I
My car pulls into the car-waiting area of the Regent Retirement Village and finds a spot about seventy metres from the front door, under a grove of trees. The kind of spot that I’ve selected among its list of rental preferences. A blast of hot air slaps me in the face as I step out and turn towards the building. The car resembles a massive grey egg on wheels. The whisper of the electric motor shuts down and the door closes and locks automatically.
As I approach the front door of the two-story building the tinted green glass doors slide open with a hiss that’s barely more than a whisper. There is a receptionist’s desk but no receptionist. Instead there is a microchip reader that resembles a small notepad, and an LED screen. I make a fist and hold my wrist over the reader. A woman’s voice emanates from the screen.
“Resident’s name.”
“Elijah Keeper.”
“Your relationship.”
“I’m his granddaughter.”
“For security. What is the resident’s date of birth.”
“January first, two thousand and one.”
“Name of resident’s first partner.”
“Evangeline Keeper.”
A plastic badge silently protrudes from a slit under the reader. My likeness stares back at me. Underneath the likeness is my name, time and date of sign-in: Three forty-seven p.m., Sunday, July 21, 2080. Another set of ghost doors slide open on my right. Pops, here I come.
The Regent Retirement Village is more like a holiday resort than a retirement home. Past the lobby area, you enter through a pair of glass doors to an atrium. Natural light filters through the glass domed roof, from the entrance area, past the administrative offices, all the way to the rear and the first floor suites. As you enter the atrium, to the left are two tubular elevators with glass doors. I take the first to the Level Two suites. The units open to a long balcony that the residents use as a walking path that wraps its way all around the second level. Residents in groups of twos and threes chat quietly and look over the balcony down to the activity on the ground level. The second level is the envy of the entire complex.
Here it is, Room 2C.
There is a numeric pad on the door. I enter the visitor code.
“Come on in, Ayana.” Pops’ voice is now becoming thin and brittle. The door slides opens onto a small living/ dining room. At the far end, through another set of sliding glass doors, Pops is in a flannel bathrobe sitting at a small table on the veranda. His cane is resting against the table. I pass through the living/ dining room and open the veranda door. A blast of hot air practically pushes me back into the air-conditioned living room. Thank God, I wore my shorts and a t-shirt.
“How are you, Precious?” He holds my hand as I throw one arm around his shoulder and plant a kiss on his forehead.
“That’s a question for you, Pops!”
“Oh I can’t complain.”
“Never does any good anyway, right. They treatin’ you good?”
“Uhm, I guess.”
“You’d tell me if they weren’t, wouldn’t you, now?”
“Uhm, I guess.”
“Why don’t you sit inside? It’s burning up out here.”
“Oh I don’t mind the heat.” He looks away at the sky. “So many fancy new drones and AAV’s nowadays. It’s like getting to a point now where there are traffic jams in the sky. I can’t believe there aren’t more accidents.”
I reach into my purse. “Brought you a present.” I place a small cardboard box on the table. “Open it.”
“What’s this,” he says, eyeing the box.
“Open it! I printed it especially for you.”
He slowly reaches for the box and opens it. “A watch? What do I need another watch for?”
“It’s not just a watch. It’ll only work when it’s on your wrist. And if you just tap this button here, then this one, it automatically alerts me. It’ll tell me that it’s more than a telephone call. It’ll tell me to come and get you right away.”
“Why? Why do I need this?”
“I want you to know that you will always have me, Pops. I never want anything bad to happen to you. I’ll always be your Ayana.”
“Why all of this all of a sudden? Who’s been talkin’ to you?”
My shoulders stiffen and a slight chill shocks my body. I could never hide anything from those all-seeing eyes. I tug at his chair and roll it out a bit. “Here, let me sit on your lap.” His eighty-year-old eyes are as clear and bright as ever. He extends his hand. It is cold and clammy, even though it must be at least thirty degrees out here on the veranda.
“There’ll be coming for me soon, you know, I can feel it,” he says.
“I know you didn’t mean what you wrote. We all do. Why don’t you just apologize? I’m sure you’ll be able to come home with me. I’ll take care of you, and you’ll be safe.”
“I hope you’re right, Precious. But my days are numbered. I’m sure of it. Whenever anyone has said anything good about Fallstead, bad things happen. Every time.”
You just made a mistake. You know you didn’t mean it. I know you didn’t mean it. Just apologize, and sound like you mean it, and you’ll be okay.”
“Not sure that I can do that…”
“Why not?”
Just then there’s a buzzing sound and he pulls a phone out of his pocket. “Yes, Bess. Come in.” He turns to me. “It’s Bess, with my medication.”
I clutch my bag. “Would you like me to leave?”
“No, don’t,” he says, with a steel rod in his voice, but his old hands can manage only a gentle squeeze as he grasps my wrist.
The nurse approaches with a small bag. “Hello, Bess,” he says.
“I didn’t realize you had company. Hi, Ayana.”
I ask her how she’s doing.
Bess extends her hand and I take it. “I can come back later if you like,” she says.
“No, no, no. It’s quite all right. Ayana doesn’t mind.”
I start towards the cool of the living room. “While you’re doing this I’ll get out of your way. There’re a couple of calls I’d like to make.”
Inside I close the door behind me. There are two ottomans in the living area. On one of them is a thin glass or polymer pane, about twenty centimetres by twenty-five centimetres. Bess’ notebook. I shoot a quick glance out to the veranda. She’s talking to him, holding his right hand.
I can’t help myself. I slide over to the notebook. It’s open. There’s a long list of medical terms that I don’t understand. It looks pretty good though—there’re a lot of lines in green font. That has to be good. No red font anywhere. Good for you, Pops! You’re going to be around a long time. At the bottom of the screen, the page counters shows ‘2’. I slide the screen to the right. The first page of his profile appears—a 3-D image of his unsmiling face, and general information. Birthdate, most recent address, closest relative–Madison Keeper. Occupation, yearly income, lifetime income, net worth, volunteer activities, length of stay at the Regent Retirement Village, key life accomplishments, and…oh, my God! This can’t be true! That PV Score! That Personal Value Score!? How did you get such a low PV Score? This’s got to be a mistake.
Outside Bess is still holding his wrist. Did Pops know about his score? Is this why he was so depressed? Pops, what’s going on here?
© Weldon Turner, 2016. All rights reserved.
Nest month, Ayana’s Ride, Parts II and III.
