folds of wrinkled skin on her neck,
turns away. Although she hasn't the curvy figure she once had, she is
no less beautiful even if she is holding onto a look that belongs in
her prime. She is trying to be the person she was, despite everything
disputing that at each turn.

Call
it denial, or not being able to move on, but thinking about growing
old is horrible. To no longer function properly and rely on others
fills him with dread. He decides he will give up when he can no
longer wipe his own backside. But Mrs Colby?

Never.

He
also knows the photograph of her is not the only one she keeps in her
possession.

“
I
am wonderful! And all the better for seeing you, Bobby. Come and take
a seat. I can't have any visitor of mine wearing the soles of their
shoes out on my account, can I?”

Pulling
a seat up from the wall, Bobby takes the load off his back and parks
himself on the green cushion. It doesn't help with comfort; it never
does.

The
room smells like dust and what he can only describe as skin particles
despite the place being spotless. But then, how do you escape the
smell of old age?

“
So
tell me, love.” She reaches a wrinkled hand, covered in legions
and protruding veins, against his knee. “How have you been?”

Her
nails are all different lengths. Many are claws with a stale, yellow
colour behind them, while others are short with blunt curves. Either
she doesn't notice them, or doesn't care.

He
recalls his mother sitting at the dining table while staring at her
hands. He couldn't have been much older than five when she chipped a
nail in an otherwise well-manicured set. She refused to cut them.
Instead, she filed the damaged nail so it wouldn't catch on anything
and rip further.

'There's
nothing time cannot heal.'

Whoever
said that had obviously never met my parents.

“
I'm
not too bad, Mrs Colby,” he replies, hoping the answer will
suffice. However, she always seems to sense a fib when she hears one.

“
Bobby?”

She's
good.

The
costume jewelry necklace she has around her neck slaps against the
cotton floral dress as she rubs his jeans in a caring manner. When
she falls still, a stern expression wears her face.

“
Bobby,
how many times do I have to ask you to call me Kathryn?”

Bobby
chuckles. “Sorry, Mrs Colby. My mum always taught me—”

“
Oh,
how is your mother?”

Bobby
cannot help shifting on the cushion, complemented with a brief glance
out the window. The posture can tell the tale without the need of
words.

“
That
bad, love?”

“
It's
just, she's—”

“
Still
not all there?”

The
empathy is clear from behind the lenses of her pointed glasses. He
hates people taking pity on him, especially over his mother.

It
shouldn't have been like this.

“
I'm
sorry to hear that,” she says as she squeezes his knee.

From
the time he has been coming here, she has never met his mother. On
his work placement, he was a complete bag of nerves, and this woman
calmed him down. She still shows genuine concern like his mother
would have if she knew he was doing work experience.

“
P
ass
me my handbag, would you?” She gestures to his right where the
mauve bag with braided straps is against the wall.

After
passing the bag over, she rummages around and pulls free a leaflet.

“
I'm
not saying she will use it, but you should at least try. Give it to
your mum, even if she bins it. At least she knows she has a choice.”

Mrs
Colby plants the inverted coloured paper in his palm. Bobby takes one
look at the leaflet, then reverts his gaze.

“
I
worry, that's all.” She squeezes his knee again, but he
receives no comfort from the stare that's burning holes in the flesh.

“
Just
promise me you'll give it to her, okay? And we'll talk no more of it.
I just wish I had my Anne with me. I wish I had my time over because
I would have done things much differently.” She shakes her head
and joins him at glancing out the window.