“Let’s start with your routine,” Anya launched. “Can you describe your daily routine, including how you manage personal care?”
“I get up most mornings around seven. Get myself and my grandson, Elijah, ready to go to the recreation center. He goes to the day camp and I go to my job—”
“Oh, you have a job?” she interrupted me.
“Yes.”
“Hmm.” She flicked a finger across her screen. “Didn’t know that. Are you volunteering, or is it a paid position?”
“Paid. I’m an administrative assistant.” I gave her the details of my job description so she’d lose any remaining doubt about my mental faculties.
“Thanks. And what about after work?”
“Let’s see… I run errands, watch a little television, maybe take a catnap. Then I pick up my grandson no later than six, and we get ready for dinner. Sometimes I cook, sometimes Gabriella cooks. Well, mostly it’s Gabriella. She’s an amazing cook.”
Anya smiled.
I continued, “We might watch a movie or sit out on the porch while Elijah plays with his friends. And then we settle in for the night. Do it all again the next day.”
Anya tilted her head. “When do you take care of your hygiene? Baths and such?”
I didn’t realize she’d want to knowallmy personal business. “Oh, at night. I like to take plenty of showers and baths.”
“Perfect.”
The first question seemed simple enough, but with each one that followed, my anxiety grew. How do you manage your medications? How do you manage your finances? Who would you call if you needed help? Have you experienced any falls or injuries in the home recently?
Every question felt like an accusation, and I fought to keep my composure as she probed into areas of my life I’d rather keep private. I answered, though, and tried to keep that “hostile witness” spirit at bay.
“Tell me about your relationship with Gabriella,” she asked, her eyes still on the screen. “She’s your tenant, correct?”
“Y-yes,” I stammered. “We share the kitchen, but we have separate living quarters. We get along well.”
Anya pressed, “Does she contribute positively to your overall well-being?”
“Of course,” I answered more firmly this time. “Gabriella is kind and supportive. We’re friends, and she’s always there for me when I need someone to talk to.”
“All right.” Anya made a note and glanced up from her notes. “Looks like we’re done with the interview portion of this visit. Let’s move on to the inspection, shall we?”
“Of course.”
We started in Gabriella’s side of the house. The living room was immaculate, with her colorful throw pillows neatly arranged on the couch and not a speck of dust in sight. Anya nodded appreciatively as she walked through the space, her digital pen hovering above her tablet but not making a mark.
“Looks like your tenant takes good care of her space,” Anya commented.
“Gabriella is very responsible,” I agreed, hoping my living quarters would fare just as well.
We moved on to my side. The bedrooms were tidy, with Elijah’s things put away and the bed made. But when we got to the bathrooms, Anya’s forehead wrinkled as she opened the lower cabinet and noticed some water droplets on the pipes under the sink. “This could lead to mold, which is very dangerous for the respiratory system, especially for seniors,” she warned me, jotting down a note.
She checked the windows, toilet, and tub. “It’s not major, but you might want to reseal the caulking around the bathtub andsink in the bathroom that wasn’t remodeled. That helps prevent mold, too.”
My heart sank at the thought of hidden dangers lurking in my home, but I tried to focus on the fact that it was something fixable. I could handle this.
In the laundry room, Anya turned her attention to the hot-water heater. It was rusty and, I noticed for the first time, seemed to lean ever so slightly to one side. “This is a crucial fix, for the sake of your hygiene,” she said, adding another note to her growing list. She was using that tablet to take pictures.
“Of course,” I murmured, feeling the cumulative drag of all the repairs pulling me down. “I’ll make sure to get that taken care of.”
“Good,” Anya replied, her tone steady as a metronome. Back in the day, Anya could have been a telephone operator with that even tone of hers. Or a poker player, the way she played it calm.
