My Professor(94)

So when Mrs. Buchanan calls me into her office, I know by her inability to meet my eyes and the tightness to her smile that I’m not going to like what I hear.

“I’m just covering all my bases,” is how she phrases it. “I’m not singling you out by any means.” No, it’s just that I’m the first and only person she’s going to interview about a piece of jewelry that was stolen from Mrs. Dyer’s room during my last shift.

“I’m not suggesting you took the ring. I’m just wondering if you happened to see anything suspicious. I’d rather not have to call the authorities if we can put this matter to rest on our own. Do you see what I mean?”

Accusations have shaved my heart down to a wilting limp thing over the years. I’m surprised it still beats.

“No, Mrs. Buchanan,” I say, voice monotone. Flat. Dead. “I didn’t see anything and I didn’t take anything.”

She purses her lips, upset by my refusal to give her the version of the truth she’s so desperately seeking. It’s my fault this is all happening even though I had nothing to do with the theft. That’s how I feel as she excuses me and tells me I’m free to go. This isn’t over, of course.

Next, I’ll have to sit down with the police and somehow try to prove to them that I’m a decent person, just like everyone else. It’s surprising how few people believe that. Prejudice is a pervasive disease.

I have an overwhelming fear that I will always be painted by a stained brush, that no matter how I dress or talk or smile or spritz on perfume to cover the scent of the mold in the group home, there’s no denying that I’m Maren Mitchell—less than.





The next day when I arrive for another shift at Holly Home, it’s clear that Mrs. Buchanan has spread the word about my alleged theft. Coworkers who didn’t pay me much attention before now give me a wide berth, afraid of becoming tainted by association. Fortunately, the residents haven’t been made aware of the accusations.

Most of them are as excited to see me as usual. As an orderly, my duties are vague enough that any department is free to use me as an extra set of hands. That means, oftentimes, I pick up the slack for other people, especially when it comes to residents I really like.

Take Mrs. Archer, for instance. She’s placed all the way at the end of the hall on the second floor, which means more often than not, she’s the last on the list to get breakfast and fresh linens and assistance outside on days when she’s up for taking a walk. I hate that. So, I volunteer to take her breakfast up, and I know where housekeeping stores the sheets and such, so I change hers out whenever I think she needs it.

She’s quiet. I don’t think she’s said more than a handful of words to me in the months I’ve been here, but still, I know she likes me. She smiles when I come in and nods for me to continue talking if I get carried away with a story. I tell her about the toddler I sat next to on the bus as I help lead her down the hall toward the rec room.

In the doorway, she nods toward the back corner, to the chair that sits beside a fading grand piano. It’s her favorite spot, and I don’t mind what it implies. She wants me to play for her.

“I can’t right now. I have to get back to work, but I go on break in thirty minutes. I can come back then?”

She smiles and pats my hand. “I would like that very much.”

I glance up to the clock on the wall to make sure I don’t leave her waiting for one minute longer than I have to.

I’m not surprised to find her right where I left her when I return. Except, she’s not alone. Her friend sits beside her.

Mrs. Archer has more visitors than other residents. Her grandchildren and friends come to Holly Home often, but this particular visitor is my favorite. In my head, I refer to her as the queen because she reminds me so much of the old monarchs I’ve read about in novels. Stately and beautiful, but sharp too, like a finely cut gem. She wears her white hair in a short pixie cut that frames a pair of glacier blue eyes, which hold me captive any time she aims a question my way.

She looks almost frigid sitting there in a simple, perfectly starched button-down tunic with the cuffs rolled to her elbows. It’s layered over navy pants and paired with cream flats. Her collar stands up around a heavy beaded necklace, and her wrists are covered in thin bracelets. Her emerald wedding band glitters in the light.

With her perfect posture and watchful gaze, she looks like she’s holding court. Hence why I call her the queen even though I know her name is Cornelia. She introduced herself to me a few weeks ago, and I fumbled in shaking her hand because she held it out to me as if expecting me to kiss it.

“Ah, there’s the child now,” she says when she sees me walk in.

At twenty-three, I wouldn’t say I’m a child, but I don’t dare correct her. She intimidates me into near silence, something not so easily done anymore.

“Come and play for us, won’t you? Annette said you could take a few minutes off, and I’ve traveled a long way to visit my friend,” she says, patting Mrs. Archer’s hand. “Though I’ll admit, I had another selfish motive for visiting Holly Home today, and it was so I could hear you play.”

I blush and nod. “Of course. Yes, I can play for a few minutes.”

There’s no sheet music for me to reference. When I first started working here and inquired about the piano, Mrs. Buchanan told me no one ever bothered to play it. She wanted to get rid of it to make room for more seating, but it was too heavy and too expensive to deal with, so here it sits, slightly out of tune, collecting dust, and completely untouched except by my hands. Mrs. Archer was the person who first encouraged me to play it. We were out in the hall on a short walk, and she was leaning on my arm, asking me about myself. I mentioned that I could play piano—or at least used to be able to—and she demanded we turn and head toward the rec room. That day, I sat down on the wobbly bench with its one leg slightly shorter than the rest so that I’m perpetually rocking back and forth, and I played for the first time in years.