The Resident

I think this is rock bottom.

I’m still a little drunk, heels in hand, hobbling home to my third-floor cave. Just last weekend, I told myself that I would never wake up next to Chris again but here I am doing the walk of shame once more. There’s a wad of mail in front of my door since I’ve failed to retrieve it for weeks now. My headache swells as I bend down to scoop it up. I hate my life.

Looks like some useless flyers and a couple of letters addressed to the guy who used to live here. Even my mail reminds me of how alone I am. I toss the pile of junk onthe table and pray my fifteen-year-old coffee maker will pull through since the poor thing hardly made it through the last brew.

After a sad breakfast, I attempt to open up my laptop but the screen light is too much for my growing migraine. The three deadlines staring me in the face, all projects I haven’t started, aren’t helping predicament. I’ll eat my breakfast, hoping I can keep it down, take a quick nap, then I’ll get to work.

Crunching away at my stale toast, I start sifting through my pile of junk mail and find nothing noteworthy but some coupons for Taco Bell. Don’t mind if I do. My bed is calling me so I head to my room to - AH FUCK!

I just smashed my hip on the corner of the kitchen table and sent a bunch of papers flying to the ground. Clumsiness is just another one of my many assets. I let out a sigh and pick up my mail and other random papers I should have thrown out years ago. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a yellow envelope.

It’s addressed to me which awakens butterflies in my stomach. I haven’t received a surprise letter in so long so this feels like Christmas though a part of me fears it’s the government about my taxes. I open the envelope slowly to savor the anticipation and what I read sends me into a shock that will change my life.

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Five years ago

I’m going in for my fourth double shift of the week, so you’d think I’d be dreading the day, but I look forward to the peace of the retirement home, with the exception of a few residents of course. One lady, in particular, has been giving me all sorts of grief. Lillian Moore.

“Hey!” she yells at me as I fold her towels.

“I thought this was how you liked them done, Lillian”. I’m exasperated, behind on my work with seven more rooms to clean and a shower to do.

“Give me that,” she mutters under her breath as she snatches the towel out of my hands.

"Anything else you need from me?”

The old bat doesn’t even bother to respond and simply waves me away with a dismissive hand gesture. I’m glad to move on to my other work.

I clean Walter’s room and he updates me on what’s going on in the world since he was appalled to hear that I don’t watch the news. By the time I’m done with him, it’s already noon and I feel like I’m running on empty. Coffee time.

As always, the universe senses that I’m about to take a break and sends me an obstacle. Sobs are echoing in the hallway outside of the break room. I rush to the door and see her, Lillian Moore, probably on her way to the common area, leaning on the wall with her cane on the floor, and black tears streaming down her angular face. She saw me standing there but refuses to look.

In a small voice that I didn’t recognize she asks me: “Could you pass me my cane?”

“Of course, Lillian.” I grab the cane and hand it to her, but when she seems too shaky to get back upstairs I grab hold of her shoulder and slowly lead her to her room. She doesn’t say a word but her wincing gives her pain away. By the time we reach her door, I’m bearing most of her weight.

I read her silence as an unwillingness to engage so, I tell her the wellness team is on their way and turn to leave.

“Wait” came a desperate voice. She explained that her legs were getting weaker with time and eventually, she would be bedridden. There was nothing the wellness department could do. She asks me to stay with her and talk. There goes my break.

“You’re a pretty thing,” she said “just scrawny.” She lets out a groan as she settles into an elegant chaise lounge in the corner. “You got a boyfriend?”

“I do, actually. Chris.”

“You don’t seem too happy to say that,” she says, raising her perfectly groomed eyebrows.

“I am.” I snap back, a little shocked.

Lillian reaches for a small notebook in a leather, black cover that sits on her bedside table. “Sorry, dear. I shouldn’t pry.” She slips on her oversized cat-eye readers. “Help me with this crossword?”

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Three days after the letter

After spending time with Lillian in her room, solving crosswords and talking about life, we became true friends. I did alot for her like picking up her fancy beauty orders and smuggling in her favorite moscato.

I'd listen to stories about her glamorous life as a wealthy 60s housewife and got to know her as more than a bitter old woman but rather an intelligent, selfless, and hilarious person who was slowly withering away. Lonely and afraid.

She did alot for me too. She convinced me that I deserved better than my ex, Chris and only three months after befriending her, I had moved out of the apartment that Chris and I shared.

"That miserable bastard!" she'd yell when I complained about his lying and cheating.

She encouraged me to chase my dreams and start writing again. After a year of building my portfolio, I left my job as a housekeeper to pursue my writing career full time.

I felt guilty for leaving her but she was so happy for me that she insited we celebrate with a drink after my last shift.

"You better get famous" she said to me, teary eyed and smiling.

"I promise." I replied sarcastically as I give her one more hug.

"I owe you one."

Apparently she did beleive she owed me something because upon her death a week ago, instead of her estranged son, she left me twenty thousand dollars. That's more than I've ever had in my bank account.

I never thought I meant much to the people around me. Shit, I don't even mean that much to myself. Just this past weekend, I was back in bed with Chris, a man who never loved me or valued me. Even though I had the courage to leave him, I never gave up hope that our relationship could work one day. Lillian's reappearance in my life has reminded me of why that's so sad.

I delete his number.

I think I'll invest most of this money into my writing business. The rest will be tucked safely away into a savings account (that I have yet to open). If Lillian were still alive she'd tell me to get my shit together. I intend to do just that.