Three other women from the third floor were grouped around the stone fountain with the bronze water lily sculpture. She wheeled Helen over.
“Good morning, ladies” Amina said cheerfully. Only Mrs. Cohen, who had an oxygen tube in her nose responded. Mrs. Greenfield glared at them, and Mrs. Davidson seemed to be nodding off, a purring noise, not quite yet a snore, coming from her lips.
“So nice to meet you,” Helen said to none of the three in particular. She beckoned Amina to bend over.
“I’m not who you think I am,” she whispered loudly. “Let’s move away from these others. They are just gossiping,” she said, pointing at the trio. Mrs. Cohen was engrossed in reading the newspaper. Mrs. Greenfield was still glaring and Mrs. Davidson was clearly in a deep sleep.
Amina moved Helen’s wheelchair to the other side of the fountain, where there was a small stone sculpture of a sea otter, lying on its back. It had copper wires for whiskers and its claws, painted black, clutched a large closed shell. She knew the bare wooden trellis behind them would, by mid May, be filled with purple wisteria, their fragrance attracting bees and sometimes, small birds to nest in its vines. Just the thought of the flowering wisteria reminded her of the bougainvillea on the wall of her family’s home in Mogadishu. Her childhood home of warm, pleasant memories. Gone forever.
“Have you been back to your country,” Helen asked, as if she had heard Amina’s thoughts.
Amina shook her head. “No, I cannot go home.”
“Me neither.” Helen took Amina’s hand and squeezed it. Amina felt such a rush of compassion for this tiny woman, her knees almost buckled. She sat down quickly on the low wall of the fountain next to the sea otter. A bronze plaque proclaimed the sculpture had been donated by Harry and Martha Weinstein.
“I’ll tell you a secret. I have a Hebrew name. No one, not even the FBI knows it.”
Amina knew that Jews had Hebrew names. They normally were required for the death certificates the Home issued when a resident passed away. She guessed that the names were given to Jewish children at birth, but she wasn’t sure. She didn’t understand why Jews would tell the police or the FBI their Hebrew names.
“I’ll tell you my Hebrew name if you promise not to tell anyone.”
“I do not need to know it, Ms. Plonsker.”
“I want you to know it. It’s because we both can’t go home.” Helen sat silently, as if undecided what to do. “It’s Hinda Malka,” she said quickly. “What do you think?” She looked up at Amina from her wheelchair, waiting for a reply.
“Hinda Malka,” Amina repeated softly. “It is a very pretty name.”
“My parents gave it to me. I’ll tell momma tonight that I told you.”
“It was very nice of you to let me know your secret name, Helen. May I call you Helen?
“Yes, but never the other name.” She became agitated. “Never the other name. Never,” she said emphatically. “We don’t want the others to know.” She gestured with her head to the other side of the fountain.
“I promise, Helen. I will never tell anyone.”
“Do you have a secret name?”
Amina didn’t hestitate. “I have a real name. Amina Farah Musa. It is also a secret. You must not tell anyone.”
“I won’t,” Helen said. “Now that we’ve told each other secrets, we’re sisters, just like me and Lillian. When I see her tonight, I’ll tell her about you.”
Amina reproached herself. What had compelled her to tell Helen she was a Moslem? How could she rely on secrecy from this frail little woman who talked to her deceased mother and sister in her sleep? She had been overcome by her thoughts of her mother and memories of growing up in Mogadishu. In that unguarded state, she had lost control. She pressed her lips together in frustration, wishing too late that her lips had been sealed. She looked at her watch. It was just about lunchtime. She saw Josephine, the Jamaican nurses’ aide from their third floor section coming into the garden to take the other ladies upstairs. She wheeled Helen back to where they were sitting.
“Josephine. Help me get these ladies into the cafeteria. It will give me a chance for Ms. Plonsker to get to know them better. I will feed them lunch down here.”
“Time for lunch lovely ladies,” Josephine said cheerfully, gently shaking Mrs. Davidson to wake her. “My back has been hurting me so,” she said to Amina. “It’s because of the lifting of some of these ladies. Not all of them are little old Jewish women, are they now?” she said, unlocking the brakes on Mrs. Davidson’s chair.
“I’d like to sit at a table by a window,” Mrs. Cohen said, looking up at Josephine. “The light will make it easier for me to read.” She had an electric chair with a platform on the back for her oxygen tank. She backed away from the fountain, put it in forward and waited for Josephine to open the doors to the cafeteria.
“Don’t you be going to read too much that you forget to eat, Mrs. Cohen.,” Josephine called after her. Amina followed Josephine and left Helen and Mrs. Cohen at a table.
“You be taking on a lot with Mrs. Greenfield this lunch” Josephine said, as she and Amina went back into the garden. “She’s a screamer. I don’t mind saying it’ll be easier for the others and me upstairs. If she be carrying on and disturbing the cafeteria, bring her right up. Don’t you hesitate a moment.” Amina nodded. Of all her co-workers, she liked Josephine the best. She recognized and returned favors and shared rather than tried to avoid the work involving the more difficult residents. Perhaps, because she was Jamaican and familiar with British accents, she didn’t think Amina was putting on airs, as did most of the other CNAs.
Mrs. Greenfield was confined to a wheel chair and generally unaware of her surroundings. Except at mealtimes. She had become attuned to the rhythm and unbroken routine of her son David’s visits. He had faithfully come every day after work to feed her dinner, either in the cafeteria or in the dining area on the third floor. Several months ago, at age 54, David had collapsed and died at his desk. Of a brain aneurysm. After that, Mrs. Greenfield would sit at her table in the third floor dining area, waiting for her son. Every night, when her tray was placed before her, she would begin her incessant chant-“Gadda help me, gadda help me, gadda help me, gadda, gadda, gadda,” her voice rising higher and higher with each demand. It disturbed the other residents who had to share the same area. Some shouted to her to shut up. Others became visibly upset and wouldn’t eat. Once, Mr. Paul, a retired naval engineer with a beatific smile on his face, threw a steamed yam and hit Mrs. Greenfield in the forehead. She hadn’t missed a beat. “Gadda help me, gadda, gadda, gadda.” When it was really bad, the CNAs took turns feeding Mrs. Greenfield in her room, placing a greater burden on the remaining assistants who had to watch, feed, and clean up for the other residents eating in the common room.
Sometimes, Mrs. Greenfield thought the other residents were her children and that she was responsible for their eating dinner. Some nights, she would refuse to eat, until ‘her children had finished.’ Other times, she would yell at the residents seated at her table that the owner of the restaurant was watching them to make sure they ate their food.
This afternoon, Amina saw Mrs. Greenfield was in her glaring mode and thought that she might be able to manage all four of them. She brought Mrs. Greenfield’s tray first, in the hopes that she would start eating, before she saw the trays of the others. Amina selected what she recalled Mrs. Greenfield had eaten yesterday, a tuna fish sandwich, vegetable soup, apple juice and a chocolate cupcake. She helped Mrs. Cohen out of her windbreaker first and took her next, because she was generally set in her ways for lunch and moved through the line quickly. True to form, Mrs. Cohen selected her usual- cottage cheese, a few crackers, jello for desert and coffee. She would ask for ice cream after she finished, “Just a little vanilla scoop, to put in my coffee,” she would say smiling. “You know how the artificial sugars don’t agree with me.” Mrs. Davidson was confused, apparently expecting her tray, with the food already on it, to be placed in front of her. A
mina helped her choose and got her back to the table and wheeled Helen to the food line. So far so good. Mrs. Greenfield seemed to be behaving.
“You told me about the fruit in…” Again Helen struggled to remember. “Your country. What do you think of the fruit salad.”
“It is not as fresh but it is a good variety.”
“Does it have orange in it? I like oranges.”
“No, but I can get you a whole orange.”
“That’s what I want, the fruit salad, an orange, and some cooked vegetables, a Danish, and a cup of coffee.” Amina silently blessed Helen for deciding quickly, took the tray from the server behind the counter, added a bowl of soup and an apple for herself, and pushed the wheelchair through the automatic double doors and back to the table. No sooner had she pulled up a chair and rearranged the napkin as a bib for Mrs. Davidson, then Mrs. Cohen made her request for her vanilla ice cream. Amina got up, went to the self serve ice cream freezer and as she came back to the table, Mrs. Greenfield started ordering the others to eat everything on their plate, or else there would be no dessert for them. Mrs. Cohen meekly held up her plate to show it was clean. Mrs. Greenfield nodded permission for her to eat her ice cream.
Amina saw the laser like focus in Mrs. Greenfield’s eyes and tried to block her arm as she went for Helen’s Danish, but was not quick enough. Mrs. Greenfield’s fingers grabbed the sweet pastry lengthwise and, squeezed it tightly. Her arm accidentally knocked over Helen’s styrofoam coffee cup. The coffee flooded Helen’s tray, eddying around the fruit salad bowl and lapping up against the orange. Helen’s eyes narrowed, she reached for her plastic fork, picked up a cooked broccoli stalk instead and stabbed it into the back of Mrs. Greenfield’s hand, at the same time emitting a loud karate like scream. Mrs. Greenfield dropped the sweet pastry. Helen snatched it up, dipped the Danish into the coffee sloshing around on her tray and proceeded to eat it while making loud smacking noises. Mrs. Greenfield rocked back and forth, alternately licking the broccoli off the back of her hand, as if she had been cut to the bone and chanting, ‘gadda help me, gadda help me, gadda help me,’ in a rising crescendo. Amina stood up, enveloping Mrs. Greenfield in her arms and rocked with her, making soothing quiet noises. Gradually, Mrs. Greenfield’s cries subsided. Amina asked an aide at a nearby table, whom she vaguely knew, to keep an eye on the other three residents and took Mrs. Greenfield upstairs to the third floor. She left her with Josephine, quickly explaining what had happened and went back to the cafeteria. Mrs. Cohen was reading her newspaper, Mrs. Davidson was asleep, Mr. Paul was now sitting where Mrs. Greenfield had been and Helen had finished the Danish and had started on what remained of her broccoli.
She smiled at Amina. “I always eat my vegetables,” she said grinning, revealing a piece of green broccoli stalk stuck between her two upper front teeth.
Mr. Paul sat quietly at the table, smiling at some inner thought. He was one of three male residents on the third floor. He was tall and slim, with a full head of long steel grey hair, parted in the middle. Although he still stood ramrod straight, he shuffled when he walked, moving his slippered feet in small whispering steps. He rarely spoke, just nodded and smiled, as if he was either bemused by what was going on around him, or enjoying some private joke he didn’t care to share with any one. “Who are you?,” Helen said to Mr. Paul. Mr. Paul continued smiling but didn’t answer.
“This is Mr. Paul,” Amina said. “He lives on the same floor as you do.” Her soup was cold.
“He had something to do with making ships for the navy,” Mrs. Cohen added, putting down her newspaper. “I talked to his son when they visited around Christmas. His daughter in law is not Jewish,” she said disapprovingly.
“What difference does that make,” Helen snapped, turning in her chair to confront Mrs. Cohen. Amina was surprised by the vehemence in her voice. She decided now was not the time to leave the two ladies. Amina cut her apple into quarters and started nibbling on a piece.
“Well, I just thought with the children and all,” Mrs. Cohen’s voice trailed off, intimidated by Helen’s fierce stare.
“The children,” Helen snorted “Of course, the children, the children.” She repeated that to herself while picking at crumbs from the Danish that had fallen on her grey blouse, staining it with coffee. She stared at the spots for a while, and tried to erase them with the tissue she had taken from her sleeve. She glared again at Mrs. Cohen. “They’re not bastards, you know,” she said vehemently and resumed mumbling to herself, “The children, The children. The excuse is always the children.”
Helen looked up from rubbing the coffee stains, surprised to see Mr. Paul still at the table. “Do you know Admiral Rickover?” she asked him.
Amina noticed the lessening of Helen’s compulsive wiping at the stains and a slackening of the tenseness of her body. She quickly went for a bowl of hot soup.
When she returned, Helen was telling Mr. Paul that the “high muckety mucks” didn’t like this Admiral. She would have to ask someone what that meant.
Chapter Six
There was a shortage of hearing officers for appeals. That was the official reason they gave him for the date of February 5th. Mitch persisted and Montgomery County rescheduled Aunt Helen’s appeal for January 18th, when he chaired the mid month meeting to review the preliminary consumer price index numbers. He asked for another day and they pushed it back to the January 28th, the last Friday of the month, one week earlier than originally scheduled. He gave up and accepted it.
Three days before the hearing date, Mitch came back from a meeting on consumer price index figures and had a voice mail message from a Mrs. Sherman of Montgomery County Social Services. She would be representing the County and wanted to make sure his aunt would be there.
“Why does she have to come to the appeal hearing, Mrs. Sherman?” He was irritable, having been placed on hold, after first going through an automated and interminable telephone menu to reach her, and being subjected to commercials interspersed with loud music.
“Because, Mr. Farber, you’re not her legal guardian,” she said in a clipped, official voice. “There is no court record that you are. The County’s rules require that she either appear in person or be represented by her legal guardian. You may speak for her but she must be present,” Mrs. Sherman said emphatically. “If we denied her eligibility and she then sued us because she hadn’t been at the hearing, where would we be?”
“If the County were so logical there wouldn’t be a need for a hearing in the first place,” he shot back.
“Now, Mr. Farber,” she said in a more conciliatory tone. “You filed your appeal and we have to have a hearing pursuant to our regulations. I’ll see you and Ms. Plonsker at the hearing.”
That Friday, he picked Aunt Helen up early at the Nursing Home.
“You look nice, darling,” Aunt Helen said, stroking his suit jacket, as they drove to Rockville. “Where are we going today?” He told her again that this was a hearing to get Montgomery County to pay part of the fees for the nursing home.
“I don’t understand, Mitchell. Why should Montgomery County pay for me? Why doesn’t New London pay it? That’s where I lived.”
“That’s not the choice, Aunt Helen. It’s either Montgomery County or Eleanor and me.”
She was silent and he thought she was thinking about that. “The Bible lies.” She spat out the words.
“What? Why do you say that?”
“The Bible says it is a blessing to grow old and the elderly are treated with respect. It’s better to die instead of being put away in a place like that. They steal your clothes, Mitchell. They don’t ask and they don’t return them. They use them for costumes. When’s Halloween?”
“In a few days, Aunt Helen.”
“See, I told you,” she said triumphantly. “Mitchell, what are you wearing for Halloween?
They were stopped at a light. He reached over and took her hand, hoping to get beyond this fantasy and focus her on her appeal. “What would you like
me to be dressed up as?” he said jokingly.
“Mozart,” she said. “Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.” Her expression was serious. “I would try but they took all the clothes I have except what I’m wearing. I was going to fluff my hair out to make it look like a wig.”
“Your clothes are in your room, Aunt Helen. I’ll show you when we get back.”
“Why do you contradict me, Mitchell? My clothes are missing. Otherwise, I’m crazy and belong in a lunatic asylum. Do you think I’m crazy, Mitchell?”
“No, Aunt Helen, I don’t,” he said hastily. “I think you’re just forgetting where you put your things. That’s all.” Time to try and prepare her for the hearing. “Do you remember about coming down from New London and staying with us for a few days before moving into the Nursing Home.” He had almost slipped and said before we put you in the Home.
“Of course, darling, I remember.”
“Well, we’re going to a hearing and they may ask you some questions” He explained the purpose of the hearing again and told her to simply answer whatever questions they asked her as best she could.
“Will you be in the room Mitchell?”
“Yes, of course I will.”
“Good. The two of us. We’ll show them.” She smiled resolutely, which did not reassure him.
He parked in a space reserved for handicapped close to the main entrance so that Aunt Helen would not have to walk too far. They rode the elevator up to the fourth floor and took seats in the waiting room. When her name was called, Mitch helped her up and walked slowly with her down the bare walled hall to a windowless room. Inside was a long wooden table and several maroon, vinyl backed chairs, some of them torn, others with dark black stains, of indeterminable origin, on the seats. Mrs. Sherman introduced herself. The hearing officer sat at the end of the table farthest from the door. A small, oak, wooden stand proclaimed his name, G. R. Williams, printed in large block letters. He rose and shook hands with Mitch, greeted Aunt Helen, sat down and opened her file. He was a small, white haired man with the weary air of a person who had been hearing administrative cases all of his life and was waiting for the one final appeal of his career to usher him into retirement. The stack of folders on the table indicated that the appeal of one Ms. Helen Plonsker was not his last.
The Orange Tree Page 8