The Better Place
By Chaleen Duggan, Mattawa, ON, Canada

It was official. No more Smoking Room. They had finally managed to rob her of that last simple joy. She, in turn, refused to give them the chance to smirk at her misfortune. Struggling to maneuver the heavy fire door to enjoy an occasional pleasure, becoming stranded at the bottom of a ramp in the frigid November wind - in a wheel chair no less - it was too much to bear! In an act of angry defiance, she quit smoking.

From then on, she spent much of her time at the window, lost in her memories, gently stroking a small, ragged doll. The well-loved doll represented the many years she had been alone. The ones closest to her had been called away long ago. The doll itself was simply made; its nodding head of tattered ribbons and the faded dress were the only indications of its gender. Nestled in her lap, it accompanied her everywhere. She would shuffle along, slowly making her way to the dining room or the chapel. The footrests for her chair were gone, and she scooted along down the hall, taking tiny steps, becoming aggravated with anyone who dared bar her path. Her adventures had been curbed with the introduction of the wheelchair into her life. Since the first time she'd sat in the damned thing, there was no turning back. Now it was a necessity, another symbol of her dependence on something other than her own most competent self.

She had certainly been healthier, and definitely more mobile, before they had dumped her in this place. Sure, there was the occasional accident with her bathroom tap being left on, and the kettle boiling dry, but nothing major. Nothing you would ever have known about if they'd just left her at her own place in the country. It was nice to know everyone ELSE was sleeping so well, believing she was out of harm's way. She grumbled to herself as she relived the injustice, idly toying with her frayed and most noble companion.

She worried at the small hole along the seam in the doll's back. At one time she had considered mending it, but quickly changed her mind, simply pulling the thread tight and making do. It had become one more innocuous thing to fiddle with. It helped to pass the time of day.

A nurse appeared in the doorway and greeted her, then placed her paper cup on the bedside table. She paused to glance at the picture the old woman had spread out on her lap. It was a colorful autumn scene, one that would appeal to both lovers and hunters alike. It was easy to imagine a deer picking its way down the sweeping trail, the crunch of leaves underfoot. One could find a memory strolling along such a path with a lover, stopping to admire the brilliant painted leaves, the cold sparkling creek. In fact, it was no more than a sales ad torn from an old magazine. The elderly woman had been clinging to that picture for a number of weeks now. She would take it out in the evening and sit quietly, gazing at it, ignoring everything around her. The harmless act offered comfort, and so they left her to it. At first curious, the nurse had asked her what the picture meant.

"Freedom." That one word was all she offered. The nurse thought she understood. It certainly looked like a better place than this.

Tonight, as usual, she expected no banter. She was used to being less important than the hand cream ad. As usual, she placed the little cup on the bedside table, made sure there was plenty of juice, and touched the old woman's shoulder to avoid startling her. At the elderly woman's nod, the nurse returned to her cart, scribbled hastily in the book, then came back and removed the empty medication cup. It was the same ritual each night at 8pm. The little blue pills were to help her sleep, to keep the loneliness and agitation at bay just long enough to permit her to settle. Much like an obedient child, she took her pills when they were placed in front of her. She had lost this battle long ago. Non-compliance meant stronger medication, and possibly a needle. Worse yet, one might be tied into bed, which in turn meant diapers. It simply would not do.

The old woman sat for a moment, motionless, and then raised her head slightly to check the door. She could hear the cart groaning and squeaking further down the hall. The coast was clear. Like so many nights before, she rolled her colorful picture into a tube and toyed with it for a moment, then unrolled it once more. After one last look at the comforting valley scene, she carefully folded it up and tucked it into her pocket along with her precious doll. She gathered the framed photos of her husband and son, placed them lovingly on her lap, and then shuffled over to the bed.

After completing her bedtime routine, she climbed in to her bed and settled the blankets around her small frame. As she did each night, she recited the Lord's Prayer, then picked up each photo and quietly said good night to her best-loved people. It was time. She pulled out the colorful magazine ad, and smoothed it as best she could, settling it on her lap. With a slight tremor she reached for her juice, then picked up her little doll. Holding it close, she kissed the faded cheek of her forever friend, the only one who had never left her side. With stiff, arthritic fingers she carefully picked at the threads on its fragile back. As they loosened, the old woman turned the doll and shook it slightly. One small pill rolled out, then another. Soon there was a little blue pile heaped on the scenic picture. She tucked the doll safely against her side and carefully rolled the page into a tube, holding one end closed. She raised it to her mouth and the pills tumbled past her toothless gums. It was done. She chased them down with juice, wiped her mouth, and smiled, thinking how nice it would be to have a puff right then.

Her task completed, she unrolled her precious picture, gathered up her photos and snuggled her faithful doll, gently pulling at the small threads along its back. She closed her eyes, and let out a final, long sigh of contentment. For the first time in many years, sleep came easily.

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What Chaleen won:

$300 Cash Prize
Publication of winning story on the WritersWeekly.com website
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