Living Legend

I open my eyes and turn on my side to see my husband sleeping next to me. To my shock, he is not there. Usually I get up before him; he’s never been a morning person. Maybe he had trouble sleeping the night before, and he’s already up for work. I sit up in my bed and rub my eyes. Our bedroom looks different, way different. Instead of being greeted by the warm sage colored walls, I am met with a sterile cream color. I look around, and everything is different. Where am I?

Panic starts to set in; Gerald isn’t by my side, and I am in an unfamiliar place. I look at the cream colored walls, and they are decorated with photos. Photos of an old woman with many different kinds of people: grandchildren, adults, and an older man I assume to be her husband. Where is this old woman? Why am I in her house? The room looks so gaudy, straight out of an old woman’s dream. I would’ve decorated it differently; I never like the grandma-esque style. How did I get here?

I go to get myself out of bed, and my legs don’t seem to work. When I pull myself out, I land on the floor in one swift motion; pain shoots up through my body. The rug I land on is so uncomfortable; it's so itchy, and I feel my hands meet it as I try to break my fall. “Gerald! Gerald!” I call out. Where is he? My heart starts beating faster; I can’t move, don’t know where I am, and Gerald is nowhere to be seen. I struggle to get up, and my attempts are futile. I am stuck on the floor. “Gerald!” I call out again, and tears begin to fall from my eyes.

The door cracks open, and a woman’s voice calls out. “Gertrude! I am here to get you ready for breakfast.” A fake sweet voice, one of those condescending ones. I look up, and I see a young woman in scrubs in the doorway. She notices me on the floor. “Gertrude! Are you okay?” She rushes over to me. How does she know my name? I know nothing of this woman, and she knows of me. I keep crying; I just want my husband. I ignore the woman’s words asking if I am okay. “Where’s Gerald?” I ask. Did this woman do something to him? Is she keeping him somewhere? “Did you do something to him?” I accuse her. The woman goes over to a wheelchair in the corner of the room and brings it over; she ignores my question. “Gerald is at home, honey.” She tells me, again with that fake sweet voice. She goes to pick me up, and I try to fight back, but my body has betrayed me; it suddenly, in this moment, has become too weak to do anything. I just kinda flail, like a beached fish. As she is setting me in this wheelchair, I say to her, “Why isn’t he here with me? Where is Gerald?” My voice has gotten louder, more demanding. I just want my husband, and I want this woman away from me.

She sighs and mumbles something under her breath; all I can hear is ‘someone isn’t having a good day’. I can tell she’s talking about me, and why on earth would I have a good day? I am in a strange place; my husband is beside me, and a strange woman has just plopped me down in a wheelchair. Why would I have a good day? I still haven’t stopped crying, my body still hurts from my fall, and I just want to go home. “I want Gerarld!” I tell her, “Go away!” I make a motion with my hands to signal her to leave; she doesn’t listen, she just stands there. The woman bites her lip and sighs, “Gertrude, Gerald isn’t here right now. We need to get you ready for breakfast.” Her voice seems slightly annoyed that I am not complying with this. I have no idea who this woman thinks she is, but apparently she thinks she holds some authority over me. She goes behind me, and my head instantly whips around. She grabs onto my wheelchair and starts to push. I put my hands on the wheels to stop her. “Stop!” I say, panic in my voice.

She doesn’t listen to me; she just wheels me to the bathroom. “What are you doing? I said stop!” I plead with her. She flicks on the light, and she pushes me up to the sink. I look in the mirror; instead of being met with youth, I am met with an old woman. My long brown hair is now grey; I now have crow’s feet, and my cheeks have started to sag. My face looks familiar, and that’s when the horror hits me. I am the old woman in the photos. How did time jump so fast? I don’t remember aging so fast. Yesterday I talked with my daughter, who is going to college, then Gerald and I discussed plans to go on vacation. I wasn’t old then, so why am I old now? I look nothing like a forty-four year old women anymore; I look closer to ninety. I touch my cheek, and the mirror is not deceiving me; I am wrinkled to the touch, like a prune. “What happened to me?” I ask the woman; I don’t trust her, but maybe she has an answer. She’s getting something from the cupboard next to me, and she turns to me, “Nothing, Gertrude! Same as usual.” She puts on a smile; I think she’s trying to comfort me. What does she mean by nothing? Nothing? You don’t go from forty-four to ninety overnight. You don’t just wake up and become old. I put my face in my hands. I cannot stand to look at the mirror anymore, and I cry, “Please, I just want my husband.” My face is hot, and I feel my hands get wetter the longer I hold them to my face.

She realizes I won’t relent, and tells me, “Why don’t we call him? I am sure he’ll come see you. Let’s go up to the front desk together and have them call him.” That’s all I wanted; I just want Gerald here with me. Gerald and I have been married for over twenty years, and when he gets here, he’ll have an explanation for what’s going on. He’ll bring me home. “Let’s just get you ready first.” She says to me, holding a toothbrush and toothpaste in her hand.

I don’t fight her back; I want this to go by as fast as possible. I want to go to the front desk and call Gerald; I want him to come and bring me home. The lady attempts to entertain me with small talk; I don’t reply; I just keep bringing up Gerald. Finally, I am done getting ready. I am wearing ugly clothes, ones that some old lady would wear. I look like my grandma right now. The lady grabs something off the nightstand; it's a doll, my childhood doll. I’ve had that doll since I was five, and always took great care of her; she was my first child. “Do you want your doll?” She asks me, holding it out to me. I nod and grab it from her. My doll soothes me, bringing me some comfort. As the woman pushes me out of the room, I run my fingers through the doll’s blonde hair. “Gerald is going to bring me home?” I ask the woman. The woman responds, “He’ll come here to see you, Gertrude, don’t worry.” So he’s not bringing me home? Why wouldn’t he bring me home? I don’t belong here.

We make our way up to the front desk; at the front desk, a man is sitting there. “Hi Todd! Gertrude and I were wondering if you’d be able to call Gerald for us. She’s having a rough morning.” The woman tells him. I furrow my brow. “I am not having a rough morning; I just want my husband!” I’ve stopped crying by now; I am now just trying to comply- anything to get Gerald here faster. I cross my arms, waiting for Todd’s response. He nods and picks up the phone, dialing Gerald’s phone number, I presume. He starts talking to Gerald on the phone, asking him to come. Before he hangs up, I quickly ask, “Wait, can I speak to him?” Todd looks over to me and just keeps talking on the phone. He says things like ‘she’s having a bad day’ and ‘get here soon’. Degrading; all I feel is degraded. Why is he talking about me like that? Especially in front of me.

I wait up front with the woman and Todd. They both try to talk to me; I barely speak to them. I just want Gerald to come and take me home, get me out of this place. I look around at my surroundings, and this place is littered with old people. They all have trouble moving, and most of them have caretakers by their side. I don’t belong here; I belong at home. I can’t wait to go home; I can’t wait to be greeted by Gerald and our cats. We built that house together back in the eighties; it's out in the country. I can’t wait to sit in the sunroom again with a cup of coffee, watching the sunrise. I can’t wait to see my daughter again and ask her how college is going. My daughter is a bright young woman; she got into an Ivy League school. I always knew she would. Gerald and I were ecstatic when she did; we threw a big party for her. I can’t wait to return to my life and get out of this hellhole. This feels like a fever dream, if anything, and I cannot wait to wake up.

Soon, Gerald comes, and I set my doll down in my lap, then hold out my arms to him. “Gerald!” I say with glee, and I just want to get out of this wheelchair. I want to run and hug him. He looks older now, just like me; his hair is now grey, and his cheeks have started to sag. He’s still handsome, but he looks different. I don’t know how time has jumped like this; I don’t know what kind of puppetry is going on behind the scenes. He comes over to me and bends down to hug me. “Hi Gertrude.” He greets me; his voice is sweet, like acutally sweet, not that fake sweet like the woman earlier.

The woman speaks up, “Hi. So, Gertrude isn’t having a great day, and we thought it might be best to call you.” Gerald nods and thanks the woman for calling him. “What’s wrong, honey?” He asks me. Words start instantly pouring out of my mouth, “I just want to go home, Gerald. I don’t know why I am here. Please, just take me home.”

He grimaces and sighs, “Honey, you can’t go home; you know that.” What does he mean? Why can’t I go home? I am fine, well except for my legs. I just want him to take me home; I want to sleep in my bed. I want to wear my own clothes; I want to go on the vacation we were planning. “Why?” I question. This isn’t like Gerald; whenever I was in danger, he was the first to save me. Whenever something upset me or happened to me, he was the first to defend me. Now, he is having me fight on my own. I feel so betrayed; his words felt like a knife to the heart.

“Because Gertrude. You have dementia; they take care of you here. Take care of you better than I ever could.” He bites his lip. My heart drops. Oh god. Oh god. I have fallen victim to the same disease I watched my mother go through. I am sick; my mind is slowly dying, and I am entrapped in it. I didn’t magically time travel; I forgot the past years. I forgot it. I forgot growing old with him. I forgot watching my daughter graduate. My mind is slipping away. I start to hyperventilate. This can’t be real. It all hits me so fast; it all makes so much sense now. I have dementia.

A/N: A little on the shorter side for my stories, but whatever. I hoped you liked it. Again, all my short stories are named after songs; this one is named after a Lana Del Rey song.