Twilight Manor

By Gwen Austin

Andi Lane, activity director at a nursing home, Twilight Manor, in Sumter, South Carolina, is the character through whose eyes we experience life at Twilight Manor.

Andi faces a series of obstacles in her efforts to enhance the quality of life for nursing home residents. Some of these complications are personal harassment and injury and even death of some of the residents. The more she succeeds, the more complications occur.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 1, 1999
• ISBN: 9781475913668

Gwen Austin

Gwen Austin (Turbyfield) was born in 1940 in Brooklyn, NY, and grew up in Queens Village, NY, and New Canaan, CT. She received her BA degree with a major in psychology from Ohio Wesleyan University in Delaware, OH. She began her theraputic recreation career with the American Red Cross, stationed at Madigan General Hospital (now Madigan Army Medical Center) in 1962. From 1967-1968, she served with the American Red Cross at the 12th Evacuation Hospital, Cu Chi, Vietnam, while her Air Force husband, Gary Turbyfield, was stationed in Labrador. Following her husband from base to base when authorized, Gwen pursued her recreation therapy career field whenever she could. When Gary retired in 1980, they moved to their home of choice near Tacoma, WA. Within a year, Gary died. Gwen says, "Currently, I am a 58 year old free-lance writer of poetry, short stories and novels, living on a mini-tree farm in Pierce County of Washington State. I have worked in the theraputic recreation field for ten years, four years in nursing homes. Such experiences let me realistically portray life in a nursing home such as fictional TWILIGHT MANOR."

Book preview

Chapter 1

Andi Lane strode toward Twilight Manor. Reminiscent of Tara in Gone With The Wind glory days, the building gleamed white in the South Carolina morning sun. Empty rocking chairs, nudged by a ghost breeze, rocked to and fro on the second story balcony.

The wrought-iron gate latch was as hard to open today as it had been a week ago, on the day of her interview. Andi plucked one of the fragrant blossoms of the Japanese honeysuckle draping the fence along the walkway. She bit off its tip, savoring the sweet taste.

A black Sumter County Morgue van pulling away from Twilight Manor’s side door reminded Andi that people do die in nursing homes.

After stumbling slightly on the herring-boned brick path, she climbed the broad steps. Leaning against one of the stately columns flanking the front entrance, she brushed her fingers through her short hair. She pulled open the heavy oak door and stepped inside.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimness of the foyer. She walked toward the brightly-lit tropical fish tank that divided the lobby from a seating alcove. As she tapped on the glass to distract the large angel fish darting after one of the red and blue striped neons, she sensed someone behind her. She turned.

A young man grabbed her. His strong arms encircled her, pinning her arms. She struggled. She tried to turn her face away from the stench of his sour breath, but his drooling lips plastered against hers. He kissed her—hard.

Andi went limp. When he relaxed his hold, she slid to the floor and scuttled away on hands and knees. She found herself looking at a pair of dusky, swollen feet shoved into cracked leather slippers. Andi accepted the old woman’s hand extended to help her up.

Now Billy, you tell the nice lady, Tm sorry,’ The woman’s prune-skinned face emoted concern. Billy don’t mean no harm. He thinks he’s supposed to kiss all women—specially purdy things like you. Turning toward the child-man now cowering in the corner, the woman continued, Billy, did you forget about the handshake we been practicing?

Yes, ma’am, he mumbled.

Now tell the lady Tm sorry,’ and give her a handshake.

Andi, still shaking, sucked in her breath and hunched her shoulder against her lips to wipe away the spittle.

Patting Andi’s arm, the woman repeated, Billy don’t mean no harm.

Andi accepted his handshake, forcing herself to look into his slanted eyes. My name is Andi Lane. Her voice cracked. She took a deep breath. I’m your new activity director.

Act wrecker? he asked.

Activity director.

Act wrecker, act wrecker, act wrecker, he chanted until the woman took him by the hand and led him away.

Andi watched the woman, garbed in a faded, floral-print housedress, slip-slap down the hall.

The purple turban on her head looked oddly regal.

Thank you, she called to the retreating figures.

Andi found the time clock in the office around the corner and punched in. Hi, Linda, she greeted the secretary. Know where I might find the Director of Nursing—Mrs.—what’s her name again?

Mrs. Harmony, Marge Harmony. She’s probably at one of the nurses’ stations. I’ll page her for you.

Nah, that’s okay, I’ll find her, thanks. Andi started out the door, then paused and asked, Who died?

John Price. Alzheimer’s—respiratory failure, I think. He was one of our younger residents, in his early fifties. She tilted her head. Maybe you remember him? He was in here the day you were interviewed.

Yes, said Andi. I do remember. He had that beautiful blond hair. She paused, then said, I know of only one other person that young with Alzheimer’s, at another nursing home where I worked. What a sneaky disease.

For sure, Linda said. John was always wandering into the office. In fact, he was here yesterday—didn’t even look sick. Funny, she knit her brows, when I went to his room this morning to collect his personal effects, there was a vase of honeysuckle blossoms on his nightstand. He had no family or friends to bring them in—no one. She shrugged. Oh well, someone thought of him. She smiled at Andi. Welcome to Twilight Manor.

Thanks.

Thinking about Mr. Price as she walked toward her office, Andi almost bumped into Mrs. Harmony.

Good morning, Andi. You’re just the gal I wanted to see. Come to the dining room for the resident-care staff meeting at one o’clock today. It’ll give you a chance to meet folks and learn about some of the residents.

I’ll be there.

Mr. Davies did give you a tour of Twilight Manor when you were here for your interview, didn’t he?

He sure did. Now if I can just remember where everything is—and who’s who. By the way, who owns Twilight Manor?

Mr. Davies. He’s administrator and owner. Any other questions?

That’s it for now. I’ll be at the meeting.

Andi smiled at the cleaning woman pushing a sloshing mop bucket. The sinus-clearing pine disinfectant almost masked the pervasive, lingering whiffs of urine. Some day someone will get rich by inventing a neutralizer for that telltale nursing home smell, she thought.

Smiling and nodding at residents lolling in geriatric chairs along the walls, Andi made her way down the hall. She grasped the frail, outstretched hand of a woman pulling her wheelchair along by the handrail on the wall. Hi, I’m Andi. What’s your name? There was no reply.

A lady wearing a navy blue tailored suit with light blue blouse accented by a red flower pin, strode sprightly toward her. Her name is Annie Smith, she said. She’s deaf. I’m Alice Beakerman. You must be the lady Billy got a-hold of. My roommate, Rosie Congers, told me all about what happened. He didn’t hurt you, I hope? She paused, studying Andi. Scared you though, I ‘spect. When Andi nodded, she continued, Billy is a good boy—a bit slow— She twisted her mouth, actually, a real pest at times. Rosie’s been trying to teach him right from wrong. She more or less adopted him. No living kinfolk, neither of them. Mrs. Beakerman halted to help sort out a minor wheelchair traffic jam. Go this way, Jenny. That’s right. Now your turn, Howard.

How long have you been here, Mrs. Beakerman?

Lived here a right smart while—let’s see—Mr. Beakerman’s been gone ten years now—we lived here together two years before that—so that makes it twelve years I’ve been at Twilight Manor. She murmured, Hard to believe it’s been all that long. Tilting her head to focus on Andi with her good right eye, she asked, Want to come see our room and meet Rosie proper-like?

Please. I’d like that.

Follow me. It’s clear down at the other end.

Andi lengthened her stride to keep up. She glanced through the solarium window as they passed by. The only resident awake among the several stashed before the glaring eye of the television, was banging both her fists on her geri-chair tabletop. She was totally ignored by two aides. Which soap opera are they watching? wondered Andi.

Here we are, said Mrs. Beakerman, ushering Andi into the small, tidy room. Two single beds jutted from the pale yellow wall. Beside each bed stood a dark, wood nightstand. On the wall opposite the beds, a small sink and large mirror were flanked by two closet doors. Cheery, Carolina morning light streamed through the picture window.

Rosie, may I present Andi Lane. Andi, Rosie Congers.

Hello, Mrs. Congers. Thanks for rescuing me. Andi smiled, brushing back her hair. Didn’t get your name earlier.

Nah, didn’t have time for names then, huh? You can call me Rosie. Peering up at Andi from her ancient rocking chair, she asked, You awright, ain’t you? Billy don’t mean no harm, but he sure do scare folks.

Don’t worry, I’m just fine now. Have to admit, he did scare me. Next time I see him, I’ll be ready with a handshake. Glancing around the pleasant room, Andi noticed all the cards on the wall behind Mrs. Beakerman’s bed. Wow, what are all those cards for?

My ninetieth birthday was last week—couldn’t bear to throw all these pretty cards away. She opened one and silently re-read the verse. Looking up, she said, Mr. Davies fussed a little about tape on the wall, but he’ll get over it.

Well, they certainly do add color. Say, maybe we can get bulletin boards for all the rooms. Andi grinned. I’ll wait until I’ve worked here a little longer before hitting up Mr. Davies for money. Andi smiled at both women. I want to visit some of the other residents now, but I’m so glad to have met you two. See you later.

Andi stopped in each room along the way to her office, and chatted with the residents. She wanted to meet them before reading their charts. She sighed at the thought of all the paperwork looming before her. Since Twilight Manor housed one hundred and two elderly and disabled, she knew she’d be buried under forms for the next couple of weeks.

Nibbling at a banana and mayonnaise sandwich in her office after selecting several charts from the nurses’ station, she barely had time before the staff meeting, to skim through the chart of one of the residents she had just visited, Alan Plante.

‘…twenty-one year old quadriplegic, admitted by mother in 1981…bicycle-truck collision…paralyzed and brain-damaged…mother died in 1989, no known living relatives…’ Andi read on, ‘…communicates by grunts and coos…cannot speak.’ Andi had had positive results when she used music therapy with other brain-damaged persons at other nursing homes. Maybe she’d try it with Alan. She returned the chart to the nurses’ station before the staff meeting.

Andi found the staff meeting most helpful, especially since one of the residents they discussed was Alan Plante. How could I have been so lucky to have just read his chart, thought Andi.

I’d like to try music therapy with Alan, Andi chimed in during a lull in the discussion.

Why bother? commented one of the aides, who shrugged when everyone looked at her.

Give whatever you want a try, Andi, said Mrs. Harmony, but don’t get your hopes up. He’s been unresponsive for so long. She stood up, Meeting adjourned.

Afterwards, Debby Roth, the physical therapist, stopped Andi. Hey, let’s you and me work together on exercise programs for the residents. Range-of-motion exercises are especially helpful—gets some of that tired blood moving up to the brain.

After some preliminary planning with Debby, Andi visited residents on the wing where Rosie and Mrs. Beakerman lived. She found most of them lively and eager for something fun to do.

There was one exception. Andi read the name on the door tag and walked into his room. Hi Louis Cannon. How’s it going today? Getting no response, she walked toward him as he slouched in an easy chair, his left arm in a cast, and his shoulder bound in bulky bandages. It wasn’t until then that she noticed he was restrained to the chair.

They got you all tied up, huh?

He growled low in his throat and strained at his restraints.

Andi halted.

When I get loose— He yanked again at his ties. His eyes seemed to stare right through her—as though he were seeing something behind her.

Instinctively, Andi glanced over her shoulder. Uh, I best leave you be. She slowly backed out of the room.

At five o’clock, Andi helped take residents to the dining room for their evening meal, ‘supper,’ as they called it. While they dined, she signed out the charts of some of the residents she had visited. Taking them to her office, she read and annotated them.

She carefully read Vietnam veteran Cannon’s chart. She nodded when she read that he was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome, PTSS. She wondered, shouldn’t he be in the Veterans’ Hospital in Columbia for that? A couple pages later, she found her answer. He had been hit by a car on the outskirts of Sumter recently. Upon his release from Sumter Community Hospital, he was placed at Twilight Manor for skilled nursing care.

Nurse Rodney Bell was at the nurses’ station when Andi returned the charts. What do you know about Louis Cannon?

Rodney’s smile faded and he squinted his eyes. Why?

Doesn’t seem too friendly, so I was just wondering.

Stay away from him, he’s a flake.

What do you mean?

Hates Red Cross girls.

Why?

One jilted him in ‘Nam.

How do you know all that?

Rodney groaned. We were stationed together. He was one bad-ass then—worse now.

Thanks for the warning. Andi finished replacing the charts.

Later, Andi helped return several residents to their rooms. By six-thirty, the dining room was empty and cleaned up.

Back at her office, Andi wrote out her tomorrow’s ‘to-do’ list: Contact volunteer groups. She knew that if an active, varied therapeutic recreation program was to become a reality for the residents, she would need help. Two church groups conducted worship services Sunday afternoon and Wednesday evening. That was a beginning.

When Andi clocked out at seven o’clock, her smile muscles ached almost as much as her leg muscles. Not a bad first day, she thought, in spite of Billy’s kiss, and Cannon’s snarls. Before leaving, she paused at the aquarium. Now you’re living up to your name, she whispered to the presently docile angelfish.

As she stepped out into the evening twilight, she admired the colorful azaleas flanking the building. She wandered around to the backyard, savoring the soft, slightly perfumed air. She peeked over the five-foot high fence behind Twilight Manor. Hmm, I didn’t know Swan Lake Gardens Community Park is right behind us. The black-sapphire lake shadowed by knobby-kneed cypress trees glimmered in dusk’s light. Ethereal dogwood blossoms evoked images of April snow. Stomach rumblings reminded her that it was long past her dinnertime. She strode toward the front gate and out to her car.

As she drove up her driveway, she could hear her dogs, Zonta and Pogo, whining in their kennel behind the carport shed. I’m coming, she called. They were quiet a moment. When she didn’t immediately appear, they began barking.

Andi ran to the mailbox across the street. She sighed. Only bills. Still no letter from Dean. She slammed the mailbox door shut.

Hush, she called to the dogs as she retrieved groceries from the car. Got to put this milk away, then it’s walk-time.

After putting away the few grocery items, she went out the sliding glass patio door, and unsnapped the kennel door. Now calm down—can’t get the leashes on when you’re jumping around. She finally succeeded in hooking them up. Okay, here we go.

They took the mile-long jaunt around Piney Woods Estates where she and Dean rented a yellow-brick house.

After heating macaroni and cheese in the microwave, she flopped in front of the TV, the dogs curled at her feet. She flipped channels hoping to catch news of the aftermath of the 1991 Gulf War. Maybe I’ll get a clue when Dean’ll be home.

Dean had been transferred from Hickam Air Force Base, Hawaii to Shaw Air Force Base, Sumter, South Carolina in February 1991. Andi remembered Dean’s grumbled From paradise to the ‘arm-pit of the nation’.

Then in March, he had been sent TDY to Saudi Arabia as a supply sergeant.

After the news, Andi wandered toward the sliding glass door and gazed out. Shafts of silver moonlight filtered through the tree branches, creating spotlight islands in the shadows. All seemed hushed as Andi let her mind wander. She recalled meeting June, one of her