I was struggling to get by when my dying neighbor offered me a deal: take care of her, and in return, she’d leave everything to me. I agreed, but at her will reading, I got nothing! I thought she’d tricked me, but the next day, her lawyer gave me something that made my knees give out.
I sat in a lawyer’s office across from Mrs. Rhode’s niece. Every few seconds, she looked at me the way people look at gum stuck to a shoe.
The lawyer cleared his throat, opened a folder, and started reading in a flat voice. « The residence on Willow Street will be donated to Saint Matthew’s Outreach Charity. »
I blinked. « What? »
He did not look up. « Personal savings are to be distributed between Saint Matthew’s Church and several charitable organizations. To my niece, I leave my jewelry collection. »
I sat in a lawyer’s office.
I sat still, waiting for my name. Mrs. Rhode had promised I’d get everything if I looked after her for the last years of her life!
The lawyer turned one page, then closed the folder. « That concludes the reading. »
I stared at him. « That’s it? But she promised me… »
A thought hit me so hard it made my stomach drop. Did Mrs. Rhode lie to me?
I stood and hurried out of there before either of them could see me cry.
Did Mrs. Rhode lie to me?
By the time I got back to my rental, my chest hurt.
I went inside, shut the door, and fell across the bed without taking off my boots.
At first, all I felt was anger, then humiliation, then that ugly, familiar feeling of being the idiot in a story everyone else understood before I did.
But under all of that was something worse.
Grief. Because somewhere along the way, I had started to believe I mattered to Mrs. Rhode as much as she mattered to me.
Under all of that was something worse.
I grew up in foster care, so maybe I should have known better.
My mother abandoned me right after I was born, and my father was rotting in prison.
I learned early that adults could say anything and mean nothing. I learned how to pack fast, how to keep my important stuff in one place, and how not to cry in front of strangers if I could help it.
When I aged out, I left with two trash bags full of clothes and no plan.
I ended up in that town because rent was low and nobody asked questions.
Maybe I should have known better.
I worked a couple of bad jobs for worse bosses so I could keep my head above water.
Then I got a job at Joe’s Diner. I liked it right away.
Joe hired me because one of his waitresses quit in the middle of a breakfast rush, and I happened to walk in asking if he needed help.
He looked me up and down and said, « You ever carried three plates at once? »
I said, « No. »
He shrugged. « You got ten minutes to learn. »
Then I got a job at Joe’s Diner.
That was Joe — blunt, mean-looking, built like a fridge, and somehow one of the more decent people I had ever met.
At the end of long shifts, he’d shove a burger and fries at me and say, « Eat before you pass out and make extra paperwork for me. »
Sometimes after closing, I stayed and helped wipe down counters while he complained about suppliers, food costs, broken freezers, and people who ordered eggs « medium-medium-well. »
Mrs. Rhode came in every Tuesday and Thursday morning at eight sharp.
Sometimes after closing, I stayed and helped wipe down counters.
The first time I waited on her, she squinted at my nametag.
« James, » she said. « You look tired enough to collapse into my waffle. »
« Long week. »
She snorted. « Try being 85. »
That was our introduction.
After that, she always asked for me.
« You look tired enough to collapse into my waffle. »
« You ever smile, son? » she asked once.
« Sometimes. »
« I doubt it. »
Another morning, she said, « Your hair looks worse every time I see you. »
« Good morning to you, too. »
« Hm. Better. You sound almost alive today. »
She was difficult in a way that felt almost playful once you got used to her. I never saw her be sweet, but she paid attention. That counts for more than people think.
« You ever smile, son? »
One afternoon, I was carrying a couple of grocery bags home when she called to me from behind her fence.
« You live nearby, James? »
I stopped. « Couple houses down. »
She looked me over. « Hmm. You want to make some decent money, son? »
I stopped dead. « Doing what? »
She opened her front door and beckoned to me. « Come help me. We’ll agree on a price. I’ll explain everything over some tea. »
She called to me from behind her fence.
Inside, she poured me tea that tasted like boiled weeds and got straight to it.
« I’m dying, » she said.
I choked on my tea.
« Oh, don’t be so dramatic! I’m 85, not 12. The doctor says maybe a few years, maybe less. I need help. Groceries, medication, rides, small repairs. I don’t have anybody reliable. »
« And in return? »
She watched me for a second. « When I’m gone, what’s mine becomes yours. I’ll leave everything to you. »
I choked on my tea.
« Are you for real, Mrs. Rhode? You barely know me. »
« I know enough. »
It sounded crazy. It probably was. But I needed the money, and something in me wanted to believe her.
So I held out my hand and said, « Deal. »
At first, it was exactly what she said it would be. I drove her to doctor’s appointments, picked up groceries, and sorted her pills into plastic containers labeled by day.
I fixed a cabinet hinge, cleaned out a gutter, changed lightbulbs, and took out trash.
She complained through all of it.
I held out my hand and said, « Deal. »
« You’re late. »
« It’s been four minutes. »
« Still late. »
I would tell her she was impossible, and she’d say, « Yet you keep coming back. »
Slowly, without either of us saying it, things changed.
She started asking me to stay for dinner. Her cooking was terrible, but she acted offended if I noticed.
Slowly, without either of us saying it, things changed.
Once she made meatloaf so dry I drank three glasses of water trying to get it down.
« This is awful, » I told her.
