Page 5

It takes me less than an hour to gather my belongings. I learned early on that a caregiver should pack light. A medical bag, a suitcase, and a box. There’s no need for more than that.
The medical bag is filled with the tools of my trade. Thermometer, blood pressure cuff, stethoscope. My parents gave me the black leather tote when I was first hired by Mr. Gurlain. Twelve years later, I’m still using it, even though the zipper sticks and the leather is cracked at the corners.
The suitcase is filled with a toiletry bag and my clothes. Bland, inoffensive slacks and cardigans ten years out of date. I’ve long ago given up trying to be stylish. Comfort and thrift matter more.
The box is filled with books. Paperbacks, mostly. They once belonged to my mother and bear the loving wear and tear of a voracious reader.
“You’re never alone when there’s a book nearby,” she used to say. “Never ever.”
While I appreciate the sentiment, I also know it’s a lie. For six months, I’ve been surrounded by books, and I’ve never felt more alone.
All packed, I peek into the hallway to make sure there’s a clear path to the back door off the kitchen. My father came home for lunch, which he sometimes does when a job site is nearby. He’s now in theliving room, watching TV and eating a sandwich while sunk deep into his La-Z-Boy.
In the past six months, the two of us have become experts at avoidance. Full weeks went by in which we never saw each other. I’ve mostly kept to my room, venturing to the kitchen only when I was certain my father was at work, asleep, or out with the girlfriend I’m not supposed to know about. We haven’t been introduced. I’m only aware of her existence because I heard them talking in the living room last week, surprised by the sound of another woman’s voice in the house. The next night, my father snuck out like a schoolboy, either too afraid to admit he’s started dating again or too ashamed to risk my bumping into his new lady friend.
Now it’s me sneaking out, moving on tiptoes as I make two trips to my car, one for the suitcase and medical bag, one for the box of books. On the second trip, I find Kenny leaning against my Ford Escort. Clearly, he saw me with the suitcase and came out of the house next door to investigate. Staring at the box in my hands, he says, “You moving out?”
“For now, yeah,” I say. “Maybe for good. I got a new assignment.”
“I thought you were fired.”
“Suspended. It just ended.”
“Oh.” Kenny frowns. Rare for him. Normally he only sports a horny, hungry look. “Quickie before you go?”
Nowthat’sthe Kenny I’ve gotten used to seeing since we started sleeping together in May. Like me, he’s currently out of work and living with his parents. Unlike me, Kenny is only twenty. He’s my dirty little secret. Or, more likely, I’m his.
It started one afternoon when we were both lazing in our connecting yards at the same time, me with a Sidney Sheldon paperback, Kenny with a joint. We made eye contact across the lawn a few times before he said, “Not working today?”
“Nope,” I replied. “You?”
“Nope.”
Then, because I was bored and lonely, I said, “Want a beer?”
Kenny said sure. Which led to drinking. Which led to small talk. Which led to making out on the living room couch.
“You want to fuck or something?” Kenny eventually said.
A month into my suspension and full of self-pity, I sized him up. He wasn’t bad-looking, despite the mustache that drooped like a dead caterpillar under his nose. The rest of him was much better. Especially his arms, which were wiry, strong, and tanned. I could do—and have done—much worse.
“Sure,” I said with a shrug. “Why not?”
When it was over, I vowed never to do it again. I was eleven when Kenny was born, for God’s sake. I remember his parents bringing him home from the hospital, my mother cooing at him, my father slipping an envelope of cash into his dad’s sweaty palm. But when Kenny showed up at the back door two days later, looking like a stray dog seeking scraps, I let him in and guided him to my bedroom.
That’s how it’s been once, twice, sometimes three times a week. I know the score. This isn’t romance. Half the time we don’t even talk. And even though I feel guilty about it, I also know I needed something besides reading to get through the long, lonely days.
“My dad’s inside,” I tell Kenny. “And my new patient is expecting me.”
I don’t tell him just who that new patient is. I’m afraid of what he’ll think of me if I do.
“Sure, I get it,” Kenny says, doing little to mask his disappointment. “See you around, I guess.”
I watch him walk the short distance back to his house. When he goes inside without a backward glance, a pang hits my heart. Not sadness, exactly, but something mighty close. It might have only been sex, and it might have only been Kenny, but at least it was something and he was someone.
Now there’s nothing and no one.
I place the box and suitcase into the trunk before making one lasttrip into the house. In the living room, I find my father watching the noon news because that’s what my mother used to do. It’s a habit, and for Pat McDeere, old habits die hard. On the TV is a clip of President Reagan giving a speech about the economy while Just Say No Nancy stands primly beside him. My father, who hates all politicians regardless of party, lets out a derisive snort.