Why did Helen feel the need to help the poor old lady struggling with a huge bag? Not only did the bags burst open, leaving her to collect almost ruined groceries with selective curses on the pavement, but they seemed to come from the nearest rubbish bin. This little escapade made her late for work.
It was her excessive compassion. She couldn’t just walk by. For instance, if someone were slumped on a bench hardly showing signs of life, Helen would rush to help, thinking it might be serious. The strong scent of alcohol wouldn’t stop her from calling emergency services. And the outcome? The medical team would shout that he was merely extremely drunk and question the need for an emergency. Meanwhile, the police would haul the unsteady fellow to the station, also casting sideways glances. Did they really need this? Once he sobered up, he’d have left the bench on his own.
Helen was generally kind. Although behind her back, people labeled her as odd and made finger circles at the temple.
After her mother passed away, she gave the apartment to her stepfather. Despite his contribution to her mother’s passing, he never worked, while her mother juggled a main job and scoured stairways. But Helen felt sorry for him. He was getting on in years and unlikely to find accommodation. What about her? She was young; she could earn more. Eventually, neighbors persuaded her not to sign off the apartment entirely.
Helen decided to move to a city. There, she could find a job and rent accommodation. Her savings sufficed for a room in a shared house. Initially, she cleaned floors in a supermarket, but the pay barely covered the rent. Yet, there was a silver lining—she occasionally scored leftover products. So no hunger worries. Clothing, though, was a different issue. No matter how often you washed them, they’d wear out rapidly. Shoes—don’t start. She was constantly buying glue.
She decided to try housekeeping. But with no experience, she was rejected until one agency, notorious for delayed payments and poor treatment, hired her on a probationary period.
Her first client was an elderly lady with a commanding voice.
“The tea’s not brewed right; the bathroom’s not cleaned properly; the dishes are greasy…”
That’s how her working life began. Yet, Helen stayed Helen. Apologizing constantly, she re-did all tasks rather than slamming the door. Because mostly, who hires outside help? Lonely pensioners needing to vent negativity onto someone else.
Such clients were Helen’s and everyone was surprised why they received no complaints about her promptly.
Even on the day she was late, no reprimands came. She was immediately dispatched to an immobile female client. Another staff member who attended her had quit.
When Helen arrived, she was taken aback. How inconsiderate people were. If the woman couldn’t get up and see her place post-cleaning, is it acceptable to leave it that deplorable?
Mrs. Jane Smith was stunned when Helen gently changed her soiled sheets, helped her into a clean nightgown, and tended minor bedsores. Then she lay smiling as she heard Helen clattering around, dashing here and there with a cloth or vacuum. Once everything gleamed and appetizing aromas filled the air, Helen settled down. She served Jane a hearty soup with dumplings on a special tray and a cup of aromatic tea.
“I thought, while taking out the trash, a homemade soup might do you good. All I could see was ready meal packaging. Enjoy your meal, and I’ll wash up the plate later; that’s all the work for today.”
Jane savored her soup, then asked Helen to stay and chat about her bustling life and plans. Before, her previous helper merely dashed around for half an hour, plopping a defrosted cutlet and dash away.
Unabashed, Helen recounted her life.
“But tidying strangers’ houses every day and enduring their scrutiny—could that have been your dream?” Jane queried.
“Oh, Mrs. Smith, I’ve dreamed of anything and everything—being a singer, a ballerina. But no voice, and too short for dance. No clubs took me in. When Mum got sick, I wanted to be a doctor and heal everybody. But fate had other plans. I barely finished school working simultaneously—in Mr. Ahmed’s stall. He praised my work. Sometimes gave bonuses. I kept the stall clean, accepted only fresh fruits, as dodgy suppliers tried passing off their rot. Now there’s hardly time for dreams. I run like a squirrel on a wheel at work, then come home. My shared house’s corridor—dirty, toilet uncleaned, no paper again. I clean it and sleep. One time, believe it or not, I fell asleep in the loo, scrubbing brush in hand,” Helen laughed.
Jane smiled. She adored Helen’s vibrant spirit.
“Would you like to work just for me? Don’t worry about your current boss; I’ll sort it out. All previous carers would rush things or were dishonest. At first, I hired a live-in girl. She seemed fine initially, but then displayed shocking behavior—sneaking out at night. I’m on strict medication schedules. She’d stumble back, booze reeking, toss me a glass with my pill, and grunt, ‘I’m off to bed. I’ll prep everything later.’
I tolerated it for a month until warning her to continue this way and she’d be shown the door. So she brought boyfriends over. Assumed I lost my hearing as I lay there. I had to let her go. Since then, I’ve tried agencies. Hoping to find a fitting carer. After unreliable Beth, I took a last chance with your agency. Resolved, similar issues arise, I’ll seek elsewhere. Believe me; I’m not alone. I have a son, a grandson. Sadly, they reside abroad with stable jobs. They support me generously. Visit occasionally. But I’ve been bedridden for five years now. Slipped on an icy step. Underwent lengthy treatment. Doctors promised I’d manage sitting, but fate again. Are you open to moving in?” Jane smiled.
“Certainly. You need help. Those curtains need washing, windows are filthy, dust gathered under furniture,” Helen began listing.
“Alright, Cinderella, stop there. You’re starting work for me today. Go pack from your shared house, move in. Room next door is yours. Meanwhile, I’ll call your agency,” Jane laughed.
Helen dashed off. Jane dialed the agency and had an unpleasant call, as they unjustly hiked prices, claiming Helen as their best worker. Jane remembered Helen’s story and laughed.
“And you paid your best only peanuts yet sent her to the pesky clients. Enough chit-chat. She’ll resign tomorrow. I’ll pay her directly. Don’t mention two weeks’ notice. Or I’ll sic tax collectors on you—I have connections,” she hung up.
So Helen moved in with Jane. Breakfasts varied with crumpets, scones, pancakes. Mornings were ritualistic—washing, sponging, brushing teeth with stories and jests. Windows now sparkled. Dust vanished. Though tidy and prepared, Helen’s restlessness persisted.
She popped to the library, returning with a heap of magazines, books.
“What’s with all this?” Jane chuckled.
“It’s for you. Perhaps some exercises there to help you sit up. Later, we’ll get a wheelchair and out you go—enjoy fresh air, chirping birds,” Helen dreamed aloud.
Tears welled in Jane’s eyes.
“Helen, doctors couldn’t help, yet you talked exercises. Don’t stir up unrealistic hopes. I appreciate your intentions, but I’m beyond cure.”
Yet Jane underestimated Helen. Daily, she brought reading materials, highlighting notable sections silently, with pencil in hand.
Jane finally broke.
“Alright, alright; show me what’s hiding there.”
Delighted, Helen leapt, retrieving a magazine, offering it to Jane.
“Simple exercises, regular, few times daily. Don’t worry—it’s under control. Agree?”
Jane sighed.
“You won’t rest otherwise?”
Helen shook her head vehemently.
“Then let’s give it a try.”
The journey was tough. Jane cried, laughed, threatened Helen with discharge. Gradually, she adjusted. Advanced exercises showed little but tangible improvement arrived one midnight.
“HELEN, QUICKLY!”
Helen rushed in panic, heart pounding.
“Where’s the pain? Ring the doctor!”
Jane halted her.
“Relax. Look closely. See my big toe wiggling?”
Helen shrieked with joy.
“Hurrah!”—then remembered the hour.
“Where’s your doctor’s number stored? We’ll call him first thing. He must see this,” Helen danced around giddily.
The doctor arrived, sending impatient Helen to her room. Later, beckoned her back.
“You’ve done wonders, young lady,” he voiced, intrigued. “An operation’s feasible. Mrs. Smith, shall we?”
Sparkling, Jane agreed.
For the entire procedure, Helen resided in corridors, awaiting. Yet naturally helping, passing a dropped crutch, delivering medicines to nurses.
Meeting Helen outside, the doctor shared news.
“How’s everything?”
Stern faced, the doctor replied,
“Time will tell. Healing for our not-so-young patient takes effort.”
Helen cried excitedly,
“I’ll be her gentle caretaker. Thank you immensely. May I tiptoe and kiss you?”
“Help yourself,” nodded Doctor.
She stood tiptoe, pecking his bristly cheek.
While Jane remained hospital bound, Helen rarely left her side. Only departing to cook nutritious meals—broth, veggie stew—as prescribed.
“Is she your daughter, granddaughter? Such devoted care!” asked ward mates.
“Better than that. She’s my nurse and guardian angel, sent by fate,” Jane beamed.
When Jane sat proudly in her wheelchair, they embraced, united in tears of joy.
As her son and grandson arrived, Jane seemed to bloom.
“Now, Mom, we can take you with us,” the son declared.
Crash. Helen dropped the pie dish in shock.
“What? Why?” Confounded, she ducked into her room to cry.
“She wishes. Lena, wipe those tears, come here.”
Fifteen minutes later, Helen reappeared carrying a suitcase.
“Do I leave now or tidy broken crockery first?” she questioned sulkily, sniffling.
“Sit!” snapped Jane. “Quit sobbing, don’t pack yet. Documents demand attention. Silly thing, wherever would I be without you? Join us for a short visit, then back home.”
Helen got married. Not to Jane’s grandson but a new neighbor next door. He’d helped her open a jammed door lock, recommending an overdue replacement. Introductions were sealed.
Jane was thrilled. She’d been a key guest at Helen’s wedding, earning suitors’ interest despite her wheelchair. Helen later gifted her a granddaughter, albeit unrelated. And Helen’s husband, David, often drove everyone to the countryside. Enjoying farm-fresh milk and nibbling freshly picked berries, as Helen couldn’t remain idle. What’s a countryside visit without fruits or greens on the dining table?
