The Orange Tree

by Martin Ganzglass

  It was always most hectic at the beginning of her shift. Residents who were mobile needed assistance getting in and out of the shower. Those who were bedridden had to be washed and dressed in time to be wheeled to the eating area, where they were grouped four to a table for breakfast. Breakfast was brought up from the cafeteria on tall, wheeled food carts, the trays stacked fifteen to a side. Each tray had a little menu bearing the resident’s name with their choices checked off or the dietary restrictions imposed. Medicine, administered by the CNAs with breakfast, was dispensed by the RN, in small paper condiment cups.

  Following breakfast, the four halls connecting the residents’ rooms to the common eating area, although wide, were a traffic jam of confusion. The most mobile had already returned to their rooms for a post breakfast toilet break. They were followed by a determined stream of slow moving residents, leaning forward in their wheel chairs with arms too weak to turn the wheels, pushing themselves along with their slippered feet, giving wide berth to those clomping ahead with their walkers, customized by chartreuse tennis balls on the front legs for greater stability, or rappelling themselves one hand over the other gripping the wall railings. All were subject to being blocked by the laundry or cleaning carts left too far out in the hall, or too close to the wall railings. They would stand, wailing in frustration or staring blankly at the obstruction, until one of the aides moved it.

  After the migration back to the rooms, the process reversed itself. The CNAs helped some residents to the sun room to read or watch tv. Some residents walked around the halls for exercise and returned to their rooms to be alone and had to be checked on. Others, wanted to go downstairs to play bingo, or do crafts, or attend an exercise class. CNAs had to accompany them in the elevator unless the activity leader had enough volunteers to help. Some residents had appointments for x-rays or medical exams at the Home and the CNA’s had to bring the resident down or assist the technician in the resident’s room, providing a familiar face for comfort. Although there was no such thing as a normal routine day, usually, around 10 am, the residents were settled in one place or another and the CNAs could begin thinking about when to take their mid-morning break. There were two RNs for the entire floor, four CNAs for the twenty eight residents on Amina’s section of the third floor, plus the three Hispanic cleaning women.

  Walking from her Metro stop to the Home on a chilly late September morning, Amina anxiously thought about her daughter. Mariam was doing well in public school although Amina was uneasy about the influence American girls had upon her. She had enrolled Mariam in Koranic School with classes held on Saturday mornings. Mariam had made good progress learning to read Arabic and memorizing the Koran. Now, almost thirteen, Mariam had expressed a strong desire to wear the hidjab. For the past few weeks, she had questioned her mother about whether it was required by the Koran and why her mother didn’t wear one but Auntie Medina did when she went out. Amina wore a colored scarf on her head when she left the house. At the Home she did not cover her head. Like all the other CNAs she wore a starched pair of white pants, which ended above her ankles, and a short sleeved blue blouse which exposed her bare arms. She did not tell either Medina or Mariam how she dressed at work. She had coupled this lie by omission, with the truth that Somali women only covered their hair as a sign of modesty, which was all that the Koran required. She had explained to Mariam that most Somali women in Mogadishu had covered their hair loosely with brightly colored, diaphanous scarves. The Somali Imams in Mogadishu had never interpreted the Koran to require a hidjab. Mariam did not seem convinced, having been exposed at the Mosque to Moslem women and girls from more conservative traditions who always wore the hidjab. Amina missed her mother who, in her gentle wise way, would have advised her granddaughter with her same name, of the way Islam had been practiced in Somalia.

  Amina was terrified that her daughter would decide to wear the hidjab and attract attention to herself at her public school and on the street. She had nightmares of Mariam being chased down the halls of her school by rowdy boys who bumped in to her daughter, knocking her books to the floor; or her daughter being taunted on the school bus or having food thrown at her in the cafeteria; of losing friends and becoming ostracized, lonely and depressed. Before 9/11, wearing a hidjab wouldn’t have mattered. Now, even in Northern Virginia, which was supposed to be the liberal part of the State, every Moslem was suspect. She had heard of friends, Somali women driving to a super market, wearing scarves, not even the hidjab, being stopped for no reason by County police and questioned, aggressively and impolitely. Amina herself had experienced hostile stares from customers in stores and curt service or comments muttered under the breath from clerks. It was worse for young Somali men with their neatly trimmed beards, looking like the Iraqis on the nightly tv news broadcasts, who were planting IEDs and killing American soldiers. Medina was worried about Mohamed, her oldest son, who had just obtained his driver’s license. No, she thought. Now was not the time for her daughter to wear the hidjab. She must look like any other African American teenage girl and attract as little attention in public as possible.

  So why was she thinking of changing her married name back to her Somali name, Amina Farah Musa, she asked herself? The part of her life that had been Mrs. Amina Jackson was over. Why should she continue to use Earl’s name? If she had married a Somali man, she still would been known as Amina Farah Musa, Farah being her father’s given name and Musa her paternal grandfather’s given name. It was Somali tradition. She could recite the names back ten generations. In the U.S., the custom was for three names and Americans would call her Mrs. Musa. Logically, if now was the time for her daughter to fit in at school, it was not the time for Amina to drop her American name and be known as a Moslem at work. But her desire to end any connection with Earl was not dictated by logic. Nor was her urgent compulsion to honor her murdered father. She had to take back his name and be known to Somalis, and to Americans, as his daughter. Even if the Americans didn’t understand the Somali naming system.

  Her more immediate concern was for her job. She doubted her employers knew she was Moslem, although she sensed the social worker for their unit, Molly Bernstein suspected it. Now she had to decide whether it would make a difference. It troubled her that she didn’t pray five times a day. How would they react at the Hebrew Home if she asked for time mid morning and mid afternoon to do so? She would be conspicuous at work if she covered her head, arms and ankles indoors. Could she get another job, maybe in a nondenominational home where they would tolerate her practicing her religion? Those CNAs at the Hebrew Home, who had worked at other nursing homes, said it was a better place than most others because management gave them more respect and autonomy. Outside of her supervisor and the RN for the floor, she didn’t know anyone in management. She decided to approach Ms. Bernstein. She would first get clear in her own mind exactly what she wanted to say and ask Ms. Bernstein for a meeting by this Friday. No, there was some notice on the Assignment Calendar about Friday evening being a Jewish holiday. She knew that Ms. Bernstein was always busy when there were special services at the Home. Monday the latest, she said to herself, walking up the long driveway to the Home.

  Suddenly she realized, with the clarity of a revelation, she was placing job security ahead of her faith. She had been hiding her religion instead of embracing it, just as she had rejected her Somali culture when she had married Earl. This recognition filled her with more determination. She would alter her uniform over the weekend, arrive at work on Monday with her head and shoulders covered, and find a place to pray twice during the day, perhaps in the small room off of the Chapel. She knew it faced east.

  She had been afraid to show others who she was, to be known again as her father’s daughter, to practice her faith openly, to cover her head indoors and dress modestly, and to pray five times a day instead of avoiding praying at work. She must reclaim her identity first. Then she could confidently meet with Ms. Bernstein, true to her faith and herself. If they fired her, God willing, she wo
uld find another job or go back to the agency if necessary.

  Chapter Three

  After four days of Aunt Helen living with them, Mitch was worn down, irritable, and tired. The room promised by the nursing home, which was supposed to have been available on Sunday, had not materialized. The Home’s Admissions Office, while apologetic and understanding, could do nothing.

  Mitch liked the comfort of a routine in his own house. He wasn’t the kind of person who became upset by things being out of place or not done his way. He didn’t care how the cups and saucers, plates and silverware were loaded in the dishwasher. Or whether the kids left their shoes in the middle of the living room floor or their jackets on the stairs. But an overall pattern, the familiar rhythm of the workday evenings and weekends, was important for his equilibrium.

  Aunt Helen’s presence in their home had shattered this sense of order, invaded his comfort zone and upended his feeling of normalcy. It was as if a toddler had suddenly appeared in his home, demanding his immediate and full attention and disrupting everything.

  Aunt Helen awoke at all times of night, sometimes screaming, sometimes banging into furniture in the guest room. Once awake, she would want to stay up and talk with him as he sat on the edge of her bed, his senses dulled by his interrupted sleep. Or she would offer to go down to the kitchen to fix both of them a cup of tea, as if were the normal thing to do at three in the morning. Either he or Ell had to be home during the day because she couldn’t be left alone. One morning after the kids had gone to school, she had burned her hand reaching into the toaster oven. Yesterday, she had taken a bath, dressed and come down stairs for breakfast, leaving the water running in the tub. Mitch had discovered the water flowing under the closed bathroom door into the carpeted hallway.

  He found himself worrying if the Drano and other household poisons were securely stored. Was the door locked to the steep flight of stairs without a banister leading to the basement? Could she fall and hurt herself on a corner of the glass coffee table in the living room?

  Mitch sat on the living room sofa, looking through the cardboard box of Aunt Helen’s possessions. Upstairs, Josh was reading in bed. Eleanor was helping Amy with her world civilization homework. Aunt Helen was asleep in the guest room. Oliver, their five-year-old golden retriever, wandered in from the dining room, looked up at Mitch, sniffed inquisitively at the box, lost interest and collapsed on the rug with a thump.

  Mitch picked up the photo album, wiped the dust off the leather cover with his hands and rubbed them on his pants. He heard Ell coming down the stairs and hastily slapped the grey powder from his thighs. The first few pages were grainy black and whites of his mother and father shortly after they were married, then of his sister as a little girl, and finally he made an appearance, being held by Aunt Helen, her shock of prematurely white hair partially covered by the hood of her coat. She was smiling at the photographer, probably his father. It must have been taken in the winter of his first year. He was bundled up in a blanket with only his dark eyes and forehead showing. His mom had her arm hooked into Helen’s, the two sisters forming a wall with their bodies to protect him from the wind.

  Eleanor sat down next to him, and offered him an apple she had brought in from the kitchen. He took a large bite and the noise of his chewing made him conscious that the house was at last peaceful and quiet. The familiar photos of the progression of their family’s lives followed in quick succession, in color and sharper resolution, chronicling the technological advances in cameras and film and compressing the years into a few pages: summer camps, high school graduations, college graduations, his sister Judy and Ed’s wedding, their children, he and Eleanor looking so young at their wedding, Amy and Josh in their infancy, mom and pop growing older together and finally disappearing from the album.

  Ell still looked as beautiful to him now as she had when they were newly weds, with thick straight black hair cut short to frame her face, willfully disobedient eyebrows which set off her wonderfully dark expressive eyes, a fresh complexion, which she took for granted and never used makeup to cover, and a figure he had always admired and still lusted after. He, on the other hand, thought he had not aged as well. At 51, he no longer automatically assumed the pain in his chest was heartburn. His brown hair was noticeably thinner on top with tinges of grey at the temples and nape. When he looked in the mirror while shaving, he thought the creases on his forehead were more pronounced. He knew he was slightly overweight for his height of 5′8″ and more prone now to keeping the extra pounds on than burning them off. His right knee usually ached after gardening and there was a persistent pain in the small of his back when he finished his usual bike ride on Sunday mornings. None of this was anything serious. But he recognized them as troubling harbingers of no longer being as young as he thought of himself. The phrase having lived more than half a century popped into his mind at the oddest times, followed by the thought that he had fewer years left to go than he had already lived.

  He turned the album page anticipating the summer they had rented a cabin in Wellfleet with friends, stopping off in New London on the way back. The photos of the family on the beach in Cape Cod were there. The shot in front of the Coast Guard Academy, which he had taken, showed Eleanor and the kids. Aunt Helen was missing. She had used a scissors and cut herself out of the photograph. She had done the same to all the other pictures for the visits that followed, except where she was flanked by two of them. On those, she had blocked out her face with ink.

  “Why would she do this? Eleanor asked, tracing the edge of a mutilated photo with her finger. “What could she be thinking?

  Eleanor held the album on her lap and leafed through the pages. Aunt Helen had only eliminated herself from the photos showing Amy and Josh, or his sister Judy and her husband and their kids.

  “Who is she afraid of?” Ell said quietly. “And why didn’t she just throw them out instead of mutilating them?”

  “I don’t know,” Mitch said shaking his head. “I can’t figure her out. Sometimes, she picks things up quickly. Like when the State Trooper finally released us. We’re driving away, after being surrounded by the back up he called, interrogated, searched, and the car has been taken apart. She looked at me and said, ‘You think I’m crazy, don’t you?’ I didn’t answer right away and she said, ‘You hesitated. So that’s your answer, but I’m not.’ Ell, what could I to say? I couldn’t tell her I think she’s delusional.”

  “Well, she could be both logical and delusional. That may just be the way she is,” Ell said, taking a last bite of the apple. “Monday, after you left for work, we went grocery shopping. She was perfectly normal. Of course, she held on to the cart and I had to watch her. But, we went down the aisles making the usual small talk about vegetables, prices and what to cook.” Ell nibbled at the remaining flesh of the apple before eating the core, seeds and all, leaving only the stem, which she absent-mindedly twirled in her fingers.

  “Think of last night’s dinner conversation. Or tonight’s. Nothing unusual about her behavior. She asked about how my day was, what Amy did in school, did Joshua remember to feed Oliver. She does have periods when she seems to be far away,” his wife conceded. “It’s something to talk to them about at the nursing home when she’s admitted.”

  “And when is that going to happen, Ell,” he asked in exasperation. “It’s now Wednesday and the bed that was supposed to be ready, still isn’t available. Both of us are burning up paid leave, we’re losing sleep at night because she wakes up screaming. We can’t go on like this.”

  Eleanor reached out and locked her fingers in his. “It’s ok. It’s what families are for. Think of what an available bed in a nursing home means.” She squeezed his hand. “Someone has died or gotten worse and been moved to a hospital or hospice. Losing a little sleep is not that much of a problem in comparison. We can wait until the room they promised is ready. What? What are you beaming at?” she said, glancing up at his smiling face.

  “You’re so,” he hesitated searchin
g for the right word, “compassionate.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead and her lips, playfully reaching for her waist.

  Aunt Helen moved around the strange room toward the light in a hall. She saw something in front of her. It looked like a fence to keep in chickens. Mother had always had chickens in Ciechanow. She didn’t remember chickens in the apartment though. That was after they had come to America. Mother made the best chicken soup. Papa always said so. What a surprise to find an unformed egg inside the hen. It was a special treat for them, the yellow globe hiding on the bottom of the bowl. Why was the chicken fence here? In the house. Who’s house was this?

  “Mom. Dad,” Amy shrieked.” “Aunt Helen fell again.”

  Mitch raced up the stairs ahead of Ell. His aunt was on her knees in the hall outside the guest room, her fingers gripping the plastic mesh of the gate they had last used when Josh was an infant. Both of her cloth slippers had fallen off.

  “She got tangled in the kiddie gate. I think she tried to climb over. Oooh. What’s that on her feet? They’re gross.” Amy squealed in disgust.

  Oliver, finding Aunt Helen at his level, began licking her face. Eleanor grabbed the dog by the scruff of his neck.

  “Those are bunions,” Mitch said. “Old people get them.” He steadied his aunt by her thin arm as she slid her feet back into her slippers. “Are you ok, Aunt Helen?”

  “I’m fine. It’s good to see you. And Eleanor. Are you all well?”

  “We’re fine Aunt Helen. All of us are just fine. Sure you’re ok?”

  “Of course, dear? Did I disturb you? Amy, you are so grownup since I last saw you.” Eleanor readjusted Helen’s bathrobe and helped her back into the guest room. “I’ll stay with her for a few minutes. Go check Josh and see if he’s awake. Also, it’s probably time for Oliver’s walk.”