Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 47822 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 239(@200wpm)___ 191(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47822 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 239(@200wpm)___ 191(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
“What’d she want to know?” I asked, signing into the computer system and pulling up the schedule for my patients today. I wasn’t a nurse or even a certified aide, so I didn’t have to give medications or anything. But I did give baths and pass meals and help with crafts and other activities. I couldn’t help but smile. Maggie -- Margaret insisted I call her that, though I rarely did -- was an acquired taste. Feisty, argumentative, and stubborn to the core, she seemed to act that way on purpose, like she wanted to keep people at arm’s length just so she could study them. Everyone but me. Around others, she stayed gruff, but when we were alone, she softened -- like she saw me as a favorite granddaughter or something. I couldn’t lie. I liked the thought she might see me as family.
Melissa shrugged. “The usual. When you’d be back, what shift you were working, if you had any family in the area.”
“She knows I don’t have family in the area.” I loaded my cart with snacks and ice in a cooler to make sure everyone had a pitcher of ice water. “Maybe she’s just lonely.”
“Maybe.” Melissa didn’t sound convinced. “Or she’s adding you to her spy network.” The other woman grinned as she slung her backpack over her shoulder. “Have fun, River. I have a feeling you’re going to have an eventful day.”
I chuckled. Mrs. Walsh claimed she’d been a CIA analyst during the Cold War, though most of the staff dismissed it as an elaborate fantasy brought on by dementia. I’d seen enough residents with colorful pasts they’d invented to fill the emptiness. One man insisted he’d been Neil Armstrong’s backup for the moon landing. Another swore she’d dated Frank Sinatra in the ‘50s. Mrs. Walsh said she’d been the CIA agent on the ground in Cuba during the Bay of Pigs. What? It could happen!
The morning unfolded like evenings always did, a carefully choreographed dance of vitals checks, bed baths, and assisting with snacks. Not necessarily in that order. I helped Mr. Grayson find his dentures (in his shirt pocket, as usual), coaxed Mrs. Fernandez into taking her heart medication by mixing it with a spoonful of applesauce, and listened to Mr. Wilson practice what he’d say to his son for the fifth time that week. He always said the same thing, but if he wanted to make sure he got it right, I wouldn’t complain. If it eased his mind, I’d gladly listen and jump in with prompts when he needed them. Sometimes he messed up on purpose, just to see if I was paying attention. I always paid attention.
“You think he’ll notice I’ve lost weight?” Mr. Wilson asked, patting his still-substantial belly.
“I’m sure he’ll notice how good you look,” I said, adjusting his collar. “Did you want your glasses for breakfast? The newspaper just arrived.”
His face lit up. “Oh, would you? They’re on my nightstand, I think.”
I fetched his glasses and handed him the day’s paper, folded to the sports section the way he liked it. These small gestures weren’t in my job description, but they were why I liked working in nursing and assisted-living homes. These were the people who needed a little something special in their lives to make them happy and that’s what I tried to give them.
By midmorning, I’d made my way to the communal lounge, where a few residents were gathered for the daily craft activity. Sunlight streamed through the large windows, creating warm patches on the worn carpet where several residents had positioned their wheelchairs.
Margaret Walsh sat apart from the others, watching quietly. Unlike the other residents who huddled together over yarn and colored paper, Mrs. Walsh sat erect in an armchair by the window, her silver bob perfectly styled despite the slight tremor in her hands. She wore pressed slacks and a crisp blouse without a wrinkle in sight, and a cardigan draped precisely over her shoulders.
I made my way to her. One thing about Mrs. Walsh -- when she came looking, you’d be smart not to avoid her. Mrs. Walsh kept to herself, but she absolutely would not be ignored if she didn’t want to be.
“Good morning, Mrs. Walsh. Not interested in macramé today?”
Her sharp blue gaze flicked up to meet mine, missing nothing. She had this ability to fix you with a stare that dug into your thoughts and left you feeling mildly judged.
“Tangling string into knots hardly seems a productive use of my remaining faculties, don’t you think, Miss Brooks?” She spoke with a clear, cultured voice. No wavering uncertainty that some of the other residents often showed. Aside from her claims about being a former CIA operative, she came across as surprisingly sharp. When she wanted to be. I kind of had the feeling that, sometimes, she pretended to be more confused and disoriented than she really was.