Why did Lena feel so compelled to help the elderly lady struggling with that giant shopping bag? Not only did the handles break, spilling the contents all over the sidewalk amid her colorful curses, but the items looked like they’d come straight from a bin. That little act of kindness made Lena late for work.
It was her excess of sympathy. She simply couldn’t walk by. There’d be someone sprawled out on a park bench, barely moving, and Lena would rush to their aid, suspecting something serious. The strong smell of alcohol didn’t deter her from calling emergency services either. And what would happen? The paramedics would yell that the man was just dead drunk and question why they’d been summoned. Meanwhile, the police would haul the man, who could barely drag his feet, off to the station. Did they need this hassle? He would have slept it off and left the bench himself.
Lena was truly kind. Though behind her back, people called her crazy and mocked her naivety. When her mother passed, she gave their apartment to her stepfather. He hadn’t worked, and her mother had exhausted herself, cleaning stairwells besides her main job. Lena felt sorry for him. He was old and unlikely to find housing, while she, being young, could earn her living. It took her neighbors to convince her not to sign the property over to him.
Lena decided to move to the city. There, she could find both work and a place to rent. Her savings got her a room in a shared apartment. She first worked as a cleaner in a supermarket, but her salary barely covered the rent. Still, she had perks, like taking some of the unsellable groceries home, so she didn’t starve. Clothing was another matter; no matter how she washed them, they wore out quickly, as did her shoes, which constantly needed gluing.
She decided to become a housekeeper. But with no experience, few places would hire her. Eventually, a company with a reputation for delayed wages and poor staff treatment offered her a trial.
Her first client was a little old lady with a commanding voice. “The tea’s too hot, the bathroom’s not clean, the dishes are greasy…” So began Lena’s work life.
Lena would constantly apologize and redo everything rather than slam the door on her way out. After all, who typically employed outside help? Bored retirees eager to unload their negativity on someone else.
Newbie Lena was exactly who they sent to such clients, yet they were surprised when no complaints came in.
The day Lena was late wasn’t a big deal; instead of reprimanding her, they urgently sent her to a bedridden client. The previous carer had resigned abruptly.
Upon arrival, Lena was appalled. How could people be so careless? Just because the client couldn’t see the state of her apartment, they thought anything was acceptable?
Mrs. Jenkins was taken aback when Lena carefully changed her sheets, dressed her in a fresh nightgown, and treated a small bedsore. Mrs. Jenkins smiled from her bed as she listened to the girl bustling about with dishes, cloths, and a vacuum. When the house sparkled and delicious smells filled the air, Lena finally settled down. She served Mrs. Jenkins a bowl of hearty chicken soup and a fragrant cup of tea.
“I thought some homemade soup might do you good when I was tossing out the trash,” Lena said, “All I saw were empty meal boxes. Enjoy your meal, and I’ll wash up before I leave. That’s it for today.”
Mrs. Jenkins heartily ate the soup and asked Lena to stay a while; she wanted to get to know the lively girl and her future plans. It was a welcome change from her previous carer, Sophie, who’d rush in for half an hour, leave a thawed-out patty with sides, and dash off.
Unreservedly, Lena shared her life story.
“But surely it must be hard, cleaning other people’s homes daily and putting up with constant nitpicking. Was this always your dream?” Mrs. Jenkins asked.
“Oh, Mrs. Jenkins, I’ve dreamed of everything. Being a singer, a dancer. But I can’t sing, and my legs are too short. I wasn’t accepted into any clubs. When my mother was sick, I wanted to be a doctor and cure everyone. But it wasn’t meant to be. I barely finished high school because I worked too. Mr. Ahmed’s kiosk was where I worked. He praised me and occasionally gave bonuses because I kept the counter spotless and only accepted quality fruit. We had some sneaky suppliers who tried slipping in rotten produce. I hardly have time to dream now, always on the go. At work, then back to a crowded house, with messy corridors and uncleaned toilets, no toilet paper. I clean and collapse into bed. Once, you won’t believe it, I fell asleep in the bathroom holding a toilet brush,” she laughed.
Mrs. Jenkins smiled. She had grown fond of the jovial young woman.
“How about working exclusively for me? I’ll handle your management. I’ve had all sorts of carers – some steal, some rush through chores to get home to their families. When I first became bedridden, I tried a live-in carer. She seemed okay initially, but then she started sneaking off to clubs at night. I need my meds on schedule! She’d come back, reeking of alcohol, thrust a glass of water and a pill at me, and say, ‘I’ll cook when I wake up.’
I endured a month before threatening to throw her out. She then started hosting suitors right here, thinking I was both immobile and deaf. I had to let her go. Since then, I’ve relied on agencies, trying to find a good match. After Sophie, I asked your agency for one final carer. If she wasn’t up to par, I’d move on. I’m not alone. I have a son and grandson in another country, where they have stable jobs. They support me financially and visit but rarely. I’ve been bedridden for five years after slipping on a stairway. Treatment went on forever, and though the doctors promised I’d one day sit, it hasn’t happened. So, what do you say? Will you move in?” smiled Mrs. Jenkins.
“Of course! You clearly need help. Look at all the work – unwashed curtains, dirty windows, dust under the furniture,” Lena began enumerating.
“Alright, Cinderella, that’s enough. You’re hired. Head back to pack your things, and move next door. You’ll have your own room. Meanwhile, I’ll phone your agency,” chuckled Mrs. Jenkins.
Lena dashed off, as Mrs. Jenkins picked up the phone to call the agency. They were unpleasant, trying to price-gouge, claiming Lena was their best worker. Mrs. Jenkins remembered Lena’s stories and burst into laughter.
“And you paid your best worker a pittance while sending her to the most critical clients. Enough chatter. She’ll resign tomorrow. I’ll pay her directly. And forget about those two weeks of notice, otherwise I’ll unleash the tax inspectors on you. I have connections.” She hung up.
Lena settled in with Mrs. Jenkins. Every morning, Lena served pancakes, scones, or fritters for breakfast. Morning routines included washing, freshening up, and brushing teeth. With cheerful banter, Lena handled everything seamlessly. The house sparkled; windows gleamed, dust under the furniture vanished. Still, when all seemed spotless and cooked, Lena couldn’t sit still.
She visited the library, hauling back stacks of magazines and books.
“What’s all this for?” Mrs. Jenkins laughed.
“For you! Maybe there are exercises that might help you sit up. We’ll get a wheelchair for outings. What’s the joy in being cooped up? Outside, there’s fresh air and birds singing,” Lena dreamt aloud.
Mrs. Jenkins was moved to tears.
“Lena, not even the doctors could help, and you offer exercises. Don’t give me false hope. I know your heart’s in the right place, but my situation seems hopeless.”
But Mrs. Jenkins underestimated Lena’s determination. Every day, Lena came to her room, perched in a chair, studying books and magazines. She silently read, lips moving, marking noteworthy parts with a pencil.
Finally, Mrs. Jenkins couldn’t resist.
“What have you found? Show me.”
Eagerly, Lena leapt from her chair, plucked a magazine from the stack, and handed it over.
“I found some simple exercises. But they require regular, multiple daily repetitions. Don’t worry, I’m on top of it, if you’re willing.”
Mrs. Jenkins sighed.
“You won’t let it rest otherwise?”
Lena shook her head.
“Alright, let’s give it a try.”
The endeavor was grueling. At times, Mrs. Jenkins cried, laughed, threatened to fire Lena, but eventually adapted. The exercises intensified, yet results were scant.
Then, in the middle of one night, Mrs. Jenkins shouted:
“Lena, come here!”
Lena dashed out of her room, alarmed.
“What’s wrong? Where does it hurt? I’ll call the doctor!”
Mrs. Jenkins barked:
“Calm down and look. My big toe’s moving.”
Lena cried out in joy.
“Yes!” instantly recalling it was the middle of the night.
“Do you have the doctor’s number? Let’s call him first thing. He should see this.” Lena danced about the room.
The doctor arrived. Impatient Lena was sent to her room to avoid interference. Eventually, she was summoned.
“Well done, young lady,” the doctor remarked with a trace of admiration. “Now, we can consider another surgery. Shall we go for it, Mrs. Jenkins?”
Mrs. Jenkins beamed.
“By all means, Dr. Foster.”
Lena spent the entire surgery waiting in the corridor. As usual, she found ways to assist – fetching a dropped crutch or carrying medicine for nurses.
When Dr. Foster appeared, Lena eagerly inquired:
“How did it go?”
He removed his cap,
“Time will tell, but rehabilitation will be lengthy. Mrs. Jenkins isn’t as young as she used to be.”
“I’ll handle it with care,” Lena assured eagerly. “Thank you so much. May I give you a hug?”
“Go ahead,” Dr. Foster chuckled.
Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his stubbly cheek.
Throughout Mrs. Jenkins’ hospital stay, Lena was her constant companion, only stepping away to cook. Broth, vegetable soup – everything the doctor ordered.
“Is she your daughter or granddaughter? She certainly cares as if she is,” fellow patients would ask.
“Even better, she’s my carer and guardian angel sent by fate,” Mrs. Jenkins proudly responded.
When Mrs. Jenkins sat in a wheelchair with a special brace for the first time, they embraced, weeping tears of joy.
When her son and grandson eventually visited, Mrs. Jenkins seemed positively radiant.
“Well, now we can take you home, Mum,” her son announced.
A loud clatter rang out. Lena had dropped a tray of pies.
“What? Why?” she asked, disheartened, retreating to her room in tears.
Mrs. Jenkins cast a reproachful look at her son.
“How tactless of you, Michael. Lena, stop crying and come here.”
After fifteen minutes, a puffy-eyed Lena, suitcase in hand, emerged.
“Should I leave now or clean up first?” she asked gloomily, sniffing.
“Sit down!” Mrs. Jenkins ordered. “Stop sniffing, and hold off packing. You still need to arrange your paperwork. Silly girl, where would I be without you? You’re coming with us for a visit. Then we’ll return.”
Lena married. Not to Mrs. Jenkins’ grandson, but to the new neighbor who moved in next door. He’d noticed Lena struggling with a stubborn lock, stepped in to help, and recommended replacing it altogether. That’s how their acquaintance began.
Mrs. Jenkins was overjoyed. Not only was she the guest of honor at Lena’s wedding, captivating suitors despite her wheelchair, but a year later, Lena presented her with a granddaughter, even if not by blood. Lena’s husband, James, regularly took them all to the countryside, where they enjoyed fresh cow’s milk and berries picked straight from the garden. For Lena, who couldn’t sit still, no garden would be complete without fresh produce on the table.
