Page 68 - Vol. VI #1

Sheila arrived at Mrs. Harper’s house in mid- town Tulsa around four in the afternoon, nodding her head violently to eighties-era punk rock by a band called Agent Orange blasting out of the car’s one working speaker. She parked her twelve-year-old Toyota Corolla on the street and used the steering wheel as a drum as the song finished.
She fished in her brightly patterned fabric purse for her make-up bag full of pills, uppers, benzos and opiates, and some weed. She tweezed her fingers to grab two orange-and-white capsules, Adderall, and put them in her mouth. She reached in the glove compartment and pulled out a fifth of Jim Beam and washed the pills down. She needed the stimulants to stay awake after a long night and morning of drinking, and the alcohol to tamp down the anxiety that came with it. She hadn’t wanted to call in sick. She needed the money, and she wanted to see Randall, who had been dodg- ing her texts. Randall was Mrs. Harper’s thirty- one-year-old son, and he was the closest thing she had to a boyfriend right now, despite his wife and kids and vapid selfishness that kept him in permanent adolescence. A tall, striking man, lean with strong arms and shoulders, Randall had a shiftiness around the eyes that made him look as untrustworthy as he actually was. Still, he gave her money for drugs and helped her pass the time on the long night shifts at his mother’s house.
Though she wasn’t tired, she yawned a couple times in quick succession. She knew from expe- rience that was a sign the Adderall was starting to work. She could feel her heart pounding and armpits sweating like she’d run two miles. At least her mind was clear.
She angled the rearview mirror to get a look at her full face, and saw she’d forgotten to change out her silver nose ring for one of the clear acrylic ones. Mrs. Harper hated the nose ring and had once tried to pull it out. She worked the ring out of her nose and tucked the silver hoop in her change purse. She shoved a piece of cinnamon chewing gum in her mouth and her transforma- tion into clean-cut caregiver was complete.
Dora raised her eyebrows and shrugged, then turned to get her purse from the tray table by the television.
She knocked lightly on the wooden screen door. Dora, the hospice caregiver on the day shift, answered with a grimace. She was as wide as a
“Her son called to say he was coming by tonight after work,” Dora said. “Have fun.”
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Sheila shut the wooden door behind Dora and slid the deadbolt shut.
The Dying Kind
house, with rolls of fat disguising her neck peek- ing out from underneath her bright pink scrub top. The television blared some afternoon talk show about cooking. The air inside was warm and thick, and a suffocating combination of cooked fish, human excrement, and air freshener assaulted Sheila’s nose.
Bony old Mrs. Harper lay in a hospital bed in the darkened living room. A hot pink satin mask shaded her eyes from the afternoon light stream- ing from the open front door, but it didn’t prevent her from screeching out “Shut—door!” Instead of looking up, Mrs. Harper pointed her head to the side, away from Dora and Sheila. Her wiry gray curls scratched on the pillow. But Sheila could still see her mouth was set in a straight, angry line.
“She’s in a mood,” Dora whispered. “Me too.”
“I, I, I – sick of it,” the old lady said.
“Now, now, Mrs. Harper, we’re just saying goodbye.”
Dora moved toward the door and Sheila flattened herself against the wall so the big woman could pass in the narrow entry way.
lynn liPinski