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Mrs. Baker nods. “I thought so.”
“My father is a handyman, and my mother was a librarian,” I volunteer, trying to impress upon Mrs. Baker that my family is just as worthy of respect as the Hopes and their ilk.
“Interesting,” Mrs. Baker says, in a way that makes it clear she finds it anything but. “Do you have much experience as a caregiver?”
“Yes.” I tense, unsure how much she already knows. “What did Mr. Gurlain tell you?”
“Very little. I wish I could say you came highly recommended, but that would be a lie. I was told next to nothing about you.”
I take a deep breath. This could be a good thing. Then again, maybe not. Because it means I’ll have to explain everything myself if asked.
Please don’t ask, I think.
“I’ve been with Gurlain Home Health Aides for twelve years,” I say.
“That’s quite a long time.” Mrs. Baker holds my gaze, her face unreadable. “I assume you learned a lot in those twelve years.”
“I did, yes.”
I start listing all the things I know how to do, ranging from the pedestrian—light cooking, light cleaning, changing sheets with a person still in the bed—to the professional. Giving sponge baths and inserting catheters, drawing blood and injecting insulin, checking shoulder blades and buttocks for bedsores.
“Why, you’re practically a nurse,” Mrs. Baker interrupts when I’ve droned on too long. “Do you have much experience caring for stroke victims?”
“Some,” I say, thinking of Mrs. Plankers and how I cared for her less than two months before her poor husband ran out of money to pay for the agency’s services. Mrs. Plankers was moved to a state-funded nursing home, and I was assigned to another patient.
“Miss Hope’s condition might require more attention than you’re accustomed to,” Mrs. Baker says. “She’s been plagued by bad health most of her life. A bout of polio in her twenties weakened her legs so much that she’s been unable to walk since. Over the past twenty years, she’s suffered a series of strokes. They left her unable to speak and the right side of her body paralyzed. She can move her head and neck, but it’s sometimes difficult for her to control them. All she has, really, is limited use of her left arm.”
I flex my own left arm, unable to imagine only having control of that single, small part of my body. At least now I know why Lenora never left Hope’s End. She couldn’t.
“Is that why the previous nurse left?”
“Mary?” Mrs. Baker says, seemingly flustered. The first genuine emotion I’ve seen from her. “No, she was quite good at her job. She’d been with us for more than a year. Miss Hope adored her.”
“Then why did she leave so suddenly?”
“I wish I knew. She didn’t tell anyone why she was leaving, where she was going, or even that she was leaving at all. She simply left. In the middle of the night, no less. Poor Miss Hope was left unattended all night, during which time something terrible could have occurred. As you well know, considering what happened to the last person in your care.”
My breath hitches in my chest.
She knows.
Of course she does.
Squirming beneath Mrs. Baker’s withering gaze, all I’m able to say is, “I can explain.”
“Please do.”
I break eye contact, ashamed. I feel exposed. So completely naked that I start to smooth my skirt over my legs, trying to cover as much of myself as the fabric will allow.
“I had a—” My voice breaks, even though I’ve told this story a dozen times to just as many skeptical people. Cops. State workers. Mr. Gurlain. “I had a patient. She was sick. Stomach cancer. By the time she found out, it was far too late. It had spread... everywhere. Surgery wasn’t possible. Chemo only went so far. There was nothing to do but keep her comfortable and wait until the end arrived. But the pain, well, it was excruciating.”
I continue staring at my lap, at my hands, at the way they keep smoothing over my skirt. My words, though, aren’t as cautious. They get faster, freer—something that never happened in that gray box of aninterrogation room at the police station. I chalk it up to being inside Hope’s End. This place is familiar with death.
“Her doctor gave her a prescription for fentanyl,” I say. “To be taken only sporadically and only when necessary. One night, it was necessary. I’d never seen someone hurt so much. That kind of pain? It’s not fleeting. It lingers. It consumes. And when I looked into her eyes, I saw sheer agony. So I gave her a single dose of fentanyl and monitored the pain. It seemed to help, so I went to bed.”
I pause, just like every time I reach this point in the story. I always need a moment before diving into the details of my failure.
“I woke up earlier than normal the next morning,” I say, remembering the dark gray sky outside my window, still streaked with remnants of night. The gloom had felt like a bad omen. One look at it and I knew something was wrong. “I went to check on the patient and found her to be nonresponsive. Immediately, I called 911, which is standard protocol.”