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She pointed a finger at me. “Watch whatever you’re getting ready to say.”
“You were one of those poor tragic teenage pregnancies, weren’t you?” I asked with a wistful sigh. “Knocked up at thirteen and toiling through the next twenty-some years to raise your daughter. Because you cannot be a day over thirty-five.”
Her finger waved, and I could see her fighting to keep a straight face. “You’re a charming liar, I'll give you that. I’m an old woman, and you know it. You’re lucky you’re cute.”
I hardly thought being near fifty counted as old, and I certainly didn’t think she looked old either. From the few years I’d worked with her, I knew Sheila hadn’t led the easiest of lives. Three kids and an ex-husband who’d left after the third one had been born. By all accounts she had raised those girls on her own before he left anyway, and she’d worked hard to make sure they were fed, clothed, and had a roof over their heads.
It couldn’t have been an easy life, and there was occasionally a look in her eye when she didn’t realize I was watching that made me think it was a lot more than just ‘not easy.’ She was a tough woman, there was no denying that, but tough in all the right ways. Sheila could endure the most outrageous and angry patients, but she was quick to soothe them when they were ready and always had a bit of extra food for people who forgot to eat.
And I may or may not be one of those people.
“I’m adorable,” I said brightly as the kettle began to bubble fiercely. I grabbed a bag of the tea, hesitated, and took another, turning to grab what else I’d need. “All the boys tell me so.”
“And are they all sober and dressed when they do?”
“You’re a dirty old lady, aren’t you?”
It only took about a second before I felt something smack into the back of my head, making me laugh. “Hey! What was that for?”
“The only one allowed to call me old is me,” she told me.
“Can I say venerable?” I asked, plucking the kettle from its base to pour hot water into my cup.
“You aren’t quite high-class enough for that.”
“Oh sure, I can’t call you old, but you can insult me.”
“It’s called honesty. Old women are prone to it.”
“What one calls honesty, another might call rudeness.”
She looked over her book at me once more, narrowing her eyes. “Kevin, is there a point to this conversation or are you going to continue to avoid the original one?”
“We had an original point?”
“Sweetheart, you might occasionally have the attention span of a chipmunk on smack, but that doesn’t mean I’m a fool. I know full well you’re avoiding talking about Rita.”
I took a moment to pour some milk from the communal fridge into my cup before dumping the hot water in. My last long-term patient had been a lovely woman, and I had adored her. Rita had led a storied life, from two failed husbands that led to the love of her life, who passed two years before I met her, to a life roaming the globe, both before and after she had met the man. She had been witty and clever, and it had always seemed like this bright light shone from her eyes, even at her sickest.
Her death had been a cruel cut, especially because it had seemed like she might make it. She hadn’t just simply rallied a week or so before her death. Instead, she had actually begun to recover and seemed to be on that path for a couple of months. Then we discovered the liver cancer might have been in remission, but it had found other places to roost. Her end had thankfully come quickly, but I’d been attached to her and her bright smile.
“You know damn well it’s not a good idea to get too close to our patients,” I told her, taking a couple of scoops of sugar and dumping it into the tea.
“Not a good idea, yeah,” she grunted. I heard the soft whisper of paper, and I guess she was setting her book on the table. “Doesn’t mean we don’t do it.”
“Well, sure,” I said, grabbing a plastic spoon and stirring everything. “We like some people, don’t like others, that’s gonna happen, isn’t it? That’s part of the job.”
“True,” she said, and I could tell from her tone she wasn’t letting this go. “And sometimes you find someone you can’t help but love like you might love one of your own. The next thing you know, you’re connected, and their life or death means the world to you…much like you’d do with your own family.”
Annoyed, I set the spoon aside. “Sounds like you’re talking more about yourself than me.”
“And it feels like I’m talking about both of us.”
I should have known that a woman who raised three toddlers who’d turned teenagers wouldn’t be deterred by a bit of attitude on my part. It didn’t help that I felt guilty for being grumpy when I knew she was just trying to help. I didn’t want her help, which she knew, of course, but she wasn’t someone who balked when she was bound and determined to help someone. I’d seen her pull the firm but loving mother act with both patients and fellow caregivers.
I winced at the thought, silently chiding myself. No, it wasn’t fair to say it was an act because no one could be that good an actress. She genuinely cared about people and wasn’t afraid to show it, and I envied that. Not that I didn’t care, because God knows I did, and sometimes it felt like I was going to drown in how much I cared about someone. Yet there was always something holding me back, keeping me from showing the people around me how much I cared. So much easier to hide it behind a quick smile and an easy laugh, all traits I naturally had, right along with a bit of sass. Better that they see that.
“So, you’ve had someone like that?” I asked, shaking my thoughts before they dove too deep, too hard. The last thing I needed was to lose myself in whispers of the past and demons that would never entirely leave me.
