Love the One You Hate

He claimed innocence. “How could I possibly have written those checks? They had your grandmother’s signature on them!”

He should have been thanking his lucky stars I wasn’t pursuing legal action. It wasn’t out of empathy for him, but out of hope that the small scandal would die down swiftly. I didn’t want my grandmother to be the subject of scrutiny and drama. I didn’t want her title as the matriarch of our family tainted by accusations of senile naivety.

I thought he’d leave well enough alone, but it appears Mr. Lewis has found another way to make a quick buck off my grandmother. Murmurs started last week, a potential article exposing the secrets and scandal of our family. What secrets and scandals he claims to have? Who knows. I’m sure he felt that after driving my grandmother around for a year, he had more than enough information to run to the press with. I hope it was worth it for him.

The non-disclosure agreement he signed before starting employment with us was ironclad. I almost pity him.

Another call interrupts Rhett’s rambling diatribe about how we all need to be more careful about the people we let into our lives. It’s my lawyers; I’m sure they want me to read the statement they’ve prepared.

I have real work on the docket for today, items on my agenda that matter more than this petty bullshit. I’m angry with Michael Lewis all over again. Angry that he took advantage of my grandmother. Angry that he stole from her and, when caught, didn’t have the decency to slink off somewhere to rot. Now, he’s sucking up even more of my time, which could be better used elsewhere. I cut Rhett off, tell him I’ll see him in Newport soon, and then switch over to line two.

I don’t let my attorney get the first word in.

I make it perfectly clear that I want Michael Lewis obliterated.

No one hurts my family and gets away with it.2Maren“Hold up! Got one more for you!”

I turn to see a guy sporting a hairnet and a white apron thoroughly stained with food. He’s running toward me carrying a black garbage bag, and it’s near bursting. He’s straining under its weight.

“There’s no more ro—” I don’t get the full protest out before he lugs the bag up and over the lid of the cart I’m pushing, piling it on top of all the other trash bags. “—om.”

He gives me two thumbs up. “You got it, right?”

I don’t got it, but his question is clearly rhetorical seeing as he’s already turning on his heels to dash back down the hallway.

“This isn’t my job!” I shout in protest. “Food prep needs to take out their own garbage!”

There’s no reply from him. He’s already turning the corner, leaving me with an overflowing cart filled with refuse. It smells. I’m surprised there aren’t cartoonish squiggly green lines shooting out of it in every direction. I try not to gag as I push it forward.

The dumpsters are outside the nursing home, all the way at the back of the parking lot.

I push the door open and warm air rushes in to greet me. Some kind of sludge seeps out of the side of the cart, and I accidentally step in it. My sensible black shoes—the kind all the orderlies wear—now make a lovely squelching sound with every step I take. I curse that food prep guy to hell and heave in a deep breath as I push the bulky cart over uneven pavement.

Up front, near the entrance of Holly Home, it’s all rose bushes and neatly trimmed hedges. Out back, it’s tired cooks smoking against the wall and blinking flood lights failing to illuminate the curb I smack directly into. Trash spills over the sides of the cart, and for one second, I think this is it. This is the last day I work this job. I’m going to hand in my resignation, yank off this white uniform, and walk out of this place in the buff with my head held high.

The glorious thought dies a swift death once I remember my reality: how long it took me to find this job in the first place and the unlikelihood that I’d find anything better.

This is my lot in life, I remind myself as I make it to the dumpster and start to toss bags up and over the side.

When I’m done, I push the cart back to its spot in the maintenance department, under the opening beneath the trash shoot. Leroy is there, sitting at his desk. He shoots me a hesitant smile.

“Sorry about that, Maren.”

He glances down to his ankle, the one he twisted pretty bad yesterday, making his job here all but impossible. He hasn’t told our boss about it—worried she’ll cut him loose—so I volunteered to step up where I could. My shift is over anyway. I was about to clock out.