“They live upstate.” It occurred to Leo that Rosa had been alone here all weekend, including Monday, the holiday. Three days in that bed with no one to talk to.
“Rosa gave me permission to call Marcy. I left messages, but I didn’t hear back.”
“Well, I’m here.” Leo offered his most ingratiating smile.
“Do you live near Rosa?”
“I live in Brooklyn.” He paused. “But I see her every day.”
“Great, Leo, that’s great. I’m not comfortable releasing her unless I know she has someone to help her around the house.”
“I can pick up her groceries and dry cleaning, if that’s what you mean.”
“She’ll also need you to stay.”
“Overnight?” Leo blinked. “At her apartment?”
“She’ll need help getting dressed, going to the bathroom, showering—at least for the first few nights. Otherwise, she’ll have to go to a rehab facility until she’s steady on her feet.”
“Oh . . . I guess . . . I mean, I didn’t realize she’d need so much help.” Leo tried to picture himself lowering Rosa onto the toilet. “I mean, I know Rosa had a stroke, but she told me she’s, like, ninety-nine percent recovered.”
Dr. Brady raised her eyebrows. “Leo, your aunt had an ischemic stroke.”
He had no idea what that meant, but judging from her tone, it couldn’t be good.
“Basically, it’s a clot that interrupted the flow of blood to her brain. Although we were able to bust the mass intravenously and open the artery, as you can see there were aftereffects.”
“You mean her speech?” Leo was getting nervous. Dr. Brady was offering more details than Rosa probably wanted him to have; more, truthfully, than he wanted to know. “Her arm?”
“The entire right side of her body was compromised. To be fair, the palsy and mild paralysis is already resolving, so that doesn’t concern me as much as the risk of another stroke or aneurysm. Rosa is a high-performing executive with a lot of stress, so she’s an ideal candidate for both, and from what I’ve observed, she seems unlikely to follow prevention protocols.”
For a second, Leo reflected on how happy it would make Rosa to be called a “high-performing executive.” “But she can go back to work, right?”
“Sure, at some point. A lot can happen after a stroke—heart attack, depression, falls—so she has to reduce her stress, which means taking time off. The symptoms she presented last Friday—memory loss, aphasia, elevated blood pressure—were likely stroke-related, but I’ve seen these same symptoms in patients who develop vascular dementia. Rosa’s medical history makes her particularly vulnerable to dementia, unfortunately.” Leo must’ve looked terrified, because Dr. Brady touched his arm. “I’m getting ahead of myself. As soon as Rosa’s symptoms began, she came right to the hospital, so we were able to intervene immediately, and get her started on antiplatelet therapy. At this point, her test results are inconclusive, but we’ll continue to monitor her brain function and cognition. While I’m confident she’ll recover—if not completely, at least significantly—we are dealing with the brain, so there’s a lot we don’t know.” Dr. Brady checked her watch before heading toward the door. “When Rosa gets back, will you tell her I’ll stop by again?”
Sure, whatever you need, Leo said. Or that’s what he thought he said. All of a sudden, he was overwhelmed. What was he still doing here? It was only six, but the sky was dark, so he sat in the shadows and tried to make sense of the day. As the light filtered out of the room and faded to black, he felt like he was fading with it.
Ten minutes later Rosa rolled in, her lips pursed in a sour knot. She was crabby and cranky. No, she did not want to get into the goddamn bed; she could sit up just fine. “Not the . . . the . . . the thing,” she snapped, when the orderly tried to move her into bed. “The . . . thing.” Pointing at the bed, she looked like an invalid: elderly, fragile, and mentally deficient.
“Why don’t you lie down?” Leo said, aware that he sounded patronizing, as if he were addressing a toddler or a dog. “You must be exhausted.”
She muttered something, but he couldn’t make out her words.
“I have to go,” he said, not wanting to leave but not wanting to stay either.
Rosa asked if he could run down and get her a Starbucks; she was dying for a decent cup of coffee. Oh, and maybe a doughnut. “Do you mind?”
Did he mind? Well, now that she was asking, Leo wasn’t sure. It had been a long day, and he should probably go home. After all, he was only her employee; he wasn’t her nephew. Speaking of which, where was Marcy? Where was her fucking brother? Leo was appalled. Their older sister was in the hospital, partially paralyzed, unable to speak or use the bathroom. Where were her people? When her mother died, Rosa had become the matriarch of the Guerrero familia. Over the years, she’d supported Marcy, Nando, and a litter of nieces and nephews. Rosa had paid for Marcy’s breast implants, Nando’s flat-screen TV, one niece’s quinceañera, another’s Honda Accord, and a nephew’s college tuition. Yet when she needed help, none—not one of them—had stopped by with flowers or to keep her company. Rosa’s parents were dead. Her husband was dead. She had no one nearby. She’s spent three days in this place by herself. The thought killed Leo. But what could he do? What should he do? Another human being was debilitated and alone. That she was his boss was immaterial. What would any decent person do in this situation?
“No, Rosa,” Leo said, easing her out of her wheelchair and into the bed, surprised by how light she was. “Of course I don’t mind.”
WHEN DAVE, LEO’S father, was diagnosed with cancer, Leo was twenty-three and living in New York. He was temping at the time, and money was tight, so he didn’t go home to see him. “My prognosis is excellent,” his dad said from Miami. “Let’s hold off for now.”
“We’ll let you know when you should come,” his mother, Doris, promised.
Though Leo was torn, his parents knew best, so he didn’t make the trip. Nor did he fly down when his dad went into the hospital a few months later. By the time his mom told him to get on a plane, his dad was unconscious, so Leo’s mad dash to the airport was for naught; two hours after he landed, his father was dead. Then, unbelievably, the same thing happened four months later. His mother had a fatal heart attack, and again, Leo wasn’t there. While he wasn’t close to his parents, he still felt like he’d failed them; he suspected his brothers did, too. “How can you take care of your boss,” he imagined the twins saying, “when you didn’t even take care of your mom and dad?”
His brothers had a point, but so what? Leo had made his decision. Now the question was how far he’d go. How far was too far? To Leo’s mind, it was sleeping at Rosa’s house, sitting on her couch in his pajamas, lowering her into the tub. Then again, life was long; anything could happen. He once read about a predatory health-care worker who convinced her elderly patient to invest in a church. With no one to object, the old woman signed a wad of bank slips, and the aide withdrew a cool million. The police investigated, but the case was flimsy. Not only did the bank have valid signatures authorizing the withdrawals, but the aide was gone, back to Eastern Europe, most likely. The story had haunted Leo for years. How easily it could happen to him! He had no family nearby to oversee his accounts if he was incapacitated, no one to trust with his personal affairs. Poor Rosa was alone in a hospital—purse gaping open, wallet spilling out—and someday he might be, too.
A week later, Leo was all in.
Truth be told, it was easy to pretend Rosa had the flu. This month was New York’s second snowiest February on record, so employees were out sick all the time. Meanwhile, Leo was on the move like an undercover agent, traveling on a series of different trains from the office on the west side to the hospital on the east side, then all the way down to his apartment in Brooklyn and then back into Manhattan in the morning to repeat the same routine. Or if not a spy, then like a hobo riding the rails, but a hobo with a Jack Spade messenger bag and saucy Gucci loafers, full of di
rection and purpose.
Full disclosure: it wasn’t all smooth sailing. Though Leo’s intentions were honorable, he turned out to be a colossally inept secret agent. The cloak-and-dagger life fucked with his digestion and aggravated his eczema. His quest for an Authentic Self had made him a reluctant liar, so while he tried to pretend life was normal, inside he was a mess. (Dr. Saul pointed out that as exhilarating as it might feel to be needed—oh yes, it absolutely did—Leo had to take care of himself. While Leo agreed, who had time for therapy?) To his credit, the moment he realized he was out of his depths (day two), he got Rosa’s blessing to tell Katie, his fellow early bird. Like him, Katie was a caretaker—of people, of pets, of the lost and forlorn—who also adored Rosa. Of course she would help! So while Katie coordinated Rosa’s schedule and triaged her e-mails, Leo focused on (i) Rosa, (ii) his work, (iii) Rosa’s work, (iv) facilities, (v) avoiding Rutherford, and (vi) evading Lucy, who kept badgering him. Leo managed to dodge and feint the first few days, but on Friday, when Lucy appeared at his door, demanding he tell her where Rosa was (“I know her apartment doesn’t have a paging system”—no fool, that Lucy), he knew the jig was up.
Lucy didn’t mince words. “Leo,” she said. “I cannot understand her. Rosa’s not just slurring her words, she doesn’t make any sense.” According to Dr. Brady, some people didn’t do well as inpatients; a few, in fact, could suffer from what she called “hospital delirium” and mentally deteriorate. This seemed true of Rosa, who, after a week at Lenox Hill, was lucid in the morning, but grew loopier and more forgetful as the day wore on. Still, when Lucy said point-blank, “Rosa is in the hospital,” Leo pretended to sputter. “That’s absurd,” he said, as if mortally offended. “You can’t be serious.”
“Leo, I can hear the drag in her voice. Was it another TIA or an actual stroke?”
“You knew about the TIA?”
She leaned on his desk. “Don’t look so surprised. You’re not the only one Rosa is close to. I’ve known about the TIA for years. She tells me lots of personal things she doesn’t tell you.”
“Except where she is right now. Guess you’re not as close as you think.”
“You can’t hoard her, Leo. She’s my boss too—and my friend.”
Leo considered this. “It was a stroke,” he admitted. “She’s been in Lenox Hill all week.”
“We have to tell Rutherford.” Lucy reached for his phone, but he brushed her away.
“So he can put Rosa down like a broken mule? No way.” Rutherford was only in his fifties, and to Leo’s mind, immature for a CEO. If he had no problem firing young, healthy employees, why would he retain a sixty-four-year-old stroke victim?
“He’ll see the large claim report, Leo. It won’t identify her, but he’ll figure it out.”
“Not if we ‘forget’ to send it. Lucy, Rosa built this place. She can’t just get kicked out and stashed in some nursing home.” Leo kept picturing the old woman, the one swindled by her aide. In his mind, he’d conflated her with his father. Her hair was coiled up in a turban like an aging movie star, but she had his father’s face—enormous beak, shaggy eyebrows, too-tanned skin. “Think of all the secrets she kept over the years, Lucy, all the people she protected. Now we have to protect her.” He sighed. “This job is her whole life.”
“But the stroke is a sign that she’s working too hard! Maybe she needs to retire, or at least reduce her hours. This happens all the time, Leo—surgeons lose their touch, cops lose their aim, lawyers lose their bite. Deceleration doesn’t have to mean the end.”
Lucy was right, of course, which pissed Leo off. “And then you can be chief?” he asked. “Is that what you’re gunning for? She’s out and you’re in?”
Looking startled, Lucy widened her eyes. “Fuck you, Leo,” she snapped. “If I wanted Rosa’s job, I’d take it. I’m trying to figure out how to help her. Besides, Mr. Know-It-All, I’ve already been asked to step in as her number two. Rutherford plans to make an announcement, so I’m not coveting her job, because soon I’ll be doing her job.” She stomped out of his office.
“I’m sorry, Lucy. I didn’t mean that. I know you care about her.” He followed her into the hall. “Where are you going?”
“Where do you think? Lenox Hill. I want to see her.” She stopped. “Will you come with me? Rosa is a rock star . . . she’s . . . I can’t imagine . . .”
A few hours later, Lucy was all in, too.
One visit was all it took. Lucy and Leo only stayed an hour, but Rosa barely acknowledged them. Listless and morose, she stared blankly at the TV. She looked awful, too. Her face was stripped of makeup, her hair matted and dirty. Out in the hall, Lucy was teary. “That could be me one day. She seems so lost and lonely. I won’t tell Rutherford, Leo,” she added. “I promise.”
From that day forward, Lucy took over Rosa’s projects, Leo masterminded her day-to-day, and Katie handled her scheduling. Instead of waiting for Rosa’s go-ahead, the trio made decisions on her behalf. “Rule of thumb,” Lucy reminded them, “it’s easier to ask forgiveness than beg permission.” By the following Tuesday, Rosa could walk with a cane, so Dr. Brady let her go home rather than to rehab. At noon, Leo was at Lenox Hill to sign her discharge papers and then back in the office by five. He slept in her guestroom all week, though Rosa was less than thrilled and said “No way, José” about the bathroom. (“Privacy, please, Leo, for God’s sake.”) She balked at every turn, but Leo held firm. He made sure she ate right, went to bed early, took her pills, and used her cane. He accompanied her to speech therapy, physical therapy, and Dr. Brady’s office, as well as the hairdresser, colorist, and nail salon, where he worked on PowerPoint slides and drafted e-mails while entertaining the staff with his funny computer sounds. At the end of the week, he went back to Brooklyn but called her every morning and evening. Though her siblings did come to visit, they only stayed one night, so despite Rosa insisting he was doing too much, Leo knew she was relieved to have his help.
As soon as she left the hospital, Rosa got better. Within days, her face regained its color, her eyes brightened, her speech tightened. She wanted to go back to work. “It’s too much sick time,” she said. “People will notice.” Leo shook his head. Not only did sick come out shick, she was hobbling around on a cane and her arm was still lame. In the end, they compromised: Rosa would stay at home and pretend to be in the office. So every morning Leo flipped on her lights, hung a jacket on her chair, booted up her computer, and voilà! “She’s here,” he’d say when anyone asked. “She just stepped out for a moment.”
Believe it or not, it actually worked. After a week, Rosa’s gait improved and she didn’t need the cane, so she started coming to the office a few hours each morning. Then, for the rest of the day, Leo, Katie, and Lucy answered her phone, dialed in to her meetings, and finished her projects while she rested at home; more often than not, one of them would go to her place and work alongside her. Luckily, Rutherford was on the road, so most days passed without incident. Still, Leo was concerned. Dr. Brady had recommended that Rosa take a full six weeks off, but Rosa refused to slow down. “If people don’t see me, they’ll talk, and once they talk, forget it.”
“You’re jeopardizing your recovery,” Leo warned.
“Better my recovery than my job, kiddo.”
Three weeks later (one month poststroke), Leo was at his desk when Lucy called him with a question about retention rates. “I have to go over them with Rosa. I’ll pick them up on my way to her place. Say, five minutes?”
Leo checked a folder. “Yes, I have them. Listen, can you also stop by Duane Reade? Dr. Brady called in a new beta blocker. But Rosa has to eat something before she takes it.”
“I know that, Leo. Not only did I speak to Dr. Brady, I already picked up the prescription. Why don’t you focus on your job and facilities; I’ll handle everything else.”
Not only was Lucy all in, she was acting very, very bossy. But Leo figured it was better to have a bossy Lucy on Rosa’s side than a bossy Lucy wor
king against her.
“Guess what?” Lucy appeared at Leo’s door. “My keycard stopped working again.”
“Wow!” Leo exclaimed. “What a wardrobe story!” Recently, Lucy had started dressing like an executive, the way she’d looked when she first came to Ellery. Today she wore a plum-colored silk blouse, dark gray pencil skirt with pinstripes, and shiny black pumps. “No more Red Lobster uniform.”
“Oh, stop it, Leo. I’m an old maid.” Still, she smiled. “So listen, Norm Handel just gave notice. We should figure out how to replace him before Rosa freaks. I need to get my ID fixed, so come with me to security and we’ll talk on the way.”
Standing up, Leo saluted. “Forward, march!”
Lucy returned his salute. “God, I love being large and in charge.” She waved him along. “Okay, pick it up, soldier. We have lots to do.”
Down in Security, Manny Flores was in front of a computer, scrolling through videocam building images. “Hey, Manny,” Leo said, shaking his hand. “How’ve you been?”
“Leo! What can I do for you?” Manny wore pressed trousers, shiny loafers, and a windbreaker with SANCHEZ embroidered over his heart.
“Actually, we’re here for me.” Lucy handed him her card. “It’s not working—again.”
“No problem, miss. Let me fix you up.” Manny turned to his computer.
Lucy watched his fingers tap the keys. “You may not remember this, Manny—Manny, right?—but we started our jobs on the same day.”
“That’s right, miss.” He chuckled softly. “Ten years ago. And we’re both still here.”
Lucy pointed to his chest. “Is Sanchez your last name?”
Manny shook his head. “It’s Flores, miss. Manny Flores.”
“Manny Flores. That’s a nice name.” She grinned; her face reddened. “It suits you.”
Her tone surprised Leo. Was Lucy flirting? Sure seemed so. Her voice was pitched high. “Manny runs Sanchez Security,” Leo offered. “He oversees this building and two others.”
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