Nene

I retrieved the scapular from the bathroom floor as I came in to clean it.

She forgot things now, not by loss of will power, but perhaps as a sign of age that cannot be kept from advancing.

She sat by the window, her hands still young looking after all these years. She will be ninety this year and she’s been telling me for the past ten years now that she is ready to meet her Maker. I knew this for a fact, she prayed every morning after waking and last thing before sleeping.

She wrote in her journals still, her mind and eyes still sharp. It was as if she found the secret to stopping time, save for her occasional forgetfulness.

I read her entries, just as she instructed me to and saved them on the computer on the cool dawn mornings when my sleep medication starts to wear off. They were often dry, humorous observations of her everyday life and the people she met in retirement.

She is a doctor, but she stopped her practice twenty years ago when she noticed she still had the head for it, but not the heart. Not anymore. In her practice as a psychiatrist she helped a lot of people recover from seemingly interminable illnesses. She was good at it. You could even say it was her calling.

But twenty years ago, the asylum she ran burned to the ground. She felt it was already too late to start over and left the task of rebuilding to her younger colleagues.

She spent her retirement years writing poetry and spoiling her grandchildren. The latter she did from a distance because she may have had health, but it was frail health.

Which was how I came into her employ. I finished nursing but did not have the guts to take the board so I had to content myself with caregiver jobs.

She was nice. And I liked that she was distant. It established our places in each other’s lives. I did not want to get too close to her, but it seemed inevitable. She is very kind and generous.

Unbeknownst to her, I kept up with her old patients. I maintained her email when I came in and a lot of them were inquiries about her. They wondered where she went after the fire.

This is not to say she is a recluse. She is as gregarious as I was told she used to be. Her old cronies often dropped by for a game of bridge and she still danced with her husband on balmy nights when it was warm enough to stay in the spacious lanai.

I never told her my problems, but during times she’d notice I was distracted or a frown knitted my brow she’d smile and give me time off.

She’d send me off with, “Be patient, Monique. Things have a way of working themselves out. Just be patient.”

And what do you know, they always do, with or without my help.

You could say I developed affections for her, if you want to be understated about it. Or if we were being totally honest, I’d say I love her like I love my two mothers.

I became more assiduous in my duties and it did not escape her notice. Every time she went out she’d bring something back for me. When she was to eat alone, she’d invite me to join her. Or she’d make a gift of her poetry, framed and laid out with pressed flowers.

Our quiet understanding grew over the years I was in her employ until I began to dread her birthdays. Sometimes I’d check the wrinkles on her face and anxiety would overwhelm me.

Time was gaining on her.

Today she is napping in her favorite chair by the window. I brought fresh tomato juice and Saltine crackers for her snack. I touched her shoulder and said her name.

She did not budge.

I shook her. She did not respond. Coldness crept around my heart. Tears fell as I called the hospital. My hand shook as I opened the door to let the paramedics in.

They checked for vitals and tried to revive her. But I knew she was where she was meant to be now.

As they wheeled the body bag out into the ambulance, I noticed a flock of grey doves on the lawn. A white one led the others towards the sky. My heart felt light. I understood then. She’s on her way to heaven.