knew. Kurt said he liked her, although he didn't go out of his way to spend much time in her company; her father made him uncomfortable, and he wouldn't come to the nursing home at all.
It was not that she disliked her mother; even at the worst of her adolescent rebellion, which actually had bee n rather mild now that she looked back on it, the strongest reaction she'd had against her was irritation. But 'sweet' was not an adjective she'd have used. 'Polite.' maybe. 'Guarded.' She just smiled, which was what her mother would have done under these circumstances.
'And your dad's so cute. Easy to take care of. He's never mean like some of the others.'
Trying for neutrality, Rebecca nodded. 'I'm glad to hear that.'
'It must be hard, though,' Abby said again with an awkward persistence. 'I mean, seeing him like this.'
'Yes,' Rebecca answered minimally, hoping to end this line of conversation. Abby's clumsy though kind commiserations were forcing her to think again about the peculiar experience of her father's senility as an invitation. Abby seemed about to say something else about him, and to forestall her Rebecca inquired, 'How are your girls? I haven't seen them lately.'
Abby sighed. 'They've all had the flu. I just hope I don't get it.'
Abby had just left her husband again. Now she was supporting three little girls on minimum wage. Sometimes she was late for work because she missed the bus or one of the kids was sick or the toilet backed up and flooded the apartment or she had another migraine. Sometimes she missed work altogether. There was no sick leave, so every time she missed work she missed wages, which meant there were more bills she couldn't pay plumber, doctor, daycare and then her migraines and her missed days became more frequent.
Rebecca liked knowing about the lives of the staff, too. Craved knowing about them; hungered for detail. Their lives all seemed so much more complex than hers, richer.
When any of them asked about her life , which wasn't often , she had not much to tell them. She lived with Kurt. She was an only child. She had a master's degree in social work and a nursing-home administrator's license. She'd worked in long-term care for several years, but this was her first facility as administrator. They knew her parents; her father had probable early-stage Alzheimer's, and everybody liked her mother.
She took a forkful of the fluorescent orange macaroni and cheese as Abby sighed again and rubbed her temples. 'Boy, am I tired.'
'Not much sleep, huh?'
'No, and we've been so busy today. Everybody's always wanting something.'
'What you've got to do,' Florence instructed, 'is train them right from the beginning. Otherwise you won't last the shift.'
'Train them?' Abby's tone echoed Rebecca's own alarm.
'You do things when you're ready, not when they're ready. Otherwise you'll spend all your time running around answering lights, and you'll never get anything done.'
'It's your job to answer lights,' Rebecca objected, not as diplomatically as she probably should have. Florence shrugged and fell silent.
'Alex can't turn on his light.' Something in Abby's tone made Rebecca glance at her. Her long brown hair, parted in the middle and hanging straight, always looked lank and a little sticky; it didn't invite touch, but it did hide most of her face when she bent her head in this characteristic way.
Maxine snorted. 'Don't waste your time feeling sorry for ol' Alex. He knows exactly what he wants and he gets it.'
The Director of Nursing appeared in the doorway. 'Rebecca, I need to talk to you.'
There was anger in the older woman's face and in the way she held herself, and Rebecca heard Maxine say under her breath, 'Uh-oh, you're in trouble.'
Rebecca laid her fork down with a dull click. 'Sure, Diane. Let's go into my office.'
'I think the kids should hear this, too.'
Involuntarily Rebecca glanced at Florence,
It was not that she disliked her mother; even at the worst of her adolescent rebellion, which actually had bee n rather mild now that she looked back on it, the strongest reaction she'd had against her was irritation. But 'sweet' was not an adjective she'd have used. 'Polite.' maybe. 'Guarded.' She just smiled, which was what her mother would have done under these circumstances.
'And your dad's so cute. Easy to take care of. He's never mean like some of the others.'
Trying for neutrality, Rebecca nodded. 'I'm glad to hear that.'
'It must be hard, though,' Abby said again with an awkward persistence. 'I mean, seeing him like this.'
'Yes,' Rebecca answered minimally, hoping to end this line of conversation. Abby's clumsy though kind commiserations were forcing her to think again about the peculiar experience of her father's senility as an invitation. Abby seemed about to say something else about him, and to forestall her Rebecca inquired, 'How are your girls? I haven't seen them lately.'
Abby sighed. 'They've all had the flu. I just hope I don't get it.'
Abby had just left her husband again. Now she was supporting three little girls on minimum wage. Sometimes she was late for work because she missed the bus or one of the kids was sick or the toilet backed up and flooded the apartment or she had another migraine. Sometimes she missed work altogether. There was no sick leave, so every time she missed work she missed wages, which meant there were more bills she couldn't pay plumber, doctor, daycare and then her migraines and her missed days became more frequent.
Rebecca liked knowing about the lives of the staff, too. Craved knowing about them; hungered for detail. Their lives all seemed so much more complex than hers, richer.
When any of them asked about her life , which wasn't often , she had not much to tell them. She lived with Kurt. She was an only child. She had a master's degree in social work and a nursing-home administrator's license. She'd worked in long-term care for several years, but this was her first facility as administrator. They knew her parents; her father had probable early-stage Alzheimer's, and everybody liked her mother.
She took a forkful of the fluorescent orange macaroni and cheese as Abby sighed again and rubbed her temples. 'Boy, am I tired.'
'Not much sleep, huh?'
'No, and we've been so busy today. Everybody's always wanting something.'
'What you've got to do,' Florence instructed, 'is train them right from the beginning. Otherwise you won't last the shift.'
'Train them?' Abby's tone echoed Rebecca's own alarm.
'You do things when you're ready, not when they're ready. Otherwise you'll spend all your time running around answering lights, and you'll never get anything done.'
'It's your job to answer lights,' Rebecca objected, not as diplomatically as she probably should have. Florence shrugged and fell silent.
'Alex can't turn on his light.' Something in Abby's tone made Rebecca glance at her. Her long brown hair, parted in the middle and hanging straight, always looked lank and a little sticky; it didn't invite touch, but it did hide most of her face when she bent her head in this characteristic way.
Maxine snorted. 'Don't waste your time feeling sorry for ol' Alex. He knows exactly what he wants and he gets it.'
The Director of Nursing appeared in the doorway. 'Rebecca, I need to talk to you.'
There was anger in the older woman's face and in the way she held herself, and Rebecca heard Maxine say under her breath, 'Uh-oh, you're in trouble.'
Rebecca laid her fork down with a dull click. 'Sure, Diane. Let's go into my office.'
'I think the kids should hear this, too.'
Involuntarily Rebecca glanced at Florence,
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