The Caretaker

Olivia

“My mother’s very elderly and fragile. What kind of experience do you have taking care of those that are high need?” I ask the young woman in front of me while taking a drink of my over-priced latte.

The latte steam fogs up my reading glasses, and I wave it away. The coffee shop is overly loud, and I can barely hear over the commotion of screaming babies and their chatty mothers out for a quick coffee date with friends. I have to cock my head to the side, and I probably look like I have early-onset hearing loss.

The young woman in front of me, Eryl, bites her lip and picks her fingernails while she readies her answer. I take the time to study her and her credentials while waiting. Her hands tremble as she holds her cup of green tea and takes deep breaths.

On paper, she’s impeccable. She’s just finished her first year of a nursing program at a state college two states over. I peg her as about twenty years old, but she worked at a nursing home during high school answering phones and even helping with patients. She volunteers with her town’s library as a person who picks up books the homebound may enjoy and goes to their homes to read them aloud. I see nothing glaring that makes me think she can’t help me take care of my incredibly ill and fragile mom as she battles dementia.

“Well, Mrs. March,” she begins.

“Please, call me Olivia.”

“Well, Olivia, I’m experienced with some of the basic items you listed. I can administer meds through a line, turn patients, clean up patients after an incontinence issue, and I often feed patients at the nursing home. I also know how important it is to do this while ensuring the patient can keep some pride in themselves. I believe it’s important not to belittle them for the changes in their body. I’m well aware that your mother is not a child, and I promise not to treat her that way.”

This answer pleases me since I’m rather attached to my mother, Carol. She was a single mother and raised my sister and me after my dad ran off with a woman when I was a preteen. It wasn’t easy for Mom to take care of us, and I vowed to take care of her when her dementia and extreme rheumatoid arthritis left both her body and mind decimated. My teen son, Aaron, often helps with her care. However, Aaron’s off at camp for the summer as a counselor, so I desperately need help turning, bathing, and keeping my mother company.

“I hope you understand that, since you’ll be living with us in our guest room, there are some questions I need to ask that I normally wouldn’t ask in an interview.”

Eryl picks at the cardboard around her coffee cup, “I understand that.”

“We know that our home will be your home for the next couple of months, and we are happy for you to have a couple of friends over. However, we don’t want any parties or loud events that will disturb my mom. Basically, I need to ask if you like to party.”

Eryl laughs gently, and it’s almost a soothing sound. “No, ma’am,” she says, meeting my eyes. Her eyes are bright green and such an unusual color for a woman with long red hair. “I don’t go out much. My boyfriend, Chris, lives in town. We met at college, and that’s why I’m here for the summer. We didn’t want to be apart. He may come over, but I don’t see us having a kegger, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m sorry I even had to ask that,” I say kindly. “You just never know. Are there any dietary issues you have since you’ll also be joining us for some meals?”

“No, ma’am. I’m not a big fan of peas, but other than that, I’m pretty easy going with food.”

“Well, I don’t like peas much myself,” I chuckle. “I also need you to understand that I run a busy baking business out of the kitchen. I’ve been looking for a storefront, but with my mother ill, it’s been nice working at home,” I explain, and Eryl nods eagerly. “If I’m working, I need the kitchen to myself to maintain cleanliness and order. Please don’t be offended if I’m doing a cake order in the middle of the afternoon and need the kitchen to myself.”

“I’ll make sure my meals and snacks are out of your way as much as possible.”

“My husband, Kyle, is an accountant and just finished tax season. He may work late on occasion but will usually be home at five on the dot for the summer. We usually eat at 6:00 so that he can wind down for a bit before dinner. Otherwise, I’m sorry to say we’re morning people and will be up early. Is that going to be an issue?”

“None of those are issues, Olivia,” Eryl says, and I can’t get it out of my head how gorgeous she is.

Kyle is not going to be upset about me hiring her. My husband is nearly forty but still handsome. I hope I’m not setting my marriage up for a hot mess. Kyle and I haven’t exactly had the best marriage lately. I’m a few years older than my husband and still in great shape. However, I don’t get to the gym as much as I would like, and a few gray hairs have snuck into my hair lately. I’m glad the guest room has its own bathroom, so we won’t need to share a shower and sink with her. It might be a bit too close for comfort if that were the case. I then chide myself for even thinking such a thing. This woman seems professional, and my husband has never given me any reason not to trust him.

“Well, then I think this will work just fine,” I say as I hold my hand out for her to shake and also hand her a piece of paper. “I wrote our address down. I’d really like you to come by and meet my mom later today if that works. I can also show you your room. Then, you can make the final decision as to if this is a good fit for you.”

“Thank you so much, Olivia,” she says. She takes my hand and shakes it firmly while smiling a perfect smile. Her hands are soft, as if she takes great care of them, but they’re also strong like she’s known some hard days of work. “I think we’ll get along great.”

***

“Wow. Thanks for hiring a hot caretaker this summer,” Kyle says with a smirk as we watch Eryl walk down the sidewalk towards her blue Ford Focus parked at our curb. “It isn’t even my birthday until September.”

“Haha,” I say, playfully smacking his cheek. “Hands off the help, Kyle.”

“She seemed to get along with your mom pretty well. I bet that makes you happy.”

“Yeah,” I say, kicking off my shoes and flopping on our large brown couch in front of the TV. “I was sweating finding someone. Mom’s getting worse, and it’s wedding cake season. I have five weddings in the next month and about a billion wedding showers requesting cookies and cupcakes. We can use the money, but with Aaron gone, this is a relief. She’s well-qualified. She’s bringing her stuff over tomorrow.”

“Well, maybe you just need to relax for a bit,” Kyle says as he comes over to the couch and strokes my shoulder. “We could go upstairs and relax for a bit.”

I brush his hand away, and guilt instantly consumes me when I see his face fall with disappointment.

We haven’t had sex in months. It’s not like I find him unattractive. I think he’s gorgeous with his perfect smile, dark stubble that usually dots his chin, blue eyes, and dark hair. Women still look at him on the street just like they did when we met in college, even if his middle is going a bit softer. It’s not noticeable to anyone that doesn’t see him naked. His t-shirts still fit him well. He has broad shoulders I enjoyed wrapping my legs over as he ate my pussy or fucked me in our youth. Now, it’s hard to muster up the energy to even have sex with my own husband.

It’s not his fault. The pressure of running my own business, taking care of mom, raising Aaron, and finding time to get housework done consumes my day-to-day life. I’m tired. I’m cranky. I’m perimenopausal, so hormones don’t help. It also doesn’t help that I’ve been fucking that man for almost twenty years. There’s only so much spice left in a marriage after that time. We’ve fallen into the trap a lot of other couples we’re friends with have experienced. In short, we’re tired, getting older, and mostly bored with each other.

Kyle turns to go before I can even get words out of my mouth or grab his hand to stay. I don’t know what I’d say anyway. What am I supposed to say to the husband I just denied? But I don’t want to have sex with him tonight. Plain and simple. If I call him back over, I’ll end up performing service sex for him just to get it over with so he doesn’t complain. It’s such an irony that I love my husband to the moon and back but would rather take a bath and read a book than fuck him. Guilt eats at me daily when he approaches me for sex.

Sometimes, I think that’s the problem. He just comes over and asks for sex or rubs my shoulder and immediately expects me to be ready for him. There’s no romance or transition into the bedroom. Even worse, when I do reach for him to hug or just grab his hand, he doesn’t accept it’s just me being affectionate. He instantly goes into nuclear ‘we’re going to fuck’ mode. I can’t even hold his hand without him thinking it’s an open door to immediate sex.

We’re frustrated with each other. Plain and simple. We tried counseling, and it was a joke. We were assigned to read a book from the 90s that talked about the differences between men and women. What the fuck? At least give us a reading assignment from this century. We were then just told to have dates with each other. That idea tanked when I tried to set up a date for reconnection and Kyle took it as a date to get laid. Any night Aaron stays with a friend or out of the house for the night is fair game for Kyle. It’s like he expects me to fuck him just because our child is out of the house. This actually pisses me off more. Sometimes, I think we’re speaking different languages.

The guilt eventually eats at me when Kyle is half-way up the stairs. “Kyle, I’m sorry!” I yell and hope he can hear the sincerity in my voice.

“Forget it,” he mumbles like a surly teen. “I’ll check on Carol for you before she goes to bed. You rest for a bit. I know June is like your tax season.”

I know the drill. Kyle will sulk up to our room and jerk himself off in the shower while thinking about another faceless woman. I’ll stay down here and watch TV or read a chapter of my book. Either one will cause me to fall asleep on the couch until the wee hours of the morning when I’ll wake up and slink upstairs to my bed for another couple hours of sleep. Then, it will all start again tomorrow. It’ll be the same old shit just a different damn day. We’ll eat the same food. I’ll bake the same wedding fare. Kyle will go to work and then be in a bad mood when he doesn’t get enough attention from me. I’ll be in a bad mood with him for him wanting my constant fucking attention when I can’t even give myself attention.

At least that’s what I expect when I get up in the morning.