Note to readers: The Wedding Gift has been removed since it was submitted for publication. However, if you would like to read it, please email contact me through this site or my FB page.
Annie John was the only person
whose phone number Denise had set to a sinister ringtone. Pastor Frank had
introduced them a month ago following Sunday service. Almost instantly, Denise
felt uncomfortable — that same feeling as when the doctor walks into the exam
room, avoids looking a patient in the eye and slumps into the chair with a
sigh.
The pastor described Annie as “a
good Christian woman.” Denise noticed the slight hesitation in his voice, as if
he knew he was lying but was trying to convince himself otherwise. “She is a
nurse, but she just lost her job. And since your mother is on hospice, Denise,
I thought you two should meet.”
Pastor Frank said he hoped it was
all right with Denise that he had shared information about her mother.
“Oh, I am sure she won’t mind,”
Annie replied, directing her attention to the pastor. “She seems like such a
nice lady. I already feel a connection with her and her mother.”
Turning to Denise, Annie said, “I
can come over to take care of your mother.”
Denise’s eyes widened, and she
shifted her weight from one foot to another, wanting to accept help, but not
from the woman in front of her. Annie’s tone of familiarity made Denise
nervous. There is something off about this woman. Maybe time will tell,
but in the meantime, I don’t think having her in my house is a good idea,
she thought.
“Denise, our Lord knows your
troubles,” the pastor interjected. “Trust him when he sends you help.”
“But, Pastor Frank, you know that
Ma can be picky. Besides, Ma’s caregiver will return in a couple of weeks, I
think.”
“I am sure your mom will love me,”
insisted Annie. “Almost everybody who knows me does.”
As much as she wanted to believe
in God’s will, Denise did not like having a stranger foisted into her
life.
Annie grabbed Denise’s hand, pried
open her palm, and thrust a business card in it before hurriedly leaving.
Denise inspected the card made of quality glossy purple paper with gold foil
accents. It read, “Annie John, RN, BSN, Nurse, and Entrepreneur.”
“I know you don’t think this is a
good idea, Denise, but Annie is willing to work practically for free,” said
Pastor Frank.
“I am running low on funds,”
replied Denise, “but let me think about it for a couple of days.”
When her doorbell rang later
that evening, Denise was shocked to find Annie, who quickly stepped inside.
Without attempting to explain her
presence, Annie turned to the older woman who wheeled herself into the living
room.
“You must be Ma. I have heard SO
much about you! We are going to get along so well,” said Annie, pulling down
her mask.
“You can keep your mask off. I
don’t care. I am not going to wear some stupid mask on top of my oxygen,” Ma
responded.
“What happened to the election
sign that was in your yard last week?” asked Annie.
“Oh, some vandals!” said Denise,
who was secretly glad it was gone and politely refused to oblige her mother
with a new one. Suspicion skittered through Denise’s mind. This woman
does not live in our neighborhood. Why is she so familiar with our yard sign?
“Sign, or no sign, I am going to
vote for the President come November 3rd, said Ma. “I agreed to go on for
hospice only because the doctor said I would die before Election Day if I chose
more chemo.”
“I think you are a smart woman,
and you make smart choices. Would you like me to wheel you around the
neighborhood?” asked Annie, positioning herself behind the wheelchair and
releasing the brakes.
“Annie, wait, I think we should
talk about your payment. I can’t afford to pay much now. Ma’s other caregiver
needed two months’ salary in advance because of her family situation,” said
Denise.
“Don’t worry,” replied Annie as
she turned and hastily waved before steering the wheelchair, oxygen tank, and
Denise’s mother out the front door and down the ramp.
Denise watched Annie wheel Ma back
and forth along the neighborhood sidewalk. They did not go too far, just a few
houses on either side. Annie was regaling her mother with tales that Ma seemed
to be enjoying.
Ma had weighed more than three
hundred pounds when diagnosed with cancer a year ago, but the disease had
whittled her down to half of that. Still, it was no easy task to take her out
for a wheelchair ride. The oxygen tank’s tubing had a penchant for getting
tangled in the wheels or shrubs bordering the sidewalk. With Ma’s usual
caregiver, a young college girl, the rides were twice weekly. The girl had
tripped and fallen on the sidewalk more than once. Fortunately, Denise’s
neighbor, Dr. Stephan, was a surgeon, and his wife, Carissa, an emergency
medical technician. They had tended to the caregiver’s bruises and later left a
first-aid box just below their mailbox in case she fell and hurt herself again.
Half an hour later, Ma and Annie
returned. A hint of rosiness had replaced Ma’s sallow appearance. The fresh air
seemed to do her some good.
“Denise, did you know about laptop
story? Annie was telling me things the fake news won’t report….”
Denise glared at Annie. She did
not want anyone aggravating Ma with ridiculous tales in the final days of her
life.
A month went by. Ma’s liking for
Annie rose as sharply as Denise’s dislike for her grew. On several occasions,
Denise attempted to determine why Annie lost her job or what business ventures
she had embarked upon. Annie’s answers were always vague, but they all had a
theme.
“I get excluded because I am a
good Christian woman who supports our President,” or “It seems these days it’s
not fashionable to stand up for family values.”
Denise was able to glean that
Annie was divorced and had recently dated two men she met online. Twice in the
last year, she had announced she was getting married on social media. Each time
she withdrew the posting days later. The first man claimed his divorce had not
been finalized. The second prospective fiancé was considering getting a divorce
but still loved his wife and kids. He had joined the dating website just to
know what was “out there.” He topped it off with, “I didn’t value what I had at
home. Now I know. Thank you for saving my marriage.”
“The Bible says being a good wife
is the duty of a woman, and a good Christian woman must find a husband,” was
all Annie would say.
Later that evening, Denise called
Ma’s regular caregiver, asking when she would return. Not until after the
election, she was told.
Denise’s hope that Annie could be
let go immediately was crushed like a beetle under a steamroller.
The next morning the sinister
ringtone sounded. Denise shuddered, took a deep breath, then forced herself to
be polite. Annie had not shown up at her usual time. Perhaps, she was running
late and wanted to apologize.
“Hi, Denise,” Annie said,
emphasizing the greeting in an annoying, smug tone. “I thought we should talk
about payment. I think twenty dollars an hour is standard, so that would make
it a thousand dollars for the past month. And my Google map app shows that I
spent fifty hours in your neighborhood, so I have an electronic log for hours.
I will come by later to pick up the cash.”
“A thousand? I can’t afford that,”
said Denise, stunned. “That is much more than what I was paying Ma’s regular
gal.”
“Yes, but I helped in an
emergency, so my rate is higher. Did you not know that?”
“Listen, Annie, that is too much,”
Denise pleaded. “Let me check with Ma to see if she can afford to pay you. She
has some money saved.”
“Okay, let me know. I have just
sent you my invoice by FedEx.”
The phone went dead, but its
sinister ringtone continued to play in Denise’s head.
Denise wondered if she should talk
to Pastor Frank, who might persuade Annie to be reasonable. Or perhaps she
should tear up the campaign donation check Ma had asked her to mail a week ago.
Caregiver expenses were the bigger priority.
What if she
did not pay Annie at all? Or only pay the minimum wage? They had not agreed to
a rate either verbally or in writing.
“Was that Annie?” Ma’s voice was
feeble and cracked.
“You look unwell, Ma. Let me call
hospice.”
“Maybe I should go to the
hospital. I think I have a fever. You think it could be COVID?”
Denise’s face drained of all
color. She checked Ma’s forehead. There were beads of sweat, but she did not
think she had a fever.
The hospice nurse was polite but
strongly urged Denise not to take Ma to the hospital.
“Even if she has COVID, they will
not treat her with anything beyond supportive medicines. I guarantee you that
with terminal lung cancer, she will not go on a ventilator. And if you
develop symptoms, Denise, call your primary care doctor’s COVID hotline.”
The doorbell rang. To Denise’s
surprise, it was her neighbor, Carissa, Dr. Stephan’s wife.
“I noticed your Ma’s usual
caregiver is no longer working for you, so I removed the first-aid box. Is the
new woman your relative?” she asked.
When Denise clarified that Annie
was no relative, Carissa appeared relieved. Before she left, Carissa checked in
on Ma. She pursed her lips, and with a slight nod, acknowledged what Denise was
thinking. The end was near.
That night Ma sunk into a stupor.
Denise wiped away the droplets on Ma’s forehead with a wet compress. Gradually
Ma’s lips turned blue despite dialing the oxygen to the maximum. Denise tried
her best to stay awake but dozed off, only to wake up with a start, fearful
that she could not hear Ma’s last words. She wanted to hold her hand when she
breathed her last.
Just before sunrise, Ma opened her
eyes and said in a feeble voice, “Even though I will not be able to vote, I am
glad you mailed my campaign donation. I love you.”
Her grip fell loose.
Denise sat still for an hour,
perhaps two, before forcing herself to make the necessary calls. She was not
going to call Annie. She was not sure if she should mail the donation check. No
matter who wins, it would not make a difference with one day to go before the
election. Maybe I will send it in; otherwise, I may feel guilty for the
rest of my life.
The sinister ringtone
shattered through the unhappy stillness.
“Yes?” answered Denise.
“How ARE you?”
Annie’s voice was sickeningly
sweet. “Sorry, I didn’t come yesterday. Ignore what I said about the thousand
dollars. You don’t need to pay me anything. You can, if you want, donate
something to a charity of my choice, like women for our President. Just tear up
the invoice I sent you when the courier delivers it. If anyone asks, say we are
friends from church, and I was volunteering to help you.”
Denise hung up without answering
and turned off her phone. She did not know if this woman had multiple
personalities or she was a con woman or both. And she had not even asked about
Ma.
In her apartment, Annie looked at
the now-silent phone. “Well, that was rude. I do her a favor and….”
She glanced at the sheaf of papers
on her dining table. This was the second time Dr. Stephan had served Annie with
a restraining order. The first was four months ago after she had forcibly
kissed him in the hospital operating room’s changing area. That same evening
Annie showed up at his house in stilettos and heavy makeup to confirm that the
kiss was real and mutual. The doctor’s wife opened the door and had choice
words for her.
It had taken Annie a couple of
months to figure out how to infiltrate the doctor’s neighborhood. Five hundred
dollars in donations to Pastor Frank’s church went a long way.
Oh well, it was worth it. Annie
thrust the restraining order into the shredder. A good Christian
woman needs a husband.
