Capítulo 1: One
Carrie Sellers gave Roberta a weak grin and folded her arms across her chest. "I'll be alright...not to worry."
Roberta smiled, laughing lightly, and in her island accent said, "I just want to be sure you know the drill. My cell phone number is on the kitchen table. Give me a holler if you run into any trouble."
"Everything will be just peachy." Again Carrie attempted a smile but was certain it went awry, probably made her look uncomfortable—an unintended display of her true feelings.
Roberta's narrowing face appeared to say, Just peachy, eh? Are you sure you want this job? Pulling an all-nighter won't be the hard part. There's plenty of cookies and coffee to keep your engines running. It's the periodic check on my folks. You know, those two people you're being paid to nursemaid?
Carrie had done this work before, in group-homes, with the elderly, the mentally ill, the disabled. But never alone, in a private residence, at night. Overnight.
She'd felt a touch of anxiety while interviewing for the position, and then again upon accepting the weekend job. They both suffer from Alzheimer's. Each of them are now in the later stages. My father shouts out from time to time, periods of dementia, but only in the daytime. Other than that, they don't move, speak, or open their eyes. Carrie had followed Roberta into the bedroom, and at first sight of the withered black couple nearly cried out in horror. They were in just awful condition, eyes shuttered, mouths gaping, tree-bark skin appearing as old as time itself. Roberta demonstrated on how to change their diapers (something you won't have to do sweetie, unless there's an emergency), then adjusted the intravenous bags with the clear plastic hoses that snaked beneath the sheets. Roberta explained, the hoses enter their abdomens via the navel.
"If something goes wrong and you can't reach me, call the doctor. His number is on the fridge."
"Okay." She nodded and coughed, trying to clear her throat of a sudden dry-spot. There was no reason to be frightened of the old sick black couple, was there? She would stay here overnight, drink lots of coffee and watch the late, late, late movie. And every now and then stick her head into their room to make sure everything was just peachy before heading back to the tube.
Roberta had a hand on the doorknob when she added, "Oh, every now and then you might have to play the tape recorder on the nightstand next Roberta had a hand on the doorknob when she added, "Oh, every now and then you might have to play the tape recorder on the nightstand next to the bed."
"Oh...well...how will I know when?"
"Sometimes dad gets a bit...well...agitated. But then again, he hasn't had an episode in over a month, and has never had one at night. Still, I think the tape calms them. It makes them happy. All should be, as you like to say, just peachy."
"Yes...everything will be fine," Carrie said.
"See you in the morning. About six." Roberta closed the door behind her.
Carrie listened as Roberta's footsteps hurried down the steps of the two-story building. It was the stride of a woman who had just left all her worries behind, a woman who was about to move on to something more important, something more enjoyable.
A car started outside. A horn honked before it pulled away. The sound of the engine faded and then silence filled the apartment.
The two room apartment.
She, in the living area.
Them, in the bedroom.
Them.
Carrie walked into the kitchen, which was really an extension of the living room. On the refrigerator was a magnetic reminder board with a phone number scrawled on it in magic marker. Below, the name 'Dr Allis' was written in looping script. That was the number she'd call if 'trouble' started, if dad got agitated. But only if Roberta couldn't be reached. Carrie glanced sideways at the table and saw only a cookie jar on a plain white tablecloth.
My cell phone number is on the kitchen table. Give me a holler if you run into any trouble...
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