Her name was Mrs. Alvarez.
She was a silver-haired woman in her sixties with soft eyes and a posture so straight she seemed incapable of being intimidated by anyone.
“Mr. Bennett’s evening routine begins at five,” she explained. “Medication, bathing, dinner, stretching exercises, then bed preparation.”
I nodded carefully, trying to remember everything.
“And if I do something wrong?”
“Ask.”
Mr. Bennett let out a humorless laugh.
“She means ask her. Not me.”
Mrs. Alvarez ignored him.
“He has limited movement below the chest. Some sensation has returned in his arms and hands, but he fatigues quickly. Never move him without telling him first.”
“I understand.”
“And Rachel?”
“Yes?”
“Do not treat him like glass.”
Mr. Bennett stared at the window.
“I’m still here, Maria.”
“I know,” Mrs. Alvarez said calmly. “Which is why I’m saying it in front of you.”
For the first time that day, I almost smiled.
She showed me the bathroom attached to his bedroom.
Everything had been modified.
Handrails.
Mechanical lift.
Wide shower.
A padded bathing chair.
The kind of equipment that cost more than my apartment building.
When Mrs. Alvarez finally left us alone, silence filled the room.
Mr. Bennett watched me organize towels.
“You’ve never done this before.”
“No.”
“You’re nervous.”
