20
Tina's Garden Maia Sichitiu
She caught me on the way out to lunch. Usually I ate tucked away on
my phone or reading in the corner of the upstairs lounge next to the stereo that played the same two Ella Fitzgerald songs on repeat. Before I could settle into my normal position, my manager stopped a cart in front of me with a desperate look in her eyes.
“We have to be quick,” she said, providing no context—she had a
dramatic flair for someone who had chosen to be a recreational therapist at Sunrise Senior Living. I followed her even though I had no idea where we were going (I was a good intern).
“Quick with what?”
“You’re gonna help me go to Tina’s room and pick up all the vases.”
I didn’t even try to keep the grimace off my face. Tina was not my
favorite resident, and I certainly was not her favorite worker. I did, however, enjoy: •
Charlie, a wisp of a woman trapped in a wheelchair who spoke to me in whispers underlined with Southern grit and sweetness.
•
Harriet, an extension of Charlie. She pushed Charlie’s wheelchair and bent her creaky knees to listen to her speak carefully before announcing in her loud (slightly shrill) voice what Charlie had just said. She was also an excellent winker.
•
Toby, who sat in the lounge and told anyone who asked that he had sung with Frank Sinatra in Europe (this did not happen) and would launch into a raspy rendition of "Fly Me To The Moon" unprompted.
•
Anyone else who acknowledged my existence. Tina did not make the list. Tina looked at me like she did the other
workers: with her nose slightly upturned as the only acknowledgment of our existence. She was a control freak who did not appreciate any attempts to help her maintain order because she wanted to do it on her own. Even at the ripe age
