It’s Always Been You

Chapter 1

Evie

Being an in-home caregiver is hard on the body.

And the heart.

Because if I’m not transferring a widow into her bed for another lonely night, I’m holding someone’s hand while they express how much they miss their grandchildren. Or how they wish they had family members living nearby to enjoy the holidays with. It darn near breaks my heart every single time.

“I’m so sorry, Evie,” Bert Griswold says while I fluff his freshly laundered pillows and give them blunt little karate chops.

I stand back to survey my handiwork. Fresh sheets? Check. Fluffed down feather pillows? Check. A crisp, tumble-dried reusable bed pad to absorb any potential future accidents? Check.

Now that’s a bed I wouldn’t mind falling into.

“Are you sure this wasn’t too much to ask?” he continues. “I know you’re not on the clock. But no one was picking up my calls at the office . . .”

“Of course it wasn’t.”

My dad’s home care agency has been painfully short-staffed over the last several months.

The only reason I’m not working the Thanksgiving holiday is because Grandma is hosting dinner, and she couldn’t prepare an entire Thanksgiving meal on her own—despite what she might think.

Even with my help, she was winded by the time we were finished.

Not that she’d allow me to miss dinner, either. She’s a stickler about family time—despite how I feel about said family. There was no getting around tonight.

Patting Bert’s hand, I make a mental note to clip his nails the next time I’m here.

He could probably use a bath, too, but he hates accepting that kind of help.

Says it feels undignified to have a twenty-something bathe him—a retired farmer and Veteran.

Admittedly, his reluctance to accept grooming help doesn’t bother me one bit.

I prefer it over the wandering eyes and hands of the perverted geezers who enjoy accepting help in that department a little too much . . .

“You know you can call me at any time of the day or night,” I remind him. “Rain or shine. Right?”

Bert gazes up at me from the wheelchair next to his bed.

He looks so vulnerable despite his great size.

Being as heavy set as he is, he spends the majority of his time in that bed.

That’s another reason I’m willing to drop what I’m doing to come to his aid—whether I’m “on the clock” or not.

In his condition, it would take him a lifetime to change his soiled bedsheets on his own.

He scratches the back of his neck. “But it’s Thanksgiving Day.”

My chin juts forward as I give him a look that says, And?

The needs of the elderly and disabled—or “differently abled” as I prefer to say—don’t become obsolete over the holidays.

Nor should healthcare professionals act like they do.

But sadly, many are all too willing to turn off their phones and make themselves scarce in the name of respite, and it’s nothing short of heartless.

Caregiving is more than just a job to me.

It’s a way of life. For some reason, I can’t seem to turn off my desire to help others despite my very real and pressing need for rest. But my clients are like family to me.

In fact, I’m closer to some of my clients than I am to many of my real family members.

I could be dog-tired or on my deathbed, but if Bert called me in need, I would be on his doorstep in a heartbeat.

Just like I was today.

He glances out the window. “Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you on your day off. You should be at home with your family. But I like to know who’s coming into my home, and I knew you’d answer my call.”

My heart throbs with compassion . . . and a little bit of dread, if I’m honest. His concern about who is going in and out of his home to provide his care is perfectly valid; the only problem is that he tends to favor me, and so do the schedulers at the agency.

My schedule is filled to the brim seven days a week.

“How many times have we been over this, Bert?” I ask as I lock his wheelchair.

“You are my family.” Pulling back, I brace myself to bear his full weight.

Sighing, he grabs on to me. I fight the urge to show any sign of weakness for his sake.

Instead, I focus on maintaining a strong core while he hoists himself up and carefully lowers onto the edge of the bed.

As a caregiver, I frequent the gym to meet the physical demands of the job, but man. No amount of deadlifts can prepare you for supporting someone as big as Bert.

Once he’s safely on the bed, I heave his legs up onto the mattress, wincing against the dull ache in my lower back. He turns the television on while I help him get comfortable. When I’m done adjusting his pillows and blankets, I follow his zoned-out line of vision, curious about his sudden silence.

He’s gazing at a photo of his late wife.

My heart squeezes with grief. It’s Thanksgiving Day, and instead of eating turkey at a table filled with his loved ones, he’s all alone in this big, empty house.

“Have you eaten today?” I wonder, rubbing my lower back absentmindedly. The dull ache I’m accustomed to has snowballed into a throbbing pain.

He shrugs. “Just one of those breakfast sandwiches you made me last week. It was the last one.”

That nagging feeling that I’m not doing enough makes my chest feel heavy and hollow at the same time. I grab his water tumbler from his bedside table. “Let me get you something.”

Bert’s kitchen is out of control. I knew it might be, based on the smell that assaulted my nose when I walked into his house earlier, but I wasn’t prepared for this state of neglect.

Normally, I visit Bert a few times a week to do his laundry and some light housekeeping tasks.

But over the last couple of weeks, we’ve had an influx of new clients and haven’t had the staff to support the growth.

Unfortunately, that means clients who have a perceived lesser need get put on the back burner while we play catch up.

So, I haven’t been here in a while, and it .

. . shows. The trash is overflowing. There are dirty dishes rotting in a pool of stagnant, stinky dishwater in the sink.

My shoe catches on something sticky when I walk from the sink to the fridge to grab some snacks.

I wouldn’t be surprised if that scuttling noise underneath the grease-soaked pizza box over in the corner was a Jack Russel-sized cockroach.

Fortunately, his fridge isn’t a total disaster. It’s sparse, but relatively clean. I grab a tapioca pudding cup and a handful of cheese sticks before returning to Bert, feeling worse than before. I mean, imagine eating tapioca pudding and cheese sticks for Thanksgiving dinner. Alone.

Suddenly, I couldn’t feel more guilty about dreading dinner with my family.

I can tell he’s anticipating I might say something about the kitchen, but there’s no need to point out the obvious. “How about I come by with some leftovers after dinner?” I offer lightheartedly, hoping he won’t be stubborn.

“You don’t have to do that,” he insists.

But it’s too late. I’ve already seen the glimmer of hope on his face.

“Are you suuure?” I drawl, propping my hands on my hips. “You don’t want some of Grandma’s famous collard greens and beans or mashed potatoes and gravy?”

He grins boyishly, and it warms my heart. “Well . . . if you insist.”

“I do.” I return his smile and scan my surroundings one final time. “Got everything you need? Water? Remote? Phone?”

“Everything I need and then some, Evie. Thank you again.”

Nodding, I pull on my parka and zip it all the way up before sliding my mittens on.

It’s unseasonably cold for Thanksgiving Day—well below freezing.

Walking over to the bay window, I pull the lace curtain aside and glance up at the ominous-looking, bruise-colored sky. My smile widens despite everything.

Snow.

“You be careful out there,” Bert warns. “The forecast calls for heavy snow. We’re supposed to get at least half a foot before tomorrow morning.”

Digging my keys from my pocket, I nod. “Don’t you worry about me.”

“Good luck,” he says then, eyeing me knowingly. He’s privy to my family situation. Truthfully, I’ve confided in him more than what’s probably appropriate. “With dinner, I mean.”

“Thanks, Bert.”

“Can I pray for you before you leave?” His voice is soft and concerned, and it makes me freeze like someone has dumped cold water all over me.

I hesitate for half a second. Bert is always asking if he can pray for me and over me, and I’ve always declined out of principle.

But maybe I shouldn’t this time. I’ll probably need all the prayer or luck or good vibes or whatever else I can get if I want to survive this evening and come out emotionally unscathed.

Still, I shake my head. “No, thanks. But I appreciate the offer.”

He looks uncertain. “Well, I’ll still be praying all goes well.”

Swallowing, I nod. “Thank you.”

And with that, I slip out into the night, breathing in the icy air eagerly—as if, somehow, it holds the potential to numb the pain. The dry chill flash freezes the mucus lingering in my nostrils, giving me a mild brain freeze.

Good enough.

I lift my face to the dark, foreboding sky. If I was superstitious or religious, the forecast might feel like an omen for what’s to come. But I’m not.

I force another smile. I smell snow.