Mrs. Stalinski snorts with surprised laughter before swatting me on the arm. “Meeting one of those creatures, no matter the temperament, is always worrisome at my age.”
My smile softens. “I understand. But it’s more medicine or I stay the night.”
“Not on my watch, dear. You’re too young to be at the beck and call of a sick old woman.”
“Mrs. Stalinski, it’s myjob. And one I’m happy to do. In fact, I’d much rather be here with you than anywhere else.”
“Now, that’s just pathetic,” she says kindly.
I brush off her observation with a warm, doting smile—one I know she hates.
Mrs. Stalinski narrows her eyes at me. “You’re too pretty to be holed up in this house with me all day, and you have way too much energy to be contained within these walls. And how many times have I told you to call me Judy? I’m not your high school English teacher anymore.”
“It’s a hard habit to break.”
Mrs. Stalinski considers this. “Mmm. I was pretty frightening in my day, wasn’t I?”
This time, my doting smile is genuine. “No teacher deserved more respect than you. Now, back to keeping you comfortable. I don’t mind sleeping here. Really.”
“Noa, dear, don’t tell me you have nothing to return home to. I appreciate your help, truly I do, but the guilt that rides me every time I see you cleaning up my messes …” Mrs. Stalinski’s cheeks go pink. “There’s no way this is the future you envisioned for yourself.”
“No,” I admit, and as soon as my mind flashes images of what could’ve been, I shut it off. “But it’s the one I’ve adopted and wouldn’t change for the world. Stop changing the subject.” I unscrew her pill bottle and shake out her next dose. “I don’t like the thought of you in agony and unable to do anything about it. So either we call Dr. Silver for an opioid upgrade, or you have me stay a few nights—to proveto me you don’t need any help or even just an empathetic ear,” I add when she opens her chapped lips to argue.
“There’s got to be another older, world-weary-yet-content-with-her-lot-in-life nurse who could relieve you from this fate.”
“There’s only Berta, and she’s a staunch believer in two-hour physical therapy for all her patients. Every morning.”
Mrs. Stalinski mouth drops in horror. “If it’s just the two of you doing home care, then I suppose a cute young stud is out of the question, too.”
Laughing, I say, “I’m all you have, unfortunately, but instead of an impressive six-pack, I do come with a chocolate and caffeine addiction, same as you.” I wink at her. “Why don’t you rest in bed with a good book today? I’ll bring you some coffee.”
The brief color I brought to her face vanishes. “I’ve done so much reading, I’m surprised I’m not disassociating. I was hoping to make it down the stairs with your help and enjoy the morning outside.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
With a little help, she lifts off the pillows stacked behind her head, accepting the palmful of pills and downing them with her bedside glass, which I note is still at the same water level I left it at last night.
A knot forms in my belly.
I’m snapped out of my concern when Mrs. Stalinski rests a hand on my arm. “I’m absolutely up for it. I refuse to stay in this cream puff of a room longer than necessary.”
I survey the beautifully designed space as I put her arm around my shoulders and help her stand. “It’s beautiful. Very calming.”
“Yes, calm is the word I’m thinking of as I yak up yesterday’s dinner all over the cream carpet.”
“Think of it more like putting your signature of approval on it. Isn’t that what cats do? Vomit in places they like?”
Mrs. Stalinski barks with dry laughter. “This is why I like you so much, Noa. Between you and me, I’d be bereft if you ever left.”
“I know.” I squeeze her around the waist. “Feeling’s mutual.”
We share a smile before hobbling forward with care. Mrs. Stalinski makes it to the top of the stairs, then has to rest. The frustration in her expression of not being able to slide out of bed and head down the stairs like she used to, before being diagnosed with breast cancer metastasizing to her bones, is clear, though she tries hard to disguise it as she shifts her weight to the banister and less on me.
“We got this.” I reposition my feet so I can bear more of her. “Or I could go online this afternoon and get you one of those staircase chairs thatcreeeeeeaaaakyou slowly and carefully all the way to the bottom?—”
“Don’t you dare.” Mrs. Stalinski nails me with a withering look. “I will do this on my own two feet if it takes all morning. And you will watch me and weep.”
“You’re on.”
