by K. J. Young
In the afternoon, Nurse Darby brings out two garbage bags and orders him to clean out Lisa’s room. “We will be using it soon, so all the personal items must go.” She sweeps her hand. All the personal items must go. As if Lisa is being erased. “You must also strip off the old bedding and bring it to me. I will make it fresh.”
Mark takes the bags, not saying a word, but his thoughts are vicious. Who do you think you’re ordering around? Die, you hag. He takes some comfort in the fact that Roy is planning to put him in charge. Before the day is over, he will try to wrangle some alone time with the old man and firm up the details. All of this is happening quickly, but Roy and Alma’s health is declining fast, so he has no time to waste.
Nurse Darby points to one bag. “In this bag, you will put the things that are garbage. They must be disposed of.” Indicating the second bag, she says, “And in this one, clothing and anything else that can be donated. If you come across any valuables, you must set them aside and then give them to me. I will decide what will be done with them.”
So patronizing. He nods as if in agreement.
Once he’s alone in Lisa’s room, he takes the necklace out of his pocket and sees for the first time that although the clasp is intact, the chain is broken. Perhaps it fell from her neck just as she was making the bed? He tries to imagine how likely it would be that she didn’t see it and then accidentally tucked it in with the sheets. Not likely, but not impossible either. It’s the only explanation. He shrugs and tucks it into his wallet for safekeeping. Monica is friendly with a jeweler who might know if the cross is real gold. Maybe they can get a little something for it.
Turning his attention to the room, he is struck by how little is left behind. The closet has a few clothing items on hangers. A purse containing a comb, compact, makeup bag, mirror, checkbook, and wallet sits on the floor. Mark opens the wallet and finds a library card, a prayer card, and a driver’s license, along with some cash. He pulls out the paper money, transferring it to his pocket. He will give the wallet to Dr. Cross or Roy instead of the nurse.
The dresser drawers contain carefully folded jeans, underwear, and socks. Would she have taken the time to arrange them so neatly if she knew the end was near? Probably not. He wonders if people ever know when it’s the last time they’ll be doing something. It’s a sad thought. All of life is temporary.
On top of the dresser is a cigar box holding a few pairs of earrings and a charm bracelet. None of the jewelry looks valuable, but one set of hoop earrings, still in the box it was purchased in, looks like a style Monica might like, so he filches them for a future birthday present. It’s not as if Lisa needs them anymore, and why should Nurse Darby get any of it? She didn’t even know Lisa.
He takes the clothing and unceremoniously stuffs it into the bags. Yes, it will get wrinkled, but that’s the next person’s problem. When he’s done, he stands back to survey the empty closet and dresser drawers, then shuts the drawers and closet door with a rush of melancholy. How is it that a person can live for more than twenty years, and all of her possessions can fit in two garbage bags? Tragic. When he dies, it will be different. He’ll have a veritable estate—property, investments, a business. So much will be left behind that he’ll never be forgotten. Mark Norman’s name will be known far and wide. He intends to put his stamp on the world.
Mark sets the bags next to the door and goes to the double bed with one lonely pillow in the middle of it. After taking off the pillowcase and the zippered cover, he notices that the naked pillow is water-stained. He imagines Lisa at night crying into her pillow, and the full weight of her misery presses upon him. With an audible exhale, he shakes the feeling aside, then folds the bedding into a loose pile so that Nurse Darby can make it fresh.
Chapter Fourteen
Three days later, Mark finds himself gritting his teeth at the sound of Nurse Darby’s voice. The squeak of her white shoes gives him the urge to stab her with a fork. He knows it’s not just him. No one on the planet would enjoy working with this woman. He should get an award for remaining polite under these circumstances.
Besides being bossy, she keeps him endlessly busy and apart from the Walgraves. He is now limited to greeting them in the morning, serving their food, and saying goodbye before he leaves. One positive—Alden Manor is now cleaner than it’s ever been. At least on the first floor, there’s not a cobweb or bit of dust anywhere. Nurse Darby makes sure of that. She makes a point to double-check his work, making him stand there as she does inspection. Worse yet, she has him redo the chore when his efforts don’t meet her standards. “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” she says, with a knowing smile. Mark has no idea what that means, and he doesn’t care either.
While he cleans on the first floor, she is upstairs doing the same. He hears the vacuum cleaner overhead and wonders if she’s noticed the creepy posters of Alma and Roy’s magic act. She seems lacking in imagination. The very thing that Lisa found disturbing might barely register with Nurse Darby. Somehow, he can’t imagine her becoming unhinged.
As he was leaving on the first day after Lisa’s death, Baird and Lara arrived, carrying overnight bags, to cover the night shift. The second day, the night hours were covered by Neela and Sam. Each time, the bedding in Lisa’s room had to be washed, to be made fresh for the visitors.
By the third day, Mark wonders if this is something they intend to do indefinitely.
Without a doubt, this is the weirdest job he’s ever had. Best pay, though, so that’s something.
He finally gets an opportunity to talk to Roy when the old man catches sight of him heading down the hall and waves him into the blue room. “Mark, my boy!” he calls out. “Come visit with us.”
Mark, who’d been instructed to go to the kitchen to wash dishes, gladly abandons the plan. “Certainly, sir,” he says, taking a seat opposite them. Alma looks vaguely distracted, but she does not seem unwell. She sits straight-backed on the sofa, hands on her knees. Frail in appearance, but certainly not at death’s door. He wonders how Dr. Cross knows her time is reaching an end.
“Tell me, Mark,” Roy says. “Are you enjoying working with Nurse Darby?”
Mark hesitates for a second. “Not particularly.” He gives Roy his famous smile, the one that has always gotten him compliments from every girl he’s ever dated. “I don’t mind doing more of the housework, but I miss interacting with the two of you.” He lets the statement lie there, watching as Roy presses his lips together thoughtfully. “I don’t think Nurse Darby understands that I can be of more value serving you directly.”
Roy says, “Alma and I were just saying the same thing.” Alma doesn’t react at all. Mark suspects that Alma doesn’t contribute much to their conversations and that what Roy attributes to her is mostly wishful thinking. “Both of us enjoy your presence here, and we thought you and Lisa worked well together. Obviously, we didn’t know the extent of her troubles.”
“Of course not,” Mark interjects. “How could you?”
“But Miss Darby is not quite what we had in mind either.” Not Nurse Darby, Mark notices, but Miss Darby, as if she’s been demoted. Roy reaches over and takes his sister’s hand. “And we still need nighttime coverage. Our friends have been helping us out, but that can’t go on.”
There’s a long pause, as if he’s waiting for a response, so Mark says, “I see.”
“So we have a proposition for you, one we’re hoping you’ll seriously consider. How would you like to move in and be our round-the-clock helper?”
The question catches him off-balance. “Round-the-clock helper?” he repeats.
“Yes. You can move into Lisa’s old room and live here. Your pay would be raised to account for the additional hours, and we’d still give you time off, of course.”
Mark makes a point to look as if he’s thoughtfully considering this offer. So many guys his age would balk at this idea, but he’s smarter than that. He knows it’s a perfect opportunity, the likes of which he may never see again. The contemplative p
ause is intentional. He knows the one who holds back a little is always at an advantage. “Can I give you an answer tomorrow? I’m not sure how this will work with my girlfriend. I want to be fair to her.”
“Your girlfriend. Monica, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Roy leans over and spreads his bony fingers over his knees. “I’m glad you mentioned her, because this brings me to another question.” He clears his throat, a gargling sound. “Alma and I have discussed it, and since we still need coverage of the female persuasion, we were wondering if Monica would like to come aboard?”
Mark blinks. “Come aboard?”
“Come to work for us. Around the clock.”
“Work here,” he answers slowly. “Doing what?”
“Why, the same as you, of course! Just stay here and help us out as need be.”
He looks so hopeful that Mark feels terrible saying, “That doesn’t sound like something Monica would be interested in. I mean, she has an excellent job that she enjoys.” The truth is that Monica makes pretty decent money as a banquet waitress and bartender. Besides the legitimate tips and wages, she’s also skimming off bar sales and pocketing cash from drunk patrons. “Compensation for what I have to put up with,” she said the first time she told Mark about this tactic. But besides the money, she likes her coworkers, and they often go out together on nights off. Mark went with them once, but he quickly became bored when he realized most of the conversation involved trashing the idiotic management at the banquet hall.
“Could you ask her?” Roy asks with a tilt of his head. Next to him, Alma even seems to be paying attention, fixing Mark with a penetrating stare. “Maybe she could stop in today or tomorrow and we could meet her? If income is the problem, she should know that money is not an issue with us. We would compensate her quite well for her trouble.”
Money is not an issue with us? Someday Mark hopes to be able to say those exact words. Right now his mindset regarding money is completely different. Every dollar is accounted for. Every expense tabulated. He considers each grocery item before putting it into the cart. What would it be like not to have to mentally calculate the total? It must be like heaven. “I can ask,” Mark says, “but I can’t promise anything. I doubt she’ll be interested. And honestly, she’s probably not the right person for the job. For one thing, she doesn’t have any experience as a home health aide.” He also can’t imagine Monica locked up inside someone else’s house all day. She is a party girl, a real people person, and Alma and Roy, nice as they are, aren’t her type of people.
Roy points a finger to the ceiling. “But that’s exactly why she’d be perfect for the job. You didn’t have any experience, and you’ve been wonderful to us. We appreciate that you don’t try to take over our lives. You’re just here to help. Both of us feel that you fit right in.” He leans forward and lowers his voice. “Someone like Nurse Darby treats us like invalids, and we know she’s a bit totalitarian in her dealings with you. We’re not happy with her. Please, can’t you convince Monica to join us? We’re so fond of you already. If she’s your girlfriend, I have a feeling she’ll be perfect.”
“I’m glad you’re happy with my work.”
“You’re like family,” Alma blurts out, almost as if she’s following the conversation.
Mark smiles. “Thank you. You’ve made me feel welcome in your home. I’ll certainly do my best to persuade Monica, but like I said, I can’t guarantee she’ll go for it. Maybe Beverly at the agency can line up some possibilities for you?”
“Perhaps,” Roy says smoothly. “But Monica would be our first choice. Since you already know each other, I’m sure that would be an ideal coupling.”
Ideal coupling. Such an odd choice of words, Mark thinks, but then again, old people have their weird expressions. Mark remembers all the inane things his grandparents have said over the years. As full as Fibber McGee’s closet. Pardon my French. I’ll be there with bells on. They brought their own weird language with them from the past. He smiles. “Yes, sir.”
“You know, Mark, it’s not easy to get old.”
“I would imagine it’s difficult at times.” He nods in a sympathetic way.
“It happens before you know it,” Roy says. “Everyone knows about the gray hair and wrinkles. The ear hair, the liver spots. You hear people mention the aches and pains, the knees that don’t cooperate, the extra pounds that creep up when you aren’t looking.” He stares off into the distance. “But no one seems to talk about the dreams that were never realized. The regrets for things said or done, or not said or done. At some point you weigh the time wasted, time that you can’t get back, and the thought crushes your spirit. And there’s a moment in your life when you realize, with absolute certainty, that you’ll never again know the joy of breaking into a run or bounding up the stairs. Simple things that you took for granted at one time are no longer possible. Your own body has betrayed you. Worse yet is when it becomes apparent that you’ll never know the thrill of falling in love ever again. That feeling of connecting with someone new, discovering each other body and soul. The rush you get in looking forward to all the moments ahead. The places you’ll go, the things you’ll do. When you’re old, those days are behind you. There will be no new love, no exciting future. Your best years are behind you. And that,” he says with sad finality, “is the worst thing of all.”
What a bummer. Mark asks, “Does it help to think back on all you’ve done?”
“Not really.” Roy shakes his head. “No matter how much you’ve accomplished, it’s never enough.”
This strikes Mark as a little greedy. Roy has had his day in the sun. Yes, it’s sad when things end, but that’s the way of the world. Nothing lasts forever. Mark tries to look thoughtful and asks, “So do you have any advice for someone my age?” Old people, he knows, love to pass on their wisdom.
“Don’t take it for granted. Enjoy this stage in your life. Your good looks and your youthful physicality will be gone before you know it.”
“Yes, sir.” Mark thinks of something he actually wants to know. “Do you have any advice for becoming successful?”
“Successful in what way?”
Mark has a ready answer. “Making your mark on the world. Achieving what everyone wants: power, money, influence.”
“Ah.” Roy tips his chin in understanding. “Each person finds their own path to success, but there is one thing I’ve found to be crucial.”
“Yes?” Mark leans forward, eager for this insider tip.
“Envy is not a productive emotion. You can spend your whole life wishing you were someone else, or you could just become that person.”
Mark exhales, disappointed. “I see.” This is the type of psychobabble nonsense espoused by his insurance salesman stepfather. Work smarter, not harder. Make a plan, then work the plan. He was hoping to be given a blueprint for success, something he could actually use. Instead, all he gets are bullshit platitudes.
“Maybe you see, maybe you don’t,” Roy says. “So much of insight comes with age.”
Nurse Darby chooses that moment to come to the door. “So there you are, Mark! I have found you at last.” As if he’s been in hiding. “You come with me now. You are needed in the kitchen.”
He really, really hates her. When Roy and Alma don’t intercede on his behalf, he reluctantly stands. “I better get back to work.”
Alma stares at her lap while Roy nods. “We appreciate your hard work. Don’t forget to talk to Monica on our behalf. We’d love to have both of you here.”
“I won’t forget.” From the corner of his eye, he sees Nurse Darby frown. “It’s been nice talking to you.” He directs this to Roy before leaving to follow Nurse Darby and her squeaky shoes down the dark hallway to the kitchen.
Chapter Fifteen
Mark comes home to find Monica curled up on the couch, watching a rerun of Happy Days and drinking a rum and Coke. Mostly rum, by the looks of it. Usually she’s a motion machine, but on occasion she goes into sloth mod
e, and luckily for him this is one of those times. When he asks if they can talk, she raises her eyebrows and answers with a simple nod, then sets her glass on the coffee table. He goes over to the TV and turns down the volume, knowing he’ll never be able to compete with the show’s canned laughter.
He takes a seat on the other end of the couch and begins his prepared speech. He thinks he’s doing fairly well at putting a happy spin on the subject of them both moving to Alden Manor, but Monica is having none of it. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she says when he’s halfway through his pitch.
Shifting closer to her, he tries again, this time making it a plea. “Won’t you please consider it?” He gives her the puppy-dog eyes, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“I’m still recovering from the fact that you just announced you’re moving out,” she says, her face showing the storm clouds of her thoughts. “What the hell! You’re bailing on me with absolutely zero notice? And what about the rent, Mark? Have you even considered what a bind you’re putting me in?”
He’s not crazy about the way she contemptuously spits out his name, but he is trying to stay on her good side, so he remains calm. “I gave this a lot of thought on the bus ride home, Monica. Can you at least hear me out?”
She cocks her head to one side and narrows her eyes. Everything about her says she won’t be yielding, but begrudgingly she says, “Okay, I’m listening.”
“We work for the Walgraves for as long as we can, save the money, and start our own business. We’ll do it together.” Mark hadn’t actually planned on having their lives become entangled to this extent, but for the sake of convincing her, he’s throwing out the idea. Whether or not it happens is a matter for another day. “We’re talking about a lot of money, Monica. Way more than you make now.”