Read The Buses and Other Short Stories for Free Online Page B

Hotel. Her usual greeting went something like this: “Welcome, my dear, come right along and sit by me. Now what do you think of me today, do you like my appearance?”
    â€œCouldn’t be better, auntie, you look more like a forty-year-old.”
    â€œOh, you silly girl!” And she turned her head left and right, touched her hair lightly, and asked, “What have you brought for me today?” With her fire-red finger nails, she opened the chocolate box, savoured two pieces of chocolate, debated with herself whether to have a third, and finally did. Afterwards, she washed her hands, put some more makeup, and then took me by the hand and said, “Come my dear, let’s go down so I can introduce you to my friends.” My Sunday visits with my auntie and her friends had become a ritual and after awhile, I had come to know them, like auntie. They too brought their own relatives and friends to the gathering place on the main floor. Self-absorbed, gregarious, mere passers of time, their idle talk amused me, although at times it was exasperating. I didn’t know what they were actively pursuing, or trying to escape from. It was in one of those gatherings that I learned of a number of volunteer opportunities at the Hellenic Villa and ended up going there an extra day during the week. And that’s how I met Mrs. Petakis.
    It was during a warm spell in late April, one of those sweet hours which drag themselves even further until the arrival of summer—one of those hours when the light pushes away the darkness and youth drives off old age. But old age itself does not leave but only waits, and waits, for only Charon can take it away. And perhaps it was him, whom everyone in the care facility waited for, and they strived with all the cunningness they could muster to deceive him. It wasn’t just the elderly residents who endeavoured to dupe Charon, but everyone associated with the care home. There was the medical team, comprised of doctors who examined the elderly with care, wrote the necessary prescriptions and assured them that they were ‘good as new,’ and the nursing staff who took their blood pressure, gave them their medication and told them their ‘heart ran smoothly as a clock.’ Activities were planned regularly by the recreation staff to amuse the old folk and keep them fit. All the pursuits and goings-on seemed to have one purpose and that was to remind them of their existence, to bolster their confidence and reassure them that they were here—alive, their place in this world had not been vacated. And so they took part in the planned excursions to view Toronto landmarks, played card games, watched television and generally kept up with public affairs. If they wanted spiritual guidance, a priest welcomed them in the Greek Orthodox Chapel on the main floor. Regardless of the activity they were involved in, over time, they expressed a kind of cool self-belief that said, “Yes, I’m here, I exist. What do you think just because I’ve aged, I’m still aware of everything! But in the end, they all waited—all that is, except Mrs. Petakis.
    â€œNadia, why did Nadia not come?” She stood on tip-toe, looked at me closely and just as I was to answer again, a nurse, a fair, heavy-set woman in her thirties took her by the hand and in a gentle voice, “let’s go in, Mrs. Petakis. It’s time for your pill and who knows Nadia may come and not find you in your room. Come, dear.”
    Mrs. Petakis followed the nurse into her room, a bright and spacious room; it had a large window with sheer curtains, a large white carpet; her furniture consisted of one twin-sized bed, a golden oak dresser with many family photos on it, an armchair and two other chairs. Only a gilded, oval mirror hung on the lily white walls and some icons above a table which was affixed to one corner of the room. We helped her in the armchair, and with her thin hands – the