The court order directed Grace to the hospice. The Uber drive pulled up to the front door, but she asked him to drop her of under the line of trembling aspens at the back of the property. The building looked like a regular ranch-style house except for an extension which included a conservatory. There was also a large parking lot at the rear not normal for a house. The flicker of the aspen leaves reminded her of her family’s backyard where she grew up, the dappled shade and the constant movement of the leaves.
The long driveway to the front door felt like the Long March. She had agreed to the plan. Thirty days in a detox centre and then 100 hours of community service. She got out yesterday and celebrated her 30-day sobriety with a 26er of Jack Daniels. She showered and used perfumed soap which was against the rules, but she hoped it might mask the booze seeping through her pores. She felt shaky. Was it the booze or the newness of the place? What would she have to face here? What would they ask of her? Maybe it’s great opportunity to see how this works. We’ll all end up here sometime.
The gardens were tidy though were looking a little weary and breathless, in the scorching heat. The coneflowers, black-eyed Susans and strawflowers the only plants looking vibrant after weeks of drought. Every movement meant sweating and her pores leaked the smell of booze, mixed with soapy, faux rose petals. She took a last drag off her cigarette. The smoke and tar following her like a yellowy cloud. She planted a make-the-best-of-it smile on her face and walked to the front doors that swung toward her as she approached, sweeping her up into the building with open arms.
She came into a foyer filled with light. Large comfortable armchairs in subdued hues were scattered about the adjacent common room. Wheelchairs and walkers were plentiful. People spoke in hushed tones. Tissue boxes were within reach at each seating area, flower arrangements and plants plentiful.
The receptionist’s head popped up from behind her desk. Through her practiced smile, Grace saw an instant evaluation run across her face. 1) Not a resident. 2) Not a delivery person. 3) Family? Friend of a resident? The receptionist politely greeted her and asked how she may help.
Grace pulled out the paperwork and handed it to the receptionist hoping not to have to explain in this open area why she was here. The receptionist studied the official form, noting the court insignia on the letterhead.
“Thank you, do you mind waiting just over there?” she pointed vaguely at two chairs adjacent to the reception desk. “I will tell Lalitha you’re here.”
Suddenly Grace’s stomach lurched, her guts churned. “Would it be OK if I used the washroom first?”, the receptionist nodded and pointed her toward the restrooms. Grace walked quickly toward the washrooms and raced to the farthest stall. She was in there for a long time while the spins took her to dark places, while the sweats came in waves and she debated whether to get sick and get it over with. She finally stuck her fingers down her throat, gagging, retching like a cat. The sound unmistakable but she hoped that no one would hear or politeness would prevent anyone from saying anything.
There receptionist’s eyes stayed down when Grace returned and said, “OK, I’m ready now.” She felt better but aware of the bitter taste in her mouth.
Lalitha came forward and shook her hand, as Grace rummaged for a mint in the lint-filled corners of her purse. “Welcome to Aspen Hospice, my name is Lalitha. I am very pleased to meet you, Grace.” Grace half-smiled, held out a crumpled hand in an awkward handshake. She wasn’t here for a job interview. She wasn’t here to meet a mentor or reunite with a friend. She was here on a court-order. They both knew it and maybe Lalitha knew why. If she did, she didn’t give it away.
She led Grace down a hallway to a back office. She was a tiny slip of a woman, dressed impeccably. He shoes were soundless on the thick carpet. They’d spent some money on this place. She invited Grace to sit in one of two large chairs. She sat in the other. Lalitha opened a folder she had placed on the table next to her and pulled out her copy of the paperwork.
“So, tell me Grace, how much did you have to drink last night?”
Looking forward to reading more about Grace's adventure in the hospice.