Photo by Ernest Brillo on Unsplash
“You should be wearing this,” my wife, Diane, says, removing the Medical Alert pendant dangling on a red chord from a floor lamp in her Aunt Charlotte’s living room.
“I don’t need it,” Aunt Charlotte says. “I have the house phone, and my cell is right here.” She looks to a dark oak end table that is covered with piles of magazines and church newsletters. “I just had it. Now where did I put it?” she asks aloud and scans the room. Minutes pass. She cannot locate her phone. Stuff is everywhere—on the couch, the end tables and coffee table and in the recliner—not to mention books and magazines stacked in the corners of the room.
“Aunt Charlotte, this is exactly why you need to wear the pendant,” Diane says. “If you have a medical emergency, you just push the button, and an operator will immediately send help. After your fall last month, I asked the company to include fall protection.”
“Fall protection?” Aunt Charlotte asks, pushing her white hair to the side, out of her face.
“There’s a sensor inside the pendant that can tell if you’ve fallen,” Diane says. “If you hit your head and become unconscious, medical help will come.”
“I see. It’s a handy little thing,” Aunt Charlotte says and slips the pendant over her head.
“Great. Now we can get down to business.”
“Diane, I don’t know where I got this necklace, but it’s rather handsome, don’t you think?” Aunt Charlotte looks down at the button on the pendant. “This is a flashlight,” she says, and presses it.
“Medical Alert. Do you need medical assistance?” a male voice asks from the receiver
on the end table.
“No, I don’t. I was showing my niece my necklace. I thought the button was a flashlight,” Aunt Charlotte says.
“No problem. I’m going to hang up now and cancel the alert.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
From the kitchen, I see Aunt Charlotte looking at my wife, her bright blue eyes staring at Diane as if she’s waiting for her to make some sort of pronouncement.
Diane is fidgeting with her wedding ring. I know she doesn’t want to push too much. “I think it would be good to get you some help for a few hours a week.”
“What for?”
“To do a little vacuuming and straightening up. Provide some company.”
“I don’t like strangers coming into my home and rearranging my things. Besides, I sweep from time to time.”
“There’s dust everywhere,” I shout from the kitchen where I’ve been watering the nearly bone dry African violets on her window sill and secretly throwing out whatever I can of the items on the countertops—soiled napkins, grocery store receipts, take-out menus.
When she taught second grade with the New York City public school system, Aunt Charlotte received mail requests from various organizations for children. She still gets these and numerous solicitations from different Catholic organizations.
I hear Diane say, “I wish you wouldn’t be so dismissive, Aunt Charlotte. Try an aide for a week. Think about it.”
“Come see what we brought you,” Diane says, changing the subject, getting up from the couch, and walking into the kitchen. Aunt Charlotte follows.
“Hello, Roger. Want to show me what you brought?”
“No, you look,” I say and move away from the refrigerator. Diane glares at me.
“Ah, roasted chicken. Milk, yogurt, the Rye bread I like, and ham and Swiss for my lunch.”
“You didn’t touch the lasagna,” Diane says, peering into the refrigerator.
Aunt Charlotte looks inside. “Lasagna? There’s no lasagna in here.”
“Here,” Diane says, picking up the generous portion wrapped in plastic wrap.
“Oh, is that what it is. I couldn’t imagine what that was.”
“And there’s tuna salad from last week,” I say. “It’s old. No good. I’ll throw it out.”
“Leave it there, Roger,” Aunt Charlotte says.
I slam the refrigerator shut and ask myself why? Will keeping it make it fresher? “There’s bananas and oatmeal over there,” I say, gesturing to the space I made near the sink. “And chocolate cupcakes with sprinkles.”
“Ooh. I’d like to have one of those right now,” Aunt Charlotte says, opening the box and putting it on her kitchen table. “Roger, would you like one?”
“No.”
“Diane?”
“Next time. We’ve got to go.”
“Thanks for the groceries. I’m well stocked for the week.”
I walk toward the door. Diane and Aunt Charlotte follow.
“Make sure you wear the pendant all the time,” Diane says and turns around to kiss her.
“Okay.” As she slides open the deadbolt, Aunt Charlotte turns around and asks, “No
groceries today?”
“Check your fridge and the counter by the sink,” Diane says, as we leave the apartment.
***
At home, Diane chastises me for my impatience.
“She’s 90 years old, Roger, and has dementia. Leave her alone. You know my mother has it. So did Aunt Dorothy.”
Aunt Dorothy died last year at age 95. She and Charlotte had lived together in the same apartment since they were in their twenties and did everything together.
“I’ll probably get dementia, too,” Diane says. “Prepare yourself. That’s what I’m going to be like when I’m older.”
“I couldn’t deal with that.”
Diane is quiet.
“Tell me, how can she live in that pigsty?” I ask.
“She’s probably overwhelmed. When she looks around and sees everything, she shuts down and pretends it doesn’t exist. Or maybe she tells herself she’ll do it tomorrow. “
“But why won’t she allow anyone to help her?”
“Maybe she can’t admit she needs it.”
“What about the rotten food?”
“She must open the fridge to get something and focuses only on that one item.”
“Frankly, I can’t stand her.”
“I love her, and I’m so worried about her. Afraid she’s going to fall again or cause a fire because the papers are so near the stove. Don’t know how long she can manage without assistance, and she can’t see how desperately she needs it.”
“Put her in a nursing home.”
“I will not. She’s comfortable in her apartment. All she needs is a good aide. You’re so heartless.”
“Not heartless. Realistic.”
“Whatever.”
“Trick her. Tell her she promised to try out an aide, and just show up with someone.”
“I don’t like being dishonest and taking advantage of her memory issue.”
“It’s a white lie, for God’s sake. It won’t hurt her, and it may help.”
***
The following day, Diane contacts the local senior center. “Bernice? Is she dependable? Good.”
That afternoon, Diane and I meet Bernice in front of Aunt Charlotte’s building, and we all go up to the apartment. When Aunt Charlotte opens the door, she is surprised to see a stout woman with curly black hair, wearing a maroon uniform standing there with us.
“Aunt Charlotte, this is Bernice. She’s going to help you.”
“I don’t know anything about this.”
“When Roger and I were here yesterday, you said you’d try someone.”
“I did?” Aunt Charlotte looks at Bernice. “Since you’re here, come in.”
“We’re going to leave now, Aunt Charlotte. Roger and I must go to work. I’ll call tonight.”
***
That evening after dinner, Diane calls Aunt Charlotte.
“Bernice did what?” I heard Diane ask. “Broke your Lenox collie? Oh, dusting. I’m sorry. I know how fond you are of that figurine. I’ll Crazy glue it for you. She put your favorite purple silk blouse in the dryer and shrunk it?”
“I don’t want her, or any other help in my apartment ever again,” I hear Aunt Charlotte yell.
“Don’t worry. Bernice won’t be back.”
***
Two weeks later, Diane and I are sitting in our living room watching the news, and one of Aunt Charlotte’s neighbors calls. Says Aunt Charlotte slipped on the rug in the bathroom and hit her head. She heard banging on the wall and used her spare key to access Aunt Charlotte’s apartment. Found her lying in a pool of blood on the bathroom floor. Called the ambulance, then Diane.
“Columbia Presbyterian. I’ll phone now. Thanks for calling me,” I hear Diane say. The floor nurse at the hospital informs Diane Aunt Charlotte is stable. No broken bones, but she needs stitches to her forehead. They’re going to keep her for observation.
***
After work the next day, Diane and I go to the hospital. Aunt Charlotte is in good spirits. The doctor says she will be released the next day. Says he is prescribing high blood pressure medicine. Says it’s dangerous for her to be alone. Suggests we think about getting a home aide. After what just happened with Bernice, I tell Diane, “Good luck.”
***
That Saturday, Diane and I go to see Aunt Charlotte to discuss her visiting my mother-in-law for a few days so we can vacuum and dispose of some papers. When we arrive, we hear boisterous laughter and Aunt Charlotte and another woman conversing in French behind the apartment door.
We buzz, and Aunt Charlotte greets us wearing a long lavender scarf tossed over her shoulder, Parisian style.
We walk into the apartment and immediately notice the absence of stacks of magazines and catalogues. The mauve rug has been vacuumed and the bookcases dusted. A plate of mini chocolate croissants sits on the cocktail table next to two half-drunken cups of tea. Shopping bags filled with mail are nearby, and a woman in her late 50’s sits on the couch tossing envelopes and grocery flyers into a shopping bag.
She looks up at us. “Bonjour.”
“Bonjour, Madame,” Diane says.
Although Aunt Charlotte was born and raised in Quebec and spoke French fluently, Diane hasn’t heard her speak any French since her grandmother was alive, twenty years ago.
“Je voudrais presenter mon amie, Francoise,” Aunt Charlotte says.
“Votre amie?” Diane asks. “Where did you meet her?”
Aunt Charlotte turns to Francoise with an embarrassing giggle. “I don’t remember. How did we meet?”
“I’m from the church.”
“Ah, you’re the person Father Mike sent. He and I spoke briefly,” Diane says.
“Be back,” Aunt Charlotte says. “I’m going to get Diane and Roger some tea.”
Diane and I sit down next to Francoise. “It’s so considerate of you to volunteer to help my aunt,” Diane says. “Do you live in the neighborhood?”
“No. I have a room in Brooklyn. Father Mike gave me a part-time job cleaning the church. When I finish, I go to a side chapel and pray. Then I visit Charlotte.”
“The apartment looks wonderful,” Diane says. “How did you manage to get rid of so much?”
Francoise winks. “It’s a game,” she whispers. “I tell Charlotte we’re going “to organize” her papers and magazines. We sort everything into bags—all the magazines in one. The catalogues in another and the mail in a third. I put the bags in the hallway closet. While she’s napping, I take everything down to the garbage bins in the basement. That’s it,” she says, brushing her hands together. “All gone.”
“Brilliant. And my aunt is so happy with you.”
Aunt Charlotte returns with the cups and places them on the coffee table.
“She’s a competitive card player,” Francoise says, gesturing to Aunt Charlotte.
“My sister and I played cards every evening. I’m happy to have a new partner.” Aunt Charlotte passes us the croissants. “Francoise made them,” she says.
I take one and give another to Diane. In two bites, mine is gone. “Delicious.”
Francoise smiles.
“Aunt Charlotte, we wanted to talk to you about something, but it can wait,” I say.
Francoise looks at us and then at Aunt Charlotte. “I’ll go.”
“Stay,” Diane says. “We need to leave, anyway. It was a pleasure to meet you, Francoise. Don’t get up, Aunt Charlotte. We’ll see ourselves out.”
***
When we are home, Diane says she wants to talk to Father Mike. “Francoise seems genuine,” she says, “but who knows? What if I find out she’s robbing Aunt Charlotte blind?”
“Maybe then you’ll realize Aunt Charlotte needs to be in a nursing home.”
Diane quickly turns away from me and dials. “Hello, Father. This is Diane Radcliff,
Charlotte Rooney’s niece. My husband and I met Francoise today. Aunt Charlotte is quite fond of her. I’d like to know more about her.”
“Francoise is a fine woman. Religious. Trustworthy. Caring.”
“She told us she lives in a room in Brooklyn.”
“Yes, in one of our Chapter houses. It’s temporary. She was working as a live-in nanny for a family with a young son. They moved to California. Francoise didn’t want to go. She works a few hours a week in my church.”
“Aunt Charlotte can’t manage by herself anymore. I want to talk to her about hiring Francoise.”
“Francoise will be grateful for the work. Thank you, Diane.”
***
The following day, Diane calls Aunt Charlotte to discuss hiring Francoise.
“I’d love her help,” Aunt Charlotte says. “She’s so much fun.”
“I’m delighted you’re agreeable. I’ll discuss it with her.”
***
One Sunday morning, Aunt Charlotte calls. “Roger, put me on speaker. I want to talk to both of you.”
“We’re here, Aunt Charlotte,” Diane says.
“It’s been two weeks since Francoise’s been helping me. I really enjoy her. Dorothy’s bedroom is vacant. I’d like to have Francoise move in. What do you think?”
“Love it,” Diane says. “I’ll feel so relieved knowing there’s someone in the apartment with you.”
***
It’s been six months since Francoise and Aunt Charlotte have lived together, and Diane says Aunt Charlotte is happier than she’s been in a long time. Her health is good, and she has had no falls. Aunt Charlotte tells us that Francoise reminds her every morning to put on her pendant.
“It’s wonderful how everything worked out,” Diane says one day during breakfast.
“So many elderly people can’t get adequate home care, and families are forced to place loved ones with dementia into nursing homes. I wondered for so long what to do and I’ve managed to avoid that unfortunate option for now.”
“Don’t get too excited,” I say. “When Aunt Charlotte gets worse, hopefully Francoise will know how to manage her and won’t leave.”
“Francoise is compassionate and pious,” Diane says. “I think she’ll do everything she can.”
“Let’s see how long this will last.”
“Are you done?” Diane asks.“I know Aunt Charlotte has issues. But you know what? We’ve got bigger ones.”
Carol Pierce was born and raised in New York City. She holds a B.A. in English, an M.S.Ed.in Special Education, and a Professional Certificate in Supervision and Administration from Hunter College. She was a teacher and Assistant Principal with the NYC Department of Education for more than 20 years. Carol enjoys the power of words and writing short stories that transport readers to other worlds. Her stories have been published online by twosisterswriting.com. In addition to writing, Carol enjoys swimming and researching her Hungarian roots.