Remember Me

Allison rapped her knuckles on the doorframe.  She tugged the neck of her scrub top down. The new set seemed to ride up and rub against her collarbone. But the green made her hazel eyes look like moss instead of mud. At least, that’s what she told herself as she yanked at her scrubs again. 

“Hello, Mrs. Eisenbach.” Allison sang out, pasting a smile on her face. 

Late afternoon sun peeked between the drawn curtains. The thin beam cast the oranges and yellows of the nursing home decor into a happier tone. She marched into the room and yanked back the heavy curtain. Bright sunlight flooded the room. 

Her smile faltered at the sight of the empty bird feeder outside the window. Mrs. Eisenbach enjoyed watching the birds. And there was little else for the residents of Sunny HIlls nursing home to do. After she left Mrs. Eisenbach, she’d make sure they filled it. 

Near the window, the elderly woman in a wheelchair jerked up. She dropped a pen down next to the blue spiral-bound notebook on the small table. With her other hand, she rubbed the thick knuckles with an irritated grunt. 

“That you, Amber?” Mrs. Eisenbach’s gravelly voice demanded. She lowered her knobby hands to the wheels and maneuvered the chair around to face the doorway.

“It’s actually Allison. I’ve brought your meds.” Allison rocked the small paper cup in her hand. The pills inside rattled against each other.  

The old woman snorted and shook her head. “Damn pills. They don’t do much good.”

“Language, Mrs. Eisenbach.” Allison chided with a smile. “And Dr. Hydenia thinks Zicoclude will help with your Alzheimer’s.”

“My memory is just fine, Amber.” Mrs. Eisenbach scowled. 

“I know. Nothing gets by you.” Allison came into the room and held out the cup. 

Mrs. Eisenbach accepted it with a grudging sigh, tilting her head back and pouring the tablets into her mouth. Allison went to the night table and picked up the large plastic cup of water. Mrs. Eisenbach dutifully sipped water to wash the pills down.

Allison picked up a hairbrush off the dresser. She held it up like an offering, “can I brush your hair for you?”

Mrs. Eisenbach grunted in agreement. Allison ran the soft bristles through Mrs. Eisenbach’s thin gray hair. She nodded toward the notebook, “Did you finish your story yet?” 

“It’s not a story. This is my life. Everything I’ve done, from serving in the war as a nurse, to life with my husband-God rest his soul. All our travels, raising the girls.  Everything until coming here. The first thing I’ve ever written and also the last.” Mrs. Eisenbach struggled to turn the chair back to the small table.

Setting down the brush, Allison rested her hands on the wheelchair to guide her.  The old woman scowled up at her and Allison dropped her arms to her side and sidled a little distance away.

Amber focused on a tiny wren hopping across the windowsill. “Life didn’t end by coming to our facility, Mrs. Eisenbach. There’s still plenty to do.”

Mrs. Eisenbach laughed, a dry brittle sound. “You’re young. You still have years.  My time is crashing to an end, and the memories are slipping away. But I wrote everything I could remember. My daughter won’t forget me. And when her children are older, they’ll know me, too.”

“After I finish my rounds, I can come back. I’d love to hear some of your story.”  

“No.I wrote this for my daughter. She doesn’t stop by as often as she used to.” Mrs. Eisenbach frowned and scratched her cheek.

“It’s not her fault.” Allison rested her hand on Mrs. Eisenbach’s shoulder. 

Mrs. Eisenbach grabbed Allison’s hand. Her knobby fingers dug in as she squeezed. “Amber, promise me you’ll give this to her. I want Helen to know my history.” 

Allison tugged against the old woman’s grip. “Mrs. Eisenbach, i don’t think I’m the person--,” 

“Promise me,” Mrs. Eisenbach hissed, her eyes wide. “Everything slips away, no matter how hard I fight.”

Allison stopped struggling. She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “I promise. I won’t let anyone forget you.”

The older woman sagged against her wheelchair. She released Allison and patted her hand. “You’ve always been so friendly, Amber. I know you’ll give it to her.” 

Allison lifted the notebook and hugged it to her chest with one arm. “Do you need anything else?”

“Thank you.” Mrs. Eisenbach’s eyes drifted close. “I think I’ll go to bed early tonight. Writing took a lot out of me.”

“Do you want help?”

“I don't want it, but I need one. Can’t get out of this damn chair myself.” 

Allison giggled. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. If you want someone earlier, just ring for someone.”

“I’ll wait for you, Amber.” The old woman smiled without opening her eyes. Allison’s left the older woman dozing in the sunbeam.

#

The empty break room gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Allison retrieved her lunch from the locker and sank into the hard plastic chair with a sigh. She pulled her turkey and cheese sandwich out of her lunch bag. The blue notebook rested by her elbow. She ran one finger down the cover and took a bite of her sandwich. The bread stuck to her teeth. She chugged some diet soda to free the wad from the roof of her mouth. 

The door opened and a tall woman in pink scrubs burst into the break room. She plopped down in the seat on the other side of the table and groaned. “Ugh, Mrs. Feldman had an accident again. I think I spend more time cleaning that woman’s clothing than anything else.”

“It’s not her fault, Naomi.” 

“Never said it was. Still sucks, though.” Naomi sniffed her shoulder, “I smell like poop.”

“Poor Mrs. Feldman.” Allison sighed.

“You’re too nice.” Naomi clucked her tongue in mock disapproval. Her gaze dropped to the notebook. “What’s that?”

“Mrs. Eisenbach wrote her life story for her daughter.” Allison touched the notebook.

Naomi blanched. “One of those days?”

“It’s not her fault. Can you blame her? I mean, if I lost my daughter and grandchild like that, I’d try to forget it, too.”

“True. And she’s a nice one, too. Stubborn and cranky, but always fun to work with.” Naomi nodded at the book. “What are you going to do with it?”

Allison dragged the notebook closer. “I’m going to read it. Every word. No one wants to be forgotten.”