People Person

When I first awoke between these unfriendly, frighteningly white walls, the potted moon face of my chubby roommate Rosemary confronted me. After that, this orange-haired apparition dutifully woke me in the same way every morning. I was confused and terrified on that first day. Rosemary kept hovering over me as if I was a new toy. As my faculties returned to me, I choked on the pungencies of ether and every other smell that indicated hospital. At first, I had no recollection of how I landed in this sterile prison. There was a painfully fluorescent light and one tiny barred window. I did not notice much else, except for my well-fed fellow inmate and a security person, strangely stationed outside the security door of the room.

I looked at my image in the water stained mirror on the wall. Time did not play fairly with me. I used to look alive. A ghostly old witch was staring back at me. My once blue eyes looked almost translucent. My short white hair stood in every which direction it pleased. The nightgown that I noticed for the first time, hung like a bag over my bony old frame. I surely looked like I belonged in some sort of institution. Then, a few old women scuffling by with walking frames interrupted my confusion. I could hear them talking to each other or to themselves, who knows with people of my age. This made me decide that it had to be a retirement home.

Noises attracted my attention. I went to the security door and across the quiet hallway, I noticed a communal T.V. room. This was not a retirement village. Some people in there were actually watching the T.V. Other loonies were having conversations with the walls. A few were just rocking back and forth. There were people of all ages in all shapes of crazy. It immediately explained Rosemary. The blood was gurgling in my ears as I went through all the possible permutations. Who would put me in a madhouse?

I remembered falling asleep on the stairs of my little fairytale cottage that my recently deceased husband had left me, along with many things. Maybe someone misconstrued the situation, I thought. I am climbing the ladder of time to seventy years in age. Someone could easily have mistaken my nap for something more permanent. I must have spoken aloud, because Rosemary raised her hand. She seemed to take great pleasure in knowing. I could tell that by the spacey smile she flashed me, so I asked.
“How did I get here?”

“Well, you certainly did not book yourself in,” she snickered. She was just as mad as she looked and of no use to me.

I knew that I had always been somewhat eccentric and I took some pride in being different. I never enjoyed the company of humans. People are a tricky subject to me. An old adage rang true one too many times in my life. Long ago, I repeatedly offered a pinky and found everyone grabbing the hand and almost tearing the whole arm off. I have always been far happier with my plants. In fact, the only person I could really stand conversing with was my husband. He was quite the opposite of most people I knew. He really wanted only my pinky and had no use for the rest. With his big company job, he kept me very comfortable. He did not ask me to do the things a wife should do. I was very thankful, because it gave me the time to be alone with my thoughts. You see, I always fancied myself a bit of an artist and a writer.

I pondered my entrapped state some more. All fingers pointed to my green-eyed monster of a nephew, Sam. He did not really belong to me, as I had no siblings. He was actually my late husband's nephew and beneficiary. Sam was accustomed to fine things and therefore on countdown to see when I would expire. I always had the suspicion that he and my dainty Zulu helper, Tshepo, knew each other more intimately than their impersonal exchanges suggested. This was obviously the result of a vicious complot against me.

As I tried to sooth my troubled mind, a young, blond nurse with a military manner entered the room and rudely disrupted my thoughts. Her contempt and cold way stood in stark contrast to her fine made up features. I could tell that she was another human I would find objectionable. “Dr. Malan will see you now, Alison,” she said and deposited some pills in my hand. She did not give Rosemary anything. I did not take them. 

This was exactly the reason why I have never liked people. She was assuming that I wanted to see the doctor. I did, but I found it rude to assume and it was even worse to assume that she could call me by my first name. Mrs. Hallatt was more respectful for someone of her inferior age. However, I agreed to follow her down the narrow immaculate hallways, up the stairs and to the last door. I questioned the credence of the psychiatrist they stuck in the corner. The young doctor did not annoy me, at first. He knew his manners.

“Oh, come in Mrs. Hallatt,” he said in a polite, worthy of my age tone and even pulled the chair out for me. He seemed to be a nice young man. His mousy brown hair was short and clean and so were his nails. His office was precise and I was certain that he measured the spaces and the heights meticulously, before he hung his many diplomas and certificates. I was not usually one to care for neat and tidy. Nevertheless, it made him seem like a young man who was in control of himself and I needed some sanity as I literally found myself in an insane asylum. He smiled at me and I was not surprised to see that his brilliant teeth were just as aligned as the things on the wall. “Mrs. Hallatt, do you know why you are here?” he asked.

That was an easy one to answer since mentally unstable people, bars and my least favourite nurse watching my every move surrounded me.

“Yes, son,” I said feigning respect, “You have put me in the loony bin, probably because my covetous nephew wants a slice of my considerable financial pie. He took the only chance I’ve ever given him to convince you that I am not capable of taking care of myself,” I said, and looked for emotion in his face, “but, tell me, how does my little nap in my own home validate you questioning my mental status?” I asked.

He defrosted and moved into position for an explanation. “First of all, Alison, we both know it was not a nap. Why don’t you tell us what you were doing on the stairs? Be honest. Tshepo told us everything.” he said.

I was sadly mistaken. The nice young man I had met when I entered the room was not in the one in front of me. Instead, he was a fidgety, devious co-conspirator to my sly nephew and his Zulu fairy. I was so furious that I ignored the disrespectful use of my first name. “When can I go home, Dr. Malan?” I asked.

“Mrs. Hallatt,” he frowned, as if I was the confusing one, “I can only help you if you willing to help yourself. So, please, tell me your version of the events before you woke up here.”

I had to admit. My version of the story was not as bad as their conclusion that I was not able to take care of myself. I had to tell them, even though I was not sure that it would change their minds. The windows were high and the bars seemed secure. A jailbreak at my age seemed improbable. My heart was with the finicky plants I left behind. Therefore, I told him. “You see, Doctor. You could say that I am slightly eccentric. This is not a new development. It is not an age thing. I have always considered myself somewhat of an artist and a writer. You see, my husband is a rich man and his money afforded me enough free time to work on my craft.”

“Slow down, Mrs. Hallatt I can barely follow what you're saying. Also, don’t you mean your husband was a rich man? Surely you know that he is dead.”

I should have expected an interruption. It was a conspiracy to make me seem delusional. I ignored and continued to tell him my entire life story. “Anyway, I have not ever really committed any of my work to paper. In any case, it is very easy for me to create my characters. I have many people that I have invented running around in my head…” I paused as I realized that I had probably just taken the gun to my own head. Saying things like that would have them putting a ‘lunatic” sticker on my forehead and forever locking my up with orange-haired one. “What I mean to say is that I have always invented stories for these characters to fit into. I created them for a reason, except for one character.”
The little doctor’s ears perked up. Maybe if I said what he wanted to hear he would consider me sane.

“This character just appeared to me. He was a middle-aged Zulu man. His shaven head gleamed in the sun. He was slender and short, but the faded blue overalls he wore sat tightly over his considerable beer belly. He had loose tobacco, which he rolled into neat cigarettes. I saw him more vividly than any other character I had ever created before. He would always be in the garden inspecting the taps and touching my precious roses. He was always there. I quickly grew tired of him and he had no story.

“One day he entered my house and I asked him what he was doing there. He did not speak, he just greeted me with a bow and proceeded to look at and touch things that did not belong to him. I saw him so vividly that I got a whiff of the revolting tobacco cloud that drifted around him. Tshepo must have seen me speaking to the void, because he came back from picking up my vegetables and pharmacy things and greeted the man. I never gave that boy much credit. I thought that he was just indulging an old woman’s hallucinations. You see people often treat the aged like children again. The difference is that children believe their imaginary friends to be real. Now I know it was all part of their big plan to get me here. Anyway, as I was saying the, he would just not leave my head. So-”

As I was about to get to the worst part, a bell rang. It shot through my old heart. I was still getting my bearings when an adamant loon in a hospital gown ran into the room. Someone clearly needed the psychiatrist more than I did, so I allowed the clearly conniving nurse to take me back to Rosemary.

My mess of a roommate took great pleasure in taunting me. She constantly reminded me that in her professional opinion, I was never getting out. She was also very nosey and stared me down with her beady eyes until I gave in. “You’ve been booked for the long term sister. Anyway, who takes a snooze on the stairs? You’re not a cat,” she ragged.

I was not about to tell her a thing. I stayed in the only corner of the room that she allotted me and reflected on my fate. I would have to tell the little doctor eventually, that I was killing a character on the stairs. You see, the bald man had become very authentic to me and he insisted on inserting himself into my everyday life. I would find cupboards and closed doors opened. I would see him sneaking around and touching my roses.

When one day he appeared at the kitchen door, I reached the edge of my patience. I was sitting by the fireplace writing my Thank-you letters to the pallbearers at the funeral when I noticed him inside my house again. Without a thought, I grabbed the poker beside the fire and stormed towards him. Firstly, I went for his head. I slashed first, then I stabbed and I finished with a stomping. I imagined him disappearing in a puff of smoke. It was strenuous exercise for an old dame, which is why I had to sit down. I think that I went to sleep right there, because I was calm for the first time in a long time, as I knew that he would be gone.

The naughty nurse came to give me another set of pills. Again, I did not take them, because again Rosemary did not get any. Surely, she needed some kind of medication. When I asked the nurse, she frowned and said to discuss it with Dr. Malan. She was as underhanded as I thought. My aggravation grew and in the next session, I exploded at the little Doctor.

“Now, Doctor, tell me why I’m fed a handful of rainbow pills every single day and my clearly unstable roommate gets nothing. Surely, there must be a massive oversight on the part of this establishment. She keeps me awake and she tortures me with questions and stares. Can’t you at least give her some sleeping pills?”

Little Doctor did not reply at first and just wrote something down. “Alison, dear, have you been taking those pills?” he asked pretentiously and scribbled some more. “We can not help you, if you are not ready to help yourself. Now, you were busy telling me about the stairs. Why don’t you continue?”

I was in no mood to speak to him. I had never felt so powerless before. These were the reasons I never trusted anyone and kept to myself. Interaction always came back to haunt me. However, I was a captive and there was only one way out, so I told him everything. I told them about the poker and the slashing and finally the relief that made me fall asleep. He kept quietly scribbling and in my peripheral vision, I could see the crafty nurse's shadow tapping on a needle and it felt like something from a horror movie. At last, their plan was coming to fruition.

The young doctor placed a horrifying picture in front of me. He manufactured a story. “Mrs. Hallatt, you don’t have a roommate. We don’t have a patient named Rosemary. Mrs. Hallatt, look at me. Do you know the name Sibusiso Ndumo? Well, you have met him. In fact, you knew him many years. He was the caretaker your husband appointed to take care of the cottage when you were away. This, in the photo, this is him. He was a real flesh and blood person. You did not fall asleep that day. Tshepo, the young man, who worked for you attempted to stop you and accidently knocked you unconscious. Mrs. Hallatt, do you understand me? Are you okay?”

I was not okay. I knew that nothing would be okay ever again. It was over. Their elaborate design had come full circle and I was not getting out. The nurse pricked me with the needle that she was so eagerly preparing. I felt very lethargic, but strangely calm when they dragged me back to my room. At least, when I got there the room was empty and it was as if Rosemary was never there.