I take a good long look at Old Frances. For an old, shriveled, demented, wheelchair-bound lady, she actually doesn’t look too bad. It’s hard to imagine that she’s near death. But how would I know? Back in those much-vaunted days of extended families when women died in childbirth in their own beds, and children died of scarlet fever in their own beds, and grandma or grandpa, who lived with you, worked until they dropped right in front of you, people knew what death looked like. Not today. I have never seen a dead person, or a dying one.

Back out in the common area, Hayes is yelling for help again. Jasmine goes over to him. His arms are crossed over his chest.

“Are you cold, Hayes?” she asks. It seems impossible given that he’s wearing three layers of clothing, that it’s a scorching August day and that the neighborhood is kept at hot-house temperatures. “Are you hot”? she asks. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t seem to be paying any attention. “Are you just right?”

“Just right on the edge,” says Hayes.

When lunch comes, I struggle again to get the right plates to the right people. I check and recheck the dietary list. I stare at Addie, then Old Frances, then back to Addie, still confused. Once I figure out who’s who, I’m still confused. Is the lady I’m calling Old Frances, Frances C or Frances M? I better not confuse them. Their dietary needs are quite different. I went through this just four hours ago at breakfast, but my mind’s a blank. Why can’t I keep this straight?

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