They Never Know What You Mean

“I never know what you mean.”

“What do you mean, you never—I’m speaking words, am I not?”

“People never know what you mean. Simple.”

“Simple.” He shook his head, finished with it.

They bickered back and forth like dancers. I just stood there, awkwardly waiting.

“Come, sit down, girl,” she said to me with an ounce of patience and a pound of hurry.

“So, why you want to come here?”

Her accent was rough and clipped, as though she cut words short to speak them faster. But I wasn’t about to let her intimidate me. “I’m here because I need to work, and you need help.”

“Help?” She turned to her husband. “You hear this? Help.”

He didn’t look our way. He just waved his hand.

“Why you think I need help?”

“What I mean is you contacted the agency for an aide, right?”

“No.” She folded her hands and sat upright. “He did. Not me.”

Her position was clear. Being here was not going to be easy.

“Well, either way, I’m very good at my job and I don’t appreciate being treated like I’m an inconvenience. I’m here to help.”

There was that word again. She huffed.

“Well, what do you do—help?”

“I’m here to make sure you take your medications on time. I can do some housework, prepare meals, get you out of bed and ready for the day—anything to make your days easier.”

She turned her head away from me toward the window. Not to look outside. Just not to look at me.

“Well, what does that mean he’s here for then?”

Now he turned and slowly walked toward us.

“I’m here because I own this house. This is my house. I paid the mortgage. It’s in my name. Not yours.”

“You think my name isn’t on this house?”

Again, he waved her off and turned back to the kitchen.

“My name is on everything in this house. It may be your house, big shot, but it’s my home.”

He looked at me and shrugged, as though he sympathized more with my situation than his own.

Despite her resistance, I started the following week. The first morning I arrived before sunrise. He met me at the door, already dressed, with a hot cup of coffee waiting for me and the tea kettle nearly whistling. He handed me the cup and turned toward the stove to quiet the kettle.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Hello. It’s a little cold out there today.”

“It is.” I took a sip of the coffee. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“You don’t like coffee?”

“I do. I like it a lot. I just mean you didn’t have to make it for me.”

“Well, she won’t drink it, and I hate to waste a pot that I won’t finish.”

He didn’t seem interested in hearing a response, so I just thanked him and took off my jacket. He was still busy around the kitchen, so I went to the cabinet to get another cup.

“No, no. Not that cup. Here, use this one. She likes this one.”

He handed me a thinner cup that looked similar to the others, but different enough.

“And only let the tea steep for three minutes. Otherwise, it’ll be too harsh on her stomach.”

He had a way of pulling a tiny smile out of me. He wasn’t warm, but he was cordial and in a strange way welcoming.

“She’s still sleeping, but she’ll wake in just a moment.” He nodded to me with her cup and motioned toward the bedroom. “I’ll go get her chair.”

It went like this for several months. I’d arrive early but never before he was ready. He always met me at the door, cup in hand. He’d give me a list of her complaints and demands as I made the tea. I’d go wake her, wash her, dress her, brush her hair. She’d tell me how it hurt. We’d have breakfast, then I’d offer to roll her chair into the living room. She’d insist that he do it. Usually just to give him something to do. The days consisted of much of the same routine. Television, naps, arguments, meals, more arguments, more television. She didn’t go anywhere and he never left the house, unless to get groceries and gas.

“He always needs gas,” she said to me one afternoon while he was out.

“Well, maybe it gives him something to do.” I was folding the laundry while she was watching the television too loudly.

“You don’t think I’d like something to do?” She scolded me.

“Well, maybe we could all go for a ride together one afternoon.” I offered as gently as I could.

“Hm.” She didn’t really respond, just made a noise.

“It would be fun. Spring is approaching.”

“You see me, no? I can’t go.”

I didn’t push it further. The backdoor opened just in time. He came in with a few bags. We put them away and returned to the living room.

“I got gas,” he announced.

She curled her lips to me and tilted her head. We giggled.

“What?” he asked with a hint of defense.

Each day went slower than the previous. I noticed she was weaker each morning and dressing her took longer. But whenever we finished, he was standing there with the chair ready to wheel her to the breakfast table. In the afternoon while they napped, I would do light cleaning enough to keep busy but also keep the noise down. My favorite task was dusting the many frames around the house. The buffet, the credenza, the side tables, the mantel. Some black-and-white, some color. Holidays, children, picnics, vacations. A full lifetime on display.

I was a little later this morning. The cold made it harder for my car to start, and I didn’t arrive at my usual time. When I did, he wasn’t at the backdoor. No coffee waiting. No tea kettle whistling. This morning was different. The house was silent, more than it usually was. I didn’t take my coat off, just walked back to her bedroom where the door was already open.

He sat by her bed, clutching her hand.

Crying.

I was stalled in the doorway.

He didn’t turn to me. He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief in one hand, and held hers in the other.

“I’m sorry,” was all I could say. I stood there holding my own hands as the fingers began to hurt.

“These tears,” he said slowly. “They are not because she’s left me. I will join her soon enough. But my tears are because, in heaven, we will no longer be lovers.”