By Her Side • Forever Young

I had chosen a facility close to home so I could walk there. Simplify, simplify, simplify: I was following the three principles meant to free time for what truly matters, a philosophy Henry David Thoreau developed during the two years he spent living in the woods at Walden.

The long-term care residence for seniors with advanced loss of autonomy had four floors and roughly a hundred private rooms. Like real estate listings boasting curtain colors, its brochure listed as many features as possible, sometimes to the point of absurdity (they celebrated the installation of a vending machine). Nevertheless, I see the benefit of not having to run to the bodega for a refreshment—nearly impossible for many residents, and time-consuming during visits already too rare and too brief.

“Hello,” I said to the receptionist after stepping through the automatic doors.

I waited for the employee to lift her eyes from her phone, which gave me time to observe her pallid face framed by not-so-clean hair.

“I have some free time, and I’d like to volunteer,” I said once her gaze met mine.

She wouldn’t have looked more surprised if I’d told her my name was Céline Dion.

“Uh…”

A few armchairs surrounded a table

“I’d go see people who don’t get many visitors. Would that be possible?” I added, smiling.

It was.

Unlike some large care chains, I didn’t have to fill out an online form or answer endless questions—whether I’d recently lost a loved one, or what my views on aging were. Absolutely, I approved of protecting the residents. Yet, to me, probing minds and psychoanalyzing motivations felt closer to adoption procedures and seemed less relevant here.

After speaking with the owner of the facility and providing identification, we agreed I would return once my background check was complete.

When I came back on a Friday morning, three weeks had passed.

“I suppose you can go to room 31, to see Lucile Talbot,” said the same receptionist. “I don’t think she has had a visitor in the four years I’ve worked here.”

“Oh wow… Tell me, is there anything about Mrs. Talbot I should know and you could share?”

“The resident is showing early signs of dementia,” Laura said. “Maybe not ideal for your first experience. However, at this stage, regular interaction can still occur.”

I was surprised that a receptionist knew so much about the residents’ diagnoses. My forgivable ignorance—and my snap judgment of her appearance—had misled me. It made sense that the person overseeing comings and goings would know each resident’s situation.

“Just a moment,” Laura said. “I’ll have the resident brought down. That’ll be better than going upstairs.”

Laura picked up the phone and gestured for me to sit in one of the lobby chairs. A few minutes later, an elderly woman appeared, supported by a caregiver in a smock. Small and frail, she wore a heavy dress. Cheerfully, the man said,

“I told you you had a visitor, Mrs. Talbot!”

I stood gently, greeted the employee, and held out my hand to the resident.

“Hello, ma’am. My name is Sabrina Pratt.”

“Hello!” the woman replied in a high, bright voice.

Still holding the senior, the caregiver motioned for me to follow them. We turned left into a common area, then stopped at a door where he entered a code on a wall keypad, unlocking access to a shared room. Inside, a few armchairs surrounded a table. At the bottom of a basket lay individually wrapped wafers. The man helped Mrs. Talbot sit down, then pointed toward the refrigerated vending machine.

“I’ll be back in half an hour, all right?”

“Perfect,” I said, while the resident stared at the wall with a vacant expression.

I sat across from her, waited a moment, and spoke.

“Hello… Hello, Mrs. Talbot. How are you?”

“Well, you know… we’re short on hedgehogs…”

I nodded in agreement. Most of what I knew came from works of fiction (among which The Bear Came over the Mountain, Alice Munro’s short story, which became Sarah Polley’s movie Away from Her; Still Alice, Lisa Genova’s novel and its film adaptation by Wash Westmoreland; Wrinkles, Paco Roca’s graphic novel; and Patrice Leconte’s farcical movie One Hour of Calm, with a scenario by Florian Zeller, with its magnificent ending). From what I understood, randomly correcting the speech of people with neurodegenerative diseases only highlighted their condition, frustrated them, or even humiliated them.

“Are you hungry?” I asked, pointing to the basket of cookies.

“Never! Are you trying to poison me?”

“I’m sorry. You are right. I came by car,” I said, hoping to divert the negativity I’d unintentionally stirred.

“And?”

“And… I wanted to see you today.”

It was subtle, but the resident’s wilted features softened. Encouraged, I stood, walked around the table, and rested my hands on the chair beside Mrs. Talbot.

“May I?”

“By all means, dear. No need for formalities between the two of us.”

“All right. Thank you… Listen. I wanted to tell you… You’re a remarkable woman. I enjoy spending time with you!”

I felt embarrassed—ashamed, really. What a foolish idea. I was only going to confuse the good woman further. Was she wondering who I was? Was she searching through tangled memories? Who was this middle-aged stranger claiming to care about her? Of course, I should have prepared conversation topics.

Against all odds, Lucile Talbot replied,

“You’re telling me!”

Though the phrase sounded automatic, I sensed something lighthearted in her tone.

“Therefore, I just wanted to congratulate you… to thank you.”

“Well, that’s what it means to be a mother.”

Unsettled, I let the hushed, poetic atmosphere linger before redirecting the conversation.

“Would you like something cold to drink?”

I thought of the controversy over food too late. Would she accuse me again? Quickly, I added,

“I’m going to get a Tropico.”

“Me too. Like always! See, I remember.”

“Wonderful!”

“I’m going to get a Tropico.”

I fed the coins into the machine and received two turquoise cans decorated with a parrot—a blessing after all, that vending machine, and my habit of still carrying cash inside my wallet. The drink seemed to stir memories, so I followed that thread.

“When I drink a Tropico, I feel a bit like I’m on vacation.”

“Exactly. Just look at us,” she said, opening her can.

She added,

“That’s what it means to be your mother.”

OMG. This time, Lucile had said your mother. To me—how had the woman foreseen, by what intuition, what quiet sensitivity had she designed to forge this bond between us?

As we sipped the sweet liquid in small gulps, she let out a sound “mmmh.”

“It’s good, isn’t it?”

“That’s because they add gravel,” the woman said knowingly.

She then made as if to stand, and the timing aligned perfectly with the half hour appointed with the caregiver. Clearly, in certain ways—and despite the obvious—Lucile Talbot held some striking aptitudes.

photo #1 © in collaboration with Chat GPT.

The Merciless Killer with the Red Shopping Cart

As a matter of fact, not many knew Mrs. Leblanc anymore. Her daughter Aurore lived on the other side of the continent. They rarely saw each other—usually when the mother had gathered enough money for a plane ticket.

The elderly lady's friends had scattered over the years: Milton resided in a rest home in the suburbs, Roselen had followed her husband to his native country, and Mathilde had met her death a long time ago. Mrs. Leblanc's neighbors were out all day and came home too late to run into her, as she liked to put on her pajamas early to watch the television programs.

Actually, the retailers were the only ones who met her on a regular basis. Mrs. Leblanc did her shopping every day, the old way; she brought her red-checked shopping cart. She came back within the hour, with half a bread, vegetables, a piece of meat. Sometimes, she purchased pistachio ice cream, her favorite dessert. On Thursdays, she treated herself to a movie.

Sometimes, she purchased pistachio ice cream, her favorite dessert.

When Mrs. Leblanc missed her daily appointments, the merchants believed she had caught the flu. Her absence extended, and they concluded that she was visiting her daughter. After three weeks, they grew concerned. One alerted the neighborhood police officer. He found Berangere Leblanc on her bed; the television was still on, unlike her, switched off for more than a month.

Aurore Leblanc journeyed to handle the formalities. With a minimum of emotion, she collected her mother's photo albums as well as a blue earthenware teapot. In the telephone directory, she found a company to empty the place. They came for free and even guaranteed a modest payment. What a bargain!

When the two bulky men arrived, Aurore wondered whether they would remove her as well. They looked at her with indifference, one adding a grunt. At the end, she received an envelope. Aurore thanked them, impressed by the impenetrable faces. The envelope contained the equivalent of one month's rent. She locked the place, threw the keys in the mailbox, and hailed a cab to the airport.

Vitaly and Porter got back to the warehouse. The following morning, they would hand Mrs. Leblanc's furniture over to the Salvation Army. These kinds of humble actions guaranteed a well-needed respectability for their company. Indeed, nobody was better or faster at covering up a crime scene. Well known in questionable circles, they also took destruction contracts, burning bloodstained armchairs in their gigantic incinerator, or sofas riddled with bullets.

But Manor, Vitaly's cat, had vomited its meal that morning. Hoarse meows escaped from its irritated throat at its owner's departure. Distracted, the colossus placed the sticker with Berangere Leblanc's information on a fridge that belonged to one of his good customers from organized crime.

The Salvation Army had other things to do and several days went by before they started cleaning the appliance. At a glance, they took the dark heap in the vegetable compartment for a spoiled red cabbage.

Thus Mrs. Leblanc gained a posthumous notoriety. Watching the news announcement, the retailers remembered the checked shopping cart. On second thought, it seemed too heavy to be right. The neighbors mentioned the lady's proverbial silence. Evidently, she fulfilled her tasks with professional discretion. As for Aurore, she testified about her mother's lack of interest toward her—even more appalling, since, without any doubt, Berangere made considerable amounts of money. Aurore deplored her minuscule inheritance and found comfort in the preparation of herbal tea in the blue earthenware teapot. Alas, they all ended up developing a harsh flavor, that of the legends that would henceforth be propagated on the merciless killer with the red caddy.

Photo © https://unsplash.com/photos/Q6uTgpjlE7A

Private Collection

Rainier was a patient man, and his back did not hurt. For these reasons, he got the job. For seven hours, five days a week, he would stride across the Silversmithery museum as the guardian.

He quickly adapted to his new functions. Wandering from room to room, he envisioned the pieces in their original context. What gracious wrist had held this narrow bracelet? What exquisite wine had this chalice carried? The guardian also kept an eye on the visitors, and nodded when they glanced at him. Sometimes, he visited his colleagues from the ticket office or the locker room; or he carried on to the shop.

What exquisite wine had this chalice carried?

When Rainier left the Silversmithery team, ten years had gone by. Now, he would look after the Fine Arts museum. What a true blessing, after all this time spent among cups, crowns, and tools! Instead of being produced by his imagination, the scenes materialized under his nose. He interpreted them as he liked. One morning, three characters sitting next to a canoe were fishing; the following day, they were deciding which one of them would not step back on board. Other times, they discussed how to address the individuals at the back of the painting. Rainier even enjoyed naming the cast.

And if his life had been less austere? Would he have loved his job as much? He did not go out much and possessed no friend. Used to not speaking during the day, he was so talkative in the evening that he bored his interlocutors. His universe was almost exclusively limited to his work, and he had trouble varying conversation topics.

One night when he was particularly lonely, he considered that others probably felt the same way. So sprang the idea. Why wouldn't they retail reproductions of the best canvases, at the shop? What a consolation, to offer oneself such nurturing company! Of course, it was already possible to get postcards and posters, but these did not convey the warmth or the subtlety of the original art. They hadn’t the shimmering feeling of life that emerged from the paintings.

The director was receptive. He selected three paintings from among the institution's favorites: an aquatic landscape by Claude Monet; a scene populated by tiny figures, depicted by Brueghel the Elder; and a humble snowy house from Octave Bélanger—his favored piece. There were many companies that specialized in reproducing art. The director selected one of them and placed an order. The canvases were attentively rendered in a Chinese workshop. They proved to be sumptuous, strikingly resembling the originals, even up to the frames.

They never sold. Too modest, the city owning the museum did not have enough customers willing to pay the necessary amount for such good reproductions. People kept buying the postcards and posters. Years became decades. Rainier asked to be transferred to the shop, as his legs hurt.

Finally, the loyal employee's career came to an end. As a going away present, the director gave the reproductions. Rainier expressed an odd request: he wished to occupy one last time every role he had played during the past years. Indeed, on several occasions, he had replaced the locker room attendant or the night guard. It was granted with a patronizing smile.

The last day, Rainier greeted his colleagues and put away the carefully wrapped canvases in his car. He arranged the Bélanger in his bedroom and the Monet on top of the sofa. He kept the place of honor for Brueghel the Elder, in the entrance, because that was the direction of his gaze during his meal. In a sublime manner, the paintings transformed the humble apartment. Rainier experienced much happiness from them; without any doubt, it was the crowning achievement of his career. The ex-guardian completed his life as quietly as he had lived it and died shortly after his retirement, as happens sometimes to those who no more have a daily aim.


During the yearly heavy maintenance, the restorers unhooked all the paintings. They studied them meticulously, paying attention to the tiniest signs of wear, administering minuscule adjustments here and there. When they noticed that three pieces wore Made in China labels on their reverse, it was already too late. The Salvation Army had cleaned out Rainier's apartment, and the paintings had gone rapidly, because the price asked was extremely low, and because they had the unrivaled radiance of authentic pieces.

Published in the Dark Lane Quarterly Collaborative anthology
Photo © https://unsplash.com/photos/saS98jKhVjA