Tina's Garden

20 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: Maia Sichitiu Tina's Garden

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

of eighty-seven, she took her daily strolls alone (not allowed) and refused dessert at every dinner. She only came to flower arrangement activities and preferred to sit in the lobby for the rest of the time. She would not respond to me when I was sent down to ask futilely if she wished to join us for yoga. Instead, she stared at her crossword through thick lenses while ignoring my needling—“Tina? Tina? Just checking, that’s a no?” And yes, it is worth mentioning: she was entering stage four of Alzheimer’s which means that she had every right to be an asshole. We were not each other’s favorites. She also scared the shit out of me. But we headed down. I was vaguely aware of what might await us in her room. My manager had complained all week about how our vases and the arrangements we had made last week had all disappeared. But I was not prepared for the magnitude of Tina’s thievery. Before we even entered, I could smell it. The moist smell of mold hung thickly in the air. We walked in. The room was filled to the brim with wilting roses, gardenias, violets, and lilies. On and under her counter were dozens of vases, the sides crusted with week-old mold. “She yelled at the cleaning crew last week for taking some and told them she would wash them but, you know...she probably forgot.” My manager was an expert at dancing around the topic of Tina’s state. She whispered this as though Tina might be lurking somewhere in one of the vases herself, ready to jump on anyone who accused her of forgetting to do something. We gingerly grabbed as many vases as we could. It was somber work, cleaning out an old lady’s comfort because she could no longer remember to take care of it. It is the kind of thing that makes you think that humans are surely not supposed to live this long, that our bodies should give out before our minds do. We placed the vases on the cart until it was packed. There were still some left on her window sill, but we left those there. The room seemed too empty when we left it. Less of Tina was in it. After that day, I always slipped extra flowers to Tina during our weekly flower arrangements. She did not appreciate it.