Forgotten: Seventeen and Homeless (19 page)

She just shakes her head. "I still can't believe you had such a lousy night. Some fairy godmother I am."

I force a smile. "Hey, you tried."

"And I take it back, Adele. You don't have to help Bess tonight."

I get up and chuck my empty can into the recycle bin. "No, I think I could use Bess tonight. It'll be comforting to spend time with someone who's worse off than I am."

Genevieve sighs. "Well, that's probably true."

"And if you want, I'll get Mrs. Ashburn ready for bed afterward."

She chuckles. "What are you? A masochist? Some kind of glutton for punishment?"

"I actually like Mrs. Ashburn."

She rolls her eyes. "But the old girl talks nonstop and it takes like forever to get her ready for bed."

"I don't mind."

"Well, you have more patience than me."

It takes all of my patience to try to get Bess to take in some food. And unless she's absorbing drips of applesauce through her chin, I'm pretty sure it's hopeless. I think she wants to die. And according to head nurse Ellen, Bess made a living will that clearly states she is not to have any artificial means of life support.

I glance over at Bess's silent roommate, an unconscious head-injury victim named Clara. She is hooked up to all kinds of machines that burr and buzz and keep her alive.

"That means no feeding tube," Ellen explained. "So unless you get some food into her, she will probably be gone before long."

I smooth Bess's stringy gray hair away from her forehead. Although her pale eyes have a blank vacant stare, I almost think I see the corners of her shriveled lips curl up ever so slightly. Or maybe it's my imagination. "Oh, Bess, you really do need to eat some food. You're so thin."

I slowly lower the head of her bed like I've been taught, tuck her in, and wish that I knew how to pray. Maybe it's the worn black Bible on her bedside table or the picture of Jesus on her wall or just the fact that poor Bess does not seem long for this world, but I have a feeling she could use a real prayer right now.

Unfortunately, I am of little use in the praying department. It's not that I don't believe in God. It's more that I don't really care. And based on the outcome of my life, I don't think he cares much about me either. Yet I'm certain Bess feels differently. But she is so silent and frozen, lying there with her eyes open but not really here. Unable to speak or communicate, she seems stuck between this world and the next. If there is a next. And it seems the least I could do would be to say a little prayer of comfort.

As I straighten the room a bit, I try to remember the short era when I went to Sunday school with Marcie Moore back in second grade. How was it that teacher prayed? Her words didn't sound memorized, and I know she didn't read the prayers out of a book. Her words had seemed genuine and sincere, and I actually believed that God was listening.

As I wipe down the bathroom sink area, which has only been used by caregivers and nurses, I wonder if Pastor Roland ever makes visits here. I've seen other clergymen around on occasion, but I have a feeling it's the family members who make arrangements for this. So far, I haven't seen any of Bess's family visit. Maybe she, like me, has none.

Finally I decide that although I may not know what I'm doing, it's worth a shot. I go over by Bess's bed, put my hand over hers, and close my eyes. "Dear God, I don't really know you, but I'm sure Bess does. You may have noticed that she has a Bible and a picture of Jesus and everything. Anyway, I'm worried she's not going to be around much longer. And I'm not sure how all this works, but I wish you'd help her during this time. Maybe you already are and I just don't know it. But I think Bess needs a friend, and you seem to be the best candidate. So please help her. And while you're at it ..."

I pause because I want to say "ifyou're really there," but I'm concerned that Bess might actually be listening, and, if so, I don't want to worry her about God's status. So I continue on a positive note. "Please help Bess ... and while you're at it, God, maybe you can help me, too." Then I gently squeeze Bess's hand and say, "Amen."

I have no idea whether or not I did that right, but I feel a bit better as I turn off Bess's light and leave the room.

"Did she eat anything?" Ellen asks me as I'm on my way to Mrs. Ashburn's room.

"Not really."

Ellen shakes her head. "I'll call her family in the morning."

"Call her family?"

"To let them know it won't be long. They might want to come say good-bye."

"Oh ... right." I pause by Mrs. Ashburn's door to see that, as usual, she's not in her room yet. If Mrs. Ashburn had her way, bedtime would be at least an hour later.

"She's still in the dayroom." Ellen frowns. "Good luck."

I find Mrs. Ashburn sitting at a table where a jigsaw puzzle is spread out, and she is intently studying the piece in her hand.

"Good evening, Mrs. Ashburn," I say politely. I know she respects good manners.

She looks up. "Oh, good evening, Adele." She holds a solid blue puzzle piece for me to see. "I'm trying to find the correct place for this."

I frown at the piece. It looks exactly like probably a hundred others. "It looks like sky."

"Unless it's water." She holds up the cover of the jigsaw puzzle for me to see. "Although the blue in the water has a bit more green in it, I think. Unless it's this part here that's reflecting the sky. In that case, it could be the water."

"Yes, I suppose it could be water." I smile at her. "But it's time to get you ready for bed now."

She frowns at me. "Already? I just started working on this puzzle."

I point to the clock over by the television. "But you can see that it's nearly eight now. You actually should've been in your room a while ago." I move her walker close to her chair and put one hand on her elbow to help her.

"Oh, these silly rules." She shakes her head as she pushes herself to a standing position, then firmly grasps her walker. "No one in the real world goes to bed this early, do they?"

"I wouldn't mind going to bed soon," I admit as I walk by her, waiting with each slow step and wishing she could speed it up a bit. "I'm tired."

"Oh, that's right." She stops walking altogether now, turning to look at me. "You had your big dance last night, Adele. How was it?"

No way do I want to tell her what really happened, but even if I give her a fictionalized version, it will slow her down. "I know, I'll tell you all about it as soon as you're in bed. Okay?"

"Like a bedtime story?" she says eagerly.

"Yes. Like a bedtime story."

Now she begins to move faster, her walker squeaking along as she shuffles behind it, and I begin to fabricate a "happy dance story" in my head. In no time, we are in her room, and as a reward, I tell her about the beginning of the evening (which is actually true) as she allows me to help her get ready for bed. With this distraction technique, we actually make good progress, and it's not quite eight when I've got her tucked in.

"So we got to the hotel," I continue as she leans her head back. "A really impressive one with marble floors and Oriental rugs and fresh flowers and everything. And we go to the dance, which is in this really fancy ballroom. And the music is playing and we dance and dance and dance. The end."

She frowns. "But what happened at the dance?"

"Oh, you know." I turn away from her and begin straightening the room. "Just the regular kind of dance things."

"But you gave such lovely details about the rest of your evening, Adele. Why did you stop the story just as it was getting interesting?"

I turn and look at her. It's after eight now and my shift is officially over. I could just say good night and leave, but that seems mean. And yet I really don't want to lie about last night. But at the same time I don't want to tell her the truth.

"Did something bad happen at the dance?"

I shrug. "Let's just say it was a long night, Mrs. Ashburn. And I suppose it was a bit disappointing."

She frowns. "Yes, that's just as I suspected. You know I used to teach in a small high school, and I sometimes chaperoned at those dances. I know what can happen, how hearts can get broken."

I just nod.

"Did your beau hurt you?"

At the kind tone of her voice, a lump grows in my throat.

"You can tell me about it, dear."

I glance over at Mrs. Ashburn's roommate, a quiet woman named Gladys who is already snoozing, and I figure it can't hurt to tell Mrs. Ashburn a bit of the truth. If nothing else, it might play on her sympathies and she won't mind that I have to leave.

"It wasn't exactly my boyfriend," I admit as I go stand by her bed. "It was all of my friends."

Her eyes grow wide. "Oh dear."

"Yes ... you see, my friends are all very well off. You know what I mean? Their parents are wealthy, and my friends all have their own nice cars and great clothes and no concerns about money. I was trying to fit in with them ... and it just kind of fell apart when they found out I'm not really one of them."

Mrs. Ashburn looks slightly angry now. "Your friends disowned you for not being rich like them?"

I just nod.

"Well, I think you are better off without friends like that, Adele. They sound like the very worst sort of snobs." She launches into a story about when she was a teenager during the Great Depression and how everyone was poor ... and how they helped each other ... and made do ... and enjoyed the happiest times of their lives.

"It sounds lovely," I say as I tuck her in again.

"What you need, dear, are friends who are like you-hardworking, honest, good."

I smile at her and wish that all her words were true. "Thank you. Now, if you don't mind, I really am tired and my shift is over.

"Yes, yes, you head on home now. Take a hot bath, make yourself a nice cup of tea, go to bed, and get a good night's sleep. And I'm sure your perspective will be much brighter tomorrow."

As I turn off her light, I wish I could follow her recommendation. A hot bath, a cup of tea, a real bed ... well, that all sounds delightful to me. Instead, I have a cold, damp van, which is starting to smell of dirty laundry, to greet me.

Home sweet home.

n Sunday morning my disposition is as gloomy as the weather. Gray and rainy. It doesn't help that the van is clammy and cold. And smelly. I force myself out of the layers of blankets and bedspreads that serve as my bed, jump into the driver's seat, and, shivering as I start the engine, drive to the Laundromat about half a mile away. At least it's warm in there. And once my things are loaded into washers, I run across the street to get some coffee and a donut. Not exactly a healthy choice, but since I work today, I know I'll have a more nutritious meal later.