112 The Meadow The social worker stands up, picks up her clipboard and heads toward the door. “How many times you go on an elevator and there’s no thirteenth floor? Of course, it’s ridiculous. There’s no empty space between twelve and fourteen. There’s no thirteenth floor filled with dusty furniture and ghosts. But as soon as that twelfth floor passes under our feet, we feel taller, don’t we? Lighter. Bouncier. It’s like collective amnesia. We all of us tricked death.” Outside the bingo game has started. Even though they’ve only been playing for two minutes, a lady’s jumping in her chair and screaming. I won! I won! “Sometimes we need our delusions, Lisa. They’re our security blankets, our ace in the hole when we’re holding a lousy hand. And your mother, and all the other poor souls fighting this disease, need kindness like air. Like oxygen. Without it they’ll just shrivel up and die.” One by one the pages of the calendar flip. Valentine’s Day. Mother’s Day. Father’s day. Thanksgiving. The pace of Lisa’s interventions slackens. Only when Christmas rolls around, does she insist that the whole family visit. Her dress is a montage of rhinestones and sequins. For the others, she insists on red and green. Then armed with Jeff on one side and her daughters on the other they proceed down the hall. Twinkly lights loop the ceiling. In the distance they hear children’s voices. Instead of antiseptic, pinecones perfume the air. “Prepare yourselves,” says Lisa. “Dr. Edelman dresses as Santa. Plus there’s eggnog and a plastic evergreen.” Her daughters are audibly sulking. They would rather be anywhere else. “Like, why are we here?” says Ashley. “I mean we could hire stand-ins,” says Heather. “Would it make a difference?”
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