“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.
I give him a little salute and a smile.
“Hey, it wasn’t so bad,” I say with a wink. “Now I don’t even need to worry about getting in a workout today.”
It’s a blatant joke. Working out is for privileged people who have calories to spare.
Leroy doesn’t laugh. Instead, he holds up half a sandwich wrapped in waxy brown paper.
“Benita brought it down for me from the kitchen. I left half for you.”
I step forward and take it without any preamble about how “I couldn’t possibly.” I could possibly. I’m starving.
I hold it up in thanks and head back out into the hallway toward my locker. Freedom beckons. I have the next hour mapped out in my head like a luxurious dream. I’m going to get out of here in time to catch the 9:05 bus back to the group home. I’ll eat my sandwich on the way and finish it in three, maybe four bites. Once there, I’ll take a quick shower—because no one should be hogging the bathroom at this time—and make it to my bed in the bunkroom with enough energy to read for a little while before promptly passing out. I nearly shiver with delight thinking of how good it will feel right before my boss, Mrs. Buchanan, appears from around the corner. She’s a tall woman with a deep voice and wears clothes that look like they’ve been run through the wash so many times they’ve lost all their color: muted brown, gray, dull blacks.
“Oh good, Maren—I was hoping to catch you before you leave. Would you mind coming into my office for a moment?”
I’ve learned over the years that people look at you differently if you’re a foster kid, like you’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain. I switched schools a lot after my parents died, moved around often. Everywhere I went, I felt watchful eyes on me. Wonder how she got those shoes. Hey, that watch Maren’s wearing looks a lot like the one I lost last week.
So when Mrs. Buchanan calls me into her office, I know by her inability to meet my eyes and the tightness to her smile that I’m not going to like what I hear.
“I’m just covering all my bases,” is how she phrases it. “I’m not singling you out by any means.” No, it’s just that I’m the first and only person she’s going to interview about a piece of jewelry that was stolen from Mrs. Dyer’s room during my last shift.
“I’m not suggesting you took the ring. I’m just wondering if you happened to see anything suspicious. I’d rather not have to call the authorities if we can put this matter to rest on our own. Do you see what I mean?”
Accusations have shaved my heart down to a wilting limp thing over the years. I’m surprised it still beats.
“No, Mrs. Buchanan,” I say, voice monotone. Flat. Dead. “I didn’t see anything and I didn’t take anything.”
She purses her lips, upset by my refusal to give her the version of the truth she’s so desperately seeking. It’s my fault this is all happening even though I had nothing to do with the theft. That’s how I feel as she excuses me and tells me I’m free to go. This isn’t over, of course.
Next, I’ll have to sit down with the police and somehow try to prove to them that I’m a decent person, just like everyone else. It’s surprising how few people believe that. Prejudice is a pervasive disease.
I have an overwhelming fear that I will always be painted by a stained brush, that no matter how I dress or talk or smile or spritz on perfume to cover the scent of the mold in the group home, there’s no denying that I’m Maren Mitchell—less than.
The next day when I arrive for another shift at Holly Home, it’s clear that Mrs. Buchanan has spread the word about my alleged theft. Coworkers who didn’t pay me much attention before now give me a wide berth, afraid of becoming tainted by association. Fortunately, the residents haven’t been made aware of the accusations.
Most of them are as excited to see me as usual. As an orderly, my duties are vague enough that any department is free to use me as an extra set of hands. That means, oftentimes, I pick up the slack for other people, especially when it comes to residents I really like.
Take Mrs. Archer, for instance. She’s placed all the way at the end of the hall on the second floor, which means more often than not, she’s the last on the list to get breakfast and fresh linens and assistance outside on days when she’s up for taking a walk. I hate that. So, I volunteer to take her breakfast up, and I know where housekeeping stores the sheets and such, so I change hers out whenever I think she needs it.
She’s quiet. I don’t think she’s said more than a handful of words to me in the months I’ve been here, but still, I know she likes me. She smiles when I come in and nods for me to continue talking if I get carried away with a story. I tell her about the toddler I sat next to on the bus as I help lead her down the hall toward the rec room.
In the doorway, she nods toward the back corner, to the chair that sits beside a fading grand piano. It’s her favorite spot, and I don’t mind what it implies. She wants me to play for her.
“I can’t right now. I have to get back to work, but I go on break in thirty minutes. I can come back then?”
She smiles and pats my hand. “I would like that very much.”