I heave a huge, annoyed sigh. “Fiiiiine.” I smooth my hand over my face like a mime would. “Just Josh here.”
“Hey, Josh.”
“Hey.”
“Today sucked.”
“What happened?”
She tucks her chin into her hoodie, burrowing. “We lost a resident.”
“Like . . . they had dementia and wandered off?”
“Like they’re old, and eventually, if they’re lucky, everyone dies of oldness.”
“That must be the hardest part of your job.”
“Sometimes it all feels hard.”
“Doesn’t sound like you get used to losing them.” I pause. “That probably sounds ignorant. I don’t know what normal is for a job like yours.”
“It’s normalandyou don’t get used to it, if that makes sense. It happens three or four times a month. But some losses are harder than others. This was a hard one.”
“Were you close to them?”
““Her name was Mrs. K.” She probably can’t give her full name for privacy reasons. "She only has one son, and he never visits. Visited.” She pauses like she’s adjusting to the past tense. “Just paid for whatever Medicare didn’t cover, I think. No grandkids. She was shy, so she’d go to the activity lounge whenever we had visiting performers or movies, but she didn’t interact with the other residents much. She declined pretty fast in the last couple of months and quit coming out at all, so then her only contact was me and the CNAs.”
“Sounds sad.”
“Those are the worst ones. The lonely ones. Because it feels like I might be the only one who will notice they’re missing, so I feel . . .” She breaks off and sighs again. “I don’t know. It’s different than the residents who have lots of family.”
“Do you feel like you have to remember them because no one else will?”
A long silence, then a soft, “Yeah.”
I don’t know what to say, but I want her to know I’m listening. “That’s a lot to carry.”
“Is this where you tell me it’s not my job to carry it?” Her tone is a borderline dare.
“No. This is where I say I respect that you do.”
She’s quiet again. It’s strange to think that this is the same firecracker I saw tearing up the stage a week ago. Not that either is better or worse. Lady Mantha is so different than the girl next door that they’re hard to compare.
“What about you?” she asks after we’ve been quiet for a while. “Do you like your job?”
I rub my jaw. “I shouldn’t have to think about this question so hard every time someone asks it.”
“It seems like something a person knows. You like it or you don’t, right? Like black licorice. There’s no in-between. You can’tkind oflike it.” The words are impatient, but her tone is mild.
“I like parts of it, dislike others. Depends on the day on which way the scales tip.”
“How about today? Do you like your job today?”
I flash to my dad’s drop-by. “No. Today is not a day I like my job.”
“Why not?”
“Lots of pressure to be a rainmaker. Long hours. Sometimes the worst parts of frat culture find their way to the office. Pressure to prove that I’m good because I’m a nepo baby.”
