All the Good Parts (7 page)

CHAPTER 8

The guilt kicked in about three minutes later. The ride from Estelle’s to Jerry’s was usually my favorite part of home-health day—it’s three miles, mostly cutting through a long stretch of forest preserve, the two-lane roadway protected by a thick shroud of trees. It was a psychedelic light show in the fall, the leaves a swirling mix of orange, red, yellow, and magenta.

Today I couldn’t enjoy it. Why had I let Estelle push my buttons? I’d taken on older clients because, having nursed my father during his prolonged illness, I was familiar with their challenges and thought I could help with the daily humiliations specific to aging. Bodily fluids, strange smells, open sores—nothing bothered me all that much. I’d even reached the point where I could resist the urge to search their faces, looking for the younger version, assuming it was better and more attractive than who they were now. I never asked them what they’d done, only what they wanted to do. I was proud of my ability to value who they were, right at that moment, instead of basing their worth on the past.

But then Estelle proved I was full of shit. My dad always said no job is beneath those truly willing to work, a saying I believed to be true, but I’d snubbed my nose at what Estelle had requested. Was it so bad to want ironed curtains and a scrubbed floor? Clean linens and healthy plants? It wasn’t her fault she had trouble completing the tasks herself, and who was I to condemn someone for wanting to maintain her living standards? On top of that, she was right—her requests weren’t outside my job description. I was hired to help her live her days in a comfortable manner. And I’d given her a hard time about it. Just a home-health aide? It was plenty if I did my job right. I’d scrub her bathroom with a toothbrush next week if she asked, and with a smile on my face.

Reinvigorated, I drove up to Jerry’s house, humming along with the radio, so distracted it took me a moment to realize that it was him swaying atop an ancient wooden ladder, bad arm propped against his striped awning, good hand wrist deep in his gutter, a full story from the ground. I swallowed my yell so as not to startle him, saying a casual hello as I grasped the ladder, steadying it. “What are you doing up there?”

“What does it look like?”

“Is this the best idea?”

He glanced down at me, a line of sweat dripping from temple to jaw. “You said I should get outside, so I am. I thought you’d be happy.”

“I’d be happier if it were you down here holding the ladder and me up there cleaning the gutter out.”

“It’s a sludgy mess, sweetheart,” he said, flinging some mud-colored gunk at the ground. “I wouldn’t make you do this.”

“I wouldn’t mind it. Believe me, I’ve done worse.” I glanced around uneasily while he worked. Jerry’s block stood quiet and lifeless. The local kids didn’t get out of school for at least another half hour, and I was sure an assortment of parents and caregivers were inside, frantically trying to finish up whatever chores were easier done without little hands trying to help. If Jerry had fallen, no one would have noticed.

“You could have waited until I got here,” I said, unable to keep the scold from my voice. “I don’t like you doing things like this alone.”

“I’m not alone. Paul’s in the garage.”

Great.
Did he know his father was risking life and (remaining) limbs? I wanted to tell Jerry to get down, but his shoulders held a certain confidence I hadn’t seen, and his assured movements, reaching and grasping, reaching and grasping, were smooth and practiced.
The beauty of muscle memory,
I thought, and briefly wondered if maybe this was a start for Jerry. He couldn’t have his old life, but he could have
a
life, one that didn’t define activity as reaching for the ice cream bowl and pointing the remote.

“Just be careful,” I muttered. “Remember, it’ll be me who breaks your fall, and you aren’t exactly a featherweight.”

He laughed, and I clutched at the vibrating ladder. Its motion seemed to spill onto the lawn underneath me, until I realized the ground was shaking, too, and I looked up, certain we were experiencing the rare Illinois earthquake, but it was just Paul barreling toward us, face red, curse words flying. He nudged me out of the way and wrapped his two enormous paws around the ladder. “I said I would do it! Can’t you wait five minutes?”

“I can do it myself,” Jerry said, his voice steely.

Paul’s response was profanity laden but soft, the words coming out in a breath. He watched Jerry for a moment, and then addressed me, still speaking low. “Did you encourage him?”

Jerry shifted on the ladder, turning his body to face Paul’s. “Leave her alone,” he said. “I’m coming down now. Happy?”

“No,” Paul said flatly. “Not even a little bit.”

“Why do I even ask?” Jerry said. He lumbered down, slowly, heavily. Paul gripped the ladder, his jaw working with unspoken anger. Once Jerry’s feet hit dirt, he took my hand, ignoring his son, who began to climb in his place. “Let’s go inside. It’s a hot chocolate kind of day, isn’t it? I’ve got the good stuff, not that powdered shit.”

The old ladder creaked as Paul ascended, sagging with his weight.

“I can do that for you before I leave,” I offered, keeping my tone light and overly cheerful, just shy of Mary Poppins.

Paul answered through his teeth. “Not necessary.”

As the aroma of melting chocolate permeated Jerry’s kitchen, its earthy sweetness lulled us into an easy silence. Still in his jacket, Jerry settled in at the kitchen table, feet up, eyes half shut. I found some canned whipped cream hiding in the back of the fridge and gave us each a squirt, making one for Paul, though I could hear him slowly edging around the house, the slap of mucky gunk hitting the pavement.

Jerry took a sip of the cocoa and smiled. “You make it like my wife did. More chocolate than milk.”

“There’s no such thing as too much chocolate.” I sat across from him and took in his pale face. He shivered, though I’d heard the clank of the furnace kicking on when we walked in. “You okay?”

“Tired,” he said. “I’m an old man. Sometimes I forget that.”

“Not that old. Aren’t the sixties the new thirties or something like that?”

I expected him to laugh. His mouth drew down instead, and he shook his head. “People who say that
are
in their thirties. Wishful thinking.” He lifted the mug and rolled it over his forehead and across a cheek, stopping with it under his ear. “I can’t seem to get warm today.”

“It’s a damp chill, even with the sun. It rained this morning.”

He shrugged, like any explanation would do, because it wouldn’t change things. Jerry set the mug on the table. His weariness concerned me, but his expression—defeated and grim in a way I’d never seen—sent me scrambling for the door.

“I have a surprise for you,” I said, making for the front door.

“Very little surprises me, sweetheart.”

“Trust me, this one is good.” I ran outside before he could sink more deeply into cynicism, and yanked the mirror from my backseat.

“Close your eyes,” I said when I returned, feeling like Santa Claus as I moved through the kitchen and into the living room. Propping the mirror against the wall opposite the Barcalounger, I stepped back to admire my purchase before calling Jerry in.

We stood in the middle of the living room, side by side, gazing at ourselves in the mirror. “Are those Disney princesses? Did you steal this from Maura?”

“Cosmetic issue,” I said quickly. “We’ll paint over it.”

Jerry stared at himself, at the empty sleeve hanging loose on his right side. “Now, what would I do with a mirror?” he said softly to his reflection. “Stare at my ugly mug all day?”

“It’s for the phantom pains.” I cleared my throat. “I spoke with an expert, and he said that when the pain hits, you’re to look at your whole self in the mirror, and your brain will remember the amputation, and the connection will shut down the pain receptors.”

“I don’t have a whole self.”

“Jerry—”

He kissed the top of my head. “Sorry. I’ll give it a try. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. If it doesn’t work after a couple of tries, I’ll take it away, okay?”

Jerry shrugged. “Let’s hope this expert knows what he’s talking about.”

Yes, let’s hope.
Was I crazy for listening to Darryl? My gut told me no.

Jerry stretched his good arm overhead. He made a face, and I thought about how unsatisfying it must be to leave the other side unstretched. Did he always feel slightly off balance?

“Do you mind if I take a nap?” he asked, sounding exhausted. “I’d tell you to go ahead and leave, but old Scrooge McDuck out there wouldn’t pay you if you did, and I don’t want that.”

“My job is to make you comfortable,” I said, guiding him into the bedroom. “If you need a nap, you take one.” I took his jacket, and he slowly climbed under the covers.

“Don’t let me sleep more than an hour,” he said, voice fading. “I’ll be up all night staring at the moon if you let it go on longer than that.”

“Consider me your personal wake-up call.” Squashing the impulse to kiss his forehead like I did Kevin’s and Patrick’s at bedtime, I carefully closed his door, leaving it open a crack just in case.

Paul stood at the sink when I returned to the kitchen, back to me, hands on the sink, muscles straining against the washed-thin gray sweatshirt that covered his upper body like a film.

“Do you want some cocoa?” Friendliness didn’t work with Paul, I knew that, but I didn’t have much else.

“You gave my father chocolate and whipped cream?”

Easy, tiger.
“He only drank a few sips. There’s one for you, do you want it?”

“No, I don’t want it.” He filled a glass with tap water and downed it in two gulps, washed the glass out, dried it, and put it back on the shelf. I wasn’t used to such fastidiousness. It made me nervous.

“Look,” he said, finally meeting my eye. His were etched with weariness and something else I couldn’t name, something in the neighborhood of resignation. “I don’t know much about you, how much training you’ve had, or what your level of education is. I’m not paying you much, so I can guess at those answers.”

My mouth opened, wanting to defend myself, but my brain hadn’t caught up, so nothing came out.

“I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but I’ll do it if I have to.”

“What did I do wrong? Is it the cocoa? I don’t make it a habit to give him sugar, but if you’d like to make a list of what he can and can’t—”

“That’s not the primary concern.” Paul hesitated for a beat, then grabbed my hand and tugged me toward his father’s bedroom door. “I want to show you something.”

“He’s sleeping in there.”

“Then we both better be quiet.”

Paul’s hand engulfed mine like an oven mitt, and I resisted the urge to pull away. We tiptoed through Jerry’s bedroom, the older man snoring lightly. Paul ushered me into the small bathroom and shut the door behind us, holding the knob in place so it wouldn’t make a sound. He flicked the light on, and the awkwardness of two people in a cramped space—one of whom was built like a mountain—had me shuffling my feet in an attempt to claim some personal space.

What was it like to live life like that, to inhabit a body so much larger than everyone else’s? His build kept people at a distance, but his height did, too, because he could see the things people would rather keep hidden—the bald spots and gray roots, the thick layer of dust on the top shelves, the cobwebs and cracks in ceiling plaster. Did we seem very small to him? Did he like the distance, or did it make him feel like a man standing at the top of a tall building, watching all the silent lives unfold?

Paul opened the medicine cabinet and began rifling through the pill bottles. His casual disregard for Jerry’s privacy unnerved me, but having nothing to do but wait until he finished, I pressed my back against the cold tiled wall and studied him. Paul’s hair had been cut recently, and he’d shaved, but not well. The raw, angry evidence of a razor mishap was a blot on the broad landscape of his neck, and a patch of bristly golden-brown hair peeked out from under his jaw. I could smell the sweat mixed with his cologne, and the sweatshirt had a rip at the bottom. Paul wasn’t perfect. I had to remember that.

Finally, he found the bottle he was looking for. “Have you given my dad any of these?”

“I’m not an RN,” I said, cringing at how defensive I sounded. “I’m not allowed to dispense medication.”

He ignored my defense and shook the bottle, which rattled with pills. “Notice anything strange about this?”

I took it from him and studied the label. A common antidepressant. Prescribed to Jerzy Pietrowski, twenty-five milligrams to take once a day with a meal.

Paul jabbed his index finger at the bottle. “Look at the date. It’s still full. He hasn’t taken any.”

The realization of my mistake hit me right as his judgment did, both bone jarring and icy, like a smack of winter wind rushing off Lake Michigan. Had I failed Jerry? Had I stuck too close to what I was
supposed
to do and ignored what I
needed
to do, as I’d done with Estelle? “I asked him if he needed a refill,” I said weakly. “He said no.”

Paul’s blue eyes were arctic. “And you believed him?”

“That’s my job, to ask.”

“Is it? Is that your job?”

“It’s against the rules for me to dispense medication.” I couldn’t look at him. Rules were the refuge of cowards. He knew it, and I knew it.

“Ms. Accorsi,” he said, his voice shifting into something more formal, almost as if he realized how close we were standing and had to distance himself somehow. “What, exactly, are you being paid for?”

“For . . . for caring,” I whispered, my voice crumbling into sand.

“That’s right,” he said briskly. “I suggest you start doing so.”

The beige floor tiles began to shimmer and blur.
No. I will not cry in front of this man.

“Christ. Are you crying?”

Yes, you asshole.
“Maybe he doesn’t need all those pills,” I said, swallowing hard. “He’s holding his own. For some people, recovery is a slow process. It’s natural for him to feel a little down.”