Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Noa
“ M rs. Stalinski?” I call out.
After a few moments of answering silence, I push open the front door of her small Victorian home, pocketing my keys as I step in.
She knows to call me if she becomes uncomfortable at night or needs help, but she’s also stubborn, and Mrs. Stalinski would rather reach the point of piercing agony before calling for any more help than she already has.
“Hello?” I try again as I pass through the front hallway and into the kitchen at the back of the house.
The window above the sink looks over the fenceless backyard and quaint patio where Mrs. Stalinski likes to sit and enjoy a cup of coffee in the morning, hoping to glimpse the nearby family of deer.
I peer out that window, noting the untouched dishes in the drying rack that I cleaned last night.
Finding the wooden rocking chair empty, I push off the sink and walk to the base of the stairs leading to the second floor. While taking the steps two at a time, I hear a weak, “In here, dear,” coming from the main bedroom.
The second floor is in a U shape with a modest guest room to the right of the staircase followed by a second bedroom turned sewing/fitness room. At the center of the U is the main bedroom.
Propriety has me knocking lightly before bursting in, worried about what I’ll find.
My concern is unfounded when, at the sound of my movement, Mrs. Stalinski turns on her bedside lamp and stares at me limply from her side of the bed.
“What’s going on?” I ask, coming to her side and grabbing her wrist, gauging her pulse.
“A rough night, is all,” she croaks, shaking her head as if a night of excruciating pain is all in a day’s work. “You know how it is.”
“I do,” I murmur, laying my palm on her forehead for a sense of temperature before moving to my kit and retrieving a thermometer. She feels fine, but the blanched look on her skin and her bloodshot eyes tell me otherwise.
“Did you take your pain meds?” I press the button on the thermometer, then put it into her ear until it beeps a normal 98.5 degrees Fahrenheit at me.
“Like clockwork.”
I hum in thought as I pick up her bottle of opioids and double-check the dosage. “I’ll call Dr. Silver today, see if we can’t get you on some Fentanyl patches.”
“No, dear.” She’s quick to alertness before her eyelids droop once more. “You know I want to keep my faculties for as long as possible, and those things send me straight to la-la land.”
“Yes, but you don’t deserve to be in this much pain around the clock.”
Mrs. Stalinski gives me a long look. “I believe I befriended a unicorn the last time you threw one of those patches on my back.”
“Well…” I arch a brow. “Was it a nice unicorn?”
Mrs. Stalinski snorts with surprised laughter before swatting me on the arm. “Meeting one of those creatures, no matter the temperament, is always worrisome at my age.”
My smile softens. “I understand. But it’s more medicine or I stay the night.”
“Not on my watch, dear. You’re too young to be at the beck and call of a sick old woman.”
“Mrs. Stalinski, it’s my job . And one I’m happy to do. In fact, I’d much rather be here with you than anywhere else.”
“Now, that’s just pathetic,” she says kindly.
I brush off her observation with a warm, doting smile—one I know she hates.
Mrs. Stalinski narrows her eyes at me. “You’re too pretty to be holed up in this house with me all day, and you have way too much energy to be contained within these walls. And how many times have I told you to call me Judy? I’m not your high school English teacher anymore.”
“It’s a hard habit to break.”
Mrs. Stalinski considers this. “Mmm. I was pretty frightening in my day, wasn’t I?”
This time, my doting smile is genuine. “No teacher deserved more respect than you. Now, back to keeping you comfortable. I don’t mind sleeping here. Really.”
“Noa, dear, don’t tell me you have nothing to return home to. I appreciate your help, truly I do, but the guilt that rides me every time I see you cleaning up my messes …” Mrs. Stalinski’s cheeks go pink. “There’s no way this is the future you envisioned for yourself.”
“No,” I admit, and as soon as my mind flashes images of what could’ve been, I shut it off.
“But it’s the one I’ve adopted and wouldn’t change for the world.
Stop changing the subject.” I unscrew her pill bottle and shake out her next dose.
“I don’t like the thought of you in agony and unable to do anything about it.
So either we call Dr. Silver for an opioid upgrade, or you have me stay a few nights—to prove to me you don’t need any help or even just an empathetic ear,” I add when she opens her chapped lips to argue.
“There’s got to be another older, world-weary-yet-content-with-her-lot-in-life nurse who could relieve you from this fate.”
“There’s only Berta, and she’s a staunch believer in two-hour physical therapy for all her patients. Every morning.”
Mrs. Stalinski mouth drops in horror. “If it’s just the two of you doing home care, then I suppose a cute young stud is out of the question, too.”
Laughing, I say, “I’m all you have, unfortunately, but instead of an impressive six-pack, I do come with a chocolate and caffeine addiction, same as you.” I wink at her. “Why don’t you rest in bed with a good book today? I’ll bring you some coffee.”
The brief color I brought to her face vanishes. “I’ve done so much reading, I’m surprised I’m not disassociating. I was hoping to make it down the stairs with your help and enjoy the morning outside.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
With a little help, she lifts off the pillows stacked behind her head, accepting the palmful of pills and downing them with her bedside glass, which I note is still at the same water level I left it at last night.
A knot forms in my belly.
I’m snapped out of my concern when Mrs. Stalinski rests a hand on my arm. “I’m absolutely up for it. I refuse to stay in this cream puff of a room longer than necessary.”
I survey the beautifully designed space as I put her arm around my shoulders and help her stand. “It’s beautiful. Very calming.”
“Yes, calm is the word I’m thinking of as I yak up yesterday’s dinner all over the cream carpet.”
“Think of it more like putting your signature of approval on it. Isn’t that what cats do? Vomit in places they like?”
Mrs. Stalinski barks with dry laughter. “This is why I like you so much, Noa. Between you and me, I’d be bereft if you ever left.”
“I know.” I squeeze her around the waist. “Feeling’s mutual.”
We share a smile before hobbling forward with care.
Mrs. Stalinski makes it to the top of the stairs, then has to rest. The frustration in her expression of not being able to slide out of bed and head down the stairs like she used to, before being diagnosed with breast cancer metastasizing to her bones, is clear, though she tries hard to disguise it as she shifts her weight to the banister and less on me.
“We got this.” I reposition my feet so I can bear more of her. “Or I could go online this afternoon and get you one of those staircase chairs that creeeeeeaaaak you slowly and carefully all the way to the bottom?—”
“Don’t you dare.” Mrs. Stalinski nails me with a withering look. “I will do this on my own two feet if it takes all morning. And you will watch me and weep.”
“You’re on.”
She and I make it to the bottom of the stairs in under five minutes, but to Mrs. Stalinski, it feels more like an hour.
I guide her down the hall and through the kitchen, cracking jokes and insulting her the way I know keeps her energy up, until I have her in her rocking chair on the back patio with a thick plaid blanket covering her legs.
“I’ll be right back with a coffee,” I say to her.
She acknowledges me with a nod, her eyes at half-mast.
By the time I make it back outside with a steaming cup of coffee, Mrs. Stalinski is fast asleep.
Tiptoeing to her side, I leave the coffee there for her in case she wakes up wanting something for her parched throat, then creep back inside and begin the morning routine.
Some days are worse for Mrs. Stalinski than others, today being one of the bad ones.
Depending on the type of day, I have a list of things to do.
My job is as her nurse, but it’s hard not to want to do more for her, living alone.
She was my favorite teacher in high school, always there to lend an ear, even on a level outside of schoolwork, which she did with me often.
It’s not that I feel like I owe her. More like I want to give her at least an iota of comfort that she gave me when I needed it most.
A couple of hours later, as I’m tidying the kitchen after prepping lunch, Mrs. Stalinski stirs. I assist her into the house and onto the living room couch where she resumes sleeping. After being up all night, it’s not surprising she’s making up for those lost hours.
I peek in on her at odd intervals, and each time I do, I’m resolved to stay on for more nights—pay or no pay. The woman deserves a restful sleep.
The rest of the afternoon flies by, filled with putting away a grocery delivery, talking with Dr. Silver, going to the pharmacy, and making sure Mrs. Stalinski takes her medication on time.
I leave for a few hours to check in on other patients who don’t require as much hands-on assistance, just washing a bathroom basin or two.
By the time the evening rolls in, I’m wiping my forehead and searching Mrs. Stalinski’s fridge for a pitcher of sweet tea, the one thing she demands she make herself since no one else can make it to her specifications—including me.
I’m in the middle of pouring myself a hefty, thirst-quenching glass when there’s a knock on the screen door.
Tilting back, I spot my friend Carly waiting on the front porch. I pull out a second glass and pour the sweet tea into it before heading to the door with a drink in each hand.
“You’re just in time,” I say through the screen.
“Is there vodka in that?” Carly opens the door for me.