Chapter 1
I know what you're thinking: *Wes, tell the fuckin' truth.*
But the thing is, I’ve never been a liar. So whatever I say—just know—I say it with reason. When I tell you this story, just know… it’s true.
I was flabbergasted too.
I suppose I’ll start at the beginning... I had just gotten my CNA license.
---
I glance at my phone, GPS pulled up. I’m on my way to a client’s house, and I’m nervous as hell. I just got my CNA license and passed the board test. This is going to be my first job, and it’s for an 18-year-old. I’m not quite sure what all he’s going to need as far as his care plan goes, but I’m sure his parents will fill me in.
It’s a live-in position. They said their son got into an accident, and he’s no longer the same—so he needs extra attention. Before the accident, he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, which worked out great for the couple since they work all the time. If I remember right, they own their own business. That’s great, since it means they’ll probably pay well. They also said all my meals will be included and I’ll have a free place to stay, which is a huge bonus.
The whole ride there, I’m praying I get the job.
I actually saw a few comments under the post warning people not to go to the interview. They didn’t say why, just “don’t go.” But whatever it is—I can handle it.
I have a theory: people these days don’t get into nursing for the passion. They’re in it for the paycheck. And I can assure you, there’s no real money in being a CNA. Still, I didn’t feel like spending all that time in college just to risk not getting into nursing school. Around here, they’re so picky. It’s ridiculously easy to get denied. Meanwhile, the government’s out here screaming about how badly we need nurses. I bet we do... except they don’t let anyone in.
Anyway, mini rant over.
By the time I get to the house, I’m five minutes early. I thought about arriving sooner, but I wasn’t sure if anyone would be home. Still, I wanted to show I’m reliable—and that I’m taking this seriously.
Stepping out of the car, I let out a whistle. The house is beautiful. It’s *huge*, and there's a garden out front that looks easy to get lost in. I stare up at the place before walking to the door and ringing the bell. It has a pretty tune that chimes for a while.
Suddenly, the door opens and a woman stands there. She’s dressed to impress, that’s for sure. Pearl necklace, hair done up in a high-class bun, diamond earrings. She looks like she’s in her mid-forties, but she’s aging really well.
“Good evening. You must be Wes, the new caregiver...”
I can already see the judgment in her eyes as they scan down to the tattoos on my arms. I know, I know—I had a wild past. But tattoos aren’t as frowned upon as they used to be. I wasn’t thinking about people who still judge them.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, pulling her attention back. “It’s nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand.
She slowly takes it. “Yes... please, follow me.”
She turns around, and I hesitate for a second. Maybe that’s why the reviews said not to come—because this already feels kind of awkward. Still, I suck it up and walk inside.
The whole place is fancy. A lot of the items look vintage, like they’ve been here forever. The house itself looks like it could be a historical home. It’s stunning.
I pause when we walk into the sitting area. The fireplace is lit, and a few lamps are on, but it still makes the room feel darker than it should. The woman gestures for me to sit on the couch, and I do.
That’s when I notice a kid already sitting there.
His eyes are a pale gray, almost ghostly. His black hair falls into his face, which is nearly the same color as his eyes, and his lips look a little blue and clammy. He stares at me while I shift uncomfortably on the couch.
“This is our son,” the woman says, walking up behind him and placing her hands gently on his shoulders. “His name is Vale Write. Vale... this is Wes Taylor.”
The kid doesn’t say anything. He just keeps staring at me, curiosity flickering in his expression.
“He can talk,” she adds with a sigh, “but he hasn’t for a while…”
A man walks into the room, adjusting his jacket. He pauses when he sees me.
“Hello. I’m Mr. Write. I’m assuming you’re here for the caregiver position. Has my wife explained your duties yet?”
I open my mouth to speak, but Mrs. Write cuts in.
“I’m just getting to that, James... Yes. Your duties will include cooking—though I doubt Vale will eat it—helping him bathe, and getting him into bed. Once he returns to school, you’ll be there to help him adjust. It’s a private school. You’ll help him get dressed each morning and drive him to and from school.”
Wow, I can see why this has so many good deals. It looks like my life is going to revolve around this kid.
"Can I ask what his disability is?" I say carefully. I think it's okay to ask—after all, I need to know if I’m going to care for him properly.
"I suppose so," Mrs. Write says, staring at me. "He's dead."
I chuckle but quickly clear my throat. It kind of sounded like she said he was dead. Not that I can make that call... only doctors can do that.
"I'm sorry, that was inappropriate. It just sounded like you said he’s dead?" I furrow my eyebrows.
"Yes..." Mr. Write nods. "You heard that correctly."
I sit in silence for a moment, trying to process what the hell is happening. These people are either mentally unwell, or they're stuck in some elaborate roleplay where they’re pretending their son is dead. Or maybe... they just haven’t come to terms with what happened after his accident. A lot of parents stay in denial when something changes about their child. Maybe it's easier for them to believe he died—rather than accept he’s different now.
Still, I feel bad for the kid. It can’t be easy hearing your parents say that while you’re sitting right there. Especially after a car accident.
"When our son got into the car accident, he was pronounced dead at the scene," Mrs. Write explains.
"Then how is he sitting here?" I ask, genuinely confused.
"That's for us to know. Your only concern is to help him with the tasks we've listed," Mrs. Write says flatly.
I glance over at the kid as he stares right back at me. Okay... so far, this story is sad enough to keep me here. Poor guy. His parents believe this wild story, even going as far as making up a whole backstory. And honestly, I bet this is why the other caregivers didn’t stick around.
He’s getting the short end of the stick. If his parents could just come to terms with reality, maybe he would’ve had stable help by now.
So I'm going to be that person. I’ll ignore the weird grief thing they’ve got going on. I'm sure they'll snap out of it eventually. In the meantime, I’ll take care of him.
"Alright then... I’d like to accept the job, if you decide to hire me." I nod.
Mr. and Mrs. Write exchange glances.
"Do you smoke?" Mrs. Write asks.
"Uh—I used to, but I stopped," I say honestly.
"Do you sell drugs?" She raises an eyebrow.
I clear my throat. Yeah... I get it. This is about the tattoos.
"No," I say. "I’ve never been to jail either."
She gives a slow nod. "Let us think about it for a few days, and we’ll contact you to let you know if you got the job. Our son is very important to us, and his well-being is our top priority."
"I completely understand, ma’am. Take all the time you need. It was a pleasure meeting you all."
I walk over to Mr. and Mrs. Write and shake their hands. Then I head over to Vale. I reach out my hand, and he stares at it. He parts his lips but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he places his hand in mine—and I nearly jerk away. It’s clammy... and it feels weird.
Maybe it’s a side effect of whatever condition he actually has. A lot of patients feel clammy when they’re not doing well. He could be sick...
"Okay..." I pull my hand back. "B-bye..."
What was I even supposed to say?!
I decide to leave before things get any more awkward.
_____________
I take a job for a temporary assignment—an elderly woman whose regular caregiver is out sick. I haven’t heard back from Mr. and Mrs. Write, so I’m guessing I didn’t get the job. Their loss, really. I’ve got tattoos, sure, but I’m a nice guy.
"Are you ready to eat your mashed potatoes, Mrs. Walker?" I ask my patient, who has dementia.
“W-where are my babies?” she asks, staring up at me.
“They’re right here.” I lean over and grab the baby dolls off the bed.
Sometimes Mrs. Walker takes herself back to a time when her children were babies. She’ll hold the dolls close and live in those memories. I watch her sometimes and wonder if those moments play out in her mind like a movie—like maybe people with dementia have been given a rare gift from God.
Maybe they regret so much that this is God’s way of letting them go back—giving them a chance to do things differently so they don’t die with regrets. I don’t know. It’s just a theory. But I like that theory.
My aunt had brain damage when I was nine. She stayed in that infant-like state until about a year ago. She wasn’t a good person—in fact, she treated her kids terribly. But I always liked to think that God hit “pause” on her life. Maybe they spent all those years just... talking. Maybe she got to know Him. And when she took her last breath, maybe she was able to accept Him. I let out a quiet breath at the thought.
I believe everything happens for a reason.
I bring the spoon up to Mrs. Walker’s mouth, and she lets me feed her. That’s how I know this is a good day. On any other day, she’s beating me with her dolls and threatening to call the police.
“This is very good, husband. You always did make the best food,” she says.
“Thank you.” I smile at her.
There’s no need to correct her. What’s the point? I’ll be her husband today. Some days I’m her son. He died in the army when he was about my age. On those days, she just sits and laughs.
And that—
That’s why I do this.
That’s why I became a CNA.
As great as this is, I know it’s not going to last much longer. Mrs. Walker’s caregiver will return soon, and I’ll be back on the hunt for another job.
When my shift ends—since I only work the day and part of the evening—I say hey to the night caregiver before heading out.
I walk to my car, slide into the seat, and just as I’m about to start the engine, my phone rings. I pull it out and answer.
“Hello?”
“Wes Taylor? This is Mrs. Write. I was wondering if you’re still interested in the position?”
“Y-yes, ma’am,” I nod, even though she can’t see me.
“Perfect. Can you start Monday?”
That actually works out really well. I’d like to finish my job here so I can add it to my resume. It’s important to have real experience, and I don’t want to say I bailed on my first job too soon.
“Yes, ma’am. That’s perfect. Thank you. I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Amazing… thank you.”
She hangs up, and I can’t help but smile.
Yes! Thank you, God.
I really wanted that job. Not just because of the pay, but because I didn’t want to end up working in a nursing home. A lot of people there—not the patients, but the workers—are rude as hell. They always look miserable. You might find a few who actually care, but they’re rare. That’s why I prefer one-on-one care. I don’t need anyone sucking the joy out of me.
______________
Monday arrives, and I pull up to the big house. I step out of the car, take a deep breath, and grab a couple of suitcases from the back. I’ll come back for the rest later when I get the chance.
Walking up to the front door, I press the bell. Just like before, the tune echoes through the house, drawn out and fancy, before the door finally opens.
Mrs. Write stands there, and to my surprise, she actually looks… happy to see me.
“Welcome. Please come inside,” she says, her voice a lot softer than last time.
Even her tone’s changed. Huh. Maybe they had a little family meeting and decided my tattoos weren’t the end of the world. I mean, the house is brighter today—maybe they can actually see me better.
“I was starting to think you weren’t going to call me back,” I say with a light chuckle.
“Oh, we weren’t,” she replies, honest as ever. “We actually went with Jocelyn. She was very nice. But… it seems our son had something different in mind. He chose you.”
Oh.
“Here’s your room. Vale is in the garden. Please unpack swiftly and go to him,” she says before walking off.
It’s a bit of a bummer knowing they didn’t choose me—but it also means a lot that Vale did. He must’ve seen something in me. That alone makes this worth it.
I have a feeling Vale and I are going to get along just fine.
