She and I make it to the bottom of the stairs in under five minutes, but to Mrs. Stalinski, it feels more like an hour. I guide her down the hall and through the kitchen, cracking jokes and insulting her the way I know keeps her energy up, until I have her in her rocking chair on the back patio with a thick plaid blanket covering her legs.
“I’ll be right back with a coffee,” I say to her.
She acknowledges me with a nod, her eyes at half-mast.
By the time I make it back outside with a steaming cup of coffee, Mrs. Stalinski is fast asleep.
Tiptoeing to her side, I leave the coffee there for her in case she wakes up wanting something for her parched throat, then creep back inside and begin the morning routine.
Some days are worse for Mrs. Stalinski than others, today being one of the bad ones. Depending on the type of day, I have a list of things to do. My job is as her nurse, but it’s hard not to want to do more for her, living alone. She was my favorite teacher in high school, always there to lend an ear, even on a level outside of schoolwork, which she did with me often. It’s not that I feel like I owe her. More like I want to give her at least an iota of comfort that she gave me when I needed it most.
A couple of hours later, as I’m tidying the kitchen after prepping lunch, Mrs. Stalinski stirs. I assist her into the house and onto the living room couch where she resumes sleeping. After being up all night, it’s not surprising she’s making up for those lost hours.
I peek in on her at odd intervals, and each time I do, I’m resolved to stay on for more nights—pay or no pay. The woman deserves a restful sleep.
The rest of the afternoon flies by, filled with putting away a grocery delivery, talking with Dr. Silver, going to the pharmacy, and making sure Mrs. Stalinski takes her medication on time. I leave for a few hours to check in on other patients who don’t require as much hands-on assistance, just washing a bathroom basin or two. By the time the evening rolls in, I’m wiping my forehead and searching Mrs. Stalinski’s fridge for a pitcher of sweet tea, the one thing she demands she make herself since no one else can make it to her specifications—including me.
I’m in the middle of pouring myself a hefty, thirst-quenching glass when there’s a knock on the screen door.
Tilting back, I spot my friend Carly waiting on the front porch. I pull out a second glass and pour the sweet tea into it before heading to the door with a drink in each hand.
“You’re just in time,” I say through the screen.
“Is there vodka in that?” Carly opens the door for me.
“Sadly, no.” We head over to the two porch chairs overlooking the one-way street. “Not until I strip out of these scrubs, anyway.”
Carly has come at the perfect moment, no doubt intentional. Falcon Haven’s sunsets are almost famous. We’re at the time of day when the pure blue becomes a watercolor painting of pinks, oranges, and reds, their brushstrokes reaching high over roofs and treetops, coating the town in a dreamy glow. One of the neighbor’s kids brings out a basketball and starts dribbling and shooting for the net, the sound of rubber meeting asphalt a comforting backdrop to weekend beginnings.
“You look like death,” Carly observes as she perches on the chair next to mine.
I force my attention away from the view. “Gee, thanks.”
But I don’t deny it. I’ve scraped my brown hair into a bun, I’m pretty sure I put on mascara this morning but not confident it’s stayed on my lashes, and I’ve spent more time trying to hydrate Mrs. Stalinski than quench my thirst. I’m sure my dry skin shows it.
“Man, I couldn’t do what you do.” Carly rests her head back, the warm September wind doing a fine job of blowing her auburn strands around her face. Unlike me, none of her healthy locks fly into her mouth.
“Doesn’t it suck on your soul?” she asks.
“Not really.” I shrug. “Everybody needs someone when they’re at their most vulnerable. I prefer to think of it as a comfy blanket over my spirit.”
Carly turns her head in my direction, smiling softly. “Sweet Noa-Lynn. You haven’t changed a bit since high school.”
My best friend doesn’t mean it as a dig, but it smarts. Too many times, I’ve tried to convince those important to me I could have claws if Ireallywanted them (case in point: melting to my ex’s face with coffee last week), but ever since senior year, when I should’ve stood my ground with him but didn’t, my arguments have fallen on deaf ears. And that was ten freaking years ago.
“Mrs. Stalinski was a fire-breathing dragon at school,” Carly continues, oblivious to my critical inner monologue. “It’s honestly heartbreaking to see her now. Cancer is such a fickle fucking bitch.”
I nod in somber agreement, sipping on my drink as we watch the neighborhood kids hop on their bikes and skid out onto the road to catch the last rays of sun before their parents call them in for dinner.
“That’s why I do what I do. To help. She doesn’t deserve this. No one does.”
“On that, we agree.” Carly holds her drink to the side for a cheers. I meet it with aclink.
Carly gets a cheeky glimmer in her eyes before reaching into her small Chanel purse and pulling out a flask.
At my amused scoff, she shakes it lightly, the liquid inside sloshing. “Sure you don’t want to partake?”
I look at the flask longingly. “Positive. I’m on the clock.”
