David Shapiro's Pick
"I was engaged by the ironies in this story and moved by its compassion and humanity."
"I'm on the poop patrol tonight," Ava, the large black aide says walking down the hall carrying the necessary equipment to clean up the most recent resident who's lost control of bodily functions.
Ava saw it all in the brief time she'd been at the home. The pay was lousy, the work impossible and on the odd occasion families did show up to see if the old lady or man was still kicking they'd, rummage through the loved one's possessions to make sure nothing was missing.
"Did you see Mrs. Henderson's pink bathrobe?" Mrs. Thompson, the owner and head nurse, asked Ava after her first month. Ava shook her head, trying to be helpful, resenting the implication she'd filched an item of clothing she had no use for. "Are you sure?" A man standing next to Mrs. Thompson glared at Ava as if she were withholding information.
"Yes." Ava stared back at the man and waited at the main desk while Mrs. Thompson assured the man they'd do everything possible to locate the missing article of clothing.
"I'm sorry," Mrs. Thompson told Ava. She liked Mrs. Thompson.
"That's okay," Ava said even though it wasn't. "Who is that anyway?" Ava nodded in the man's direction. He was keeping an eye on her.
"Mrs. Henderson's son," Mrs. Thompson replied in a low voice.
"Son?" Ava said loud enough for the retreating back to hear. "I didn't know she had a son." She knew Mrs. Thompson understood by the tiny smile on her lips. She makes a point of staying out of his way on future visits.
Evenings, not all the assigned help shows up and Ava is asked to work another shift. Her feet are aching from shoes that are too tight. She stops by Mrs. Henderson's room. "How are you doing tonight?" The old lady looks up at the sound of her voice and smiles.
"Do I know you?" She asks everyone that every time they come into her room. It's a routine question on this floor. First floor patients aren't ambulatory with the exception of Mrs. Ronzio who won't stay in her room. Just when Ava and Emma think they have her down for the night, she'll pop out in the hall demanding something to eat. "We can't fill you up can we?" Ava will ask while Emma goes back into the kitchen looking for a snack. Mrs. Ronzio is like most of the residents — disappearing into a bag of skin and bones, growing shorter every day.
"You're nice," Mrs. Henderson tells Ava as she clears away the dinner tray.
"Thank you." Ava smiles and wonders what awful thing the old lady could have done to make her son such an infrequent visitor.
"Did you need to go to the bathroom?" Ava asks even though Mrs. Henderson has no concept of what going to the bathroom means anymore. She's been wearing a diaper since she became Ava's charge. But Ava likes to ask out of respect.
"No, I don't watch much television any more," Mrs. Henderson replies. "They took off all my favorite shows. Can you imagine that?" She scowls, looking disappointed and Ava hopes she changes the topic before she starts to cry. A lot of things make Mrs. Henderson cry and Ava wonders if Mrs. Henderson cries because what she says makes her sad or because she knows something's wrong. "Chester loves the crap on television. I can't get him to turn the damn thing off." Ava laughs at the force of Mrs. Henderson's statement. Chester has been dead for years.
"I hear you," Ava says and Mrs. Henderson starts to smile.
"Let me put you to bed." She should call for help moving Mrs. Henderson from the chair to bed but manages on her own.
"Do you think they understand what's happening to them?" Ava asks Emma when everyone's tucked in. Even Mrs. Ronzio's fallen asleep. Fitful and will probably wake up in the middle of the night demanding hot chocolate or gin and tonic. She's big on gin and tonic and smacks her lips when the girls pour her a large glass of water with "Here you go, sweetie. Don't drink too much, we can't have you tipsy."
The place is quiet, the clock above the front desk ticking. Ava's hoping things are okay at home. She's called three times since supper and was assured by Benjamin everyone is safe and sound, homework finished, fed and in bed.
Emma reclines in the big desk chair Mrs. Thompson occupies during the day, her feet resting on the desk and studies the new tattoo on her ankle. "You think too much, Ava."
"Maybe." Ava is tired and looking forward to getting off at seven when the morning crew arrives. "It must be awful to know how much your life is changing and there's nothing you can do except watch it slip away." Emma doesn't reply and Ava looks over to see her head resting on her chest, eyes closed.
She'll be home in time to see everybody off to school and work. Benjamin tells her she could get a better job but she wonders what would happen to all the old ladies if she did. Working extra shifts brings in extra money, saving for the future. "They need me," she thinks.
Janet Yung lives and writes in St. Louis. Pieces of nonfiction have been published in small, local papers, fiction in Writers On the River and Foliate Oak.