In Capable Hands

There is a fifth dimension...

The Twilight Zone redefined storytelling, drawing audiences into the unimaginable. Now, 66 years later, top writers, artists, and musicians are stepping into its eerie glow with a fresh twist. Ready to see where they’ll take you?

Liz Zimmers | Edith Bow | Sean Archer | Bryan Pirolli | Andy Futuro | CB Mason | John Ward | NJ | Hanna Delaney | William Pauley III | Jason Thompson | Nolan Green | Shaina Read | J. Curtis | Honeygloom | Stephen Duffy | K.C. Knouse | Michele Bardsley | Bob Graham | Annie Hendrix | Clancy Steadwell | Jon T | Sean Thomas McDonnell | Miguel S. | A.P Murphy | Lisa Kuznak | Bridget Riley | EJ Trask | Shane Bzdok | Adam Rockwell | Will Boucher

---

“Institutions are no solution

When it comes to your aging parents, we only provide the best

Put your loved ones in capable hands

We’ll take care of the rest!”

A radio jingle. She only heard it because she was using mom’s car. She was only using mom’s car because the woman refused to get in otherwise. It had to be familiar, otherwise it made her confused. Her memory centers had terminated most things from the last forty years, including Shawndra. The car wasn’t that old, but for some reason mom recognized it.

The car, but not your own daughter.

“I like that song,” her mom said.

Probably the old fifties doo-wop singing. These marketing people clearly knew who they were targeting. Shawndra gave her mom a forced smile. "Well then you’ll be glad to know we are heading there today.”

“Heading where?” Worry creased her already wrinkled face.

“To check out your new place mom.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I know. Me neither, but we have to.”

The last place had been a hell scape. They had forgotten to feed her, left her mother so weak that she had fallen. Rehab, a welcome reprieve from that place had only been a little better. There, she had been monitored around the clock, poked and prodded at all hours. Her eyes were bloodshot, black circles underneath. Shawndra’s were the same. She didn’t know how long she could go on like this.

“Well doesn’t his look nice.”

It wouldn’t have been her first pick. Any business still advertising through radio was desperate, and when it came to senior living, that was a bad thing. But after seven bad interviews, and a near midnight escape from her own house, Shawndra was desperate. She figured a visit wouldn’t hurt anyone, and what she found took her breath away.

It wasn’t like the other places. Shopping for assisted living had exposed Shawndra to enough bad cafeteria smells and fluorescent lighting to last a lifetime. They were depressing, all of them. Strange institutions, devoid of sunlight and the sound of good conversation. Memory care was worse. Most of the patients stared, mouths open and catatonic, out of small prison windows. Others watched TV, acknowledging nothing.

A woman with dark hair, neat as a pin greeted them. “Hi, my name is Dalia.”

Shawndra recognized her voice from the phone call. She invited them inside, through a waiting room, and into a grand home. The place was beautiful, filled with antique wood that could use repair, but still held an old world charm. There was a nurses station, but the women were dressed casually rather than in scrubs.

“We make this place feel like home, and it makes all the difference.”

To her right, Shawndra saw two men, eating, and drinking wine at a wooden table. They moved their utensils slowly, faces wrinkled and covered in age spots just like her mom. She noticed the plates. In all the other places, residents ate off cafeteria trays.

“Dalia,” Shawndra stopped the tour. “I don’t think we can afford this.”

Dalia laughed a little, “Shawndra, I thought you knew. This is all covered through a grant.”

“A grant?”

“Yes. We are in the midst of revolutionizing senior care.” She held her hands up, and Shawndra saw a woman wander from a hallway to an old piano situated in the entryway. The nurses didn’t interrupt. They didn’t ask where she was going. They simply watched as she sat, and started to play.

There were gardens and art rooms, community centers that hosted game nights and workout classes, but what Shawndra was most surprised by, was the noise.

“You know, this is my eighth tour Dalia, and not a single other home sounded like this place.” Dalia was beaming, waiting for her to go on. Shawndra rubbed her eyes, feeling tears well. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I think this may be the place for her.”

Shawndra’s mom didn’t say anything, just sat fidgeting with a loose thread on her pants.

“You know Shawndra, I had to put my own mom in a home. Alzheimer’s. My dad got too old to care for her, and I—” she trailed off. “I was working all the time. I couldn’t stay up all night and work all day.”

“What happened to her?”

“I took her to a place, Shady Oaks,” Shawndra had been there. It was a gray, lifeless institution. The residents barely spoke. Many were constrained to their beds or chairs. It was underfunded, and without joy. “My mom disappeared, became a shell of the woman she once was. I took her home.”

“You cared for her?”

“Yes, but not for long. She died soon after.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was a gift. For her I mean. The woman I knew had disappeared long ago. She wasn’t really living anymore.” Dalia smiled again, and pushed the papers to Shawndra. “This place is a godsend. Your mom will love it here. Everyone on staff not only has outstanding professional qualifications. They have also been where you are now. They suffered as sole caretakers for memory impaired parents. They know how hard this is for you.”

Shawndra blinked at her.

“I know this sounds ridiculous, but as much as we are here to care for your mom, we are really here for the families.” She paused, then asked the question. “Do you feel capable, Shawndra, of taking care of your mother?”

She didn’t know how to answer. Tears sprung to her eyes, and finally she admitted the truth. “No. It’s been so hard. I just can’t. I tried to have her live with me, I tried to visit her in the home. It’s all just too much!”

Dalia handed her a tissue, then pushed the papers closer to her. Shawndra didn’t read a word. She signed and initialed on all the highlighted lines.

“Rest easy. She is in capable hands now.”

---

A place as seemingly benign as a radio jingle offers Shawndra everything she’s been looking for: a home for her mother. A place of safety that allows Shawndra to finally live her own life again. But nothing good in life comes easy, and the cost for Shawndra will bring her to the edge of herself, somewhere between light and shadow.

---

“Mom, how’s the food here?”

“Lovely.”

“Lovely? Wow, high praise coming from you. In fact, I don’t think you have ever described food as lovely before.”

Her mom smiled. It was weak. Her face was sunken and old. She seemed like she was losing energy.

“Knock, knock,” Dalia’s head was in the door. “How are we doing?”

“Lovely.”

Shawndra laughed a little and unfolded a set of sheets, a pattern of tiny yellow and lavender flowers dotted across them, “Just getting fresh sheets on the bed.”

“You know we have those,” Dalia smiled.

“I know, but she prefers the ones from home.”

“Home?” her mom asked.

Why had she mentioned the word in front of her? Her mother might spend the rest of the visit asking when they were going, where she was, why she couldn’t see Alfred, the dog she had as a teenager. As if on queue, Dalia stepped into the room, moved like she was walking on water, and grabbed her mother’s hand.

“You are home,” she said gently, and Shawndra’s mother softened at that.

“Oh, that’s right.”

In the hall, Shawndra could finally let a few tears go. “She actually seems happy.”

Dalia beamed. “We hear that a lot. So many children feel so guilty for so long. But you can let that go now. Your mom is in capable hands.”

Those words again.

“And what about you Shawndra,” Dalia looked at her concerned. “I notice you’re here a lot. Are you living your life? Taking care of yourself? Having fun?”

Shawndra ignored the question, and looked into the room at her mother. “Has she tried to leave?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Do you lock the doors? Because I noticed when I left the other day that they were open—”

A voice came over the intercom, chipper like a radio DJ. “Visiting hours will be over in ten minutes folks.”

“I should go,” Dalia said, smiling. “I have another family waiting.”

Shawndra nodded, and watched her walk away. She sat back on her heels to look at her mother again. She sat in a comfortable rocking chair, eyes drawn to the window, staring at the failing light. Not a sign of sundowning, her mouth even upturned in a little smile as leafy shadows transformed across her face. She went in to finish putting the sheets on her bed, and finally turned to go.

“I’ll see you soon mom.”

Her mom looked dreamily out the window, saying nothing as Shawndra grabbed her things and left.

---

She glanced into the various rooms as she made her way down the hallway, curious about the others who lived there. She took note of each resident, all seated in chairs, some reclined, some rocking. They stared out of windows and at walls, a peaceful smile on their faces.

There was something strange about this place, the seemingly natural routines that worked voicelessly, like the hands of a clock clicking into place. It had only been a few days, but Shawndra hadn’t seen another visitor. Not when she was there anyway.

Is that really so strange?

Probably not, she thought sadly to herself. The truth of the matter was that aging and dying could be a lonely business. Not everyone here had families. Dalia had informed her that the home was mostly populated by people who had sent their by the court, usually when it was determined they or their families could no longer care for them.

“It isn’t a judgement on families. It is simply a matter of who is best suited to care for people at this part of their journey. Not everyone is capable.” Dalia had said it to her while walking Shawndra to her car after a prolonged goodbye.

The statement was meant to make Shawndra feel better, but Dalia’s smile rang hollow. In matters of caretaking, incapable was always a judgment.

The place was sparsely staffed. She was lucky to run into a single nurse who didn’t seem tied up with another resident, and she wondered how well her mother could really be looked after with so few of them on the floor. It was ten minutes past when visiting hours ended. Her mother hadn’t lived there long enough for her to know what would happen if she stayed, but given how homey they had made the place, she imagined the rules would be lax, the consequences nil.

“Sure, I’ll put her on,” she heard a voice she recognized, a nurses aid Amy, who always seemed to be the one to take her calls on nights when she couldn’t come visit. She stopped walking and listened, pushing away the manners mom had taught her (no eavesdropping Shawndra) and giving in to some twinge of instinct inside.

A tired man’s voice, old as some fairytale forest, creaked out. “Oh I’m just lovely.” A pause while the voice on the other line spoke. “The food is lovely.”

That word again.

“You don’t need to come tomorrow love.”

She stepped silently, planting her feet on the ground in smooth, controlled motion.

“I’ll be just fine.”

She could hear the smile in his voice, and she felt herself smile with him as she leaned to get a look at him.

“I miss you too.”

The scene was all wrong. It hit her square in the chest, knocking the wind out of her. The nurse, Amy, sat on his bed, the phone grasped in her hand. He laid, eyes open, a strange smile spread wide, staring at the ceiling.

“Lovely,” Amy said, the man’s voice pouring out of her mouth. “I love you too.”

The nurse hung up the phone. Shawndra felt sick. She could barely breathe, imagining her own phone calls to her mother, picturing Amy answering her questions in the wrong voice. She ran on tip-toe back to her mother’s room, making little sounds that she hoped the nurse couldn’t hear. She rounded the door, and listened through the sounds of ragged breathing, to Amy’s footsteps in the hall. She looked for a place to hide. Her mother sat where she left her in the chair, staring out of the window, seeing nothing. It was dinner time, and at any moment a nurse would burst through the door and lead her mother to the dining room.

“Mom, don’t say anything,” she said, and stepped into the dark bathroom. There wasn’t a shower curtain to hide behind. There never were in places like this. Too dangerous. But there was a tub. She stepped in and laid down, focusing on slowing her breathing.

---

She heard the sound of calm feet, Amy’s and then her mother’s, but they didn’t utter a word to one another. There were no announcements for dinner over the intercom, no hallway shuffling or burst of conversation on the way to the dining room. Fresh sheets rustled, adjusted, and after a time, Shawndra heard Amy’s methodical walk out of the room and back down the hall.

The place was silent, the sounds of life that drew her in on their initial visit swallowed up by a heavy emptiness in the air. She didn’t know how long she had been there, but she couldn’t stand the cool ceramic of the tub against her back any longer. Shawndra stood and went to her mother. She was a portrait of peace, her face relaxed, her hair washed and neatly combed. At her house, Shawndra’s mother had been restless. She spent evenings pacing, confused about where she was and when she was going home. She woke up at all hours of the night muttering, crying, sometimes screaming. Here, she seemed happy, able to rest for the first time in years.

Seemed.

The image of Amy, the old man’s voice coming out of her sent a shiver down Shawndra’s spine. She needed to see more. The place had two faces: a loving home for newcomers, and an empty tomb for residents.

They were probably drugging them, and why wouldn’t they? For all Shawndra knew, the place was only open for visitors when the sleepy meds were switched out for some feel good drugs to convince children to drop their parents off there without a second thought.

She reached out a hand and placed it on her forehead to smooth her white hair. Her skin—she stepped back. Whatever was lying there was cool to the touch, lifeless in spite of the soft pink color. “Mom,” she whispered, shuddering.

The thing there didn’t open its eyes, but spoke a single word. “Lovely.” The voice that came out wasn’t her mother’s. It was low and waning, the same voice Amy had spoken with on the phone call. She knew then that if she had touched the old smiling man in his bed, his skin would be cold as death.

---

She was opening doors without fear now, realizing the entire place was empty besides her and the lifelike talking dolls that lay in each bed. They were cool to the touch, the skin slick with some kind of grease, and all of them muttered the same phrase with closed eyes when prompted, “Lovely.”

There was no other sound in the hall besides her as she searched frantically, looking for someone alive and breathing, someone real. She stopped at the staff door, and pressed an ear against it. There were voices, drowned out by the sound of— “Music?” she said out loud, then looked around. She placed a hand on the doorknob and turned it to see if it was locked, but it opened. Nothing needed to be locked in the home because no one real lived here.

A low bass line vibrated the walls. The sounds of jazz piano echoed behind the door. Someone laughed. She pushed it open slowly, expecting the bright fluorescent lights of an office or examining room, but finding instead the soft red night glow of a bar.

It was like she had stumbled into some speakeasy in the middle of a lonely alleyway. Alice through the looking glass. Men and women, staff members she recognized, dressed up with drinks in hand swayed to the sound of jazz music. The low light caught the twirl of a sequined dress and cast strange light patterns on the walls.

“Shawndra?” Dalia was coming for her, pushing through starry eyed couples. “How did you—”

“Where is my mother,” she asked, voice low and shaking.

Dalia sighed and beckoned Shawndra through the crowd. They were already back to partying, not noticing her as she pushed between and past them. Dalia reached another door in a corner of the room, and pulled out keys to open it. Another hallway opened, this one with many doors. Shawndra followed, at a quick pace, heart in her throat, wondering which room held her mother.

Would she be bound up? Hurting? Dead?

They reached a door near the end, this one labeled with a caution sign. Dalia opened it. Shawndra felt a rush of warm air against her face, the sound of a held in breath escaping when the door opened. They walked in together, the buzz of lights overhead making Shawndra think of insects in summer.

“We keep them warm during creation. It helps the artists sculpt their skin.”

Shawndra moved a hand to her mouth as she examined the scene. Wrinkled faces, were hung limp over mannequin heads. A few metal carts carried what looked like dead bodies.

“Are they—”

“No,” Dalia cut Shawndra off. “No, everything you see here is fake. Life-like, but very much not alive.”

“My mother?”

Dalia wasted no time. “Gone Shawndra. Put to sleep, like the rest of them. It was very dignified—”

Shawndra fell to her knees, the shaking words, “How could you,” pouring like a mantra from her lips.

Dalia was there in an instant, arms wrapping around her. “Hey, hey. We both know she’s already been gone a long time.” She was rubbing Shawndra’s shaking shoulders. “You said it yourself. You have been caring for a shell.”

“Why,” was all Shawndra could manage through the flood of hot grief.

Dalia’s eyes looked confused. “For you love. All of us here, have been where you are. Lives on pause, sleepless nights. After so many years of tragedy, we become like them. Only a shell. My colleagues and I wanted to do what was best for our parents, but no one would allow us. Now?”

She tipped Shawndra’s chin, meeting her crying eyes. Dalia was practically glowing. “Now we get to live, and our parents are at peace. They never wanted us to have to see them like this. We knew others would never be capable of doing what needed to be done. So, we took matters into our own hands. We gave the struggling caretakers their lives back, and threw in something they could live with. Happy, well cared for parents.”

“A lie.”

“Maybe, but a nice one.” She held her hand out to the molded bodies and faces. “This, all of this, is for you.”

Shawndra cried until there were no more tears, and Dalia waited by her side. When it was done, she pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed Shawndra’s eyes, lovingly wiping tears from her cheeks, the way her own mother used to when she was a little girl.

“Come to the party,” Dalia helped her stand.

“I can’t. My mother—”

“—would want you to keep going. You can. You can let go Shawndra. You can give this burden to us. You can live again.”

Down the hall, the music played. Shawndra could hear glasses clanging. It was the sound of New Years and birthdays, a celebration of all that was to come, a new life. Shawndra opened her palm, taking Dalia’s outstretched hand. The skin-like material was slick and cool to the touch.

Dalia smiled at her, the too-perfect face placid and serene. “Lovely.”

---

What would you give to live an unburdened life? For Shawndra, the choice is simpler than she ever imagined. It is only once she crosses that line that she realizes, the easiest decisions are not always the right ones. To be complicit in inhumanity, is to give up being human. By the time she learns the lesson, it may be too late to come back from a place we know, as the Twilight Zone.