The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving Read Online Free PDF

everyone.” Her tone is not critical but matter-of-fact.
    â€œ Th anks,” I say. “You’re absolutely right.”
    â€œYou’re welcome.”
    She likes me. She wants me to stick around. And who knows, maybe not just for Trev’s sake. “I guess that’s true of everybody, right?” I say. “Push them too far, and they’ll push back?”
    â€œSome people absorb better than others,” she says. “When you’re a parent, you learn to absorb.”
    She’s left me no choice but to tell her the truth. “Elsa, look, there’s something I . . . In the interview when you asked if I had any . . .”
    â€œI know,” she says.
    â€œAbout . . . ?”
    â€œYes. Word travels fast.” She fixes her eyes on the murky dishwater, scrubbing absently beneath the surface. “I’m sorry, Ben. Very sorry.” Th en she turns and looks up at me, squinting in the sunlight. And before she can say another word, I seize her about the waist with both hands and pull her toward me. Instantly, the world turns to ice as Elsa tears herself free of my clutches, glowering. It’s tough to say what all is written in her expression as she backs away from me across the kitchen, but surely there is a hint of ambivalence. She can’t look me in the eye.
    â€œI think you better go home for the day,” she says.
    â€œI . . .”
    â€œPlease,” she says, just as the baby monitor squawks out Trev’s summons.

the whistle stop

    W hen Elsa encounters me in the kitchen the next morning, she is business as usual, starched work shirt, efficient bun, tack bag in hand.
    â€œI may be a little late today,” she says. “Can you stay until six?”
    â€œOf course,” I say. And I can only marvel at her capacity to move on.
    I’m mid-crossword when Trev calls me to the bedroom two hours early. Assuming he needs to be turned, I peel back the blankets to reveal his wasted figure, which fails to stir as the cold air greets it.
    â€œI’m ready to get up,” he says.
    â€œBathroom?”
    â€œJust up.”
    His curtness makes me think he knows. Suddenly, I don’t want to lose this job. I begin to dress him on the bed, beginning with his gold-toed socks. When I’ve managed to wrestle his cargo pants up around his knees, I hoist him out of bed and prop him on my elevated knee, and with one hand I work the pants the remainder of the way up before nesting him in his wheelchair.
    â€œWhite Chucks today,” he announces, even before we’ve assumed our post in front of the double closet. “High-tops.”
    Chucks are shallow-bottomed and narrow shoes. Which also makes me think Trev knows about my pass at his mom, because Chuck high-tops are a pain in the ass to put on, and he knows it. Th e high-tops need to be unlaced most of the way to accommodate his gnarled feet. Th ey can’t be comfortable with his buckled toes and high arches.
    â€œWould you do Charlize Th eron?” he inquires, much to my relief.
    â€œDuh.”
    â€œWhat about in Monster ?”
    â€œOof. No way,” I lie.
    By the time we move to the kitchen, I know I’m in the clear. I’m about to uncap his Ensure and pop his frozen waffles in the toaster when he catches me off guard once more.
    â€œLet’s go out to breakfast,” he says. “I’ll buy.”
    He must know. Either he heard us, or Elsa told him. He never buys, except for the matinee, and that’s his mom’s money. Suddenly, it occurs to me that Trev may be conducting me to the neutral confines of a restaurant for the purpose of firing me. But then who will drive him home?
    â€œYou pick the place,” he says.
    And so, after three Digitek and two Enalapril, a morning piss, a brushing of the teeth (his, not mine), and two swipes of deodorant under each arm, we make for the van, where I lower the ramp somberly and buckle Trev into place as one