Em Garner - Contaminated

I’m not going to tell her I’ve been kicked out. I’ll have to tell someone there eventually, to get my address changed, but not right now. She sighs. I hear the shuffle of papers.

“We’re seriously understaffed today, Velvet. I really don’t think I can give you the day off when you already had yesterday off. If you’d asked for both days off, I might’ve been able to swing it.”

“I didn’t know yesterday!” I hear myself sounding too desperate and force myself to calm down. Ms. Campbell has a low tolerance for whiners. I’ve always tried to make sure she never regretted hiring me, even though I’m young. “I’m sorry. I mean, I didn’t realize. And something’s come up, I can’t just…”

“You can’t leave her alone? There are problems?” Like everyone else, her interest seems to perk up at the thought that everything they say on the news is true. “What’s going on? I thought you said she was taken care of that way.”

Ms. Campbell ought to know better than anyone else I’ve dealt with about what it must be like. Connies have been compared to patients with Alzheimer’s disease, and not everyone with that diagnosis acts the same. There are all sorts of levels of ability. She was the one who gave me the lecture about never assuming anything about anyone based on what a doctor had written on their charts.

“She is. She’s fine. I just can’t leave her here. I… um… well, we’ve decided, that is, my sister and I want to take her back home. I think it will be better for her to be in a familiar place.”

“You can just do that?”

“Yes.” I say this out loud to make it true. “But we live pretty far out of town, and it will take some time to get her there, get set up, stuff like that.”

“Velvet, are you sure that’s what you want to do? Move out of town? You live in assisted housing right now. You know you’ll lose that income if you move.”

I might do my best to make sure Ms. Campbell doesn’t think I’m too young for the job, but she apparently never forgets my age. “I know. But we won’t lose our food assistance. That will be okay.”

I hope. I’m not actually sure about all the rules. They changed a bunch of times, and though they send a pamphlet with every check detailing what exactly has changed, I haven’t read the last ten or so.

Ms. Campbell sighs, long and hard. “Is this going to affect your work here?”

“No!”

“Because you know I took a real chance in taking you on full-time, and that was just last week, Velvet. It’s not that I don’t think you’re doing a good job. Our patients really enjoy you, and overall I don’t have any complaints with you in a part-time capacity. But with this move and the additional responsibilities with your mother, I’m not sure full-time is going to work out for you.”

“I’ll make it work, Ms. Campbell.” I have to. We’ll need the money. We need the benefits. Opal qualifies for the new youth health programs, but again, now that I’m an adult, I don’t. Neither does my mom. If we get sick, we’re in trouble.

“You’re not doing a very fine job of it so far,” she says.

This is so mean, I bite my lip. I want to say something sharp, but I bite extra hard so I don’t. “I’m sorry.”

She sighs again, louder this time. “I expect you back at work tomorrow, no excuses. Do you understand? You’re still in the probationary period.”

“I understand. Thank you. Thank you so much.” I hang up before she can say anything else or change her mind. Before I can get myself into trouble.

I look at my mom, sitting so quietly. There’s still the problem of getting us where we need to go. I sink into the chair and put my face in my hands. Not crying. Not even really thinking. Just trying to cope.

I startle at the soft touch of her hands on my hair, and I look up to see my mom standing over me. She’s not smiling, but her eyes don’t look quite as blank as they have in the past. This seems a little easier, all of a sudden.

My mom always believed in me, always told me I could do whatever I set my mind to. It’s time I start believing her.

FIRST, I SHOVE EVERYTHING I CAN POSSIBLY fit into two big backpacks I found stuffed way back in the closet and never thought I’d use again. I pull out all Opal’s stuff, lay it on the bed. I know she won’t be happy that I’m leaving some of it behind but I hope, with fingers crossed and toes, too, that her old things will still be at home.

Of course, they probably won’t fit her anymore. They might be ruined. Everything might be. It’s a chance we’ll take.

I cram clothes and books and things into each backpack and lift one. It’s heavy, but not too bad. I have muscles built up from lifting heavy laundry baskets and also shifting patients around, though we’re never supposed to do that by ourselves. Now I can put one of these packs on my back and not stagger beneath its weight, and still lift the other. I heft it, testing how long I’ll be able to carry them, because I’ll have to do it myself. It’s my mom I’m worried about. She’s not strong.

“Mom, can you carry this?”

She looks at me blankly. I had the bright idea of layering us both with as many layers as possible. Triple socks, shirts, sweatpants over a pair of jeans. I have to open all the windows in here to keep from passing out from being overheated, but Mom’s barely breaking a sweat.

I take out some things from one of the packs and stuff it into the other. I turn her, slip the emptier pack onto her shoulders. She staggers a little bit, but doesn’t drop it or fall over. I grab the heavier one. I expect to wilt under the weight, but I just shift it until it’s more manageable instead.

“Okay. Hold out your arms.” She does, but it’s not until I’m securing the wrist restraints that I realize I was expecting her to respond, and she did. I look at her. I’ve pulled the turtleneck up over her collar and the hood over her hair. I yank down the sleeves of her coat, which isn’t warm enough for this cold, over her wrists. “Listen, Mom. If we’re careful, nobody will know. Okay? We can catch the bus just outside here. It will only take us as far as the Foodland parking lot, but that’s better than having to walk the whole way. Okay? Can you… hear me? Can you understand me?”

She doesn’t nod, she doesn’t shake her head. She doesn’t even blink. I guess she can hear me, though, because she doesn’t protest anything. Then again, maybe whatever’s cycling around in her head just shut off for now. I have no way of knowing.

I can’t take her hand because of the restraints, so I hook an arm through hers and lead her out the door. I don’t bother locking it. I don’t care if anyone gets in and steals anything, or wrecks it. There’s nothing left here that I consider mine.

Mrs. Wentling opens the door as we leave. “You! What are you doing?”

I don’t answer her. It’s none of her business, and a lot of this is her fault. Instead, I lead my mom carefully to the stairs. She’s still unsteady and the weight of her backpack is probably unbalancing her. She can’t really grip the handrail easily, either.

“Forget about this,” I mutter, and yank on the restraints to slip them off.

“You! Hey! You can’t do that! I know the law!”

I whirl to face her. “So call the cops, then! What are they going to do? Just make me put them back on. But what will they do when I tell them about the drugs Jerry’s been pushing? Or the fact he and his friends have been buying booze for minors? That’s illegal.”

Mrs. Wentling’s face goes bright pink. “You won’t do anything like that!”

“Not if you shut up,” I say.

Oh, it feels so good to be so rude. It feels strong and powerful and mighty. I like watching her mouth open and close like a fish. Beside me, my mom makes a small noise, but she’s not looking at Mrs. Wentling. She’s concentrating on not falling down the stairs.