Endless Chain. Emilie RichardsЧитать онлайн книгу.
visitors day before yesterday. People from her church?”
“Nobody today. I don’t think she has any family. At least no one she’s close to. But the church people come regularly.”
“I’m working at her church now, too,” Elisa said. “They showed me a quilt they’re making for her. Maybe they already gave it to her?”
“The one with the leaves? It’s really something. The ladies signed their names on the back. It’s a good way to help her stay in touch with her memories. If you get the chance and she’s up, you could ask her about it.”
“I’ll do that.” Elisa finished her notes, then said goodbye to Kathy, who couldn’t get out quickly enough. The aide liked her job, but by shift’s end she was always ready to head home.
Kathy had done rounds as her shift came to a close, but as she always did, Elisa went from room to room checking on the residents and making sure they were asleep, or at least contented. The unit was a transitional one. None of the residents here suffered from serious dementia, but none fit into the assisted living wing, either. They needed a secure unit and regular supervision. Some were returning from hospital stays and needed daily nursing care. Sadly, some were headed toward the Alzheimer’s unit, where the care was more specialized and controlled. For now, though, they were able to live with less care and fewer restrictions.
One resident was awake and insisted on a shower. Elisa helped her in and out, and laid out a fresh nightgown. Another couldn’t find a book. Elisa found it and helped her get comfortable in bed, making a mental note to come back in a little while to put the book away and turn out the light.
She was not surprised to find so many residents awake. “Sundowning” was a common enough occurrence here and nearly universal on the Alzheimer’s unit. The internal clock of many of the residents was turned around, and they preferred to sleep during the day and be active at night. Although the staff tried hard to readjust the residents’ sense of time, they were often not successful.
Halfway down the hall, she peeked into Martha Wisner’s room, but the old woman was fast asleep and everything was in order. She passed on.
Hours later, when she returned to do Martha’s vitals, she found her sitting up, staring out the window into the darkness.
Martha was a short woman, with a thick head of permed white hair, and a round face with smooth pink cheeks and furrowed brow. She was dressed in a long cotton gown, which fell straight from her shoulders and outlined neither breasts nor hips.
“Martha? You’re up awfully early,” Elisa told her. “It’s not even five a.m.”
“Is it time for dinner?”
Elisa had sometimes awakened from a nap unsure where she had fallen asleep or what time of day it was. She imagined this was the way many of the residents on this unit felt, only for them, a little light through a windowpane, a glance at the clock, didn’t solve the mystery. She could relate to the confusion and empathize.
“It’s not quite time for breakfast,” Elisa told her. “The sun will be up very soon though. It’s early morning.”
“Didn’t I just have lunch?”
“No. You had dinner about twelve hours ago. That’s why you’re hungry.”
“I want to eat now.”
Although it was best to keep the residents on schedule for meals, Elisa was also allowed to bend the rules. She was sure Martha would not go back to sleep.
“I’ll bring you cereal. Then you can eat a hot breakfast with the others later.” There was a small dining area where the residents could eat their meals together if they chose. Some enjoyed the company.
“And juice?”
“And juice. I’ll be right back.”
Elisa returned a few minutes later with a tray. She wondered if Martha would remember asking for it and was pleased to find that she did. She settled the old woman in a chair and set the tray on a table in front of her.
“Let me check your vitals first,” she told her. She used the wrist meter that measured temperature, blood pressure, pulse and respiration, and recorded the data. Then she took the cover off the tray.
“Orange juice. Good. And I like this cereal.” Martha looked pleased.
Elisa watched her pour milk from the small carton and mix it into her Special K. “How do you feel? Did you sleep well?”
“Are you new?”
“No. But I’m not here as often as some of the others. I’m Elisa Martinez.”
Martha paused, as if searching her memory. Then she shook her head. “I haven’t met you before.”
Martha’s lack of recognition wasn’t a good sign. She and Martha had spoken many times. “Well, I’ll be working at the Shenandoah Community Church when I’m not working here. I’ve just been hired to be the new sexton. You remember the church?”
Martha frowned. For a moment Elisa was afraid she had forgotten that, too; then Martha nodded her head. “Of course, and do you think I can’t remember my own name?”
Elisa smiled. “People there care very much about you.”
“They gave me something.” Martha added new furrows to her brow. “Just lately.” The furrows smoothed. “A quilt. In the dresser over there. Will you get it for me?”
Elisa found the quilt folded neatly in the bottom drawer. She shook it out and took it back to Martha. “It’s lovely. Look at the colors.” She turned it over. “And look, here are the names of the women who made it for you.” She read them out loud, coming to Helen Henry at the end. “Helen Henry. I’m going to be living with her for a while. Her quilts are beautiful.”
“I never cared for doing hand work. My mother despaired of me. But I could cook. How I loved to cook.”
Elisa tucked the quilt over Martha’s lap. “This will keep you warm.”
Martha looked up at her. “Maybe we did meet before. Or maybe you just look like somebody....”
Elisa touched her hair. “You eat your breakfast, Miss Wisner. I’ll be back in a little while to get the tray. Can I get you anything else?”
“People here are nice.” Martha went back to eating.
Elisa was glad the woman was happy.
Chapter Eight
SAM WAITED UNTIL the day after Newt Rafferty’s funeral for his visit to George Jenkins. More than a week had passed since he stood by Newt’s bedside with the Rafferty family and watched his friend pass peacefully away. The funeral had been attended by more than a hundred people, and more than a dozen of them participated in the service.
Unless he turned his life around, George’s funeral would be a different occasion entirely.
The late August sun was high overhead when Sam pulled into the parking lot of Jenkins Landscaping. Enough time had passed since the fiesta that Sam hoped George would be well into contrition. He wasn’t expecting it, though.
At his best, George was a gadfly who saw the world’s myriad faults and made sure they were fixed. George had orchestrated a capital fund drive to replace the church roof. George made sure the trees and shrubs were pruned and fertilized, and the grass cut properly.
Unfortunately, at his worst George was a bully who wanted complete control over the way problems were solved. No one on the board of deacons had been able to convince him that the cheaper brand of shingles he’d insisted on was inferior. A year into Sam’s ministry, the roof began to leak again. And even though the grounds were tidy and attractive now, Sam was still concerned George was exploiting the men who did the work.
So Sam didn’t expect today’s visit to go well.