Why did Emily feel the need to help the old lady struggling with a huge bag? Not only did the bag’s handles break, but under a string of curses, she picked up nearly ruined groceries from the pavement, which the woman must have collected from the nearest trash bin. Because of this, Emily was late for work.
It was her excessive compassion. She couldn’t just pass by. Suppose someone is lying on a bench, barely showing signs of life; Emily would rush to help, thinking they might need serious help. The unmistakable scent of alcohol didn’t stop her from calling emergency services. The outcome was the paramedics yelling that the guy was just drunk and questioning why they were called. The police dragged the guy, barely able to walk, to their station, casting sidelong glances. Was it worth it? He would have woken up and stumbled off the bench himself.
Emily was kind-hearted. Though behind her back, people labeled her as crazy, twirling their finger by their temple.
She had given her apartment to her stepfather after her mother passed away, mostly because of him. He didn’t work, and her mother, besides her primary job, cleaned staircases until she wore herself out. But Emily felt sorry for him. The man was old and unlikely to find housing for himself. And what about her? She was young and would manage to earn. Her neighbors barely convinced her not to move out and sign the place over to him.
Emily decided to move to the city. Here there were jobs and accommodations to rent. Her savings were enough for a room in a shared house. Initially, she cleaned floors in a supermarket, but her salary just covered the rent. Though there were some perks. When expired goods were divided, she got a bit, so she didn’t go hungry. But as for clothes, they aren’t eternal. No matter how much you wash, they wear out quickly. Shoes were even worse; she barely kept up with buying glue.
She decided to try being a house cleaner. But with zero experience, nobody hired her. One company, notorious for delayed payments and treating staff poorly, graciously took her on with a probationary period.
Her first client was an elderly lady with a commanding voice.
“The tea is too hot, you didn’t clean the bathroom properly, the dishes are greasy…”
Thus began her working life.
But Emily is Emily. Constantly apologizing, she redid all the work instead of simply slamming the door. After all, who often uses such services? Bored pensioners eager to vent their negativity on someone else.
Emily was often sent to such clients, and people were always amazed why there were no complaints about her after she was gone.
On the day she was late, surprisingly, she wasn’t scolded. Instead, she was rushed to help a bedridden woman. It turned out the previous caregiver had left.
Emily was shocked. How could people be so shameless? If a woman can’t stand and see how her flat looks after cleaning, does it mean anything goes?
Mrs. Eugenia was surprised when Emily carefully changed her dirty beddings, dressed her in a clean nightgown, and treated a small bedsore. Then Eugenia lay smiling, hearing Emily bustling about, cleaning with a mop and a vacuum. Only when everything was sparkling clean, and the house filled with the smell of something delicious did she stop. She brought Mrs. Eugenia a rich broth with dumplings and a mug of fragrant tea on a special tray.
“While taking out the trash, I thought you could use some homemade soup,” she said. “Your cupboard’s just full of packaged meals. You eat, I’ll wash the dishes afterward and be off. No more work today.”
Mrs. Eugenia ate the soup with relish and asked Emily to sit with her. She wanted to know where this lively girl came from and her future plans. She simply wanted a conversation. The previous caretaker, Sue, would just run in, shove a defrosted patty with side dishes, and dash off.
Emily wasn’t shy in sharing her life:
“Isn’t it hard, cleaning strangers’ houses daily and tolerating complaints? Was this always your dream?” she asked.
“Oh, Eugenia, what haven’t I dreamed of being? A singer, a ballerina. But no voice, short legs. No clubs would take me. When mom was sick, I dreamed of being a doctor and curing everyone. But fate decided otherwise. I barely finished nine grades because I was working too. At a stall owned by Achmed, who praised me. Even gave me bonuses occasionally, as I kept the stall clean, accepting only fresh fruit, warding off sly suppliers trying to pawn off rot. Now there’s no time for dreaming. I’m like a hamster on a wheel, exhausting myself at work, returning to a dirty corridor in the shared house, an unwashed toilet, missing loo roll. I clean up everything and immediately crash into bed. Once, believe it or not, I fell asleep clutching a toilet brush!” she laughed.
Mrs. Eugenia smiled warmly. She liked this cheerful, resilient girl.
“Want to work just for me? I’ll sort things with your agency. I’ve had all sorts of caregivers. Some stole, others rushed through their duties to get back home. When I was bedridden, I hired a live-in girl. Initially, she seemed okay. But once settled in, she started acting up. Heading off clubbing mid-nights, and I’d meds to take on time. She’d return smelling of booze, hand me water and pills, saying, ‘I’ll prep once I’m up.’
I tolerated her a month before saying if she acted up again, she was out. So she found another escape. Brought suitors over, thinking my bedridden state also meant I was deaf. Parting ways was inevitable. Thus began my agency trials, seeking the right aide. After the messy Sue, I asked your agency for one last helper, thinking if she’s no good, I’d look elsewhere. Don’t think I’m alone; I have a son, a grandson living abroad, unfortunately. Stable jobs, they help me a great deal financially. They visit, albeit rarely. I’ve been bedridden five years since slipping. Therapy took ages. Doctors promised mobility, but fate, again. So, think about moving in?” Mrs. Ecstatic Eugenia asked.
“Of course, you do need help. Look, so much needs doing—curtains unwashed, windows dirty, dust piled beneath the furniture,” Emily listed.
“Hold your horses, Cinderella. You’re hired as of today. Head back, pack your stuff at your shared house, and return. You’ll have the next room,” Eugenia laughed. Emily sprinted off, while Eugenia dialed the agency. The conversation turned sour as they hiked up the service fees, claiming Emily was their best employee. Eugenia chuckled, recalling Emily’s words.
“So why pay your ‘best’ a pittance and send her to pickiest clients? Enough chatter. She’ll put in her notice tomorrow; I’m paying directly. And don’t mention a two-week lead time, or I’ll report you for tax evasion—I have contacts,” slamming the phone down.
Emily settled promptly with Eugenia. Breakfast sprouted pancakes, cheese scones, fritters effortlessly. Morning routines: washing, wiping down, teeth-clenching fun. Chatting, tales aplenty, Emily handled all skillfully. Windows gleamed, dirt vanished, yet Emily seldom rested.
Chasing cabin fever away, she dashed to the library, returning with tomes.
“What’s with the backlog?” Eugenia laughed.
“For you. Maybe there’s exercises to aid sitting up. Later, we’ll nab a wheelchair, taking outings beyond these walls—fresh air, chirping birds,” Emily dreamily gushed.
Eugenia wept gently.
“Emily, even doctors couldn’t help, and yet you whisper about exercises. Don’t unearth past hopes. I get it, intentions good, but no use.”
Yet, Emily was stubborn. Daily visits, she sat with books, mouthing, highlighting worthy tips. Eugenia, eventually wearied, requested insights.
“What’ve you stumbled on? Reveal it.”
Emily gleefully sprang up, pulling a magazine forth, offering it.
“Simple exercises, but regular, and multiple times. I’ve it all managed. You agree?”
Exhaling, Eugenia settled.
“You’d relentlessly pester me otherwise?”
Emily shook her head.
“Fine, let’s try.”
It was tough work. Eugenia oscillated between tears, laughter, threat of Emily’s firing. Eventually, adjustment came. Exercises became rigorous, yet results hovered low. Until one midnight, Eugenia shouted:
“Emily, here now!”
Bolting frightened, Emily’s immediate trauma responses flowed:
“Where’s pain, find the number!”
Eugenia admonished.
“Hold your horses. Look here; see, my big toe wiggles.”
Emily erupted in cheers.
“Amazing!” remembering how late, quieted rapidly.
“The doctor’s number’s handy? We’ll phone come dawn, he should review” twirling her joy.
The doctor arrived. Emily’s anticipation led her out of the room to avoid hindrance. Called later, the professional addressed her exuberantly:
“Had done marvelously,” surprise tinged.
“Now another surgery’s optioned. Up for it, Eugenia?”
Brightly she lit up.
“Eagerly, Dr. Tim.”
Emily remained camped in corridors during Eugenia’s operation. Mundane assistance routine kept her busy, fetching, delivering care items.
Results awaited anxiously—curiosity overwhelmed.
“How is she?” she persisted with Dr. Tim.
Relinquishing medical headpiece.
“Now’s to time. Rehabilitation detailed. Age is her barrier.”
Emily vowed:
“I’ll ensure constant care. Can I thank with a kiss?”
“Go ahead,” Dr. Tim permitted.
On tiptoes, she pecked his whiskery cheek.
Emily hovered nonstop. Meals prepped at strict physician guidance—broths, veggie soups.
“Is she your daughter, granddaughter? Such devotion,” other patients prompted Eugenia.
“No better; caretaker, destiny’s own guardian angel,” she’d admiringly state.
First time with the brace Alicia took her wheelchair seat, jubilant embrace led to tearful grips of joy.
When son and grandson arrived —handsome expanse, Eugenia’s spirits soared.
“We’ll take you, Mum,” her son, earnest.
Loud clang as Emily dropped pie dishes.
“How? Why?” she queried, fleeing teary-eyed.
Chided son, Eugenia scolded:
“Crikey, Serge, you’ve no tact. Emily, pause your sobs. Come.”
Returning hesitantly, bag in tow.
“Should it be now or post-damaged wares?” uncertain, tear-choked words.
“Park right down!” Eugenia commanded. “Pack sacked, leave far ahead yet. You’ll need further paperwork. My dear fool, what of without you? You’re accompanying us, only a brief, soon after.”
Emily wedded. Not the grandson, but the helpful neighbor. Watching heartily as Emily juggled unruly keys with stubborn locks, a stranger suggested an upgrade due replacing, marriage followed friendship in tow.
Eugenia rejoiced. Grand guest of honor at Emily’s celebration, despite her wheelchair, suitors found Eugenia endearing. Soon followed—a granddaughter for Eugenia to cherish albeit not by blood.
Emily’s husband, Charles frequently whisked everyone to the countryside, cows’ fresh milk and garden berries aplenty. Emily’s dynamism untethered—such rural visits lacked savor without berry and greenery combos.
