Happy Gates

An account of the woman stood as her only remembrance. Cheryl Lynn Thomas was as personal as she ever was. She had no other virtue than that of her name. She died and lived in a very similar sense. One wonders if her being had meant anything at all.

The doctors and nurses at Happy Gates Retirement Center were happy to oblige to most requests. That was their central function, to simply oblige. They had not aspired for fame or glory or a name of remembrance; to serve had been their sole ambition. And in this place they were allowed to realize such a goal.

The place was one of the forgotten, of the cast aside and discarded. These were the men and women of yesterday’s future, and last week’s youth. They came from all areas and all walks of life. They came from all happenings and distractions. They came from wars and children and careers. They came from Illinois and Indiana and Michigan. They came from sad and happy and right in between. They came from a life and a time and a place. They came to dwell, and wait for the inevitable outcome that had simply not arrived on time.

Bruce was a veteran. He sat in a large, ripped, red cushioned recliner everyday, all day. He rarely spoke a word at all. He arose to eat at the proper times and never had to be reminded to do so. His family would visit monthly. They would bring a box of chocolates, some German brand that Bruce supposedly loved. He would always smile and thank them. When they would leave, though, he would drop the box in the small trashcan that had always resided next to his bed. That monthly box of chocolate was the only piece of trash Bruce would ever produce. There was only one time where he spoke of the war. He rang the bell one night, calling a nurse. She walked in and met Bruce sitting upright in his bed, smoking a pipe. He looked at her and said one thing. “I survived the war to die.” She forged a smile and asked if she could help with anything. The next morning Bruce did not awake.

Carol was a dancer. In her day she had been renowned for her ballet. She had moved and graced the stage with a striking allure that urged an exulting praise upon all that stood witness. Her angelic figure stood as a monument to human capability; her beauty exuded an appreciation that even nature reproached. Her eyes held with them a humble distance that seemed to speak out in artistry. She was recognized and adored by all that found the privilege to view her. Her son called once a week, and visited on holidays. She would walk around the establishment often, talking politely with the other inhabitants and nurses. She only bothered the doctors when she felt it necessary. She died of a heart attack one afternoon in front of the television. She had not seen her son in four months. He came to collect the body several weeks later.

Cheryl was a mystery. She had been dropped off by the local police who had found her wondering the bus station. She was mumbling softly to herself about some old recipe that held no fantastic value. Her gaze was dazed and disfigured. When she was finally settled in, she found herself a chair near the window and never left. Every night she would be ushered off to bed by the nurses and every morning she would be brought back to the chair. Eventually the attendants learned to bring her meals to the corner window, so she would rarely have to move at all. No one ever came to ask about her, and no one ever thought to ask why. All the police had found was a nametag that had been pinned to her shawl. It simply read, “Cheryl Lynn Thomas.” Cheryl only spoke once, and it was in relation to an inquiring nurse. The nurse had asked about her family and her life. Cheryl had looked up and frowned at the question. She sat seemingly pondering her answer for a moment, and then smiled weakly, saying, “Oh, no thanks dear, I’m not hungry…” She passed away in the chair early one morning, it was not until nightfall that they even realized she was dead.

There was the account of Bruce and Carol. What it was that they lived and died for lay within the boundaries of acceptance. This is to say that they had some kind of something. How is it, then, that the life of it all was so reprehensible? No such credit was given and no such truth was deserved. Bruce and Carol lived and died. And then there was the account of Cheryl Lynn Thomas.

Cheryl Lynn Thomas died, and was soon after forgotten. She had no family, no soul to call her own. The nurses moved on to their next patient. The chair found other occupants. A simple account of her time at Happy Gates provided the only evidence of her life. She had truly not held any matter at all. For, once she was gone, there was no reason to care. Cheryl Lynn Thomas died and she lived, and the two were just as good.

A guy