Ravaged

by C. R. Lacerte

  “It’s OK,” she says, switching off the music, “I need to tinker with it anyway. Maybe I’ll incorporate some acupressure next time.”

  “Sounds great,” I say, pulling the rubber stopper out of the drain and watching the heavily salted and oiled water drain away. “I’ll be out in a second.”

  Sophia closes the door behind her, and I let the bath fill up anew. I don’t have time for a long soak, but even a quick dip in our deep tub has me feeling good as new. I scrub myself down as quickly as I can and step right back out, blowing out my blonde bob with as much precision as I can muster. Hearing the blow dryer, Sophia tiptoes back into the bathroom to keep me company as I prepare for my interview. In her arms are a few different outfits, cherry picked from my closet. Sophia’s better at dressing me than I’ve ever been, and she knows that I want to look fantastic for this interview.

  I switch off the dryer and fluff my thick hair with my fingers. When I was a little girl, my locks were platinum blonde. As I’ve grown older, my mane has darkened to a rich, honeyed hue. The other nurses at work call me Goldilocks when they’re feeling either playful or dismissive. Being a blonde has its perks and drawbacks, just like anything else.

  “So, what’s this job you’re so excited about?” Sophia asks, as I rub tinted moisturizer into my blessedly clear skin.

  “It’s another private duty gig,” I tell her, “An older woman, getting close to the end. Her son put an ad up on Craigslist, looking for around the clock help.”

  “I don’t know how you can stand the hospice thing,” Sophia says, shaking her head, “It must be so heartbreaking.”

  “It is,” I tell her, “But these people deserve to have someone caring for them right until the very end. The families can get so distraught that they don’t know how to help. Honestly, it ends up feeling like you’re taking care of everyone, when things begin to go downhill.”

  “If you’re going for sainthood,” Sophia teases, “I think you’ve got it locked up.”

  “It’s not about that,” I remind her, tracing careful lines of liquid eyeliner across my top lids, “I just want—”

  “To help,” Sophia says, “I know, Hannah.”

  “There was something about this ad that stood out to me,” I tell her, “I just felt so drawn to the patient, just from her son’s description. She’s an old German woman, very wealthy. Her son says she’s something of a spitfire. Maybe it’s just that I never knew my own grandparents, but I really appreciate the chance to spend time with someone older. Someone with a little more experience, and perspective.”

  “This sounds like the perfect job then,” Sophia says, “But you wouldn’t work around the clock, would you?”

  “No,” I say, “Just when I’m not at the hospital.”

  “So you’ll be working...two full time jobs?” Sophia says skeptically.

  “I suppose,” I tell her, “But I mean, full time as a nurse only means three days a week. So...”

  “If this is what you need right now, I support you,” Sophia says, her eyes misting over, “I just wish...I wish there was something I could do to help.”

  My gaze swings her way, just as a fat tear slides down her cheek. I drop my lipstick and go to her, wrapping her small frame up in my arms. “You’ve already done so much,” I whisper into her hair, “I don’t know what I would have done, how I would have gotten through the past few months without you.”

  “Ugh. Look!” She laughs through her tears, “Now you’re the one comforting me? You’re the one whose life got flipped on its goddamn head, and you’re still the one who has her shit together. You amaze me, Hannah Levy.”

  “I try,” I tell her, resting my forehead against hers. “I just need to keep myself busy for a little while. When I have time to myself, I start to think...and worry...and reconsider.”

  “I don’t like that word,” Sophia says, “‘Reconsider,’ I mean.”

  “I know,” I say, sitting back on my heels, “It’s just...Sloan is so damn persistent. He still leaves daily voicemails, you know. Not to mention the texts and emails. He even tries to get to me through Facebook. It’s hard not to just give in and see him.”

  “You can’t do that,” Sophia says fiercely, taking my hands in hers, “Sloan is a master of manipulation. He can twist you into feeling sorry for him, if you give him an inch. You have to promise me that you’ll stay away from him, Hannah.”

  “I will,” I tell her, squeezing her hands, “I promise. I know I need to cut him out of my life completely, but...Sophia, it’s not like it’s easy. For four years, he was my life. Even with everything he did...I still honestly loved him. And I know he loved me, too. You can’t just turn off that kind of emotion like a damned faucet.”

  “I know. I’m sorry,” Sophia says, “I don’t mean to get all heated up. It’s just that...when I think of what he did to you. All those months when he was...it makes me sick, Hannah.”

  “Don’t think about it,” I tell her, “It’s not worth it. He’s not worth it. All I want to do right now is have every waking moment of my life occupied. If I spend every second making someone’s life better...well, maybe all that good will rub off on my life a little, too.”

  “I’m sure it will,” Sophia says, “You’ve probably got enough good karma stored up to send you skyrocketing to Nirvana if you so much as sneeze.”

  I laugh warmly, pulling myself back up to the mirror. I set my makeup with a fine powder and admire the results. My green eyes pop against my warm, sandy skin and coral blush. It’s amazing how the right makeup can undo twelve hours under fluorescent lights. Sophia murmurs her approval and hands me her outfit of choice. I slip into the black pencil skirt and rose-colored silk blouse, amazed as ever by my roommate’s styling efforts.

  She may spend most of the day either in the buff or draped in a man’s flannel shirt, but she sure knows how to put an outfit together when she puts her mind to it. I finish off the look with a string of pink pearls, my mother’s, and simple black heels. I look put together, professional, and pretty. It’s the ideal look for an interview—which is great, because I want this interview to go perfectly.

  “Wish me luck,” I breathe, giving Sophia a quick squeeze.

  “Luck,” she says, as I head for the door. “Hey, Hannah—”

  “Yes?” I say over my shoulder.

  “Who’s the family? Anyone famous?”

  “Oh! The mother’s name is Gertrude Roth,” I say, “Her son is Lukas. Keep that on the down-low, HIPAA confidentiality and all that.”

  “Lukas Roth...” Sophia says, “Sounds dreamy.”

  “Don’t get any ideas,” I tell her, and close the front door behind me.

  I hop back into my Buggy and set off for McClean, Virginia. My every nerve seems to stand on edge as I get closer and closer to the Roth residence. Just relax, I urge myself, You’re qualified and passionate about what you do. What’s there to be worried about?

  Those affirmations trail off as my GPS tells me that I’ve reached my destination. I peer through my windshield at a tall, wrought-iron gate, guarded by two massive marble lions. This is the Roth home? With my heart lodged firmly in my throat, I turn onto the long gravel drive and inch my way forward. Ancient Oak trees line the path, which I’m starting to think is endless in itself. That is, until a sudden turn in the road reveals the full grandeur of the Roth estate.

  A sprawling Tudor mansion looms up before me, staggering and beautiful, I didn't know homes like this existed in northern Virginia. I roll to stop before the massive front doors and step shakily out onto the drive. My high heels sink into the gravel as I make my way toward the entryway, noting the dozens of other cars lined up before the mansion.

  I climb the tall front steps and take a deep breath, raising my fist to knock on the thick wooden doors. But before I can rap my knuckles against the entrance, the door swings open before me. A tall, thin gentleman with a wispy white hair and a lined, friendly face appears in the doorway. He’s dressed in a fine, expensive
suit that probably costs more than what I make in a month.

  “M-Mr. Roth?” I venture, “I’m Hannah Levy. I’m—”

  “Mr. Roth?” the man chuckles, “Oh no, dear. I’m Walter Thomas. The butler. I presume you’re here to interview for the position?”

  “Yes,” I say, sheepishly, “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Splendid,” Mr. Thomas says, ushering me inside. “Right this way, Madam.”

  The grand interior is too gorgeous and refined to take in all at once. Rich mahogany, red velvet, and priceless art bombard my senses at every turn. The Roth home is a veritable palace.

  “I see you have a German car,” Mr. Thomas says with a smile, “That will go over well with Mr. Lukas, I’m sure.”

  “Oh...” I say, “Great.”

  “Just have a seat through there,” the butler says, “Mr. Lukas will be seeing each applicant in due time.”

  I make my way through the arched doorway that Mr. Thomas has indicated and stop cold. Two dozen icy eyes lock onto me as I make my way into the adorned waiting room. A dozen other women, many years my senior, stern, and unforgiving, stare me down as I take my seat. I’m suddenly struck with overwhelming self-consciousness. I’m clearly the outlier in this particular applicant pool. Was I called in here by mistake? I try not to think about it too hard as I wait to be seen by the mysterious Lukas Roth himself.

  Chapter Two

  -Lukas-

  “How many more of these intolerable interviews do we need to sit through?” my mother groans, gripping the arms of her wheelchair. Her German accent always grows thicker when she’s aggravated. Even my accent, slight as it is, has been flaring up today. “I feel as though we’ve been here all day!”

  “That’s because we have been, Mother,” I reply shortly. “We have about a dozen applicants left to see today.”

  “A dozen!” she cries, rolling her eyes, “Why don’t you just take me out back and bury me now? I’m likely to die before we find a suitable nurse. Maybe if you weren’t so picky—”

  “I’m picky?” I say, raising my eyebrows, “You dismissed the last woman because she made a minor grammatical mistake.”

  “I will not put my life in the hands of someone who says ‘less’ when she means ‘fewer’,” Mother sniffs, “Perish the thought.”

  “The search continues then,” I say, straightening the stack of resumes on my desk. “I’ve lost track of what we’re even looking for, to tell you the truth.”

  “We’ll know it when we see it,” my mother tells me, patting my hand. The sight of her thinly-veined, liver-spotted hand on mine gives me pause. It’s hard to believe sometimes that those are the same hands that held me as a child, that guided me through life, that set me on the path to become the man I am today.

  It’s a startling thing, watching one’s parents grow old. Though at least, in Mother’s case, her life has already stretched out long and far. She may be advancing on the final days of her life, but at least she’s lived every moment to its fullest potential. That in itself is an immeasurable blessing. That, at least, is something I can take comfort in as she slowly fades away.

  A knock on the door pulls me out of my mournful reverie. “Come in,” I say, “Let’s keep this moving.”

  Thomas, our butler, steps into the room with a smile. “Miss Hannah Levy,” he says, stepping aside so that the next applicant may enter. The word “Miss” catches my ear at once. Every woman we’ve interviewed so far today has been married, divorced, or widowed. I thought I’d chosen only older women to interview for the position, so that my mother would have someone closer to her own age to keep her company. As Miss Levy steps around Thomas and makes her way into the room, I realize with a rush that I’ve clearly made a mistake.

  The woman standing before me is about as far from the matronly, nurturing type as can be. She looks to be in her late twenties, if I had to venture a guess, and just over 5’ 10”. Her figure is distinctly sensual, not at all too skinny like so many American woman her age seem to be. Her full hips and breasts are wrapped up in a tasteful, but tantalizing, skirt and blouse. Her dark blonde hair catches the light of the lamp overhead, and her vibrant eyes are sparking with anticipation.

  Isn’t this a happy accident?

  “Miss Levy,” I say, rising to my feet and extending a hand across the desk, “Thank you for coming. I’m Lukas Roth.”

  “I know,” she says, rooted to the carpet. For a moment, she simply stares at me. Perhaps she’s caught me looking her over like some old lecher. With a barely noticeable shake of her short blonde hair, she crosses the room toward me. Her gait is slow and swinging, not at all bouncy like I'd expected.

  Hannah takes my hand and shakes firmly—I can see a light blush spreading across her high cheekbones. A couple of things are distinctly apparent to me the moment she takes my hand; she is earnest and determined, and she has no idea how gorgeous she really is.

  “This is my mother, Gertrude Roth,” I say gruffly, releasing Hannah’s hand. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that our brief contact has had some kind effect on me. Inexplicably, I feel myself harden just a bit as I let my eyes swipe over her body. It’s probably just the fact that she’s the first female under fifty that I’ve interacted with today. Or...Well, in a long time.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Roth,” Hannah says, offering her hand to Mother.

  “Please, call me Gertrude,” my mother insists, taking both of Hannah’s hands in her own. I raise an eyebrow, surprised by Mother’s affectionate display. She’s shown all the warmth of a witch’s tit all day—why the sudden charm?

  “Please, take a seat, Miss Levy,” I say, settling back down into my own leather chair.

  Hannah perches on the chair before me, tucking one lean leg smoothly over the other. The tightness in my groin continues to grow. I’d better get a hold of myself, or else remain seated for the duration of the interview.

  “Thank you so much for calling me in to interview for this position,” Hannah says.

  “Not at all,” I say, taking up her resume in my hands, “You’re certainly qualified. Registered nurse for six years, graduated with honors, hospice experience...You’ve managed to do quite a bit for such a...relatively young woman.”

  Hannah smiles at me, her full lips forming a winning bow. “I thought that the rest of the applicant pool seemed a bit...older,” she says, “I hope I’m not wasting your time.”

  “Not at all,” Mother cuts in, “Hell, if I wanted someone older to keep me company, I’d just get that old fart Thomas in here.”

  An unpracticed laugh escapes Hannah’s throat. I’m a bit surprised by the sound. I can tell by looking at her that Hannah was raised in an affluent household. She was probably sent to private schools and finishing classes and the like, she carries herself very well—and yet, her laugh is as natural and heartfelt as can be. Who knew such sincerity could persevere in spite of every effort to hammer it out?

  I let Mother chat away for a moment as I observe Hannah at greater length. I’ve cultivated the ability to analyze anyone based on their physicality, their way of moving and speaking. It was part of my training as a CIA operative to be able to intuit things about people that they might otherwise attempt to hide. I can determine in a heartbeat if someone is lying to me, or hiding something. I can guess with near perfect accuracy what part of the world a person is from, their emotional state, and, most importantly, their intentions. I can read the people around me as though their life stories were tattooed onto their skin. And Hannah Levy is no exception.

  “Tell me Hannah,” I interject at the conversation’s next lull, “Why are you so interested in this sort of position? Someone your age can easily find plenty of work within the hospital system. I’m sure there are many other employers who would be interested in snatching you up.”

  “That may be so,” Hannah says, turning her body toward me. It takes a supreme effort on my part to keep my eyes from wandering down to her voluptuous chest. “But I’ve f
ound that private care offers something that the emergency room simply doesn’t. At the ER, or anywhere in the hospital system, really, there are so many things to keep in mind. Political things. Business matters. It’s exhausting to be worried about insurance and hospital policies when you’re trying to save someone’s life. I’d never give up being a nurse just because our health care system is less than perfect, but it can be...frustrating.

  In a private setting, I feel like I can actually attend fully to my patient. There’s nothing in the world that I need to think about apart from her immediate needs. I find this kind of work to be incredibly satisfying. It’s an honor, really. To be admitted into someone’s life when they are most vulnerable. It’s not a responsibility I take lightly.”

  “No, I can see that,” I murmur, transfixed by the play of light in her emerald eyes.

  “It won’t be a glamorous job, my dear,” Mother cuts in, leaning forward in her wheel chair, “I’m afraid that kidney failure is not the prettiest thing to witness first hand.”

  “I know, Mrs. Roth,” Hannah says, “I’m very sorry that you have to experience it.”

  “Something had to go,” Mother shrugs, “If it wasn’t this, it would have been something else. Cancer. Stroke. Heart attack...It doesn’t seem like many people get to slip away in their sleep, does it? At least I can be in the comfort of my own home, here with my family. That’s what I’m looking for in a nurse, Hannah. Someone who can come to feel like family.”

  Hannah nods wordlessly, letting Mother say her peace. There’s a reverence in Hannah that’s clear as day. The rest of the women who’ve come in and out of my office today have looked at my mother like a bag of so many failing organs, but not Hannah. There’s respect in her gaze, which is respect in turn.

  Mother is the only family I have left in the world. And though we haven’t been very close of late, she’s the woman who raised me. She’s been remarkably patient with me these past several years, though God knows she’s been suffering right alongside me. After everything we’ve been through together, everything I’ve put her through...she deserves nothing short of the best for the remainder of her life.