The Orange Tree

by Martin Ganzglass

  “Remember Helen I told you my parents were murdered?” Helen nodded in response. “Sometimes I have bad dreams about them. I see evil people doing horrible things to them. Then I wake up and I see the daylight. I look at the photos of my mother and father and I see them when they were happy and smiling. I feel better. Does not that happen to you?” She looked at the framed photograph Helen kept on her night table of Henry and Lillian as young parents seated on a couch, with Judy and Mitchell on the floor in front of them. Helen followed her gaze. Mitch thought she focused on Lillian, his mother more than the others. She stared at the picture for a long time and then at the painting of the wolf on the opposite wall and back to the photo. He thought he saw a glimmer of understanding. Then, as if some switch had been turned off, she lost interest and concentrated on voraciously eating everything on the tray, making indiscreet chewing noises as she gobbled her food down.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Molly leaning on the doorframe. He didn’t know how long she had been there. She gave Amina a little paper cup with four pills. “You certainly do have the knack,” she said admiringly. “Can you stay with her for a few minutes? I want to talk to Mitch, in the hall.”

  “How can I convince my aunt that Jewish nursing homes don’t have progroms?” He leaned despairingly against the railing just outside her room. “This is just plain nuts. If you believe her, they were marching down this hall last night pulling Jews out of their rooms. They meaning your staff.” He waved his arm to encompass the third floor.

  “Well, she dreamt it. It’s inside her head. She’s experiencing real paranoia or even schizophrenia. She’s hallucinating and can’t tell the difference between her terrible dreams and reality.”

  “What are we going to do?” Mitch asked.

  “Well,” Molly said, “for the short term, she probably should have a sedative. Something to take the edge off her anxiety. Then, the Home’s psychiartrist needs to talk to her. She may recommend medicine for the paranoia or schizophrenia, something to correct what may be a chemical imbalance in the brain.”

  “That’s going to take some time,” Mitch observed. “What do we do for now. For this weekend?”

  “My suggestion. Get her out of the home as much as possible. Let her overdose on your family, experience normal stuff and see that life for Jews, her family, is going on, safe and sound.” She smiled reassuringly at him. “Don’t look so skeptical. Sometimes, all they need is a little reinforcement. Dreams and hallucinations aren’t that unusual in old people,” she said.

  Mitch called Eleanor and updated her on Aunt Helen. Next he called his secretary, told her the family medical emergency was on going and he wouldn’t be back for the rest of the day. She said four of the seven staff could make the rescheduled meeting. Two of the four who said they could attend a Friday meeting, had put in, at the beginning of the month, for personal leave for that day. She had checked on her own with personnel. Mitch thanked her for thinking to make the inquiry. Better to postpone it and have committed staff eager to contribute, than resentful, sullen employees. He told her to reschedule for Tuesday morning and wish everyone a happy holiday from him.

  Mitch stayed at the Home for the rest of the morning, sitting with Aunt Helen in the tv room and then in the garden. At first, she cringed when any of the CNAs came near her but she seemed less fearful as the morning wore on. He fed her questions on subjects he knew she would talk about, music, her hat shop, life in New London. When she did talk about his mother, Lillian, it was as if nothing had happened. Amina invited them to sit with her and three other residents in the cafeteria for lunch. Aunt Helen started to resist but Mitch forced the issue. After lunch she fell asleep in the wheelchair. Mitch left her alone in her room rather than in the lounge, reasoning that it would be better she wake up and see no one instead of other CNAs in their white uniforms. Amina promised to check on her periodically. Mitch made another call to his office, asked his secretary to get some files together and print out the two draft reports for him. He told her he would pick them up tonight or first thing tomorrow morning. He thought it would be better if he spent the day with Aunt Helen. He called Ell and assured her everything was under control and took the elevator downstairs to Molly’s office.

  “If it’s ok with you, I’d like the Home’s doctor to take a look at Helen.”

  “I think she’ll be able to handle it,” Mitch said. “I’d be there. Right?”

  “Yes, of course. Even if she’s not agitated now, he’ll probably prescribe some kind of sedative.”

  “Will that help to make her have pleasant dreams? She’s having horrible ones now.”

  “Maybe. It can work like happy pills.” Molly replied. “Once we’ve got the dosage right, it keeps things on an even keel. You’ve seen her. She naps during the day. It’s not just a problem when she sleeps at night. No reason why she can’t dream this afternoon.”

  “Too bad we can’t give her a few glasses of white wine. When I drink half a bottle, I sleep right through. No dreams. No problems.”

  Molly laughed. “We’d have to have an all day Happy Hour to ensure pleasant dreams during naps. I’ll recommend that to our Board. We’ll become the most popular nursing home in the Washington area.”

  Molly promised to ask Dr. Coomarswarmy to stop by before 3:30. Mitch went back upstairs. Amina was sitting on the bed talking to his aunt. Well, at least she’s ok again with Amina, he thought.

  “There is a lecture on Israeli archaeology with slides in the first floor lounge. She might find that interesting,” Amina said. Maybe it will distract her, Mitch thought. Help her to realize that a place showing slides on Israel during the day doesn’t have pogroms at night. “Good idea. I’ll take her down there and bring her back in time for the Doctor’s visit.” Amina looked concerned. “Molly said he’s just going to take a look at her and maybe prescribe an sedative. What do you think?”

  “It has helped with some of the residents,” she said. She had heard of cases where some of the nurses had slipped in extra doses to make it easier to manage the more troublesome patients. And there had been one incident, she knew of, a bad interaction with other medicine. “I am sure the doctor will know the medicines Helen is already taking. Ask him if the sedative will inter-act with those.” She would also ask Maynard later.

  “Thanks, Amina. I mean, for all your help.”

  “Your aunt is someone special to me, Mr. Farber, “she said as she stood at the door. She was going to explain why Helen had made her a sister, but decided not to. He might not understand. Or even be offended.

  Amina performed her ablutions in the staff bathroom and said her afternoon prayers, in what was now called the prayer lounge. She walked up the back stairs to the staff room. She always took the stairs instead of the elevator, when she could. It was a matter of pride for her. No matter how tired she was, her long legs took the steps two at a time. Just to prove to herself she could.

  Maynard was already there, sitting at a small table in the corner, a canvas bag leaning up against his chair. She removed a tin of Somali tea from her purse, poured herself a mug of hot water, ignoring the sly smiles and knowing glances of the other CNAs. She knew her Thursday afternoon meetings with Maynard, which she regarded as professional and correct, had become a source of speculation and gossip. This didn’t bother her. She had never been concerned by what others thought of her. She had to admit she liked other women thinking Maynard would be interested in her. He was a handsome man, more handsome now that he had lost some weight. It didn’t occur to her that some of the CNAs were Maynard’s friends and disapproved of what they saw as her teasing and toying with him, constantly leading him on. In her mind, their relationship was professional and proper and she had no intention of changing it, regardless of what whispered gossip went on behind her back. She found Maynard’s advice helpful and she enjoyed their conversations.

  “How’s your American History coming?” He smiled at her, waiting expectantly as if he was a teacher meeting with hi
s favorite pupil. He has nice teeth, she thought. Almost as good as a Somali. And he has continued to work out. She could see his neck and shoulders were more muscular. Has he been losing weight and exercising because of me? That is flattering and sweet of him, especially since he knows nothing could come of it. She realized he was still smiling and waiting for her to answer.

  “I am reading this book my daughter borrowed from her school library. She has also recorded shows for me from the History Channel. I have seen several on the French and Indian Wars and the life of George Washington. There is a Somali proverb,” she paused trying to find the right words in translation. “I cannot say it exactly in English. It is “Pouring more water into a full ‘ubbo’ does not mean you have more to drink.” I am that ‘ubbo.’ I have so much American history all the time, I cannot think of anything else.”

  “What’s a ubbo?” Maynard asked, trying to mimic her pronounciation.

  “Oh. Sorry.” She put her hand in front of her mouth in embarrassment. “It is a carved wooden jug for carrying water. Nomads use them when they herd their camels.”

  “The closest we have to that proverb is ‘it’s coming out of my ears.’ So, should I test you on American history?” His tone implied he was teasing her.

  “No. Thank you. There are self tests at the end of each Chapter. I have been doing well so far.”

  “That’s good. You’re really working at it. The GED won’t be a problem.” He played with the large gold ring on his finger. She sensed, from his fiddling that he had something to say which was difficult for him. She hoped it wasn’t going to be about their relationship.

  “I checked the NOVA web site for the RN program. It seemed too quick for me that you get an RN after just four semesters. You don’t earn an RN after completing the on line course. You’ve got to transfer to George Mason and take their program for a B.S. in nursing.”

  “That cannot be right,” Amina said with more certainty than she felt. “I read the requirements very carefully,” already wondering how she could have been so careless. “However, I thank you for showing interest.”

  “Look. I’m not trying to stop you from applying. I’m the one who’s been pushing you. You’ll end up with the degree and an RN license at the end of it. If you don’t believe me, we can check it out together on a computer at the Nursing Station.”

  “No. No,” she said hastily, knowing she wanted to do go online alone, in private. She was furious with herself. She had the uneasy feeling she had misread the web site. She had already told Bashir after she got her GED, it was only four consecutive semesters and she planned to continue working full time. She had been overjoyed when Ms. Bernstein had promised the Home would help her and be flexible and thought she would be an asset as an RN. And now it would take another two years? It was bad enough that she had to tell her brother. How embarrassing it would be to have to go back to Ms. Bernstein. Maybe she should just quit working at the Home and do agency work until she earned her degree and was licensed. It would be simpler. She was vaguely aware Maynard had put the canvas bag on the table and was saying something.

  “What? I am sorry. I was thinking about NOVA.”

  “I said I have a surprise for you.”

  Not a gift, Amina thought panic stricken. Not now. Not in front of the other staff.

  Maynard made a show of reaching inside the bag and not finding what he was looking for, grinning as he groped for the unseen packages.

  “Ah ha. Here they are. I’ve been studying too.”

  Amina stared at the paperback translation of The Qur’an and a DVD box labeled “Understanding Islam- An Eight DVD Video Series.”

  “I’m just on the first disk,” Maynard said apologetically. “It’s about The Five Pillars of Islam. It’s sort of class room style and easy for me to understand.” He beamed at her expectantly. “What do you think.”

  She stood up, clasping her hands to her cheeks. “Maynard. This is blasphemy,” she said in a loud, hoarse whisper. “You do not turn to Islam to pick up a woman,” she blurted out. She was aware that the other staff had stopped their conversations and were watching them. “You turn to Islam because you believe in Allah, that the Holy Qur’an is the word of God, as revealed to Mohamed who is his Prophet. How could you?”

  Maynard looked as if she had slapped his face. He pushed his chair so hard as he rose, it tipped over, the metal frame clattering on the linoleum. Angrily, he swept the book and DVD into the bag with one hand and with the other pointed at Amina, his eyes even with hers.

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t want you and if I did, I don’t need your religion to have you. I’ve got plenty of other women. I thought you’d be pleased I was trying to learn more about Islam. I was wrong.” He turned, picked up the chair he had knocked down and stormed out of the room.

  “Well. Nothing like having our own soaps,” one of the CNAs from the second floor said, provoking a ripple of laughter. Amina put her purse on her shoulder and without acknowledging anyone, walked deliberately, looking straight ahead toward the door.

  “Tune in tomorrow for another episode with our own Amina-Queen of the Nile,” another CNA said to louder laughter.

  Amina fled to the sanctuary of Helen’s empty room. She had embarrassed Maynard in front of people. She had over-reacted. Maybe he was truly interested in educating himself about Islam. Either to learn, or maybe even to convert. What was wrong with that? She castigated herself for being an immature fool. She tried to reconstruct how she had jumped to the conclusion that Maynard wanted to use Islam to get a date with her. She recalled her father’s instruction to her when she was young. If you do wrong to another human being, correct the wrong sooner not later, he had said. A wound heals easier if it is not allowed to fester.

  Amina walked purposely down the hall and stopped in front of Maynard’s station. He glanced at her briefly, ignored her and continued writing in the medicine ledger.

  “I am sorry for what I said. It was wrong of me. I apologize and ask your forgiveness.” She put her hands on the edge of the wooden counter top.

  He slammed the ledger closed. The noise startled Amina. She noticed that one of the CNAs had suddenly found a magazine in the alcove and sat down, seemingly engrossed in an article.

  “Do you think it’s that easy? That you can create a public scene and apologize in private? Your apology doesn’t cut it.” She thought that was all he was going to say to her. She stepped back from the station. “I wanted to learn more about Islam,” he continued. “I was curious about it. It had nothing to do with you except you got me interested. What you assumed and said was way out of line. Way out,” he repeated to emphasize how wrong she had been.

  “I know that now,” she said quietly. “I do profoundly regret my words. And my thoughts” she added more softly.

  “Well,” Maynard said, relaxing slightly and speaking in a more conciliatory tone. “I don’t turn on a dime like this. I’m not ready to accept your apology right now. You think about what you said. If you’re really sorry, we can meet in the Staff Room next Thursday and then maybe, just maybe, we can have a civil discussion about your religion. I might have a few questions for you. I don’t have anything more to say to you now.” Her outburst in the Staff Room had stopped him from telling her he had visited a mosque and met with an Imam, an African American like him, who had been in trouble as a kid and turned his life around. Maynard had related to him. The Imam had convinced him to take classes at the Mosque. Whether or not this would lead to conversion, Maynard didn’t know. It was something he would hold in reserve and tell Amina at an appropriate time.

  “I have to ask you one favor, even if you do not accept my apology. It is about Helen,” she said quickly, seeing he was ready to dismiss her. “The doctor may prescribe a sedative. I must know if it could cause a bad interaction with her other medicines.” He hesitated. “Please. Maynard. Do it for Helen. It is not for me.”

  He swiveled his chair and rolled it to the file cabinet. He removed Helen
’s folder and read it with his back to Amina, running his finger down a page. “No,” he said coldly. “There shouldn’t be.” He made a Xerox copy of the page and handed it to her. “Give this to the doctor. In case he doesn’t have her complete file with him.”

  “Thank you, Maynard,” she said sincerely. As she left, she was aware of the CNA still in the alcove next to the RN station. Maynard had said the Home thrived on gossip. There was its messenger, Amina thought. She recognized how clever he had been, not to demand a humiliating public apology from her, but an acknowledgment that others would interpret as her humbling herself. She would definitely meet him in the staff room next Thursday.

  Mitch wheeled Aunt Helen into her room and was surprised to find Amina sitting on the edge of the bed. “The slide show was interesting.”

  “I am glad,” Amina said softly. “How is Helen?” She stood up and automatically smoothed the bedspread.

  “I am fine. How are you?” Aunt Helen said, running the two phrases together, sounding like a parrot. She repeated it again, wagging her head from side to side. “Why do people say things they don’t mean?” she asked. “No one cares how you are. They just ask.” Amina clasped her hands as if in prayer and gently tapped her lips with her tented fingers. “Helen. I should not have asked your nephew how you are when I could ask you. And you are very wise. If people only said what they meant, and thought before they spoke, the world would be a better place.” She knelt down in front of Helen’s wheelchair. “I do care how you are. That is why I asked. So, how are you? Tell me honestly.”

  Helen looked at her. “I am short.” Mitch stifled a laugh from behind the wheelchair. “I like it when we are at eye level so I can see you. I am afraid, Amina. I am afraid of the dark. Horrible things happen at night.” She shook her head and sighed. “I won’t say anymore.”

  “Helen. Remember what I said about bad dreams? Everyone has them. Think of good times.” She removed the photograph of Henry and Lillian from the night table and held it up for Helen to look at. “Always have a happy picture in your mind you can turn to. It helps me.”