Natsinet tried to hide the irritation in her voice but she hated when people called her Ethiopian. She knew what most Americans thought of when they imagined Ethiopians; emaciated scarecrows with flies on their faces, starving to death and living in filth. Either that or they lumped them in with American Blacks who were little more than beggars and thieves in Natsinet’s view, barely more than the slaves they descended from. She had grown up among the privileged class. Her father was a respected physician in Eritrea and her mother came from an upper- middle class family in America. She’d been educated in European schools and spoke eight different languages. She hated being compared to lower-class American Blacks.
“Your mother was a White woman?”
The old nurse stared at Natsinet as if trying to solve a complicated puzzle.
“Yes.”
“So what do you consider yourself? White or Black?”
“I consider myself Eritrean.”
Natsinet tilted her head up and glared at the old nurse, challenging her to disagree.
“And that’s to say not African American?”
The old nurse peered over her tiny spectacles, smirking at Natsinet, clearly enjoying the exchange.
“No. Not African American. I am bi-racial. My mother was White and my father was Eritrean.”
“Sounds like an African American to me, but you certainly don’t look or talk like any of the ones I know of.”
“Nor would I ever. There is very little African in what you call an African American. My people were never conquered, never enslaved. My mother is from right here in Philadelphia. Her family lives in Chestnut Hill. Her father was a lawyer and a politician, not a crack dealer or a pimp. I am the descendent of doctors and businessmen, not slaves.”
There was a pause as Natsinet continued staring down her nose at the old nurse, her brilliant green eyes hard as chips of glass, waiting for a response. She knew she had said too much, but she also knew that when it came to her feelings about African Americans she could often count on a sympathetic ear among elderly Caucasians. They may not be as vocal as she was, but she knew that most of them felt the same as she. Often they were relieved by the fact that she did not consider herself one.
“Fair enough. So let’s go have a seat so we can take a look at your resume.”
The old nurse led them into a library. The walls were lined with bookshelves made of dark oak. The floors and molding were likewise a deep dark brown that was almost black. Books filled every shelf from floor to ceiling. There were medical books going back two centuries, bibles, almanacs, and works of classic literature; Twain, Dickens, Shakespeare, and Tolstoy.
In the center of the room were several large brown leather chairs. Doris gestured for Natsinet to have a seat in one as she took a seat across from her in another, already leafing through her resume.
“So, you were an ER nurse?”
“Yes, for four…almost five years.”
“This would be quite a change from the emergency room. I’m afraid you might get bored. What made you decide to want to become a hospice nurse and why did you leave the hospital?”
“The ER can be rather intense. These days it’s like being a battlefield nurse. It starts to drain you after a while. I just needed a change…something a little less…intense.”
Doris was scrutinizing her again, staring from her eyes to her mouth as she spoke, looking for the lie in either of them. The old nurse relaxed and looked back at the papers in her lap, apparently satisfied with Natsinet’s explanation.
“You worked as an au-pair for a few years also?”
“Yes. I worked for Dr. and Mrs. Lewzinsky in their home, caring for their three children for four years while I was in nursing school. There’s a letter of recommendation from them in there.”
“I see. You graduated from University of Penn?”
“Yes, I graduated in ninety-nine.”
“So, you went right into the ER after college?”
“I worked in the terminal ward for a few years but then I was transferred down to ER. They were short- staffed down there and I had the educational background for it so I wasn’t given much of a choice.”
“Uh-huh.”
This time Doris didn’t even look up at her. She scanned quickly through the recommendations from her teachers and a few of the doctors she worked under in the ER, along with the one from the Lewzinsky’s, then she placed the resume aside on a nearby end table.
“So you’ve never done elderly care before?”
“Not really. Not unless the terminal ward counts. Most of the patients in there were elderly except the ones who had cancer or AIDS.”
“Well, this won’t be very much different than that except here you will have only one patient at a time that you will be assigned to anywhere from two or three hours a day, to twenty-four hours around the clock, depending on your assignment. We will, of course, teach you everything you need to know before we send you out on an assignment, but with your credentials you should have no problem with any of it.”
“So, when do I start?”
“You just did. We’ll get you a locker for your things and start you right here caring for our patients in the nursing home. We have people coming in every day looking for nurses, so the sooner we can get you into the swing of things, the better.”
Doris stood and led the way down the hall.
“Do you mind if I call you Natty? Natsinet is quite a mouthful.”
Natsinet grimaced but said nothing. There were very few things she minded more than having her name butchered, but she had learned over the years that Americans were fond of abbreviations. It was pointless to fight it. “No problem,” she said.
“Wonderful,” Doris replied. She offered Natsinet what appeared to be her first genuine smile. “Why don’t I show you the rest of the facility then?”
Chapter Three
Adelle knew something horribly wrong had occurred, knew she’d suffered some debilitating illness, but did not know the extent of her condition until after she regained full consciousness a full five days later.
She’d come awake slowly, in fits and starts. She recognized that she was in a hospital immediately, and when the night duty nurse came in and saw that she was awake, a doctor was summoned.
“How do you feel, Ms. Smith?” the doctor asked as he stood over her bed, checking her vitals.
Adelle could only make out a hazy image, enough to tell her he was a young doctor, of Middle-Eastern descent perhaps. She tried to tell him, tried to convey how she was feeling and perhaps ask how she wound up here, but she couldn’t speak. Her mouth was dry and as if the medical team had second sight, one of the nurses brought her a cup of water.
“Easy does it,” the nurse murmured as Adelle sipped.
That helped quench her thirst and calm her parched throat, but it did nothing to help further her speech. By then another team of doctors had entered the room, and it was the older one—white, graying hair, over six feet tall—who seemed to be in charge.
“Ms. Smith, I want you to listen to me very carefully. You’ve suffered a stroke.”
Somehow, the news didn’t affect her the way she thought it would. Her first reaction was one of
