Transcendent

I stand at the drink cart next to the kitchen, watching Joan at her table in the middle of the room. I had already given her apple juice and cranberry juice. I can’t remember if it was before or after her heart attack, but I had been there for over a year; I knew her well enough to remember that she loved apple juice; she drank it at every meal. She grabs the bottle of hand sanitizer on the table, left there after COVID started, and pumps it into cranberry juice. I drop the gallon of milk in my hand and walk the few paces over to her and snatch her juice. The spoon she was trying to stir it with clinks on the sides of the plastic cup. I wasn’t exactly sure what would happen if she drank her concoction, but I knew I couldn’t let her. The room wasn’t empty, but no one else was paying attention. Not to Joan; that was my job. No one else saw it, and I had to protect her, even from herself. It wasn’t the only thing she put in her juice: crackers, mashed potatoes, broccoli. It made me chuckle, but when I asked, she told me it tasted delicious.

We spent most of our time together in that dining room. On this day, I open the front door and see Joan sitting in a brown suede recliner. She looks up and smiles at me. She doesn’t remember my name, but she knows who I am. I park my bike outside in the courtyard and walk down the hallway into the brown dining room. She follows me, past the eleven circular tables that can seat over forty people when full, although that was rare. Fewer people meant less work for me, so I didn’t complain, but sometimes a resident had just died. The carpet was a mix of browns; the tables had a laminated wood pattern on them; the chairs were a plastic brown that squeaked when Joan rocked back and forth in them. One wall had all windows, but the tan blinds were always closed; a few people had cataracts and complained if they were open even a crack. Joan veers off towards the windows. She pokes a finger between the dusty slats.

It’s so nice outside. She remarks. Can’t we let some light in?

I could already see in the kitchen, and I was glad the counters were clean, and the dishes from lunch were neatly stacked in the plate warmer. Joan moved on from the windows and rolled in the kitchen door.

Can I help with anything?

There was nothing to do, but more importantly, Joan wasn’t allowed in the kitchen. Her shoes could slide on the tile, the knives could draw blood in her trembling hands, and the steam tables, well, they were steaming hot. I didn’t feel like explaining like I had hundreds of times before.

No. Why don’t you sit over there, where we can see each other?

I point to the nearest table. She really isn’t supposed to sit on her walker when there’s a proper chair nearby. She ignores me and turns her walker around. She squeezes the handles, activating the brakes. She’s right in the doorway. I can’t leave without her standing up to follow me. I try to pay attention to her, but the kitchen is loud with the humming of the fridge and freezer. She talks to me anyway, and I steal glances at her. Her feet swing back and forth, clad in the same white sneakers she wears every day. The ones that match her hair, which lay on her shoulders, almost certainly longer than anyone else’s. It was wispy and wavy, but I’ve seen her daughter, who had the same eyes and nose, and brown curly hair. I know Joan looked like that once. Her glasses are pink and wiry, and I remember taking turns pushing each other’s glasses up our noses. She wore her silver wristwatch. There was a clock on the wall of the dining room and her bedroom, but she preferred the one on her wrist. She looks at it and asks me to read the time to her. I step out of the kitchen and steady her hand with my fingertips. Without looking, I know it won’t be right. It’s not the first time she’s asked me, and every time her watch has been broken. I pull out my phone; I can’t see the clock on the wall from this angle.

It’s almost four o clock. Your watch isn’t right.

Can you fix it?

It’s not ticking.

Oh. What time is dinner?

Dinner was served at the same time every day of every week of every month. She still held her watch up to her face.

What time is it?

Almost four o clock.

Do you have siblings? I turn on the steam tables. I have three, all younger.

Do you live nearby? I put the dessert bowls in the fridge. I live on campus, a mile and a half away.

Where is your wife? I look at the menu. I’m not married.

What do your parents do for work? I put butter on the counter to soften. My dad is a truck driver.

My dad drove a truck. That was when we lived in Chicago. He delivered shrimp across the country. He was gone for weeks at a time.

I did my best to answer her questions, even though I had been told to focus the conversation on her. She wants to know, and I want to tell her. The next day, she will ask again. I will answer again.

After dinner, Joan comes back to the kitchen. She asks to help clear the tables. I tell her that we have to wait for everyone to finish eating. Joan looked around to see who was left; to see who was preventing her from working. She walked to one particular resident, who wasn’t eating anymore, but was still sitting at her table. Joan asked her to leave.

I should have worn gloves when cleaning the tables. I had seen residents spit out chewed-up bits of sausage skin. I didn’t have to though, and the gloves were uncomfortable. They clung to my hands, suffocating them. Joan did have to wear gloves. She didn’t understand the difference. I handed her a pair of blue disposable gloves, and she pulled them on. Her hands shook, and the gloves got stuck on her ring. I cradled her hands like a baby bird and pulled and tugged on the gloves until they moved into place. As soon as her gloves are on, she picks up a plate and exclaims how heavy it is in her hand.

Come feel this. I ignore her, picking up a clear plastic cup. It’s so heavy.

She scrapes the leftover food into the five-gallon bucket with her fingers, coating them in gravy and bits of carrots. I watch as she dips her hand into the red bucket of soap and water meant for the silverware. I sigh, but I cannot help but feel mildly amused. While cleaning, I throw a packet of mayo into the trash. Joan tells me I’ll pay for that one day. She doesn’t like to waste food. Across the room, I see her put something in a napkin and tuck it into the pouch of her walker. I ask her about it, and she says she’s going to feed the birds. The tables are cleared, and Joan asks if she can wash them. I told her no; I can do the rest myself. I don’t trust her with the cleaning solution.

What else can I do?

There isn’t anything else. She walks out the door.

Hold on. I point at her hands. You have to take those gloves off.

I want to keep them.

But they’re dirty.

I’ll wash them.

And she would. She had a ‘cleaned’ pair of gloves already in her walker. I argued with her.

You have to give them to me.

Are you going to throw them away?

Yes. They’re dirty.

She walked back to her apartment.

Later, I learned that I had to tell her I would wash them myself. She still watched to make sure I wasn’t lying. I had to place them on the edge of the sink until she left.

On August 9th of the next year, I walked out the front door, and I never came back. I had told Joan multiple times; I needed to say goodbye. But she didn’t remember. I probably shouldn’t have told her. She begged me to stay. On multiple occasions, she hugged me, told me that I made her feel better about things, she called me kiddo, she called me her grandson, and she told me she loved me. I loved her, too. I saved her the best snacks. I spent time listening to what she wanted when others ignored her because she was annoying. I took her for walks in the courtyard. I spread out puzzles of cats and dogs. I only knew her for a short time, so I don’t know her past, but she loved me in a way that I had never been loved before. I loved her in a way I had never loved anyone before. She showed me that love could be gentle, patient, quiet, and constant. It broke my heart to leave her, but I felt trapped in Bemidji. The nursing home manager quit while I worked there, and they weren’t able to hire a new one. Suddenly all the issues in the department were mine to handle. My face was always flushed with anger, but I tried to be civil. I brought up the issues at every meeting, but nothing ever changed, and I was still blamed. I couldn’t do it anymore. I had to leave.

Joan waited for me for months, just like she had waited for me when I left for Christmas break, hoping the next person at the door would be me. I sent her letters, one every week, over twenty in total, but Joan could never be convinced she had gotten mail. I waited for her too, even though she now lived hundreds of miles away. I had a new job and saw a lot of people. I saw a person with white hair walking towards me from a distance, and while their face was still indistinguishable, my heart leaped with the thought that it might be Joan. I saw a woman with a red and black walker, and I froze to watch her. I saw a woman with pink glasses, a flower-patterned shirt, and I wanted to hug her, tell her I missed her, and tell her I was sorry for leaving her. We kept waiting for each other, both believing we would see each other eventually. Another five months later, I got a letter in the mail with an obituary tucked inside. I couldn’t cry, but anguish gripped my heart. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. I was supposed to go back for her birthday in a month. I should have stayed. How could I have left her, the most important person in my life?