"That's true," said Michael, rubbing his shin. "Then I handed her the juice. She was embarrassed and offered me a coffee."
Dorothy's voice softened. "And I learned that he was alone too. So I hired him. He's strong. And he's a good listener."
But that wasn't the whole story. Far from it.
Two weeks later, the storm broke. A Lexus and a BMW pulled into the parking lot. His children—two sons and a daughter—got out, dressed in tailored suits, their faces impassive. I had left my door ajar.
The screams began immediately.
"Mom, have you lost your mind?" Helen barked. "A biker? A Hells Angel?"
"Not at all!" retorted Dorothy. "He's a gentleman."
"He's a criminal," Mark said. "We're calling a lawyer. You're not competent. A power of attorney is being processed."
I intervened. "It was no longer a private matter when you started shouting 'incompetent' in the hallway," I said. "I'm your mother's neighbor. And I'm a journalist."
They fell silent.
“Your mother,” I continued, “hasn’t seemed so alive in months. Your agency treated her like a piece of furniture. She just sat there, silent. Do you know what she fears most? Dying alone, staring blankly ahead. That’s exactly what you were paying for.”
Helen sneered. "And him, is he any better? He's probably stealing from her."
"He's listening," I said. "He knows she likes her crackers on the second shelf. And you?"
Silence.
“He knows she puts on ‘Sentimental Journey’ at 4 p.m. He knows George served in Korea. He lets her tell the same stories over and over again, not because she forgets, but because she wants to be remembered.”
Michael finally spoke. "I'm not here for her money. Look at my attendance sheets."
Mark frowned. "How can we know you're not a former inmate?"
Michael looked down, then took out a worn wallet containing a faded photograph of a young woman who resembled Dorothy.
"That was my mother," he said, his voice breaking. "She had Parkinson's disease, too. I was a bad son, always on the road. I thought I had time. She died alone. I never got to say goodbye. I never got her cookies. This isn't work, it's penance. Your mother is giving me a second chance."
Dorothy took his hand. "He's not an ex-convict," she murmured. "He's a man of his word." He made a promise to his mother. And he's keeping it... with me.
The children were stunned. The threats of legal action had vanished.
Mark Cleare
