Those Who Save Us by Jenna Blum

big red brick building, along with the nursing home crouched beside it like a mongrel dog, is completely isolated from the rest of the town, as if not only illness but old age—its dementia and vacancy and bed-wetting—demands quarantine.
    Trudy turns into the clinic lot and parks, checking the dashboard clock. It is seven-thirty, two and a half hours since she received the call from Anna’s caseworker. Trudy has made good time. She shuts off the engine and headlights and sits in the dark for a minute. Then she sighs, pulls her muffler up over her face, and sprints into the building.
    The hallway is quiet and dim, the check-in desk awash in fluorescence. As distracted by worry as Trudy is, the scene reminds her of a Hopper painting: the zone of bright light and the woman sitting alone in it, the distilled essence of isolation.
    The nurse looks up at Trudy’s approach, inserting a finger in the paperback she is reading.
    Can I help you? she asks.
    I’m Trudy Swenson, says Trudy, slightly out of breath. My mother is here? Anna Schlemmer?
    The nurse nods and reaches for a folder in the hanging files in front of her.
    Room 113, she confirms. But visiting hours are over. You’ll have to come back in the morning. I’m sorry, hon.
    No, please, says Trudy. I have to see her. I drove all the way from the Twin Cities. I came as quickly as I could—
    I’m sure you did, says the nurse. But I can’t go against the rules. Your mom’s in the trauma unit—
    Trauma! Trudy repeats. I was told the smoke inhalation was only minor!
    Well, that’s true, says the nurse. There’s nothing for you to be real concerned about. But at your mom’s age, you know, we can’t take any chances. That’s why we’re keeping her for observation.
    She gives Trudy a sympathetic smile. Why don’t you get some rest yourself and come back tomorrow? That’d be best.
    Trudy stares at the nurse in frustration. For a moment she wonders whether the woman is deliberately barring her access to Anna—yet another slippery New Heidelburg trick. But no, although the nurse is about Trudy’s age, Trudy has never seen her before. She is not from the town; she must live somewhere nearby, Rochester, maybe, or LaCrosse.
    Couldn’t I just sit with her for a minute? Trudy persists.
    Listen, Mrs.— Swenson, is it?
    Doctor, corrects Trudy automatically.
    The nurse raises penciled brows.
    You’re a doctor?
    Of history, Trudy says, smiling.
    The nurse regards her with some pity, and Trudy has the momentary and uncomfortable sensation of viewing herself as another might: a foolishly arrogant little blond woman in a pilled black overcoat, with a determined set to her jaw.
    Please, she says.
    The nurse sighs.
    I really shouldn’t, she says. But . . . All right. Just for a minute. This way.
    Trudy follows the nurse down the hall. The woman is short and stout, like the teapot. Everything about her, from her plump compact body to her easy-care perm, conveys a cozy capability. To distract herself from what might await her in the trauma ward, Trudy imagines the nurse’s life: she has at least two grown children and several grandchildren; on weekends they come over with casseroles of hot dish and brats, which they eat in the rec room while the nurse’s retired husband drinks Pig’s Eye and watches the Vikings. There would be a basketball hoop on the garage. The nurse is everything Trudy has been raised to be and nothing whatsoever like the person Trudy has become.
    They stop in front of room 113.
    Remember, not too long with her now, warns the nurse. And try not to wake her. She needs her sleep.
    Thank you. I appreciate this.
    The nurse lays a hand on Trudy’s arm. Trudy looks down at it, the short pink nails, the freckled flesh bulging on either side of the wedding and engagement rings.
    There’s one other thing you might want to know, the nurse says.
    What’s that?
    She’s not talking. She hasn’t said a word since she came in, not to the doctor, not to anybody. We