Not Perfect(3)

“Thank goodness,” he said, interrupting her, and waving a file around just out of her reach. “Everyone has called out today. I don’t know who’s going to do the interviews, nobody’s even answering the phone.”

The phone stopped ringing and it was quiet for the first time since Tabitha walked in.

“Do you have time for the interview?” Tabitha asked. “If not, I can come back tomorrow.”

“No, no time for the interviews,” he said. She wondered why he hadn’t introduced himself. She assumed he was Kirk Hutchins. “But I think this is the most pressing.” He thrust the file toward her, then looked around the room. “Yep, these people look okay for now. But that woman is home alone and waiting. Her son’s called three times already—my cell! I tell them not to call my cell unless it’s an emergency. So I guess he thinks it’s an emergency. He’s out of town.”

Tabitha glanced toward the waiting faces, which were all turned in their direction. They were quiet now, too. What was going on here?

“I’m Tabitha Brewer by the way,” she said, reaching out her hand for a shake.

He looked at her sternly.

“I know that,” he said, half-heartedly shaking her hand. “The address is here, not far, take the bus if you have to, you can expense it, you know how that works. And call me when you get there. You have my cell, right?”

“No, actually, I don’t because . . .”

“Let me write it on the file,” he said. He leaned over and scribbled the numbers. Tabitha squinted to make sure she could read them. “Okay? Now go, quick, before the son calls again.”

Tabitha looked behind the man to see if there might be someone else she could talk to, someone who might be more coherent. But there was no sign of anyone. She thought about calling out, Hello? Anybody back there? but she didn’t, it wasn’t worth it, this place was crazy.

“Listen, I . . .” she tried to say.

“Please, go, she’s waiting,” he said, pushing the folder into her stomach. She sighed, grabbed it, and walked out, back to the elevator. Should she call the office and reschedule? No, because no one would ever answer her call. She wasn’t sure how she had gotten through in the first place. This was not an office she would want to work in, anyway. She would have to keep looking. She walked slowly out of the building and toward the cheap-looking coffee shop she passed on her way in. There were big windows and a counter in a double-U shape with spinning aqua stools. Tabitha could see the coffee in glass pitchers on a hot plate. That had to be cheaper than Starbucks down the street. And she hadn’t had any coffee this morning. She hadn’t quite decided what to do about that yet. Withdrawal would be hard, but she’d save a ton of money once she was off coffee. But what about the Advil she’d need in the process? She counted last night and there were ten left—that was five headache’s worth, fewer if it was a bad headache that required three at once.

“How much for a cup?” she asked when she walked in. It was late, she’d missed the morning rush, so it was quiet. She almost said, How much for a cuppa? Maybe if she sounded like a tourist they would take pity on her. The server turned to look.

“Buck fifty,” she said after a pause.

“Seventy-five cents for one cup, no refills?’ Tabitha tried. She had been telling herself lately that you don’t get what you don’t ask for.

“Sure,” the woman said, surprising Tabitha and going for the pitcher. She placed a cup in front of Tabitha and poured. Tabitha could see it was weak—it would probably taste like tea. But it smelled good.

“Thanks,” she said.

“No problem,” the server said. “And I’m happy to give you a refill. The place is empty.”

“Thanks,” Tabitha said again, hoping she had more than the three quarters she knew were in her bag so she could leave a tip, too. She took a sip, let it absorb into her body. Good. Withdrawal was not an option.

There was a newspaper on the counter, and as she reached for it she realized she’d been clutching the manila folder she meant to leave on the desk of the Home Comforts office. She put it down in front of her, opened it up. From the top of the first page the name NORA BARTON jumped out at her. Really, it startled her. Nora was her mother’s name. It was a name she had rarely come upon except in relation to her mother. She kept reading. The woman was seventy-nine years old, a widow, lived in an apartment building on JFK Boulevard, not too far from there, actually closer to home for Tabitha. Her list of problems was divided by mental and physical. Mental: memory loss, confusion (frequently believed she was a nineteen-year-old girl), occasional agitation. Under physical it just said headaches. Tabitha looked through the other pages. That was it? Headaches? She probably didn’t need any help today. But then in the comment section she read: Nora needs company. When left alone she sits on the floor, thinking she is still a teenager, and becomes so stiff she sometimes needs paramedics to get her up. She vacillates between being happy and thinking she is at a picnic, and being distraught because she thinks the love of her life just broke up with her and left her in the park alone. Christina (night nurse) said she once found her sobbing, dehydrated, stiff and hungry after being alone for just a few hours. SHE CANNOT BE LEFT ALONE. If we can’t provide service, we must call another agency.

Tabitha picked up her phone and dialed the number scrawled on the folder. He must think she was going so he wouldn’t call another agency. She waited while the phone rang, her precious coffee getting cold. It rang and rang. It didn’t even go to voicemail. She hung up, looked through the folder again. She thought about going back up to the office to try to find Kirk, but something stopped her. Did this woman’s name have to be Nora? She gulped the coffee and looked up to see the server waiting to pour another cup.