Why did Jenny feel the need to help the elderly lady with the enormous bag? Not only did the handles rip, but under a string of curses, she was picking up almost spoiled goods from the pavement. Goods that the lady might have collected from the nearest trash bin. Because of this, Jenny was late for work.
It was all due to her excessive sympathy. She couldn’t just walk by. If someone seemed lifeless on a bench, Jenny would rush to help, thinking it might be serious. And the distinct smell of alcohol didn’t stop her from calling the emergency services. In the end? The medics would shout that the person was just dead drunk, and question why she called them. The police would drag the man, struggling to even move his feet, away to the station, throwing side glances. Did they really need this? He could’ve slept it off and moved on his own.
Jenny was truly kind-hearted. Though behind her back, people called her crazy and pointed to their heads as if to suggest she was missing a screw. She gave her apartment to her stepfather after her mother passed away, mostly because of him. He didn’t work, and while her mother was juggling several jobs, it wore her out. Yet, Jenny felt sorry for him. The man was older and unlikely to find a place on his own. What about her? She was young, she could earn her keep. It took her neighbors considerable effort to convince her not to sign over the apartment or offer a deed.
Jenny decided to move to the city. There, she could find a job and rent a place. Her savings covered a room in a shared apartment. Initially, she mopped floors in a supermarket, but the salary was barely enough for rent. There were some perks, though. Dividing expired stock sometimes meant she could take a bit home, so she wasn’t starving. But clothing wore out quickly, no matter how much she washed it, and shoes were another story. She had to keep buying glue to fix them.
She decided to try housekeeping, but with no experience, no one hired her. Eventually, one agency, where they paid late and treated the staff terribly, took her on with a trial period.
Her first client was an elderly lady with a commanding voice. “The tea isn’t hot enough, the bathroom isn’t clean, the dishes are greasy…” That’s how her work life began.
But Jenny was Jenny. Apologizing continuously, she redid all the work instead of slamming the door, knowing that most often, those who used outside help were bored pensioners needing to vent their negativity.
This was precisely the type of client they assigned inexperienced Jenny to, and they were always amazed when the clients didn’t call back to complain about the novice worker.
On the day she was late, they didn’t scold her; they urgently sent her to a bedridden woman. The previous caregiver had quit. When Jenny arrived, she was shocked at the state of disrepair. People had no shame. If the woman couldn’t get up and see the state of her home after cleaning, did that make it acceptable?
Mrs. Amy was surprised when Jenny carefully changed her soiled bed linens, dressed her in a clean nightgown, and treated her small bedsores. She lay there smiling, as Jenny bustled around, cleaning with a rag in one hand and a vacuum in the other. Only after everything gleamed and the home smelled inviting did she stop. Jenny brought Amy a nourishing chicken soup and a cup of fragrant tea on a special tray. “When I took out the bins, I thought you could use a homemade soup. I noticed you had only prepackaged meal boxes. Eat up, then I’ll wash the dishes and be on my way. No more tasks for today.”
Amy savored the soup and asked Jenny to stay a while longer. She wanted to know more about the energetic young woman’s past and future plans. Besides, she just craved some conversation. The previous helper, Ann, barely stayed for half an hour, handed her a defrosted meal, and rushed off again.
Jenny candidly shared her life story.
“But isn’t it hard? Cleaning strangers’ homes every day and tolerating their nit-picking? Was that truly your dream?” Amy asked.
“Oh, Mrs. Amy, I’ve dreamed of many things. Wanted to be a singer, a ballerina. But no voice, and short legs. No club accepted me. When Mum was ill, I wanted to become a doctor and heal everyone. But it wasn’t meant to be. I struggled to finish secondary school because I was working. Ahmed, who ran the corner shop, praised me, even gave me bonuses sometimes because I kept the counter clean and only accepted quality fruits. We had sly suppliers trying to offload rot on us. Now, there’s barely time to dream. I scuttle around like a squirrel in a wheel. I exhaust myself at work, come home to the shared apartment, only to find the hallway dirty, the toilet uncleaned, no loo roll. I clean up and immediately crash. Once, you wouldn’t believe it, I fell asleep clutching the toilet brush!”
Mrs. Amy chuckled, finding the cheerful, indomitable girl captivating.
“Would you like to work exclusively for me? I’ll sort it with your agency. I’ve had all sorts of caregivers. Some steal; others rush through their tasks to get home to their families. When I first took to bed, I hired a live-in caregiver. Seemed alright at first, but then she started sneaking out to clubs at night. I’m on medication that needs timely administration. She’d waltz back, reeking of booze, give me water with a pill, and declare, ‘I’ll prepare everything once I wake up’. I tolerated it for a month, then warned her — keep it up, and you’re out. So, she started bringing boyfriends here, thinking since I’m bedridden, I must be deaf too. I had to let her go. I’ve since been trying agencies to find a decent caregiver. After Ann, I decided to request your agency for one last try. If they sent another like her, I’d look elsewhere. Understand, I’m not alone. I have a son, a grandson. But they live overseas with steady jobs. They help me generously, but they can’t visit often. I’ve been bedridden for over five years after a fall on slippery stairs. Doctors said, maybe, I could sit again. But, seems not. So, will you move in?” Amy smiled.
“Of course, you need help! There’s plenty to do. Curtains haven’t been washed, windows need cleaning, dust under the furniture…” Jenny started listing.
“Enough, Cinderella! You’re hired this very day! Go pack your things and come here. You’ll have the room next door. While you’re at it, I’ll call your boss,” Amy laughed.
Jenny hurried off, while Amy phoned the agency. The conversation was tense; they tried raising the fee, claiming Jenny was their best worker. Amy recalled her chat with Jenny and burst out laughing.
“So you paid your best worker peanuts and sent her to the fussiest clients? End of discussion. She’ll resign tomorrow. I’ll pay her directly. Don’t even mention a two-week notice, or I’ll sic the tax office on you. I have the connections,” she hung up.
So, Jenny moved in with Amy. From then on, breakfast varied from pancakes to cheese fritters. Hygiene became a morning ritual, complete with face washing, body sponge baths, and teeth cleaning. Chatting and sharing funny stories, Jenny handled everything with ease. Windows sparkled; dirt disappeared. As if a cleaning tornado had swept through.
Yet Jenny never seemed content. She ran to the library, returning with piles of magazines and books.
“What are those for?” Amy laughed.
“They’re for you! Maybe there are exercises that could help you sit. Later, we’ll get a wheelchair, and I’ll take you outside. Stuck in four walls, there’s no joy. Outdoors, fresh air, birds chirping…” Jenny imagined.
Amy teared up. “Jenny, even doctors couldn’t help, and you talk about exercises. Don’t give me false hope. I know you mean well, but it’s too late for me.”
But Amy underestimated Jenny. Every day, Jenny would plop into a chair, lay out magazines and books, and silently read, moving her lips, highlighting intriguing bits with a pencil.
Finally, Amy relented. “What have you found? Show me already.”
Jenny leaped up, pulled out a magazine from the stack, and handed it to Amy. “Simple exercises! They must be done regularly, several times a day. But don’t worry, I’ve got it under control if you’re okay with that?”
Amy sighed. “You won’t leave me alone, will you?”
Jenny shook her head. “Alright, let’s try.”
It was grueling work. Amy would laugh, cry, threaten to fire Jenny. Slowly, she adapted. The exercises grew tougher, but progress seemed non-existent.
Until one night Amy shouted, “Jenny, come here!”
Startled, Jenny darted to her side. “What’s wrong, where does it hurt? Where’s the phone?”
Amy rebuked her, “No need to panic, just look. My big toe’s moving.”
Jenny screamed with joy, “Hooray!” before remembering it was the middle of the night.
“Do you have your doctor’s contact? Let’s call him in the morning.” She twirled in delight.
The doctor came. Jenny was sent to her room to prevent distractions. Then they called her in.
“You’ve done wonderfully, young lady,” the doctor said impressed. “We can try another surgery. Shall we risk it, Mrs. Amy?”
She beamed. “Of course, Dr. Smith.”
Jenny waited outside during the surgery, helping out by habit. She reached things for patients, carried medication for a nurse.
When Dr. Smith emerged, she asked eagerly, “Well?”
He removed his cap. “Time will tell. Rehabilitation will be lengthy. Our patient isn’t young anymore.”
Jenny declared, “I’ll take meticulous care of her. Thank you so much. May I kiss you for this?”
“Be my guest,” Dr. Smith smiled.
She stood on tiptoe and pecked his bearded cheek.
While Amy was hospitalized, Jenny barely left her side. She only disappeared to cook. Broth, vegetable soup, as prescribed by the doctor.
“Is that your daughter or granddaughter? Such dedication!” the other women in the ward asked.
“No, much more — my caregiver and guardian angel sent by fate,” Amy replied proudly.
When Amy first sat in a wheelchair, wearing a special corset, they hugged and cried tears of joy.
When Amy’s son and grandson visited, she seemed in full bloom.
“Mom, we can take you back with us,” her son declared.
A crash followed. Jenny had dropped a dish of pastries.
“What? Why?” she asked dismayed, and fled to her room, to weep.
Disapprovingly, Amy eyed her son. “Serge, you’re tactless. Jenny, stop sobbing. Come here.”
Jenny appeared fifteen minutes later, carrying a bag. “Shall I leave now or clean up the shattered dishware first?” she sniffled.
“Sit down!” Amy commanded. “Why the tears? And early packing? You need to sort your documents first. Silly girl, I can’t manage without you. You’re coming with us for a holiday, then we’ll return.”
Jenny married. Not to Amy’s grandson, but to the new neighbor who moved in next to Amy. He watched Jenny struggle with a stuck door lock, helped her, and advised replacing it entirely. It was beyond repair. That’s how they met.
Amy was content. Not only was she the honored guest at Jenny’s wedding, charming the gentlemen despite her wheelchair, but a year later, Jenny blessed her with a granddaughter, albeit not by blood. Jenny’s husband, Tom, often took them all to the countryside, where they drank fresh cow’s milk and feasted on berries straight from the bushes. Jenny couldn’t sit idly by. What kind of farm was it if there weren’t berries or greens for the table?
