TWO
I quickly gather my belongings, remembering my mother's advice: a caregiver should always pack light. A medical bag, a suitcase, and a box are all I need.
The medical bag is filled with the tools of my trade - thermometer, blood pressure cuff, stethoscope. My parents gave me the black leather tote when I first started working for Mr. Gurlain, and I've used it for the past twelve years, despite its worn zipper and cracked leather.
The suitcase contains a toiletry bag and my clothes - bland, inoffensive slacks and cardigans that are ten years out of style. I've given up trying to be stylish, opting for comfort and thrift instead.
The box is filled with books, mostly paperbacks. They once belonged to my mother and bear the signs of her voracious reading habits - loving wear and tear.
"You're never alone when there's a book nearby," she used to say. "Never ever."
I appreciate the sentiment, but I know it's a lie. For six months, I've been surrounded by books, but I've never felt more alone.
Once I'm packed, I peek into the hallway to ensure there's a clear path to the back door. My father is home from work, sitting in the living room and eating a sandwich while watching TV. We've become experts at avoidance, going weeks without seeing each other. I've mostly kept to my room, only venturing into the kitchen when I'm certain my father is at work, asleep, or out with his girlfriend, whom I'm not supposed to know about.
I sneak out, moving on tiptoes as I make two trips to my car - one for the suitcase and medical bag, and one for the box of books. On the second trip, I find Kenny leaning against my Ford Escort, clearly having seen me with the suitcase and come out of his house to investigate.
"You moving out?" he asks.
"For now, yeah," I say. "Maybe for good. I've got a new assignment."
"I thought you were fired," Kenny says.
"Suspended. It just ended," I reply.
Kenny frowns, a rare occurrence for him. "Quickie before you go?" he asks, his voice laced with disappointment.
I glance at him, feeling a pang of guilt. "My dad's inside, and my new patient is expecting me," I say, trying to steer the conversation away from Kenny.
I don't tell him just who my new patient is. I'm afraid of what he'll think of me if I do.
"Okay, I get it," Kenny says, his tone sullen. "See you around, I guess."
I watch him walk back to his house, kicking myself for letting things fall apart. Meeting Kenny was a mistake - a desperate attempt to fill the void left by my mother's passing. But I know I deserve better than a fleeting infatuation with a young man who barely knows me.
Back in the house, I make one last trip to say goodbye to my father. I find him watching TV, his mouth full of sandwich, and I feel a pang of sadness. It's not the goodbye I wanted.
"I hope you don't mind," I say, trying to sound casual, "but I'm leaving."
My father nods, his expression unreadable. "Okay."
That's it. No questions, no small talk, just a shallow acknowledgement of my departure. I breathe a sigh of relief and turn to leave, feeling like I'm disappearing into thin air.
