The elevator felt cozy and warm, like home, with so many memories. For a moment, time had stood still and he was a social worker once again. He rode this elevator at least five times a day, five days a week, for thirty years. When the door opened, and the familiar sight of the white tiled floor greeted him, it was as if he had never left.
“Well, long time no see, stranger!” said Donna. She was the daytime nurse on North Six. Right at that moment, she was giving out medication to residents sitting in front of the elevators when Vic emerged.
“How are you doing, Donna?” he replied. “It has been a long time.”
“How’s retirement treating you?” she asked.
“Great! Couldn’t be better. How are things here?”
“Same old, same old,” she replied. “You know how it is on North Six—not much changes.”
“Hey, is Stanley still in the same room?” he asked.
“Oh, God, yes. He will never give up that window bed.”
Vic made a sharp right and there was room 614. He knocked on the open door.
“Stan the man!” Vic greeted. The little man with the thin, dark hair, looked up from the small television. The surprised look on his face was priceless. His face broke into an infectious, toothless grin.
“I know you!” he yelled. “What’s your name again?”
“Vic.”
“That’s right,” Stan said, squirming in his wheelchair. “Sometimes I forget things.”
“Me too,” Vic confessed. “How are you doing, pal?”
“Good. Where have you been?”
“Oh, I retired. Don’t you remember?”
Stan moaned softly. “Oh, that’s right.”
“Hey, I saw your picture online from the Strawberry Festival. I was glad to see you looking so well.”
“They take good care of me,” Stan said.
“Stan, I got something for you,” Vic said, handing him the plastic bag.
“A bag?” he joked. “You shouldn’t have.”
“Always joking. Same Stan. Here, I’ll help you open it.”
Stan was ecstatic to see the new red Phillies cap.
“It’s adjustable. I wasn’t sure of your hat size,” Vic said.
“Extra-large,” Stan laughed.
********
No matter how busy he was back in the day, Vic always tried to visit Stan and every resident on North Six every day. Fifty residents, even if it was just to say hello. Social work was all about the people, not being chained to a desk and a computer screen. Checking in every day was a way of building trust. Visiting residents in nursing homes was so important to Vic that he even devised a seminar presentation after retirement about visiting loved ones.
While he was there, he decided to take a stroll around the unit, for old time’s sake. He doubted anyone would know him; he had been away far too long.
It was sad how his tenure at the nursing home had ended. Like so many, Vic had a rough 2020, between getting the virus and almost dying to suffering a slight mental breakdown. He used to be able to handle stress. The typical shelf-life of a social worker is four years; he had somehow managed to put in thirty. He had always been the emotional, compassionate social worker, his empathy a big advantage working in a nursing home setting, with so much sadness and suffering all around him. It was difficult, but he had always managed to keep things together until the end of his long run.
Granted, there were other reasons why Vic had retired. His mother had died at the facility in 2020 after a brief illness. They were always close. After that, he saw her everywhere in the facility—at church, waiting to see a specialist at Clinics, in the auditorium for Bingo. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get her out of his mind, especially at work, where she was so loved.
Times were tough after he left too. Adjusting to retirement was difficult. He missed a daily routine, a structured environment, a purpose in life. They should teach a class in school about how to end being a social worker. He started drinking, unsuccessfully trying to fill the emptiness in his heart.
He finally came to grips with life after North Six. Now, he felt well enough to visit again.
601—Bed 1 Martha Cox. He read the card on the open door. Hmm…the name sounded familiar. There was a Mrs. Cox on the unit about four years ago. Nice lady. She loved to read. Nice family. Had hoped to return home until an acute case of pneumonia claimed her life.
This Mrs. Cox knew Vic; in fact, she mentioned how her scrambled eggs were cold for breakfast. She asked if he could contact the Dietary and issue a complaint.
This had to be the same Martha Cox—stacks of books were piled on her tray table, flowers and plants adorned her side of the room, and family pictures were cluttered on the wall near her bed. From what he could recall, this woman named Martha Cox looked similar too. Her name tag read “Martha Cox.” So did the bed tag on the footboard of her bed. It had to be her.
“How was your weekend, dear?” she asked casually. “Is my care plan meeting still scheduled for Thursday?”
He politely informed her that he wasn’t the social worker on the unit anymore. She seemed startled. “But I saw you yesterday. You brought me a new Reader’s Digest from the lounge to read,” she claimed.
Vic was sure she had died before he retired. In fact, he knew she had died. He remembered offering her son condolences when he’d stopped by to pick up his mother’s possessions.
What was happening here?
He stopped into the North Six dining room, where a few residents were watching television or playing cards to pass the time. Charlotte Lincoln noticed him and waved. “Where have you been?” she asked. Vic knew all the faces- just a few faces of the thousands of residents he had worked with over the years. But all these people had died. Yet here they were: Helen Wicker, Ruth Barr, John Westbrook—including Charlotte—all of them, alive again.
Confused, he headed back to the nurse’s station.
“Donna,” he whispered, interrupting her charting. “Can I ask a favor?”
“Sure. What’s up?” she replied.
“Can I use your computer terminal for a second? I need to look up a resident…”
“Vic, you know I would if I could. But you don’t work here anymore.”
Nurses and assistants continued to shuttle in and out of the station area. When it was free to talk, she continued. “I don’t want to get into trouble, in case somebody sees you.”
“Ok, I understand. Well then, could you please look someone up for me?” he asked.
“Sure. What’s the name?”
“Martha Cox, I want to know when she was here.”
Donna quickly typed in the name. “Only one Martha Cox in the database. She was here on North Six from 2017 to 2020,” she said.
“She died in 2020?”
“Yes. April 11.”
“Then who is in 601 bed one right now?” he asked.
“601?” Donna replied. “Lucy and Marilyn are in 601. Lucy is in bed one.”
“No Martha Cox?”
“No,” she answered, eyeing him suspiciously. “What’s wrong, Vic?”
“Oh, nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all. Thanks, Donna. Sorry to bother you.”
It was then he spotted a tall, thin gentleman sitting in a Geri-chair on the other side of the nurse’s station. The elderly man tried to make the wheelless chair move with his feet, shuffling back and forth in an agitated manner, bumping into the wall. This man was a doppelganger for Vic’s late Uncle Henry.
Uncle Henry had always been his favorite relative. Henry was outspoken and blunt with his salty language, yet underneath all the bluster, he had a heart of gold. After Vic’s father died, Uncle Henry became almost like a father figure to the young Vic. They had had many good times together, from attending the harness races in the summer to trying their luck at Blackjack in Atlantic City. Henry retired when he was sixty-two, after which he enjoyed a good twenty-five years of living the good life, from fishing every summer day to waking up whenever he wanted. He smoked cigars, ate bacon and eggs daily, and did whatever he felt like doing. Then he began to wander in his home and his physician demanded his car keys. His life took a tragic downward spiral when he fell and broke a hip, and he never fully recovered.
Yes, he died. A long time ago.
The old man stopped in his tracks when Vic knelt beside him. His face went blank, as if he were searching through his memory bank. “Do I know you?” the elderly man asked.
“Brandywine Racetrack. Does that ring a bell? We used to go in the summer,” Vic said. “There was nothing like a warm summer night, watching the ponies run.”
“Brandywine?” the old man repeated.
“Yes, Brandywine. Do you remember the time you won over two thousand dollars on an exacta? We used to follow a local driver named Wade. “
“Brandywine,” he uttered again.
“Either you are my late uncle or you sure are a dead-ringer for him,” Vic mumbled.
He searched for the bracelet name: Henry Szczesny. His uncle.
This was crazy. He stood up and noticed Donna staring at him from behind the desk.
He continued down the hall.
********
He knew that he should’ve headed for the elevators. Something made Vic keep going to the end of the hall. Is this some sort of parallel universe? Some kind of time warp—somewhere between Heaven and Hell? Stan was alive—or was he? What about the staff?
An icy feeling tingled his spine: is this all in my mind? How was it possible for North Six to be this hybrid unit where some are dead, and some are living? Those who are dead, and those who will die?
Vic stopped and read the current monthly activities calendar on the wall. Everything looked normal: The usual activities were listed, along with the lunch and dinner menus. Then something caught his eye.
This can’t be right. It must be an overlooked mistake, for the year 2020 was marked on the calendar. Four years ago. What a tragic year that was.
Dear Lord, it was still 2020 on North Six.
********
There was noise coming from the nearby lounge area. Someone was calling out numbers every ten seconds or so. “B-15… O-72… G- 44.” There was a Bingo game going on. Vic looked around the corner into the lounge. It was jam-packed with residents. The majority sat in wheelchairs. Some were sitting on regular wooden chairs, with canes and walkers nearby. All intensely surveyed their Bingo cards, chips in hand, looking for a match.
So many faces, each one familiar. He could still recite the names, the diagnoses, even the room numbers. A litany of former residents, and here they were, all the while playing Bingo, a game that never ended.
He continued scanning the room when suddenly, inexplicably, there she was: a small lady, almost hidden in her wheelchair, almost child-like in stature, sitting at a crowded table, marking her card.
Someone yelled “Bingo!” and, as the caller read the numbers back, a collective groan went up, the losing players echoing their disappointment throughout the room.
“I just needed one number… This game must be rigged… Same winners…”
Vic quietly entered the room and went over to the tiny lady. He knelt beside her as she cleared the chips from her card.
“Oh, hi!” she said nonchalantly.
“Hi, Mom,” he replied. “It’s so good to see you. How are you doing?”
“Terrible,” she whispered. “See that woman over there? She’s won three times so far this morning.”
Vic noticed her stack of quarters on the table. “Looks like you’re not doing too bad,”
“Did you remember to water my plants at home this morning?” she asked, like usual.
“Yes, Mom. I water them faithfully every day,” he replied, gently wiping away a tear.
“Mom, I’m so happy that you are alive,” he stammered. “I can’t believe it!”
She smiled at him. Same old Mom. She acted as though she… dare he say it… never died.
“Looks like they are ready to start again,” he whispered.” Listen, I’m going to let you go. Now that I know you’re here, I’ll stop by more often to see you. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Sweetie. Take care. Make sure you get yourself some lunch.”
He kissed her on the cheek and waved goodbye. As he walked away, he could hear her say to the lady sitting nearby, “That’s my son. He’s a social worker here…”
********
The events on North Six were real, be it supernatural or magical. Perhaps the events were wishful thinking of a time gone by, a happier time when his life was stable. Whatever the reason, something had changed when he visited North Six again.
The next afternoon, Vic carried a box of Whitman Sampler chocolates, all wrapped in pink paper and a bow, into the nursing home. His mother loved those chocolates. He was determined to spend the entire afternoon with her, even if he sat in the lounge, watching her Bingo game.
That was until he stepped off the elevator.
Strange… He had just visited yesterday, and the décor now was a mint green, not the usual white tile. The nursing station had been renovated; it was brightly lit, and the computer terminals were different. The nurses and the aides didn’t look familiar, but he thought nothing of that—staff changed all the time.
He dropped by to visit Stan again, only to find two other gentlemen living in the room. Stan had been in that same room for seventeen years. Vic fought for his resident to remain in that room—the room he knew as home—several times during his tenure as a social worker on North Six. Now they suddenly moved him. But why the rush? Stan was there yesterday.
Vic stopped at the desk and asked which room Stan was in.
“Stan who?” was the answer. “Sorry, there is no Stanley on this unit.”
Vic, with a determined pace, followed his previous route to Room 601. Still no Martha Cox. In fact, 601 was empty. He popped his head into the dining room. It was crowded, like usual, only this time he didn’t recognize a soul.
Down the hall, residents sat in wheelchairs, sleeping or watching the passersby. The faces were foreign, weather-beaten, some faces in hands, heads lowered, small eyes peering suspiciously at this tall, middle-aged stranger. They wore sweaters and old dresses and could’ve lived in any era. This was nothing unusual either.
He glanced at the paper activity calendar taped on the wall. The year was correct—2024. Nothing amiss here. The atmosphere seemed the same: mostly eerie quiet, a few yells now and then; the air was rife with disinfectants.
Vic briskly walked into the lounge area. Where was the Bingo game? Instead of laughter and the buzz of conversation in the room, he was met with stony silence.
Desperately, he jogged up the hall to the nursing station where he asked the unfamiliar nurse about his mother.
“Ann Smith,” he said. “Where is she? What room is she in?”
No Ann Smith was currently on the unit, was the brief answer.
“Did they move her overnight?” he asked. “Without my permission? It doesn’t matter—just tell me what floor she is on.”
The nurse checked her computer terminal. No Ann Smith in the entire building. The computer did state that an Ann Smith was on the unit four years ago.
“What the hell did you do with my mother?” Vic roared.
“Please sir, keep your voice down or else I’ll need to call security,” the nurse informed.
“The hell with security!” he yelled. “I was just here yesterday. She was on this unit, playing Bingo. Where are the others? MY residents? What did you do with them? Where’s Donna, the day nurse? Is she off today? Can I speak to Donna?”
“Donna?” the nurse repeated. “No one named Donna works this shift.”
In a rage of anger, he knocked all the charts off the desk, screaming “Where’s my mother? Why is everything different?”
Security arrived and escorted Vic down that same, familiar elevator to the parking lot.
North Six… his North Six… was gone forever. The happenings on North Six would haunt Vic to his grave. He would keep this secret to himself. For if he told anyone, it might all vanish and never return. That way, his favorite residents, and especially his own mother, might return someday, at least in his own mind.
About the Author
Gregory Smith is a retired medical social worker. He is active on social media, including Facebook, X, Blue Sky and Instagram. Greg enjoys sports, classic movies, Beatles music and reading in his free time. He is married with two cute dogs, Katie and Cocoa.
