considered the healthcare profession, but after caring for my mom during her illness, I realized what rewarding work it is. It’s hard enough to be terminally ill, and it gets worse when you become unable to do things for yourself while trying to retain some dignity.
My mom hated needing help bathing. That feeling only intensified when she couldn’t get on and off the toilet on her own. I assured her that all bodies were gross and hers wasn’t any worse than anyone else’s. We’d giggle about that, and it effectively took her mind off her increasing frailty.
She used to wonder, “Why couldn’t I have gotten breast cancer? At least that comes with a pretty pink ribbon and a run for the cure. People feel bad for you when you get breast cancer. They even have funny t-shirts for it like, ‘Save the Tatas!’ and ‘Save a Life, Grope Your Wife!’ If you get lung cancer, folks think you deserve it for being a smoker.”
I’m afraid I was one of those people. I used to always tell her, “You’re gonna die from lung cancer if you keep smoking those things.” You didn’t have to be a mystic with a crystal ball to see that coming.
“Everyone’s gotta die from something,’” she’d tell me. “Why shouldn’t I do it from something that brings me pleasure?”
While I would have preferred she not shed her mortal coil at thirty-nine years old, I didn’t have a good comeback for that one.
At the supply closet I stop to grab a washtub and necessities for Mrs. Frothingham’s sponge bath. She’s been in the home for the last few years with dementia and it’s gotten to the point where most of her days are not good ones. Half the time, she barely seems aware of what’s going on around her.
She’s sitting in her chair facing the window when I walk into her room. She seems frailer by the day, her shoulders sag inside an overly large cardigan that I assume once fit a more substantial frame. “Good morning, Mrs. Frothingham, how are you today?”
She doesn’t answer, so I add, “I’m here to get you nice and clean. I understand your family is stopping by for a visit later.” Of course I mean Davis, but it’s not like I can come right out and say that.
Still nothing. I help her out of her cardigan and proceed to drape a thick towel around her shoulders to soak up any extra water while I wash her hair. I’ll give her a sponge bath and dress her in a fresh gown when I’m done.
The Frothinghams are pretty much “the” family in Creek Water. Mrs. Frothingham’s sons and their children still live here. They were the kids I used to dream of being when I was in high school. They were beautiful, popular, and virtually untouchable, like the Kennedys of rural Missouri.
When I moved to Creek Water, Amelia had already graduated from high school. Beau and his cousin Emmie were juniors, while Davis was in my class. Not only was Davis popular, but he seemed so completely unaware of his stature in our school which made him that much more appealing.
In high school, he was tall, gorgeous, and mysterious. He always wore his hair a little longer than everyone else, which gave him a haphazard devil-may-care look. He was catnip for me. I’d stare at him like he was the sunshine and I was a rain cloud. I thought if I looked at him long and hard enough he’d eventually burn off some of the haze that surrounded me.
Nowadays he’s still unaware of his power over me. He builds amazing—and super expensive—furniture in the old Creeky Button Factory. It doesn’t hurt that his family owns a ton of property down by the river. Nor does it hurt that he’s taller and even more handsome than when we were in high school.
I rarely see him around town, probably only a couple times a year. His workshop is exclusive, so only swanky customers get to go in. Needless to say, we travel in vastly different circles. But, just knowing he’s close by always gives me a bit of a rush.
I understand from the nursing staff that he visits his grandmother on Mondays, which are not my regular shift, so I rarely see him here. In fact, we’ve never spoken or even shared a glance that would indicate we’ve met before. Not that we ever hung out or anything, but how could Davis not remember me after