And that’s when it hits me. I may have just thought of the perfect solution to help Maren. And if it also involves spending a lot of extra time with her, so be it.
Maybe it will put an end to this weird funk I’ve found myself in, as long as I keep myself in check and the end goal in mind.
4
MAREN
“Hi, Maren!” Mrs. Jones calls from her wheelchair in the hallway.
I poke my head out of my office to wave hello. Her CNA, a nursing assistant, waits patiently for the exchange to be over and done with, wrapping her manicured fingers loosely around the wheelchair handles.
Mrs. Jones is a resident who needs constant supervision and care. Ever since she slipped in the tub last spring, she’s been rolling on four wheels. If you ask me, I think she likes the chauffeur service.
“Hello, Mrs. Jones. How’s your back feeling today?”
“Better.” She smiles, the wrinkles deepening around her big brown eyes. “That massage man you brought in was wonderful. I didn’t know men did that kind of work.”
I smile through the cringe. It’s bizarre to me what some of these older folks latch onto from their pasts . . . especially the outdated prejudices that seem to lead to these little offhand comments. But then I remember that I might not see Mrs. Jones again after this month. If Riverside tanks, I might not see any of my residents again. And I know I’d miss these conversations terribly.
“People are doing all sorts of work these days. Look at me,” I say with a shrug.
“Time for breakfast and book club,” the CNA says gently.
I give Mrs. Jones a nod. “I should borrow that massage therapist from you next time,” I call as the CNA steers her away. “Don’t wear him out, okay?”
I can still hear Mrs. Jones laughing when the elevator doors close behind them.
My stomach grumbles. I usually eat breakfast before I come to work, but ever since the staff meeting, I’ve had a hard time getting out of bed in time for work, let alone eating.
After finishing an email, I pocket my Riverside ID and lock my office door behind me, starting the short trek down the hall to the elevator. When it takes me to the fourth floor, Mrs. Jones and her book club are already getting situated in the restaurant with bowls of fresh fruit and oatmeal.
I pick up a tray and opt for a breakfast sandwich. The cashier nods when I flash my ID at her, pressing the buttons that put the meal on my tab—fancy words for docking my paycheck by a few dollars. The food here is surprisingly good, so I don’t mind one bit.
During mealtimes, I make it a point to sit with the residents. Part of my job is to be the point of contact between a resident and their medical team. I have bimonthly meetings with each resident, as the schedule allows. Chats over coffee and cookies are just an easy way to circumvent the red tape and keep my finger on the literal pulse of Riverside.
The morning sun streams pleasantly through the tall windows that face the inner courtyard, luring me across the floor. There, I find one of my favorite people, Donald, relaxing in an orange armchair. His eyes are closed, his chest rising and falling as he dozes peacefully.
I set my tray on the coffee table as quietly as I can. Lifting my sausage-and-egg breakfast sandwich to my lips, I take a cautious bite. The crunch is loud enough to wake the dead.
“And this is the lullaby I deserve?” Donald grumbles as he cracks open his eyes, the perfect picture of a crotchety old man.
But I know he’s not actually grumpy. There’s always a sparkle in his stormy blue eyes, promising good humor and endless banter. I could use a little entertainment today.
“Sorry, Don.” I chuckle, covering my mouthful with one hand. “The bread is toasted.”
“Toasted? From that crunching, I would have guessed it’s made of gravel.”
“I sure hope not.” I feign concern, inspecting the sandwich.
“You’re new here, kid. You’ll get used to it,” he tells me with a wink.
We share the same smile that we always do whenever he brings up how new I am. To Don, a couple of years here means I’m still new. But I don’t feel new. Either way, I don’t mind the teasing, and I sure don’t mind being called kid when it’s Don doing it. I guess, out of all the residents here, he reminds me of my grandpa the most.
“How are you holding up today, Don?”
“Oh, the obligatory question,” he says, straightening his posture like the good student I’m sure he was. “Fine. Very fine. And how are you?”
“Oh, I’m good.” I smile unconvincingly, and he raises a wiry white eyebrow.
“Don’t lie to me,” he says, a stern edge to his voice.
Once upon a time, Don was a college professor, and a strict one at that, I’ve been told. There’s no use hiding anything from the man. But we technically haven’t gotten the green light to talk to residents about Riverside’s financial woes, so I’ll have to beat around the bush.
“I’m just tired. Spent the last few nights up late, trying to figure out a predicament.”
There. It’s true, but vague enough that it shouldn’t raise any red flags. Don is skeptical, however, squinting at me like he’s trying to read my mind.
Not a chance, Don.
Eventually, he relents, leaning forward with a huff and reaching out one hand. I take his palm in mine,
