Mrs. Walker
The yarn slips through my fingers and the bamboo needles click together softly as I knit. I glance up from my pattern, and see that she is nodding off. The creped eyelids, with sparse white lashes, hover open over faded blue irises. Six more stitches. Her chin lowers to her chest. I finish the row. Her breath has slowed, and I hold mine for a beat, hoping she is really asleep. When I look up again her eyes are twitching beneath the closed lids and her mouth is slack. Mrs. Walker looks so vulnerable, so trusting. Carefully, so as not to startle her, I reach across the bed table for the remote, muting the television. The quiet is a relief. I admit it, I am glad when she sleeps. Polka music grates on my nerves.
I am a C.N.A., which stands for Certified Nursing Assistant, only if you ask me it stands for Crap, Now and Always. I’ve been hired to provide “companionship,” and “caregiver respite.” That is why I’ve spent three months’ worth of Saturday mornings here, at Mrs. Walker’s bedside, sitting on a hard, vinyl-covered dinette chair, listening to The Best of Lawrence Welk from eleven until noon.
Twenty minutes pass, and she wakes with a small snort. She blinks and smiles slowly and looks at me through the thick lenses of her glasses. Again, I am a stranger to her, as I was a half-hour ago and will be again, an hour from now. I probably should make more of an effort to chat. But Mrs. Walker won’t remember. It’s discouraging. “Hello, Mrs. Walker.” My voice is cheerful and soothing when I say, “My name is Lucinda. I’m visiting with you this morning, while Bill has his bowling league.”
“Where is my Billy? He should be home from school by now. He’s such a naughty boy.” She picks at the blanket, agitated. “Naughty, naughty boy. Needs a whipping. He should’ve told me. Should’ve told me.”
“He’s bowling right now, Mrs. Walker. He’s going to go to the hardware store and then he’ll come home.” Her worried look relaxes slightly, and she looks at me more closely, tilting her head like a small, curious bird. At ninety-two, she is more like a hatchling, with diluted eyes and thin skin draped over fragile bones. Her mottled scalp is visible, through gossamer white hair. Her son dresses her in garishly colored sweatshirts printed with Sesame Street characters, or flowers not found in nature. Below the blankets, she wears only adult briefs, which is the nursing euphemism for diapers.
“What are you making?” she asks.
“It’s going to be a scarf,” I say, holding my knitting out to her, “Feel how soft it is.” She fingers the lamb’s wool and smiles.
“That’s nice, dear. Jesus loves you. Have you pledged your life to Jesus, and asked to be forgiven?” I smile without answering, and turn up the volume on the television. Her attention is drawn to the screen, where a manic-looking pastel couple swings around the floor in a waltz. Mrs. Walker loves her Big Band Music, and Bobby Schuller.
After The Best of Lawrence Welk we will watch reruns of Bobby on The Hour of Power on The Church Channel. In the background, the refrigerator hums. Her hospital bed takes up the space in the dining room where a table and chairs would normally go. Stained wallpaper in a lilac pattern curls inward on itself at its seams, and in places it falls away from the ceiling in despairing rolls. Behind the bed are stacks of adult briefs and other supplies for the bedbound. The window is so filmed with dust as to be almost opaque. “Where is my Bill? And where is Lucas? Did they find him? Did they find my boy?” Mrs. Walker’s fingers nervously pluck at her blanket, as if she is trying to shred it. “Those boys need to learn to mind.”
I ask her to tell me about her children. I point to the frame in the table beside her bed. It has five ovals, each with a photo. She looks delighted as I hold the frame up for her to see. She points a gnarled index finger, saying, “There’s my Evelyn, and that’s Billy.” She frowns, and moves her finger to the next oval, tapping it. “That’s Calvin and, and…” She hesitates, and then turns to look at me. She seems embarrassed. Like many dementia patients, she realizes that there is something important that she should know, but cannot recall, so she ad-libs.
I coax her. “Can you tell me who these two are, Mrs. Walker? Is this your son here? Is he named after his father?”
She frowns at the pictures for a moment, then smiles. “Now that’s a picture of a nice little girl there, yes indeed. That is a picture of a nice little girl and that boy there is her friend.” She nods, indicating that she has explained sufficiently.
“Is this Trudy, here?” Now she looks at the photos without interest, as if I have asked her to identify minor starlets in a People magazine. These faces are not familiar now. In nursing training, we are taught to encourage patients to talk about their families, but not if it upsets them. “How nice that you had five children,” I say, putting the frame back in its place.
She is staring toward the back window, alert, but mesmerized. She frowns, and her fingers clutch at the blanket convulsively. “There was another… another one.”
“Do you mean Trudy?” I ask, smoothing her covers.
“No. The one that died.” She turns and looks at me, her gaze is clear and lucid. She nods, and raises her eyebrows. “Jesus saves, he has forgiven me.” She sighs, contentedly. “I am forgiven for my sins. I have made peace with Jesus. Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven. Jesus said that.” Her hands continue to pluck at her blanket. She looks off across the room. “His name was Lucas. My Lucas is with the Lord.”
I want to ask her more, but I know I should avoid upsetting memories. I say, “Are you ready for your lunch? It’s lunchtime now.” From the kitchen, I bring out a Styrofoam plate. Beneath the paper towel is American cheese, on white bread, and a plastic tub of apple sauce. “Bill made your lunch for you, before he left.”
In the sink full of dirty dishes and pans, I forage for a spoon. I use a paper towel to brush aside the cigarettes butts that litter the bottom of the sink. Mixed with the odors of decomposing food, they smell acrid, like wet, rusty metal and ash. Today I’m finding it hard not to be judgmental. The sink stinks. And there is also the diaper odor. This place is airless and the miasma seems almost visible, despite the gardenia-scented jar candle burning on the counter top. I fold a paper towel into a napkin and turn to put the plate on her tray table, but she is asleep again.
In my six years as a CNA I have learned that dementia patients spend a lot of time sleeping. I stretch, stiff from two hours in that hard chair. I read the nursing schedule and the medication charts that are taped to the dining room door, next to a crayon drawing, then tiptoe over and pick up the remote and press the mute button. Moving to the front door, I ease it open, looking back over my shoulder. I stand in the doorway and take greedy gulps of fresh, cold air. Although it is February, there is a pumpkin at the top of the porch stairs, collapsing in on itself. Each week it has become less orange and more mottled black. Further down the porch, where the floorboards are collapsing, is a desiccated brown Christmas tree, still in its stand. Most of the needles have fallen off, partially covering rusty malt liquor cans and open tins of cat food.
The drive from my house in Asheville takes almost thirty minutes in good weather. The road up the mountain starts out paved. After a few miles, the houses become sparse and the woods thicker and the road narrows, changing to dusty gravel. For the next four miles it zigzags up the mountain. In the ravines, people dump appliances and mattresses, and piles of rusty cans. Higher up, the road changes to dirt. There are only a few houses up here. The last one I can see from the road has a chain-link dog kennel with hungry looking hounds pacing inside, and on the weathered side of an old garage, pelts are tacked up; a foxes, and two deer hides.
I take one more deep breath and close the door. The artificial gardenia scent is more cloying than before. I blow the candle out, watching as the smoke wanders up to the ceiling. Mrs. Walker is awake again, and she looks at me brightly. I smile and take my seat and pick up my knitting. “What are you making?” she asks, and I go through the same routine as before, holding the scarf out for her to touch. Then I ask her about lunch, and explain again that it’s a cheese sandwich and that her son will be home soon. She watches me move from the dining room into the kitchen, and continues to watch as I reach to the refrigerator.
“Don’t you look in there!” She calls out, agitated. She tries to sit up and her voice quavers. “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?” I come back into the dining room, and go through the litany of who I am, speaking soothingly as she continues to scowl. She picks up her sippy cup with both hands and throws it at me. Water splatters on my sweater. She is flushed, and sits upright.
I have never seen her do this. I didn’t think she had the strength.
“Mrs. Walker,” I say, holding my palms out, “Calm down, now. My name is Lucinda, and I’m here to visit with you while Billy is bowling.”
She picks up the remote and throws it, but it doesn’t go far, just past the end of the bed where it clatters to the carpet.
___
“What are you making?” Mrs. Walker is awake. My scarf is now eight inches long. It is March, and there is snow on the ground. In these winter months, it has been difficult to get here, even with four-wheel drive. The driveway is steep, and deeply rutted. Today, I’ve had to park at the bottom of the hill and walk up through the woods. Among the yellow pines and cedars are stacks of old tires, and a rusted old-model refrigerator, chained and padlocked, lying on its side. Closer to the house, an antique truck with no doors sits on blocks.
The trash around the house is of a more recent vintage. A broken and rusted push lawnmower sits, frozen; abandoned mid-mow. No one would call those grassy patches a lawn. Behind the old clapboard house is a swing set, with three legs. The pitted, peppermint-striped remains look ready to crumble. A forlorn swing seat dangles from a frayed rope.
This week, the pumpkin is gone. The Christmas tree is still in the stand. Mrs. Walker wears an emerald-colored sweatshirt, imprinted with shamrocks and a leprechaun. She was sleeping when I arrived, and now I offer lunch. Tuna salad today. “You’re awfully kind,” she says, coyly, “Jesus loves you. Have you confessed your sins unto him?” I nod, placing the plate in front of her. She continues, “I have confessed my sins, and made peace with the Lord. Amen. He is my shepherd. He is the way, and the truth, and the light.” She looks upward as she speaks, and her face seems to take on an ethereal quality. She holds out her hands, palms up. “We have been forgiven.” She smiles beatifically and begins to eat. Sometimes she can handle a fork or spoon, and sometimes she needs help. Today seems to be a good day. She stops eating after a while, and sits staring into the distance.
“Mrs. Walker, are you finished?” I ask. “Let me get your cup for you.” I move to the refrigerator.
She turns her head slowly. I can tell she doesn’t recognize me. Her hand shakes as she holds the fork out, jabbing at me. I step back quickly, even though I am out of range. Her nostrils flare. She spits at me, but most of it just drips down her chin onto her sweatshirt. “Don’t look in there!” she says. “It was a bad man, a stranger. Offered them candy to get in the car. Billy knew not to, but that Lucas… he never would listen.”
“Mrs. Walker? Mrs. Walker, I’m Lucinda. I’m here to visit with you while Billy is at bowling,” I say in a soothing voice, trying to wipe her chin. I’m thinking, Jesus, deliver me from here. Anywhere else would be just fine. She blinks, then her face relaxes and she smiles. She is back, I think. I take my seat, and encourage her to eat. I take up my knitting.
“Ha!” I hear, just before I feel a prickling pain. I flinch, then jump up and put my hand over my shoulder. She has stabbed me, with the plastic fork. Not broken the skin, but pierced my scrubs top.
I am calling the agency tomorrow morning. I did not sign on for this shit. This is ridiculous. Mrs. Walker hisses, poking the fork toward me. There is something darkly comical about all this, I know, but right now I just want to be anywhere else in the world. I consider calling her son, but I hate to drag him home. I back away to the far side of the dining room and take a deep breath. I tell myself, I am a trained C.N.A. I wonder if her son has seen this behavior. He has told me that she talks nonsense, and not to believe what she says. He encourages me to read The Bible to her, and he leaves it on her tray, with verses marked.
Every week, I ask her if she wants me to read, and she says no.
“Mrs. Walker, I am Lucinda,” I say, with authority, as if she is a recalcitrant child. “I am here to care for you. Would you like to listen to some music? Would you like for me to read to you? Your Bible is right here.” She still clutches the plastic fork, but I can see she’s worn herself out. Her hand drops, and I take the fork. One of the tines broke when she jabbed me. Her eyes are closing.
I move my chair farther away from the bed and check the time on my phone. I have stopped wearing a watch when I come here. Time moves at a different pace here than it does in the rest of the world. We are on dementia time, with two hours to go.
___
“What are you making?” I show her my knitting. The scarf is now three feet long.
I have had word this week that another C.N.A. will take my place, even though I have given fair warning about sharp objects. Today will be my final shift, and I am relieved. It’s early April, and it seems that Mrs. Walker sleeps more now. There are shorter periods of lucidity, and she eats less each time I come. Now I have to spoon the food to her mouth. After I go through the scarf routine I rub lotion into her hands, which she seems to enjoy. I ask her to tell me about her children.
“Well, little Evelyn is napping right now, and that’s baby Wayne, in the crib over there.” She nods toward the sideboard. “The others are in school.”
It’s always a tough call, when a patient’s mind wanders into the past. Sometimes they seem so happy there that it seems kindest to just go along. I nod, and she continues. “Is Billy at school? If he’s out there in the woods again I’m going to thrash him. That boy is nothing but trouble.” With her right hand she worries the skin of her left, pinching the same spot over and over.
“Billy is at bowling, Mrs. Walker, and then he’s going to run some errands. He’ll be home soon. My name is Lucinda. I’m here to visit with you for a little while.” I don’t tell her that I won’t be back.
“He most certainly is not at bowling.” Suddenly, her mood has changed. “You’re a liar. I won’t let him go, since he was so naughty. You are a liar, and he’s a liar.” She begins to mutter. “Made up that story, ‘bout that man, offering them candy.” She wags her index finger at me, in emphasis. “I asked him, what kind of candy did the bad man have, and he said, Baby Ruth candy bars, only I know my Lucas never did care for Baby Ruths.” She clucks her tongue. “Lucas would have said no. He knew better than to get in a car with a stranger. I taught him better than that.” She shakes her finger at me again.
I say, “Have a sip of your water now, Mrs. Walker.”
Her eyes move slowly to the sippy cup. “It’s poison in there, sure enough. You trying to poison me? Don’t think I don’t know all about you. Nosing around here in my business. Did the sheriff send you here? The sheriff needs to believe what I tell him. It was a bad man, I told him. My Billy told me so. A bad man in a dark green car took Lucas.” She nods, then she squints at me. “I whipped Billy good. Thrashed him. He’s never lied to me since then, no sir.
“You know what he told me? Told me that Lucas took his best marbles. Said he was going to teach Lucas a lesson. But Billy was only ten. He didn’t know that no air could get inside. He figured he’d come back and open the door in a little while.” Her eyes drop to the tray, and when she looks back up at me there is a raw pain there, and her voice grows quiet, hesitant. “Only he waited too long. He made up that story about the man, and the green car. About the man with the candy.” Her hand trembles as she picks up her cup and takes a sip from the straw. She lays her head back against the pillow and closes her eyes.
I turn down the volume on The Hour of Power and lay the remote on the tray table as quietly as I can. I look out the window, and notice that it’s snowing again.
Mrs. Walker probably won’t live to see the spring.
I hear a car drive up and stop outside, then a door slamming. Bill has returned. He will ask me if I read his mother the bible verses he had marked. I will lie, and say yes.
Liza Nash Taylor received a BA in Fine Arts from Mary Baldwin College and is currently an MFA candidate at Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her work has appeared in Microchondria II, the literary magazine of the Harvard Bookstore, Bluestem Magazine, Ekphrastic: writing and art on art and writing, Rum Punch Press, and is scheduled to appear in Gargoyle Magazine. Her as yet unpublished historical novel, The Thin End of the Wedge, was recently longlisted for the Mselxia Magazine Women’s Novel Competition in the UK. She lives in Keswick, Virginia, with her husband, daughter, and three dogs.