The gatekeepers notebook, p.19
The Gatekeeper’s Notebook, page 19
Why is life so cruel?
“Ruth?” called Felicia from her bedroom. “I need your help.”
Ruth snapped to attention, practically sprinting down the hall. She found Felicia bent over her vanity, her face concealed by an amassed clump of blood-soaked tissues.
“It’s happening again,” shrugged Felicia, as if commenting on a change of temperature.
“Here, let me get you cleaned up.” Ruth gently held Felicia under the elbow to guide her carefully to a hard seat. Once situated, she traded the wet tissues for a warm wet washcloth. “I want you to sit straight up and lean slightly forward.” Felicia leaned way over. “No, not that much. I don’t want you to choke.”
Ruth pinched Felicia’s nose using her thumb and first finger to hold the pressure. “Can you hold the washcloth?”
Felicia nodded from underneath the cloth.
“Good. I’m going to get some ice. Be right back.”
“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
Ruth smirked but rushed into the kitchen anyway. Once back, she held the cold compress up to Felicia’s face. “How often is this happening now?” She asked.
Felicia squinted, pondering the question. Her advanced-stage cancer had left her deteriorated, drained, and increasingly weak. The time for the hospice had arrived.
“You need more around the clock assistance, Felicia. Much more than I can provide.”
“I know, but Melvin?”
“He understands more than you’re giving him credit for.”
“You think so, do you.” Felicia highly doubted Ruth’s assessment. While Melvin may appear to understand parts of the issue, she didn’t believe he fully grasped the difficulties soon facing him.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you need to finalize the paperwork.”
“I know.”
“You haven’t signed it.”
“I will. I will.” Felicia clasped her trembling hands. “Tonight.”
Ruth gently lifted the towel from Felicia’s nose. “There, I think that did the trick.”
Felicia shifted her body weight. The muscles in her back and neck ached from forcing her body to sit unnaturally erect. “Until the next time.”
Ruth messaged Felicia’s lower back. “Yes, until the next time.”
Kalila
Outside the sun dipped behind an army of clouds, ready to set. Hamza saw that his mother had pulled in, but took his time going home, dragging his feet to the back door. Before stepping inside, he stopped to give Melvin a half-wave.
“Hamza?” called his mother. “Is that you?”
Hamza tossed his backpack and jacket defiantly over the kitchen chair. “Yeah, it’s me.”
Kalila rushed into the kitchen. “I’m so,” she almost said sorry but hesitated under his glare. “The job interview lasted longer than anticipated.” Hamza’s lip curled, but Kalila chose to ignore it. “I picked up takeout on my way home.” She said, pulling a few plastic and cardboard containers from the brown paper bag. “Chinese food—from that new halal spot on Main Street. It smells so good.” Kalila smiled. Hamza loved Chinese food, and she had purposely used this as a peace offering.
Hamza helped set the table begrudgingly, his hunger propelling more than a willingness to forgive and forget. Then an idea popped into his head.
“Ma?” he asked, his voice devoid of sarcasm.
Kalila’s head whipped around. She hadn’t heard her baby boy call her that in months. “Yes, Hamza,” she answered, holding her breath.
“I need to talk to you about something important.”
“Of course.” Kalila patted the chair. “Let’s eat, and you can tell me what’s going on.”
Hamza grabbed a spoon and scooped a nice portion of beef Lo Mein onto his plate. Kalila placed a shrimp roll on the side. Then she served herself.
“I’m all yours,” she said, trying to hide the sheer relief bubbling up inside of her. Kalila reached over and tapped the table with her nail, close to his dish. “Whatever it is, I’m here for you,” she said, meaning it.
Hamza bit into his shrimp roll, stalling. Kalila waited, her eyes never leaving his face, watching him self-consciously wipe his mouth, before beginning to speak.
“I found out today that Mrs. Vine is dying,” he mumbled. Hamza lifted his fork, twirling a few noodles. “Melvin’s gonna get taken away forever. They’re going to force him to live someplace else—someplace where nobody knows him.”
“How do you know this?”
“The nurse told me.”
“The who?”
“The nurse, Miss Ruth. She’s at the house helping Mrs. Vine.”
Kalila nodded, thinking. “I’m sorry. I know how much you like Melvin.”
“Can he live with us?”
Kalila blinked. “Wait—what?”
“He can have my bedroom. I’ll move into the guest room.”
“Hamza, it’s not that simple.”
“Please, Mom. Melvin doesn’t have anybody else but me. I can’t let him go to some strange place. He’ll get so scared.”
Kalila dropped her fork, pushed her plate away, no longer hungry. Never would she have anticipated this conversation and appeared lost for words. “I’m trying to sell the house,” she mumbled, drawn to the hope in her son’s eyes. “We’re barely making it as is.”
“I’ll eat less.”
Kalila laughed. “How do you even know Melvin would want to be with us?” she asked earnestly.
“I know he would.”
“But he’s a grown man.”
“He needs us, mom.”
“But you said his mother already decided where she wants him to live…”
“I know, but can’t you just talk to her? Just ask her?”
“I don’t know…”
“Mom, please.”
Kalila hadn’t seen Hamza this animated since…well, for a long time. He’d be devastated if she didn’t at least say she’d try.
“Okay, fine. I’ll speak to Mrs. Vine, but—” She barely finished her sentence before Hamza jumped from his chair, flinging his arms around her throat.
“Thank you, Mom, thank you.”
“Wait, wait, wait, don’t start thanking me yet,” she said, trying to get him to hear her. “His mother could say no.” But even as she uttered those words, she couldn’t help but bask in the return of her son’s embrace, cherishing the closeness, and willing to do whatever it took never to lose him again.
Chapter Twenty
Cries and Whispers
Felicia
WITH THE NOON LUNCH rush over, for the most part, traffic on the roads should be minimal. Nevertheless, Melvin’s trip downtown presented an uncomfortable sense of urgency—at least for Felicia.
“Run a comb through your hair, Melvin,” reminded his mother, stepping aside in the hall to make room for Ruth, arms weighed down with a load of folded towels and sheets.
“I’m good,” Ruth replied, smoothly squeezing past Felicia, balancing a stack of towels precariously under her chin.
Standing in front of the mirror, Melvin did as he was told, systematically running a comb through his short, salt and pepper hair; his concentration solely focused on a single, stubborn, shock standing at attention.
“You may want to wet that part down a bit,” instructed Felicia, stopping herself from further intervening. Melvin listened but could also become quite irritated if anybody interrupted his flow. Because of his sensitivity to touch, Felicia held back from rubbing his back, even in encouragement.
He has to do for himself now.
Her thoughts journeyed back to a time when Melvin stood in the same mirror but as a small child, barely tall enough to peer over the counter, combing through a head full of soft, unruly auburn curls. She recalled the despair and heartache knowing—even back then—how Melvin’s ability to communicate had failed to develop fully, separating him from a world of social relationships. Most of all, she recollected standing in this same exact place looking at the same pair of eyes with the same precise vacant intense stare; thoroughly engaged with the repetitive movements, whose appeal rested within following the rigidly familiar pattern.
Once satisfied, Melvin exited the bathroom wearing a pair of casual slacks and a button-down shirt tucked into his pants.
“Put a belt on, Melvin,” reminded Felicia.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” called Ruth, still busy zipping around the house, putting laundry away.
“Now remember, Melvin. This is just a quick visit to see where I will be staying,” she explained, following him into his bedroom. Ruth had been encouraging Felicia not to rely on euphemisms when discussing her situation.
“Don’t underestimate Melvin’s ability to comprehend what’s going on,” repeated Ruth. “Speak directly to him; be clear, and don’t beat around the bush trying to protect his feelings. There’s no need to gloss over anything.”
“I’ve always been the one advocating for him to have home-based options, and now that I’m dying he might wind up living in one of those places anyway.” Felicia’s voice trailed off. As a toddler, Melvin had started off like all other children, but by the time he reached 21 months, his differences became glaringly apparent with him suddenly acting strangely, rejecting her or his father’s touch, and losing many of the social skills he had already acquired. His obsession with order intensified and consumed him. He’d walk around the house straightening chairs or lining up shoes in size order. Books and pencils had to be lined up in size order; his toothbrush and comb placed in the same position as he found them. Instead of playing outside or riding a bike, he preferred sitting in front of the kitchen pantry cabinet fixated on lining up the same cans and boxes for hours, and if—God forbid—she dared moved a single can before he completed his task, he would throw a terrible tantrum. Stomping his feet, scratching at her or throwing whatever he could find nearby.
How will anybody understand his need for structure?
Will they realize how loud noises jar him, causing him to become upset or anxious?
What will happen when they find out how aggressive he can become if frightened?
“There’s an enormous amount of stuff on your plate right now,” said Ruth gently. “All we can do is tackle each issue as it arises, one at a time. Let me first bring him to where you’ll be staying. I’ll show him around for a bit, introduce him to the staff and volunteers…demystify the process enough for him to feel comfortable visiting you.”
Once done putting on his belt, Melvin grabbed a freshly sharpened pencil and his sketch pad. Trudging into the kitchen, he resumed his place at the table and waited.
“All ready to go?” asked Ruth, finishing up making a tray of items Felicia may need in her absence.
“Ready to go,” said Melvin, placing his pencil in his shirt pocket.
“I want you to listen to Ruth,” said Felicia, accepting a cup of water and a pill from Ruth.
“I will,” said Melvin, good-naturedly.
“He’ll be fine, right, Melvin?” asked Ruth, winking, another subtle social clue that held no meaning for Melvin.
“Right,” said Melvin, flatly.
Adult or not, man or child, Felicia wanted to reach over and throw her bony arms tightly around her son. She tried to cocoon him in her love, protect him forever and keep him out of harm’s way, but that, regrettably, wasn’t realistic. Instead, she did as always, holding enough of a physical distance between them until he gave her some indication that more would be tolerated.
Felicia sighed, attempting to mask a ragged sob. “I’m going to lay down for a bit to rest. I’ll see you both when you get back.”
Ruth grabbed her bag and keys. “We’ll be back soon. If you need anything, I left the number for—”
Felicia pulled a tissue from her pocket blowing her nose loudly. “I know, I know,” she interrupted. “Stop fussing all the time. Just go.”
Ruth didn’t feel the slightest jarred by Felicia’s dismissive attitude. She’d been a caseworker long enough to understand how sick or terminal clients could react under stress, sometimes turning curt or outright abrasive; often masking their fear and apprehension behind a brusque persona.
“Let’s go, Melvin,” said Ruth.
Melvin rose from his chair. After slipping on his loafers, he followed Ruth out the front door. “Bye, Mama,” he said waving, avoiding eye contact.
Hearing her name, Felicia swung her head around in time to catch Melvin leaving. “Bye, dear,” she said, forlornly watching the door close behind him.
As she toddled down the hall, an intense weariness stretched over her. With each subsequent step forward, her legs grew heavy and uncooperative. “It won’t be long now,” she muttered, her body aching in places she didn’t know existed. Feeling dizzy, she used the wall to steady herself. “Thank God for that.”
Ruth
Determined to find a closer parking space, Ruth took yet another spin around the block, hoping her patience would eventually pay off. Not that she had anything against walking. Matter of fact, when given the opportunity she preferred to stretch her legs, but not with Melvin in her charge. He needed to see the place and gain a familiarity with this new environment.
Driving slower than usual an impatient truck driver behind them laid on his horn, blasting it three times long. The loud, jarring noise caused Melvin to yell in alarm covering his ears in a panic. Stuck in the car and unable to escape, he started rocking back and forth to simulate escape and to self-soothe.
Ruth didn’t yell back, refusing to set Melvin off any further. Instead, she pulled her car to the side as far as she could to give the irate driver enough room to go around her, while purposely snubbing the flipped bird heralded in her direction. Gripping the steering wheel, and more concerned for Melvin’s emotional welfare, Ruth declined to satisfy the moron’s base infantile behavior. As soon as she saw an opening, she pulled back into traffic. “Sorry about all that,” she said, modulating her voice almost to a stage whisper.
Rounding the corner, Ruth glimpsed a gray sedan pulling away from the curb. “Yes,” she declared relieved, happy to snap a space almost directly in front of the hospice. “This will do perfectly.”
Unaffected, Melvin sat calmly, no longer rocking, moaning, or holding his ears. Staring out the passenger side window, fixated on something across the street.
Too busy to notice, Ruth parked leaving ample room for Melvin to get out. “Stay inside until I come around and open the door for you,” she instructed, peering over her shoulder, timing a break between oncoming traffic long enough to step safely outside.
Once safely on the other side, she bent over to pull open his door. “Give me one more minute,” she said, pointer finger in the air. “I need to feed the meter.” But before she could close his door again, Melvin had already released his seatbelt.
Unflustered, Ruth stepped back to give him room. “Watch your step, Melvin.”
“Watch your step, Melvin,” he repeated, watching his step.
Ruth smiled. “Just stay put while I feed the meter,” she explained.
Melvin tilted his head but didn’t budge from where he waited.
Ruth fed enough coins in the meter to cover the two hours she allotted for the visit. When she glanced up, she found Melvin waving.
“Do you see somebody you know?” she asked, curiously following the direction of his stare, but Melvin only clicked his tongue three times in response.
Ruth looked left, then right, and even spun her head entirely around, trying to figure out who the heck Melvin was waving to, but after a moment gave up.
“Melvin,” she signaled, trying to get his attention, but Melvin continued to wave, thoroughly fixated and unable to grasp Ruth’s growing frustration.
“Come on, Melvin. It’s not waving time. Only walking time.” She reached out to tap him on the shoulder, but he promptly jerked away. “Sorry! Sorry! I forgot,” she said, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other.
In the distance behind the bank and off to the far left in another adjacent parking lot, a silhouette of a lone familiar figure discreetly entered a building. Melvin abruptly stopped waving.
Ruth peered up from her watch and noticed. “Good. You’re done,” she said relieved, “‘cause we gotta go.”
Out of nowhere, Melvin started violently shaking his head and tapping his foot.
“What happened? What’s the matter?” Ruth asked concerned, again searching in every direction but still unable to see the problem. “Let’s just go inside,” she pleaded, completely misreading his reactions. “I promise, it’s going to be okay.”
Distressed, but no longer frozen in place, Melvin bowed his head, gripped his notebook to his chest, and scurried after Ruth. However, before entering the building, he stopped for one last cautious peep over his shoulder.
A second passed and then Ruth watched his shoulders relax. Whatever had scared him was now long gone.
“See? This isn’t so bad,” soothed Ruth, grateful when Melvin finally decided to step inside.
The reception area, behind glass panels, gave the appearance of a medical office. But the painted cream and earthy terracotta color walls and tall ceilings made the place feel homey and pleasant. Instead of a typical waiting area with uniformed chairs lining the walls, this common room sported a comfy couch, a coffee table and a few high back winged chairs, a television, kitchenette, a desk with a leather chair, and even a small play area.
Melvin frowned. He sniffed the air a few times and scrunched his shoulders, apparently bothered by the fusion of antiseptic, bleach, and illness wafting through the air.
Ruth had also noticed the strong odor when she first walked in. Perhaps something had happened recently requiring a vigorous cleaning. Nonetheless, she tactfully covered her nose with her hand.
Unfazed by decorum, Melvin slapped his hand over his nose.
“Yes,” snuffled Ruth. “The smell in here does take some getting used to.”
