“Yeah, but…she’s been sleeping an awful lot.”
“Your mother needs her rest,” Rachael said. Unlike Natsinet, Tonya felt good about Rachael the minute she’d met her. Tonya had stopped by last night with her daughter Tess and she’d immediately gotten a warm feeling from the woman. Rachael was in her mid-thirties, with a full figure that could only be termed voluptuous. She wore her hair straight. Her skin tone was a rich dark chocolate.
“She was up briefly last night around two-thirty and asked for a drink of water, then went back to sleep.”
“Was she up this morning?”
“For a moment. She asked for a pen and paper and tried writing something down, but her penmanship…the medication Dr. Albright prescribed will make her sleepy.”
“What medication is this?”
Rachael told her and Tonya could only shake her head. Her mother was on so many medications now it was hard to keep them straight. She would have to talk to Dr. Albright herself.
“So…when do you think she’ll come around?” Tonya asked.
“Probably later this evening. Just in time for her next dose.”
“My God!”
“I know. But the infection should be gone by Monday morning. After that, Natsinet can resume your mother’s physical therapy.”
“How did that go, by the way?”
“According to Natsinet’s notes, very well.” Rachael gave Tonya a rundown of the physical therapy and her mother’s progress, telling her to keep in mind that it could be another six weeks before they saw any real progress. “That’s probably part of the reason why I couldn’t make out your mother’s handwriting. Natsinet said the physical therapy would make her tired.”
“I hope she isn’t over-exerting my mother,” Tonya said.
Rachael smiled. “Not at all, Mrs. Brown. I see no signs of that. Your mother’s doing really quite well.”
Tonya relaxed. Yes, her mother was doing well. Both times she’d gone into her room to see her, momma had been fast asleep. She didn’t look as sick or as wasted away or old as she did when she was in the hospital. She wondered if the physical therapy was having an affect on her mother’s overall physical appearance. Still, she wished she could talk to her mother, to spend even a few minutes with her, to hear from momma herself.
“You know, I think I’m going to spend the night. I want to be here when my mother wakes up.” She walked back into her mother’s room and pulled a chair over to her bedside. Rachael followed her. “I just think I should be here for her. I feel like she needs me.” She stroked her mother’s hair and rubbed her palm against the smooth skin of her forehead. It was hot to the touch. Her mother stirred in her sleep but remained unconscious.
“Oh, that’s fine of course. You can stay in my room if you like and I can sleep on the couch.”
“No, that’s alright. You keep your room. I want to be right here beside my mother in case she wakes up in the middle of the night or something.”
Rachael nodded.
“Well, how about I gather up some blankets and pillows and make you a nice bed here on the floor?”
“I’d appreciate that.”
Rachael turned to leave.
“Rachael?”
“Yes?”
“What do you think of Natsinet? I mean…she seem kinda cold to you? You know…sort of unfriendly?”
“I think that’s just how they are where she’s from. I don’t really know her that well. She’s new to the agency. But she’s one of the most qualified nurses we have. Overqualified actually. I don’t know why anyone with a Bachelor’s degree in Medicine and four years in the ER would want to do this for a living. I mean, I love my job, but it seems like she should want to go to medical school or something, get her MD and start practicing. Her family has the money to send her, or so I hear. I did hear that she got burnt out working in the ER. Maybe she’s just taking a little break. I know I couldn’t do that job. All that blood and screaming and little kids dying in your arms. I couldn’t do it.” She shook her head, “I mean, when people die in our care it’s after they’ve lived long lives. Not unexpectedly when they’re still young with their lives ahead of them. Most of the people in hospice care just go quietly in their sleep and it’s no real surprise to anyone. Oh…I didn’t mean…”
“That’s okay. I know what you meant.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking about dying with your mother. She’s fine though. She’s got plenty of good years ahead of her. Uh…I’ll go get those sheets.”
“Thank you, Rachael.”
Tonya knew the woman meant no harm. Still, the last thing she needed to be reminded of was her mother’s mortality. She adjusted the covers around her mother to make sure she was comfortable. She had to admit, her mother did look rather peaceful and relaxed. She even seemed to be losing weight. Not so much that it was alarming, but just enough to make her look a little younger and healthier. Everyone she spoke to about Natsinet assured her that the woman knew what she was doing. Maybe she was just worrying for nothing. Just to be certain, Tonya wanted to make sure she was here when her mother awoke. It might be next weekend before she could make it out to see her again and she wanted to make sure she was okay.
“Mrs. Brown?”
Rachael had poked her head back into the room and was looking sheepishly at the floor.
“Yes, Rachael?”
Rachael looked away from the floor, as if she was finally summoning up the courage to say what she wanted to say. “I just wanted to say how proud I am to be taking care of your mother. I met her once, you know? She came to my high school the year I graduated. She gave a speech on how we should all continue our educations and go to college. How we could be anything we wanted to be, have everything we ever dreamed of if we were just willing to work hard for it and carry ourselves like respectable young men and women and not get involved in drugs or start dropping out of school and having babies. She told us that we had a duty to our ancestors to better ourselves. We owed it to all of those who struggled and died so that we could be free and have all the rights we now took for granted. I still think about what she said sometimes. When I was going through nursing school and trying to raise my two sons by myself at the same time and it was so hard I just wanted to quit, I kept thinking about what your mother said about us having a duty to all those who died in the struggle. It kept me going. I-I just wanted to say that.”
The nurse ducked back out of the room and Tonya turned back to stare at her mother. The woman had touched so many lives. Tonya didn’t know what she would do without her. She wished that Rachael could be there with her all the time. There was something about that other nurse, Natsinet, she just did not trust.
Chapter Eleven
Adelle could not tell whether she was awake or still dreaming. She couldn’t seem to focus. She felt delirious, dizzy. Everything seemed blurry as if she were looking at the room through a pair of glasses with the wrong prescription. Adelle felt like she was drunk or high, neither of which she’d been since the seventies. Her eyelids were heavy and all she wanted to do was close them again.
There was someone in the room with her and Adelle tried to focus on the person, hoping it was the doctor, or the new nurse, or maybe even Tonya, her torment finally over.
“Momma? Momma, are you awake? It’s me, Tonya. Can you hear me Momma?”
Adelle nodded her head and gestured for a pen and paper. Then her head dropped and her eyes closed and she had to force herself to wake back up.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I so tired? Why can’t I focus on anything?
Somehow, Natsinet was still keeping her drugged even when she wasn’t there. She must have switched the pills in her prescription bottles, substituting some kind of narcotic for her normal medication. Adelle’s eyes closed again.
“Momma? You still awake? Here’s your pen and paper.”
Adelle snapped awake again but the fog was still in her head, clouding her thoughts. Her eyes remained closed whe
n Tonya slipped the pen into her hand. Keeping her eyes open was beginning to seem almost impossible but Adelle knew she had to tell Tonya what was going on, had to let her know what Natsinet had done to her. She was thinking of what to write when she found herself dreaming of her and Walt in the hospital as the nurse brought out their new baby girl and placed her in Adelle’s arms. It had been Walt’s idea to name her Tonya. Adelle woke up again. Tonya was standing above her looking concerned.
“It’s okay Momma. I know you’re tired. You just get your rest. We can talk in the morning.”
Tonya reached for the pen and Adelle snatched it away. This could be her last chance. She had to write something before she passed out again. But what?
How can I tell her what’s going on when I can’t even keep my eyes open? Maybe I’ll tell her not to give me any more drugs? Then once my head clears I can tell her everything that’s been going on.
But she didn’t know what Natsinet had given her or how long the effects might last. The next time she woke up it could be Monday morning and Tonya might be gone.
Besides, Tonya would probably just think I was being stubborn and not wanting to take my medication.
“You need to sleep Momma. You look so tired.”
Adelle nodded again and her eyes closed and she found herself with Tonya on her lap in a little black dress with white stockings and a veil. Tonya was less than a year old. Directly in front of them was a casket. Her husband was inside. Adelle started to weep, then realized she was dreaming again and shook it off. She had to stay awake. She tried to concentrate but it was getting harder and harder. Whatever drugs they’d given her seemed to be intensifying as if she’d just recently received a dosage. She had to write something quick before she fell asleep again.
But what? What should I write? I could just write “Help” but Tonya might not interpret that properly either. She might think I was just complaining about my condition and if I wrote “Natsinet” she might think I was calling for the crazy bitch.
Adelle’s eyes began to close once again as she quickly scribbled something onto her notepad. She was fast asleep when Tonya removed the pad and pen from her lap and looked at what her mother had written, trying to figure out what she could possibly have meant by it.
There were just two little words scrawled across the pad. My Guns.
“Rachael?”
“Yes, Mrs. Brown?”
“You’re certain my mother hasn’t said anything to you?”
“Not at all, ma’am.” Rachael was in the kitchen unloading the dishwasher. “Medication she’s on has made her really groggy even when she’s awake. She’s mostly been watching TV.”
“But you have been trying to engage her in some kind of mental activity, correct?”
“Oh, of course, Mrs. Brown. In fact, Dr. Albright prescribed a new medication called Parlodel. It’s usually prescribed for Parkinson’s patients, but it’s been known to help stroke patients regain their speech. Your mother seemed happy to hear that.”
“I’m happy to hear that too. But…my mother hasn’t…expressed to you that anything could be wrong?”
Rachael paused from her duties. “No ma’am. Why?”
Tonya looked at the notepad she held in her hands. Those words, My Guns, leaped out at her. What could momma have meant by it? Was she concerned that Natsinet would find the handgun she normally kept in the magazine rack? That was a valid concern, one Tonya had tried to eliminate by moving the weapons to a more secure location. She knew that the medications her mother was taking for the stroke as well as the infection she had might muddle her mind, make her confused, hallucinate even. She wondered if this was the result of some subconscious part of her mother’s brain worrying about things and it manifested itself in this hastily scrawled note.
“Is everything okay, Mrs. Brown?”
Tonya looked over at Rachael.
“Yes, everything’s fine.”
She turned and headed back to her mother’s room and went directly to the closet. She knelt down and picked up the shoebox on the floor, opened it up. The .45 lay inside, where she’d left it. She reached further into the closet for the second shoebox and checked it; ditto the Sig Sauer. She sighed, relieved. Momma was probably just dreaming. She was worried about things at home and it manifested itself in her heavily medicated mind and—
“Mrs. Brown?” Rachael was standing at the threshold of momma’s room.
“Everything’s okay,” Tonya said. She hurriedly closed the lids of the shoeboxes and put them back in their place. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Okay.”
She waited until Rachael retreated to the kitchen, then she rummaged around in the closet. There was a pile of old blankets on the top shelf. She moved the shoeboxes that contained the guns and nestled them between the blankets, making sure they were secure and well-hidden. That should take care of that, she thought.
“Mrs. Brown, I have a shopping list I’m drawing up,” Rachael called out from the kitchen. “Can you pick up a few things for me?”
“Sure.” Rachael shut the closet doors, set the notepad down on the bureau and exited her mother’s room. “What do you need?”
And for the time being the thought of what her mother could have possibly meant by those two words was gone from Tonya’s mind.
Chapter Twelve
Adelle awoke slowly, becoming aware that it was morning in gradual stages: the position of the sun as it shone through the open blinds of her room; the sound of cars outside; of the morning talk shows coming from the television in the living room. Other things slowly filtered in as she wove in and out of slowly dawning consciousness; the woozy, stoned feeling she felt throughout much of the past two days was wearing off; she was feeling more aware of herself and her surroundings.
And she was focused.
Adelle looked at the clock on the bureau by her bed. It read ten thirty-five. Some talk show was on the TV and Adelle tried to remember what day it was. Talk shows only came on weekdays, which meant…
The sound of purposeful footsteps coming toward her room brought a feeling of impending doom as time seemed to slow down for her.
Natsinet emerged in her doorway, that evil look on her face. Dressed in a clean white nurse’s uniform, she looked like something out of a nightmare. She was carrying a metal tray, which she set down on the edge of the bed.
“Good morning, Mrs. Smith! So good to see you again!”
The nightmare of the past week still fresh on her mind, Natsinet tried to move away from the nurse and only succeeded in rocking back a few inches into her pillow.
Natsinet laughed.
“Well, looky you! You moved three whole inches! See, we are making progress!”
Stacked on the tray was the stun gun, what looked to be a cattle prod, and a butane grill lighter. Natsinet ran her fingers along the instruments, as if debating which one to choose.
“So…” Her face had a look that Adelle usually associated with cats who were anticipating playing with the field mouse they’d just caught, “Ready to get back into your therapy again?”
No, not this, not this, I was supposed to see Tonya this weekend, please not this…
Her therapy session that day was the longest by far.
Or so it felt.
* * *
It didn’t take much to reduce the old woman to a quivering lump of flesh.
Time seemed to spring forward quickly for Natsinet the first few days of that week. She didn’t think it would be that way, but then she supposed the saying “Time flies when you’re having fun” had some validity to it. It certainly flew by for her. Of course, it was probably agonizingly long for Adelle Smith as it should be. Worthless sack of shit wasn’t worth anything anyway, so why bother even working at trying to maintain the old woman’s quality of life. Natsinet had spent the weekend trying to convince herself to feel some guilt over what she was doing to the old woman, and as much as she tried she honestly couldn’t find it in herself to feel guilty.
She knew that most people would think she was a monster for abusing the woman, but Natsinet didn’t care. For the first time in her life, Natsinet didn’t care about what people thought of her. She was doing what she wanted, what made her feel good. No one else would understand. They were incapable of understanding. They hadn’t lived her life. She knew that from her interview with her supervisor at Hospice Nursing. Racist old cracker woman. If it weren’t for the fact that she needed this job, Natsinet would have bitch-slapped that old fossil the day of her interview. Unfortunately, she couldn’t lose the chance at this job and she was fortunate to have it now. She couldn’t lose it, and she wasn’t going to lose it. In fact, her abuse of Adelle Smith would go unrecorded. Natsinet had it all figured out.
The fact that Rachael didn’t suspect a thing was heavily in her favor. Natsinet had things set up so that if Rachael discovered that she was abusing Adelle, it would be easy to dismiss as simple accidents. Were those marks on Adelle’s arms and legs burns? Not at all, she just got a little too much sun when I left the drapes open one afternoon—it was such a nice day! Were those rug burns? Scrapes? Well, yes, but Natsinet was trying to help Adelle regain use of her legs again. She fell, yes, but it was an accident. And what about Adelle’s accusation that you beat her, shot her multiple times with a stun gun, and dragged her across the floor? I would never cause deliberate harm to one of my charges. My record is impeccable. See for yourself.
And they would do so and see that, yes, her record was impeccable. Her superiors at Philadelphia General had put in a high recommendation for her to Hospice Nursing, and her teachers all had kind words for her. She had a spotless record.
So what had caused her to not only humiliate, but treat this woman—this patient—like something less than human?
Because she was less than human.
Natsinet was in the kitchen making herself a light lunch, a sandwich and a small salad, as these thoughts flew through her mind. She had to admit to herself what was becoming obvious. As a whole, she didn’t care for Black people. Yes, her father was from an African nation, and yes she was often forced to check off the box marked “African American” in employment and government forms when the disbelieving clerk raised an eyebrow at her first choice, which was always Caucasian. She would get that look. You don’t look White to me. Then she would be forced to explain her mixed heritage, after which the clerk or whoever it was she’d handed the form to would say, You can’t check that box if you’re of mixed race. You’re going to have to check the African American box. And then Natsinet would be forced to check that box, regretting that she was being forced to relegate herself to those who were responsible for the majority of crime in this country, who whined and complained the loudest, who demanded they be handed every damn thing and not work for it, who’d ruined her life. She didn’t like the fact that the last time she tried to buy a car she saw a chunky White salesman whisper something to a colleague, who quickly raced into the rear of the showroom; moments later the classic rock music that was playing over the showroom’s speakers changed to rap and the chunky White salesman was going out of his way to speak a sort of fake street argot to her. She was so mad she made him work at trying to get a sale out of her for three hours before she finally said, “Thanks, but no thanks,” and walked out.
Hero Page 8
