The Grief-Sitter

I sink down into the chair next to Elias’ bed. The velour is worn thin beneath my palms, brushed by the hands of family members, nurses, and the chaplain who visits every other day and reeks of desperate piety. I run my fingers along the creases, the indentations in the cushion. I like this chair. It’s molded to the shape of whoever was sitting here before. I think about the people who have occupied this spot. Some have been trembling with fear, some weary, some empty. I picture them all, arriving in turn to occupy this corner of the room.

Elias is awake. He’s staring up at the ceiling fan, following the turning of its blades. They’re covered in dust. I’ll need to clean them. Not for his sake, but for mine. My allergies will act up if it gets stirred up. I need to be alert for this.

“Good morning, Elias,” I say. I try to speak as gently as possible, in the same tone I’d use if I were telling my niece a story. “How did you sleep?”

He doesn’t respond. He hasn’t spoken in three days, not since his daughter left. That’s the way it goes with him. He talks when the family is around. He talks too much, sometimes. He blames us for everything, calls us terrible things. When they’re gone, though, he’s quiet. The shell he sits inside cracks more and more. I hear his fast heartbeat and the faster ticking of his paranoia.

I don’t take it to heart. I never have. It’s only natural to be frightened when you’re dying. It happened to my first patient, Mrs. Gable. She was a teacher. She was quite sharp-witted until her last few days. She told me once that people turn cruel when they’re scared. She said it wasn’t because they meant to be; it was just how they coped with being terrified. She died while she was holding my hand. Her daughter was crying in the hall. I couldn’t blame her. No one wants to watch a loved one die. That’s why I’m here. To deal with the scary stuff. I deal with the fear, and I hide it from everyone else.

His hand is shaking on top of the sheets. His fingers are bent, his knuckles swollen from arthritic joints. I take his hand in mine. It’s cold. I can’t warm it up, no matter how many blankets I put over him. I stroke my thumb across his knuckles, slowly. That’s what I did when my grandmother was in the nursing home, when I visited her. Her skin was the same papery, wrinkled thing. Her veins were dark against the skin. She died when I was twelve. I stayed in her room for three hours, and she never took my hand again.

“You’re safe,” I tell him. “I’m here. I won’t leave.”

He withdraws his hand. Feebly. It’s a faint shiver. Withdrawal. He turns slightly, toward me and spoke. “Where’s my watch.” He doesn’t ask, he states it. His voice is reedy and thin, like a flute played by a toddler.

I look over to the bedside table. It’s there. It’s a gold wind-up watch, vintage, needing winding each day. I have wound it for him today, as I have done each day. It’s part of my routine now. I wake him gently, check his vitals, and wind his watch. It’s a small kindness that helps him feel secure.

“Your watch is on the nightstand, Elias. Right where you left it,” I say.

He squints. “It wasn’t there. You moved it.”

“Elias, I didn’t move anything. You’re sundowning again. Let’s breathe together. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Ready?”

“You took it.” His eyes are wet, not with tears but age. “You’re taking everything. I know what you’re doing.”

I smile and extend my hand, palm open, as a peace gesture. “That’s a scary thought. I understand why you feel that way. But why would I take your watch? I’m here to help you.” He doesn’t respond, just watches me with sharp, pale blue eyes. I wonder how much he remembers.

I release his hand and walk to the window, opening the curtains. Sunlight floods in, revealing dust motes that are usually invisible. This job teaches you to see the unnoticed: micro-expressions, doubt, and the tremor of a lying hand.

Elias is lying. He didn’t lose his watch; I moved it to see if he’d notice. He did, and that’s a problem. But now I know he’s not as confused as he pretends.

His daughter Rebecca arrives at noon, with her hunched shoulders and tired smile, bringing carnations wrapped in green tissue. She sets them next to a photo of Elias in his prime.

“He’s quiet today,” I say softly. “He’s been peaceful. He ate oatmeal and drank juice.”

Rebecca exhales, relaxing. “God, Clara. I don’t know how you do it. He’s so different with you. He fought the last sitter and accused her of stealing his wedding ring.”

“That must have been hard for her.”

“She quit. She couldn’t take it.”

I nod, not mentioning that I suggested she leave. I was subtle, hinting that the family wanted someone with more experience.

“It’s part of the process,” I say. “The brain is losing its ability to distinguish between memory and fear. He’s afraid. He’s projecting that fear onto the people who are closest to him.”

Rebecca nods, her eyes shining with unshed tears; she never lets me see her cry.

“I’ve been doing this a long time,” I add. “He’s not going to suffer. I promise you that.”

She reaches out and squeezes my arm. “You’re a godsend, Clara.”

I give the smile of someone who doesn’t need praise but accepts it gracefully.

***

That night, after Rebecca leaves, I am not asleep.

I want the sitter to think I’m asleep. It’s easier that way. When she thinks I’m asleep, she stops performing. She stops using that voice; the one that sounds like honey over gravel. When she thinks I’m asleep, I can hear her breathing, hear the rustle of her clothes, hear her fingers drumming against the worn arm of the chair. I hear everything.

She stands. I feel the shift of the mattress as she rises. Her footsteps cross the room, soft against the carpet. She stops at the nightstand.

The drawer opens. I feel the vibration through the wood, the old runners scraping against their tracks. I know what she’s doing. I’ve been watching her for weeks. She thinks I don’t see, but I see everything. I see her cataloging my things.

My wife’s locket is in that drawer. The silver one with the tiny clasp, the one she gave me on our twentieth anniversary. She opened her palm and there it was, warm from her skin, and she said, “Keep me close.” I’ve kept it close for forty years. I’ve opened it a thousand times, looked at the tiny photograph of her face, the way she smiled in 1973, the way her hair fell across her forehead. I remember that day. We were in the kitchen, and she was making soup; the same soup she labeled in her careful handwriting: Leo’s favorite, freeze by 3/18.

I feel the sitter's hand in the drawer. I feel her fingers close around the pouch. I feel the weight leave the drawer, leave my life, leave my hands.

She slides it into her pocket. I know that pocket. She sewed it herself. I saw her sewing it, one evening when she thought I was asleep. Walking back to the chair, she sits down and folds her hands in her lap.

I open my eyes. Just slits, enough to see her. “You took it,” I say.

“Elias, you’re dreaming. Go back to sleep.”

I am not dreaming. I’ve never been more awake. “You’re going to take everything,” I say.

She leans forward. Her face is soft. The same face she makes when she brings me oatmeal. The same face she makes when she tells me I’m safe. She’s good at that face.

“Shh. Breathe with me. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.”

I try to breathe. I really try. But my lungs won’t expand. My chest is a cage. She’s sitting in front of me, telling me to breathe, and I can’t breathe because she’s taken everything. She’s taken my watch. She’s taken my ring. She’s taken my locket. She’s taken my phone. She’s taking my children, one conversation at a time, filling their heads with stories about my confusion, my decline.

“You think I’m too old,” I say. “You think I can’t stop you.”

She doesn’t answer. That silence is an answer. It’s the most honest thing she’s ever said to me.

“I’ll stop you,” I say. I force the words from the bottom of my lungs. “I’ll call my daughter. I’ll tell her everything.”

“You can’t call anyone, Elias. The phone’s been disconnected. Remember? You asked me to take care of the phone bill. I took care of it.”

I blink. I don’t remember asking her to do anything. But maybe I did. Maybe I did, and I forgot. Maybe I’m losing my mind. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am confused.

No. I’m not confused. I remember the phone ringing. I remember picking it up. I remember the dial tone, the way it hummed in my ear. I remember talking to my son last week. He called me, and I told him I was fine, and he said he’d visit, and I said don’t bother. But the phone is dead now. She killed it.

“I’ll tell the nurse,” I say. My voice breaks. I sound like a child. A child caught in a nightmare.

“The nurse isn’t coming until Friday. That’s three days, Elias. We have three days together. Let’s not spoil them with accusations.”

She reaches out and touches my forehead. Her hand is cold. My wife’s hand was warm. My wife used to touch my forehead when I had a fever, pressing a cool cloth to my skin and saying, “Elias, you’re burning up.” Her hands were always warm, even when the rest of her was tired.

This woman’s hand is not my wife’s hand. This woman’s hand is a spider. It touches, and it takes.

She smooths my hair back with light, fragile movements: spider fingers. I remember my wife’s fingers: heavy with rings, warm with life. She used to stroke my hair when I was worried. She used to say, “Everything will be okay, Elias. I’m here.”

This woman says the same words.

But my wife meant them. This woman is only taking everything.

“Sleep,” she whispers. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

I close my eyes and choose not to open them again. Not when she calls Rebecca in the morning. Not when the lawyer arrives. Not even when they read the will.

When the pen is forced into my grip, I sign it with a shaking hand. I sign because I have no choice left. I sign because I cannot fight her anymore.

Finally looking up, I don’t look at the sitter. I stare at the ceiling fan. The dusty blades. The slow, heavy rotation. I should have known better than to trust her. More than that, I should have known better than to trust myself. I let her in. I let her see my weakness, how scared I really was. Now she is using it against me.

My wife would have seen her coming. My wife would have thrown her out. But my wife has been dead for three years, I am alone, and I am just so tired.

She thinks she’s won. Maybe she has. But I don’t give her the satisfaction of meeting my gaze. I take that from her. Because in the end, it is all I have left.