Shadows

Literary Review, Spring, 2004 by Brendan Short

When I arrive at her apartment, Mrs. Waller is standing in the dark, holding a sheet of note paper. She does not know who I am, of course, but as usual she says that she is delighted to see me.

"It's been so long," she says.

She wears a silk robe, frayed at the collar and faded purple, her monogram embroidered on the breast pocket. During the day, the robe hangs on the back of her bedroom door; she sleeps in it at night.

"How is your daughter?" she asks.

"I have a son named C.J.," I say, "and he's fine, thank you."

"And your husband, how is he?" It is a good guess--one that she has made before, one that would make Derrick laugh.

"I'm not married, Mrs. Waller. I almost was, but that was a while ago."

She stares at me and smiles, though I don't think there is a reason for her grin. I am a new person to her.

"I'm Molly," I say. "I visit you during the week."

Mrs. Waller hands me the note, strolls to the window, and runs her fingers over the blinds. I walk to her and pull the cord. The blinds rise and sunlight fills the living room, spreading over a shelving unit adorned with Hummel figurines and photographs of forgotten relatives, over a basket filled with old issues of TV Guide and Reader's Digest, across a throw pillow stitched with a saying: "Women are like tea leaves. You never know their strength until they're in hot water." The light reaches the dining room, where a simple wooden table and four chairs stand. Mrs. Waller grasps my upper arm and smiles. I smile too.

The blinds were drawn because I drew them yesterday, right before I left. When the blinds are open, Mrs. Waller is tempted to go outside, and when she goes outside she ends up lost somewhere: in the woods behind her apartment complex, in the Safeway parking lot, on the corner of Blueridge and Spruce. When the blinds are drawn, she forgets the outside world and shuffles around her apartment. At least this is her family's theory, their clutch at understanding in a world where their mother has forgotten them.

I look at the ivory paper, which is folded and has my name written on the outside in the fat handwriting of Lillie, Mrs. Waller's eldest daughter. Lillie and her husband live in a Colonial seven times the size of my apartment. Though I have talked to her at least twice a week for three years, I have met her only five times. At Christmas she leaves me a wicker basket of cheeses and marmalade, a check for one hundred dollars, and a photo Christmas card of her family, including Duke, a Bay retriever.

I read the note in my hand:

   Molly,

   We are so grateful for all the work you've done for Mother over the
   years, and we are deeply sorry that you are leaving us--it's like
   you've been a member of our family all this time. If you reconsider
   your decision (please do!!!) or need a reference, please contact
   Jack or me.

   Love,
   Lillie

I ponder the word "Love" and wonder how long Lillie hesitated before writing it. Maybe she did not hesitate at all. Maybe she does think of me as family. I look at the fold; it is precise and strong, as though smoothed out with the edge of a credit card. The letter could easily tear in half.

Mrs. Waller sits at the dining room table and rests her hands behind her place setting. When I ask if she is hungry, she says that she is. I pour orange juice into her glass, Corn Flakes and two-percent into her bowl. I prepare an identical meal for myself and sit. Mrs. Waller has not started to eat. (She claims sometimes to wait because a proper hostess allows her guests to begin. But I've seen her reach her hand into a bowl of minestrone and stare uncomprehendingly at silverware, and I know that confusion and fear of embarrassment are her reasons for waiting.) When I grab my spoon, she grabs hers. When I scoop the cereal and bring it to my mouth, she follows my lead. She smiles in relief.

"It's a lovely day, isn't it?" she asks.

"It is," I say. "Perhaps we could go for a walk later."

I dab the sides of my mouth with the pink napkin. She pats her mouth clean.

"That would be wonderful," she says.

And so we will eat, walk, watch television--spend the day together. I will bathe Mrs. Waller and explain to her how to use the toilet and toilet paper. I will do my best to make sure that nothing in the apartment can trip or confuse her more than is inevitable. Then I will draw the blinds for the last time.

On Fridays I usually say, "See you Monday, Mrs. Waller." In bed for the past several nights I have practiced what to say today--profound statements about how much these past three years have meant to me, how much I have loved spending time with her, how much I will miss her. I even imagined that I told Mrs. Waller about Derrick and C.J. and my new job, and I pretended that she forgave me.

After I have helped Mrs. Waller dress, we stroll along the sidewalk, arm in arm, just like--like what? Like lovers, old friends, grandmother and granddaughter, client and caregiver? I cannot say. I do not know. In most ways, we are strangers. We walk a few blocks, past the strip mall with its framing shop, a Middle-Eastern market, UpScale Extensions and Styling; past the bank; right at the Victorian with a turreted roof; down a leafy, sun-dappled street.