PEYTON
After a full crankof the handle, the black-and-white ball rolls down the shoot. I pick it up, twirl it in my fingers, then peer up at the crowd of hopeful eyes.
“B4.”
Whack, whack, whack.The slap of bingo markers fills the room, followed with the occasional groan or yes with a fist pump.
Ms. Jenkins looks up from her ten-card spread, gives me a thumbs-up and a wink. The woman to her left, Ms. Roberts, darts narrowed eyes to me, then Ms. Jenkins. They exchange words as I crank the handle for the next ball to drop. Ms. Jenkins waves a hand at her, then shakes her head.
“G53,” I call the next number, then crank the handle again as the bingo markers create music. “I25.”
“Bingo!” Mr. Calhoun croaks from three tables back. He lifts his winning card and waves it above his head. One of the nurses takes the card from him and brings it to me to verify his win. Once I confirm Mr. Calhoun’s win, several people ball up their cards and grumble.
Metal chair legs screech against the linoleum in stilted beats as several players inch back and rise from their seats. Ms. Jenkins lets her reading glasses hang around her neck as she stuffs her lucky bingo markers in the seat of her walker. She wheels to the front table where I clean up the bingo cage and master board.
“Sticking around for lunch?” She tugs her pink cardigan closer to her midline.
“Wouldn’t miss it. I’ll meet you there.”
I stare after Ms. Jenkins as she leaves the game room and notice her gait stutters more. Since I started at Gulfside, I have never not noticed her slow pace. But the hobble is new. Seeing her wear herself out to leave the room pinches my heart.
Once I have the game components boxed and stored, I walk over to one of the nurses still in the room.
“Hey, Jim.”
“How are you, Peyton?”
I give him a weak smile. “Same old, same old.” I shrug. “Hey, is Ms. Jenkins okay? She seems more frail today.”
His eyes divert to the door then back to me, lips slightly downturned. The pinch from a moment ago intensifies and I press my palm heel to my chest.
“Last night, she pressed her panic button. When the nurse got to her room, they found her on the floor. She says it was a slip when she walked from the bathroom to her bed. But the nurse thinks she may have fallen out of the bed.”
A hand slaps over my mouth. “Oh no!”
“Although she argued, they took her to X-ray. No broken bones. Just bruises—on her hip, arm, and ego.”
Ms. Jenkins is a sweetheart. Willing to help anyone in need. Talk your ear off for hours and listen with equal skill. Teach you how to crochet or knit as if she invented the craft. Most importantly, she gives the best hugs. So full of warmth that has nothing to do with temperature. She may be up there in age, but she still has so much love to give.
“Just glad she is okay.”
Not sure what I would do or how I would feel if I lost Ms. Jenkins. Seeing her smile and being wrapped in her arms each week provides me with so much love and happiness. A solace I once shared with my grandmother, Isabel. A peacefulness that shattered three years ago when she passed away.
I didn’t start working at Gulfside to replace what I lost with my grandmother. But being here with Ms. Jenkins each week helps sew the fissures of my heart. The fault lines that opened when Nana passed. The ones that barely started to heal from losing Dad seven years earlier.
I shoot Aunt Leanne a quick text and tell her I’m eating at Gulfside today. She responds and says we will catch up next week.
Down the corridor from the game room, I hook a left and enter the dining hall. The beige painted walls hold several pictures from over the years. Of staff and residents. Special events and holidays and birthdays. Alongside the photographs are paintings and drawings from current and past residents. Plus, framed posters with beautiful scenery and positive sentiments. Long wooden tables are spread throughout the room, with four chairs on the long sides and one on each end. Each table decorated with a centerpiece for the season. Residents can walk to the counter and get food, cafeteria style. Or they can sit at the tables and have the staff bring food to them.
The setup is pleasant and welcoming and provides a level of independence and community.
At eleven fifteen, the lunch crowd has already packed the room. I shuffle to the end of the line and grab a plastic tray. After I select a sandwich, fruit and water, I pay and find Ms. Jenkins at her usual table.
We catch up for a bit while she enjoys her tomato soup and grilled cheese, and I have my turkey sandwich. She tells me how upset Ms. Roberts was during bingo. Swearing I only called numbers on Ms. Jenkins’s cards. Which is laughable.
As lunch fills our bellies, I contemplate how to ask about her fall. Last thing I want to do is upset or embarrass her. But I need to know if she really is okay. Since the day we met, Ms. Jenkins has been nothing but forthcoming and honest with me. It is one of the reasons I love her so much. No beating around the bush.
“So…” She sets her spoon down and grants me her attention. “Jim tells me you had a fall.”
Anyone who says eighty-seven-year-old women can’t roll their eyes or show indignation needs to meet Ms. Jenkins. Her skills could trample teenagers, which is quite telling.
“He needs to mind his tongue.”
I rest a hand on hers. “He only told me because I noticed your limp and I asked about it.”
Her other hand pats, then covers mine with a layer of reassurance. “Don’t you worry about me. A little fall won’t keep me down.”
Therein lies the problem. I do worry. If the last decade of my life has taught me anything, it is that time with people you love should never be taken for granted. Losing too many loved ones matured me in many ways. It also inhibited me in others.
People I love? I love them fiercely and let them know often. And I have learned to let smaller fights go when it comes to loved ones.
But losing them also hardened my heart. Made letting new people in that much harder. I loved hard in a few committed relationships, but life just kept throwing me one curveball after another. So, I threw in the towel. My heart couldn’t take the endless cycle of pain anymore.
Now, I don’t allow myself to travel down the road to love again. Not saying it will never happen. But when heartache knocks on your door over and over again, you find every possible way to not let it in. Turning my heart to ice has been the only method to work.
I appease Ms. Jenkins, but only because she is stubborn and will shut me down if I keep talking about it. “Alright. But if I hear this happens again, you’re not allowed to argue about me caring.”
“It won’t, so the point is moot.”
That’s it. End of conversation. When Ms. Jenkins puts her foot down, it is best to just bite your tongue and let it go. Although, I plan to check in with the nurses more frequently and have them reach out if something else happens. I may only work here more as mental support, but I adore Ms. Jenkins—and several other residents at Gulfside. They’re like a second family.
We finish our lunch in relative silence. After I take our trays to the bin, I help Ms. Jenkins to her feet and we wander from the dining hall, through the community room and exit the double doors that lead outside. I walk at her pace and never give her the impression she needs to hurry.