Fancy

“Yes mam. Ok. Yes, I will come mam. Ok thank you. Bye bye.”

Lena looks at her phone, waits for the red end call button to extinguish, before shutting her smile off. She sighs softly. Too exhausted and defeated to sigh thoroughly. She takes the Tupperware containing two-day-old rice and fried fish that she was about to reheat before the phone rang and puts it back in the mini fridge. She turns to her wardrobe/ pantry and drops 2 granola bars in a reusable bag, three t-shirts (extra for messes), some plaid pajama bottoms. To it she adds her toothbrush, hair brush, and a noname face cream which is affordable enough for multipurpose use. She dumps out the pot of water that lives on the radiator in lieu of a humidifier and reaches for her for her still-damp, second hand, parka. A pseudo parka, purchased because she presumed anything this puffy had to be warm enough. She catches a glimpse in the mirror of her shockingly aged face. It isn’t just the lack of sun and traditional food that has altered her colour. It isn’t just the longing to see and touch her family that has drooped her expression. It’s the deepening, swallowing feeling that this life might not be temporary.

She looks at her phone again. Sixteen minutes before the next bus arrives. It takes eighteen minutes at walking pace. She grabs her mask, her phone, and her keys. It’s actually just one key with a chain with three miniature bobble head characters popular from back home. She leaves her wallet on the coat rack as she always does, unless going out for necessities. With her ungloved hand, she locks the door to the basement, not-so-sweet, bachelor suite kiddy corner to the dilapidated strip mall that’s dilapidating in large part because shoppers are migrating eighteen minutes away to the new Walmart / Subway/ Dollorama complex.

Heart rate up, she alternates between a scurry and a brisk walk in half block increments hoping to shave off the two minutes. She’d like to pick up the pace but it’s slippery - she learned about ‘gription’ on icy sidewalks last month. She looks behind her for the bus...about three blocks out. Ahead of her two blocks, it looks like five or so people waiting in line, and one of them is a mom with a double stroller, so that’s good. If the traffic lights co-operate, she’ll make it. A preferable scenario to waiting 30 minutes in the bus shelter which shelters one from not much.

“Hello again,” says the driver, who kindly waited while she scurry-ran the last half block. She reaches for her pass, which is conveniently tied to the inside of her pocket, the one great feature on the parka, but he waves her in because he’s already seen her pass today. She takes off her faux-fur hood and makes her way to an empty seat. Sweating in certain places and feeling relieved. Frozen in certain places and not at all looking forward to her destination. She closes her eyes, leans her head back against the window and prays.

17 stops, 2 transfers, and 51 minutes later she gets off at the much fancier bus shelter just outside the MaGuire Estates gates. How silly to build such fancy gates that aren’t even meant to close. In the Philippines, if you build gates, it is certainly to keep people out. Her employers, Mister and Misses Jansen, live next to a walking path that meanders through the neighbourhood on its way to the waterfront, or as Lena thinks of it the rich dog street. She reaches the driveway, heart retreating with each approaching step. She rings the doorbell. Even though she has worked for Mister and Misses Jansen for 22 months, they haven’t given her a key. For securities sake. Naturally one has to build up a certain degree of trust before sharing a key. She rings the bell again. It’s truly amazing how much colder she gets when standing still.

One of two heavy doors of carved, imported wood finally opens.

“Lena, we’re in such a hurry!”

“Sorry mam, I took the first bus possible.”

“Well drinks were supposed to start at 7. I gave Ethan Tylenol about half an hour ago. You can do the kitchen. And walk the dogs before bed. There’s some throw up I didn’t get to in his room. He’ll probably be fine by tomorrow, but we didn’t want to take the chance… he’s not much of a skier anyways. Frank is in the suite watching tv.., where else would he be? He has his bell beside him, so keep a listen. He had a bath today so I told his nurse not to come over since you’ll be staying the weekend.”

Car lights flood in through the windows accompanied by three quick, polite honks. Misses Jansen rolls her matching suitcases closer to the door.

“HONEY… CAB’S HERE! The instructions for Frank’s meds are on his fridge, and his soups are in the freezer. Don’t let him have more than one scotch a day. You can call us on our cells, but the service isn’t great in the mountains.., and we’ll probably be checking in around midnight. So maybe I’ll just call you when I can.”

“Ok mam.”

Mister Jansen emerges in his post-work, fancy-casual clothes, looking handsome as ever and looking beyond Lena. He grabs a coat, stacks his leather gym bag on the handle of one of Misses Jansen’s suitcases, says “See you Sunday” and takes the full load out to the cab.

“Gosh, I’m sure I’m forgetting something “ frets Misses.

Lena picks up a glove that was dropped in the frenzy and hands it to Misses. Lena’s never been skiing, nor does she want to, but she’s pretty sure she would take a different kind of glove.

“Thank you. I know I can trust you. Have fun ok!”

“Yes mam.”

“BYE BABY!” she shouts to her 13 year old up in the den who, sick or not, 10 or 13, is playing call of duty or, more and more these days, watching porn. “Bye! He tosses back, not sounding sick at all.

The heavy door clicks. The air settles. Lena makes her way into the kitchen. Turns on the tap to let it run hot before plugging the sink, one of the bad western habits she’s picked up. The dogs follow her, hoping for people-food droppings. Lena has never been fond of dogs but she prefers their company to that of Mister and Misses. Before the sink is full, Mister Frank, her favourite being of the Jansen household, comes electric wheeling out of the in-law suite.

“Hello Mister Frank” Lena says.

His right forearm and palm rise up from the armrest of his chair and the right corner of his mouth stretches to a grin. Frank doesn’t speak. A series of strokes have left him in various states of disrepair. He can make sounds but not words. He’s got a partly good arm, a partly good leg, and a few working digits. He’s forgetful but knows some of what’s what. He’s pretty much deaf, but still... he has registered that the air has settled; that the coast is clear.

Lena returns the grin, she understands his mischievous invite.

She knows little about Mister Frank. But she gets him. She sees how he is talked down to, how others assume his inner life is less rich because of his limiting circumstances. How others presume that those who don’t speak don’t have plans-a-brewing.

She throws a dish rag over her shoulder and leaves the dishes to soak. Mister Frank wheels toward the office, Lena follows him and the dogs follow her. The office is perhaps the fanciest part of the house. It’s got floor to ceiling windows that look out on a fancy landscaped backyard presently being used only for hot tub access. Lena unlocks and opens the sliding door and the dogs run out. It’s a small act of defiance, not taking them for a walk on the dog path, but she’s done the commute twice today. That’s a lot of extra steps, a lot of extra time, and who knows how much extra pay, if any. The issue of compensation is one that her employers perpetually put off. Her base salary barely covers her rent, bus pass, phone plan, and simple groceries. Every extra dollar she sends back to her family for her kids, now ages 5, 7, and 13, and her brother’s medical bills. If she could collect minimum wage for the weekends she’s worked, she’d have enough to send her oldest to University by now.

She walks over to the bar that she dusted just yesterday, and pulls out the fancy crystal bottle from the back with Mister Frank’s favourite scotch. She pours more than the allotted amount into a fancy, crystal tumbler and carries it over to Mister Frank, making sure he’s got a firm hold on it before settling into a moderately comfortable Scandinavian chair beside him. He nods a thanks, raises his glass to her and then towards the night sky. They just sit together. It’s a secret bond they’ve built up over time. Lena’s shifts are supposed to end at 5pm and she’s supposed to have weekends off but that hasn’t prevented them from finding numerous opportunities to toast the peace and beauty of the home when Mister and Misses are not around.

The dogs reappear at the door, tails wagging, anxious for warmth. She lets them in one at a time, carefully wiping their paws to preserve the clean floors. Mister Frank watches Lena… her quiet diligence applied to every one of her thankless tasks for nearly 2 years.

He motors his way over to the grand desk, opens the lap top and reaches for the little black book that he keeps in the side pouch of his wheelchair. He fumbles to place it on the table and to grab hold of the ribbon page marker. She lets him because she knows he can manage. He awkwardly plunks in a password on the computer. Several minutes of plunking and page searching pass. She lets them because patience is a kind of love. He grunts to say come over. In his lap is the little black book opened to a page with large child-like scribbling of a string of digits and letters. He motions his good knee towards the lower drawer of the desk. She opens the very heavy drawer, something she was explicitly instructed never to do, and sees a safe. He nudges and grunts for her to go on. She carefully enters the numbers and letters, followed by the pound sign. The safe beeps a happy beep and she timidly opens its door. Mister Frank reaches in, grabs a bundle of crisp clean cash and clumsily drops it beside the computer. It’s tidily bound by a gold and white tag titled $10,000. He does this a second time. She’s confused and embarrassed as if witnessing something inappropriate. He points to the screen. Her eyes widen as she sees the familiar Philippine Airlines page opened. She stares. Still confused. He reaches in the safe a third time, swings it shut, a reverse happy beep, and drops a black credit card onto the keyboard. She looks at him. “Mister Frank?” His expression says plenty. With his stiff hand, he gives a couple of gentle pats to her shoulder, then maneuvers the crystal tumbler of scotch toward her before wheeling away.

Lena takes a deep breath. Sighs fully. And reaches for the fancy glass.