Rose hugged me tight. “We’re proud of you,” she said. “Look at what you’ve done.”
With certification in hand, I applied to agencies. The response was immediate—demand, a lot, especially for someone with my experience.
One agency offered me night care for a ninety-two-year-old woman with dementia. Eight hours a night, six nights a week, $15 an hour.
That was $120 a night. $720 a week. About $2,800 a month.
More money than I had seen in years.
I accepted immediately.
The patient was named Mrs. Connie. She lived in a big house in the Gold Coast with her daughter, Jessica.
Yes—another Jessica. The universe had a cruel sense of humor.
But this Jessica was different: kind, exhausted from caring for her mother alone for years.
“My mother doesn’t sleep well,” she explained. “She gets up, wanders, gets confused. She needs someone to keep her safe, guide her back to bed. Can you do that?”
“Of course,” I said.
The job was easier than I expected. Mrs. Connie was sweet when she wasn’t confused. She called me honey. She told stories of her youth, changing details every time. At two in the morning, she asked where her husband was, dead for thirty years.
I told her he was sleeping in the other room.
It calmed her.
The nights were long but quiet. I read while she slept. I did crosswords. I thought.
I thought about Lucas. About whether he was happy. About whether Leo ran down the hallways I once cleaned. About whether Jessica had changed the furniture again. About whether they ever thought of me at all.
One night, three months after I started, Jessica—the daughter—brought me coffee.
“Eleanor,” she said, “I want you to know how much I appreciate what you do. For my mother and for me. I couldn’t do it alone.”
“It’s my job,” I said.
“It’s more than that,” she insisted. “You care for her with affection. Not everyone does. I’ve had caregivers who only saw a paycheck. You see a person.”
Her words moved me, because she was right. I saw Mrs. Connie as a woman who had once been young and strong and full of life. She had loved, lost, and kept going—like me.
“My mother died five years ago,” Jessica continued. “My blood mom. Mrs. Connie is my mother-in-law, but I take care of her as if she were mine. Because that’s what you do when you love someone. You take care of them even when it costs you.”
I stayed silent, thinking of Lucas, wondering if he believed that too, or if he had convinced himself the lockout was “for the best.”
The money began to accumulate. $2,800 a month plus my pension plus occasional clinic shifts. Suddenly I had about $3,500 monthly.
I paid rent. I bought food without fear. I breathed easier.
I opened a savings account and deposited $1,000 every month. For some people it’s nothing. For me it was freedom—proof I would never be completely vulnerable again.
Margaret noticed the change.
“You look different,” she told me over Thursday coffee. “Lighter.”
“I feel different,” I admitted. “Like I can finally breathe.”
“Have you heard anything from Lucas?” she asked.
“No,” I lied.
Of course I wanted to know. Every day I checked my phone hoping for a message, a call, an apology.
Nothing came.
But life went on: yoga twice a week. Breakfast with Arthur every other Saturday. Work with Mrs. Connie six nights. Occasional clinic shifts.
Leave a Comment