Hotel Queenie

The bathroom adjacent to the dining area simply was not clean enough. Obviously the hotel staff should be more attentive to detail. Queenie was sure of this as she separated the crisp squares of toilet tissue, placing them gingerly on the seat of her throne. There was nothing actually wrong with the bathroom, though she found herself in need of sanitizing nonetheless. “Disgusting!” she muttered, her face contorted as she went about this unpleasant task. Despite her whisperings of despair, she enjoyed the moments of solitude, meticulously folding each square of paper. It was when she was most at peace. Once folded into a square or rectangle, the torn tissue could accommodate a need. The immediate need was to cover the toilet seat of the downstairs bathroom, which was located in the main washroom of the hotel. The hotel was a very special place, indeed!

With immaculate care, Queenie tore at the half empty roll of toilet paper. She had, after nearly fifteen minutes, placed three squares delicately down on the perfectly clean commode. It would require at least four squares, however, maybe even more. She slowly turned from the toilet to the wall where the roll of paper hung brightly against the tropical sunset yellow wall. Her curved spine hunched grotesquely over, she released another single sheet of paper from the seam, so careful not to tear the paper beyond the perforated line. She was turning in slow motion, her face nearly at the same level as the toilet paper holder, when a thunderous roar reverberated from behind the bathroom door. It did not faze her at all. In response to the silence, the banging noise repeated three more times before the door swung wide and the Caregiver entered the little bathroom, exasperate, a light sweat shining at her brow line from having to — again — break into the lavatory stall. The two women stood close, the small space comfortable in the tension due only to familiarity. Technically there was not enough room for two people in the vintage half a bathroom, but it was not uncommon for Queenie’s sacred space to be disturbed by the Caregiver, especially in mid-morning.

“Oh — no, no, no.” The Caregiver exhaled with a stern expression, though her words were not lacking compassion. “You said you desperately had to go to the bathroom, and here you are again, playing with the toilet paper. Out! Right now!” The woman’s voice was firm, but Queenie went about her business without a care. She reached in slow motion for another square of paper.

The younger woman - a good sixty years younger to Queenie’s nonagenarian status - slipped her arm under the old woman’s armpit, gently forcing her away from the paper roll. Queenie screeched violently, trying to move away. “I have to go to the bathroom! Let me alone!” Her face contorted into the image of a shrunken apple doll, her mouth a black hole revealing two teeth sticking out of her bottom gum line. For a moment a complete and horrifying ugliness filled the beauty that used to lay in perfection upon the surface of Queenie’s skin. The younger woman ignored her, concerned with the time. “Disgusting!” Queenie spat, walking forward from the bathroom. “You are disgusting!”

The Caregiver left the old woman safely in the washroom outside of the bathroom, returning a moment later with a lined parka and gloves. It was 50 degrees out, but she knew the old woman would protest leaving the house without the little black, woolen gloves. Her hands were always cold. “Cold hands, warm heart.” The old woman would laugh almost every day, forgetting she had ever said it before. Her laugh was jagged and awkward. She hadn’t laughed often enough for many, many years.

She allowed her coat to be put on around her, responding only to the basic need to push her arms through the sleeves which were placed strategically for her to steer her hands within. Suddenly her face lit up, as bright as sunshine on the petals of a spring flower. “Are we

going to the center?” Queenie asked excitedly.

“Yes we are,” responded the Caregiver, looking Queenie directly in the eye with a smile. Her voice was measured, with targeted intonation. To the other people at the hotel, it probably sounded a bit too upbeat, a bit too pleasant, but Queenie did not notice. She heard only the friendly voice announcing she was going to the Center. She forgot the squares of toilet paper she had been separating and headed towards the front door. She stopped suddenly, looking confused. “Is there any Kleenex?” she asked with concern, her eyes wide to confirm her feelings. Her pockets lined with soft little squares and rectangles of paper, the Caregiver stopped her from running back to the bathroom. The staff behind them was all yelling to get going, as they did just about every morning.

“Are we going to go to the center today? She asked.

“Yes. We are.”

“Oh good!” Queenie beamed. Besides the bathroom, the center was her favorite place. "Good. Good!"

In the car on the way to the center, Queenie looked at the Caregiver and said, “Are we going to the center?” The Caregiver responded affirmatively, pretending not to have answered the question four times already. “Really? Oh, I am so happy.” Then Queenie quickly added, “I love you. G-d will bless you for all you do for me.” The Caregiver looked at her oddly, unsure how to respond to these occasional moments of appreciation, especially not when it was about plans for G-d to thank her. She had just gotten used to being told she was disgusting. “Yes.” Queenie smiled with assurance. “G-d will bless you for me. I’ll pray to him to make sure of it.” It could be considered a threat or a promise. The caregiver considering that perhaps Jesus himself had gone mad though said only: “Thanks be and surely …

At the hotel there is a lady upstairs who steals things. Whenever something is missing, it is because of that lady on the third floor. She has no name, and no one has ever seen her, but she is solely responsible for all things not where they should be; recently, though, the paper underwear that is delivered in bales began to disappear, and that — said Queenie — is because of the person visiting the lobby. Despite these allegations, the staff does their best to maintain the integrity of the establishment, and on the whole, they are very efficient. Queenie does not always understand all involved with running such a place, and she gets angry when she can’t find a washcloth or pair of socks. It confuses her why the maid does not return a specific item with the rest of the laundry, which should be done every day, instead of on weekends.

“They should wash all my clothes now!” she said one day with an icy edge to her voice. Her daughter will look at her with mild surprise. “THEY should wash all my clothes. Now where are my socks?” Queenie never puts a single item of clothing in the hamper bag. It requires diligence on behalf of the staff to pull her dirty clothing out of the closet and from around her room. She hangs her dirty clothing inside out on the back of doors and from odd hooks all about, and she hides her socks by her bedside. She used to simply throw all of her underwear away. Now that her underwear arrives as paper in bales, it is actually preferred that happens. While adjusting to the switch from fabric to paper undergarments, when soiled, Queenie would hang them in front of the heating vents to dry them. The staff at the hotel was all rather glad to finally find the paper briefs daily in the trash pail. “Where are my socks?! When will they wash them?” Queenie’s daughter stared at her in utter disbelief before shaking her head, and then quietly though firmly she responded that the people around the building were, and are, NOT her private, personal servants. It simply didn’t make any sense why the people working at the hotel did not take care of these things more often.

It never occurred to Queenie that in a moment of panic she hid her own things in places never meant for anyone to access them again. It never occurred to her that she could not do any sort of the normal things for herself anymore. If you asked her, she would tell you she did everything herself, just as she always had throughout her life. Her mind worked and worked well, thank G-d! The staff all wondered at times what exactly G-d was thinking. It is why whenever Queenie told the Caregiver she was going to pray to G-d for her, the Caregiver always smiled, but insisted that she not worry on the direction or blessings of the inner spirit.

Each morning the Caregiver is sure that Queenie has a nice, hot face cloth soaked with gentle soap. The soap by the sink always came out of paper packages with lovely and delicate paintings of flowers and exotic places on them. The Caregiver thought of the intricate designs as she went through the mundane task each morning, and instead of mundane, it started to seem lovely just like the wrappers that were discarded immediately upon opening each unique bar of delicate soap.

The old woman would sit on the toilet each morning, vaguely following the mild hygiene and dressing commands. She would take the hot cloth and press it against her face for just barely a moment before bringing it between her legs. She would do this as soon as she thought no one looking, because she knew she was not supposed to use the face cloth for other parts of the body. Her Caregiver sincerely scolded her. Though she knew the interim incontinence had made the old woman feel continuously dirty and wet, the serene image of beautiful flowers and far away places on the wrappers of the sweet smelling soap were challenged by this deviant act. There were, after all, hypoallergenic, aroma-free baby wipes for this purpose. The morning ritual had become tarnished, regardless of how many baths the old woman was given a week. Washcloths, hand towels, bath towels — all had become security blankets to sooth this strange new sense of the unknown. Upon realizing this, staff at the hotel began doing laundry service more often.

The hotel had only been in existence a short while. Prior to becoming a bed and breakfast of sorts, it had been a home, the home of Queenie’s daughter and son-in-law to be specific. This daughter looks like Queenie, and the other one who lives somewhere else looks like her deceased husband. She loves them both, but never had a son, and sometimes reflects on that at moments that are completely inappropriate. Queenie does not know what is appropriate and what is not, and rarely do other people bother to notice, unless she starts trying to blow her nose at the dining table. Sometimes her nose gets stuffed up, and she forgets how to clear it out. She will play with the Kleenex until you are forced to stare at her. Prior to becoming a hotel, it was a home. Now, however, it is just short of a luxury hotel with cleaning service, meals, chauffeur, and even an off-site salon, along with physician and pharmaceutical services. Sometimes there were even in-house medical services, thanks to the Caregiver.

When Queenie began spending an hour at a time after every half-hour break in the bathroom, she was delivered to the doctor, who prescribed daily enemas and suppositories to release an impacted bowel. It was all taken care of with ease. The process left her screaming late into the night, and demanding to speak with the doctor about the “unadorable” treatment forced upon her, but the next morning she had no recollection of the experience, and within a few days she back to her normal bathroom routine.

Queenie, who was 91, had lived on the second floor of her daughter’s home for a year and a half, when one evening, while in the sacred confines of the bathroom, she collapsed. It may have been a religious experience, like an epiphany of sorts. Whatever the cause, it is still not entirely understood. Not by the doctors. Not by the staff at the hotel. Not by the Caregiver. And surely not at all by Queenie.

Her daughter and son-in-law were away on a few days vacation, when the Caregiver had to phone the other daughter in New Jersey — the one who looked like Queenie’s dear departed husband — to see what should be done with her. An hour after being lifted to her bed she started to scream in such pain. ‘Yes, it could mean something very, very bad. Yep, well, if she is going to keep screaming like that, you best do something….’ So, despite the ‘DO NOT Resuscitate’ order, no one was home, except the hired staff, and if she died, the Caregiver would have been liable.

The daughter on the phone felt so very bad, so it was decided it was best to phone 911 and get Queenie to the hospital as soon as possible. The x-rays, MRIs, PET scans, and lab work revealed absolutely, positively and completely — nothing wrong with her.

Queenie was then released into a skilled nursing facility for three months for intensive rehabilitative physical therapy. It was there, in the facility, that what had been left of her dementia-laden mind became something rather different from the original working model, which already worked oddly enough when she moved from Livingston, New Jersey to the historic downtown district of Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Once returned from the skilled nursing facility it was established she’d been medicated rather heavily. Though she did not suffer from epilepsy, the final paperwork revealed that she had been given enough anti-seizure medication to prevent recurring episodes in numerous large children and the dose high enough to sedate a large aggressive dog. Upon returning home she had forgotten what home was; she knew only that she was glad to be there at the hotel instead of that other place, despite some of the staff’s shortcomings.

“We are not your servant.” Her daughter said sternly. “Be nice or these people who take care of you here won’t show up in the morning.” Her daughter meant herself and husband, along with the Caregiver.

“I don’t need anyone to help me,” muttered Queenie with a nasty tone. Her pants were down around her legs, her paper panties lightly soiled, and she was looking around for something which none of the staff could procure. “I just need a Kleenex.” She pulled one out of the inside of the sleeve of her sweater before continuing her retort, “and I am always nice. I’ve no idea how to do anything except the proper thing. It is how I was raised, and I was raised the eldest of all 14 children.” Apparently each year, another sibling was added to the story of origin of her family entering America from England. Sadly, with each sibling added to the beginning of her life, another person from the present seemed to disappear into a void of lost tim

Sometimes when she had some concentrated clarity on the day, Queenie would marvel that she started out in Lancaster, England and wound up at the end in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. “Remarkable!” Her eyes would get wide and she would shake her head with a smile. Those were the few good days, when she knew exactly where she was at. Those days however were no longer part of the daily process, but that was okay — at the hotel she was safe, regardless of what state of mind she was embraced from moment to moment. They viewed it as surrealistic performance art, though they were sure not to use such vernacular in front of medical professionals. It was simply not appropriate to refer to her as “Da-Da-esque” during assessments of evaluations, though with her platinum dyed hair and repetitive sentences, it seemed obvious that she had become like a piece of masked and strange poetry. There was a deeper meaning attempting to come out at times, but the synapses backfired and died out before long, leaving all waiting for the real meaning behind each sentence.

She walked away in search of more Kleenex and the quiet, sacred, sanctuary of the bathroom, though a few minutes after she sat down on the commode the Caregiver was knocking at the door. “Disgusting!” seethed Queenie. “Leave me alone! I am going to the bathroom.” She was sitting on the toilet, making neat little squares of paper. Gently, so gently, she pulled on what was left of the roll, separating the paper into perfect little rectangles, squares and occasionally even a triangle. She would fill the pockets of her sweater and her pants until she was a full size larger in the hips. She would then forget she ever had them, and would demand that someone find her more Kleenex, or she would say she was in need of the bathroom and would sit in solitude tearing little pieces of paper. It had become the sustenance of her existence, and considering how she little she would eat that was not sweet, it was important that something fill her with vitality. A bumper sticker on the sill of a window in the washroom read, “Art is Food. It Nourishes You!” Queenie was nourished by some odd form of origami with tissue paper that made her hoarding a point of constant fascination.

Sometimes the Caregiver wondered what would fill her at the end of her own years. Widower romance at the senior dances? Vodka in the water bottles? Senior cruise travel? Learning how to crochet doilies? Bingo? Shredding toilet paper until the Roto Rooter Man was called a blood cousin? Paper underwear? Namenda and Synthroid and Plavix and Furosemide and Senna? The endless bathroom visits and the constant doctor’s appointments for what purpose?

The Caregiver pulled Queenie up along with her pants, attempting to coax her out of the bathroom by talking about cookies and day trips and all the other psychological magic bubbles — STOP! “I’m not done yet!” Queenie tried batting her away. “Don’t rush me. I have to go the bathroom before we leave.” But she did not have to go. She just didn’t remember what it felt like anymore, so she pretended to go just in case. The Caregiver checked the toilet water. There was nothing there except for clear water polluted by shreds, and more shreds of the once perfectly squared white paper.

Time stops and then repeats in strange and jagged beats which no longer sound musical or even at all natural. The faces of family and those who are known exist in a fog, while the people at the hotel become a constant barrage of annoyance. The staff forces Queenie to step forward and out of sync with a stuck out of sync beat between her heart and her brain.

Queenie complains over and over that the woman upstairs stole all of her black socks as the washing machine vibrates from yet another load of laundry, and time slowly moves forward deeper into the morning. An image of Jesus handsome and adoring on the dresser. A blessing mixed in with collected sacred Kleenex and a tandem of fading memories.