The Caretaker

Today is the next day and it’s also the last. The pothos will wilt then wrinkle and crisp before Shannon can recall that it lives, unnoticed and reliant, in the corner of the dining room. Like her, it will decay in the absence of my daily duties to keep it nourished. I could take it with me, but the serpentine cracks smiling inside the walls of my apartment remind me that I have taken plenty from Shannon who has never noticed or, at least, never complained. Despite the perpetual urge to collect things ignored and forgotten, I've run out of room and won't return to Shannon's estate after today.

Shannon, more forgetful than when I arrived, asked for her checkbook this morning. Since my hire as the caretaker for the many-acred estate and an ever-fading widow, I understand that an ending follows when Shannon makes this request. Not long ago, two swift rips from her checkbook seemingly sent her adult son and daughter into another world as they never returned or called again. My presence, often in a nearby room listening for Shannon’s requests, must have permanently reassured any lingering concerns for their mother’s welfare.

Now it is just us who move from room to room, each trimmed with assorted novelties protected in brass-lined crystal cases and window-paneled hutches that offer a glimpse of what will be left behind. After tomorrow, it will only be Shannon and her possessions. The thought pits my stomach, and I find myself rubbing my palms against my pant legs for the third time today.

“Lydia, your hands,” Shannon begins to ask. “Are you alright?”

She is more curious than concerned, and the truth is that I’m not alright. This morning she handed me a check written for $20,000, which is more than I should take for my abrupt departure—an upsetting request made by Shannon herself. With stern certainty, she named today my last day despite my protests and, unbeknown to her, a strained willingness to move the heaps of once unwanted bedsheets, tossed newspapers and plastic bags, notebooks barely used, and everything else I have saved from discard. I could fit everything, and possibly more, somewhere in a far-off room right here on the estate. I could care for us all right here on the estate.

“Who will come to check on you?” I ask with some hesitation. “I don’t like the idea of leaving you here alone. Should I call your children?”

“I told you I won’t be here,” Shannon replies immediately, and I sense grief in her tone. The plate in front of her is missing only two bites from the slightly mashed herb-roasted potatoes she requested for supper.

Although noticeably wrinkled, her face is delicate like creased ivory satin that only needs a careful steam to be revitalized. I’m reminded of how deeply black and lingering Shannon’s hair once was each time I pass her expansive portrait hanging above the main staircase landing. Now, it’s tousled into a peppercorn twist that eventually sags to her neckline by bedtime. She appears content with her decision more than her dinner as she sips a waning glass of Merlot.

In the kitchen, I dry my hands again and slide Shannon’s check out of my pocket. Even as her memory abandons, Shannon has spelled my name with ease as told by the smooth lines made in silence this morning. The double loop in the capital L of my first name connects beautifully with the lowercase y and the other letters follow suit like a small parade of cursive. From my bag, I take out a small black notebook I once retrieved from a school dumpster. It was a rare find among the leaking pens, chewed pencils, and all else tossed for the summer but salvaged for my keep. I put Shannon’s check behind a page and trace the loops and curves to spell my name exactly as she's written it.

“Lydia, I’d like to go to bed now,” Shannon calls from the dining room. I put away my notebook, the check, and dry my hands once more.

Walking just one step behind her, I see her bare feet are slight as if she’s uncommitted to this path to her bedroom or unconvinced that she knows who is behind her. I think to remark on how much wine a woman her age should indulge, but it may last longer in her mind if I leave it in my notes.

Upstairs in her bedroom, decorated in opulent comfort with velvet drapes in ruby and jam, Shannon declines her bath and wears to bed the powder-blue silk robe and nightgown she’s worn since this morning. I oblige and plan to impose a bath in the morning. From the bedroom door, I look for Shannon who is swathed in mauve bedlinen and barely visible in the dim warmth from her bedside lamp. My hand slips on the doorknob and I instinctively bring my hands to my side again when Shannon shifts to her side and mumbles “alone.”

Turning slowly to scan the pearly tubes of lipstick and opaque jars of collagen creams on her vanity, the room is still and vacant before I notice my final take. Motionless and silent, Shannon lies fixed in this moment like a porcelain figurine overlooked at an estate sale. The gnarled rifts grinning inside my apartment walls, bursting with fulfillment, will hold onto Shannon too.