She sighs, relieved. “Thank you. Old age will do that for you.”
For someone her age, she’s so frail, but she couldn’t be older than fifty, if that.
“How about I help you to your room?”
“Uh... no. I’m fine. I—” She pauses. “Yes, that—That would be nice, thank you.”
With one hand on her elbow and the other at her waist, I escort her up the stairs.
She grabs the railing.
We climb the stairs slowly far slower than you’d expect for her age as she hides her winces.
At the top, I peer down the east and west wings. “Which way?”
“My bedroom is that way.” She points to the west wing.
We move down the hall, past several doors, until she nods at one. “That one is mine.” Once there, I reach for the doorknob.
“Wait!”
I halt.
“Thank you for your help. You’ve done enough. I’ve got it from here.”
“Let me help you into bed.” She can barely stand, let alone walk or hoist herself up onto a bed.
“No, really—it’s fine. I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all, I insist.” I place my hand on the knob and turn it. When I open it, I put on my best poker face.
Oh, jeez.
Clothes have been thrown everywhere. Boxes of various shapes, colors and sizes sit open, covering the floor, stacked to the ceiling. One accidental bump and those box towers would crush her. Plates with old, half-finished meals are piled up on half-cleared surfaces. The bed is unmade and judging by the room’s odor, it doesn’t seem like anyone has cleaned in quite some time. It’s unsanitary, not to mention a safety hazard for a woman in her condition.
Doesn’t this household have maids?I’m sure there are plenty of people who would clean up the mess if she asked.
Luna Kathy wipes a tear. “It’s a mess, I know.”
This must be why she was hesitant to let me help her. Kathy is clearly ashamed of how she’s living. I think she expects me to judge her, but I don’t. If anyone can understand hoarding, it’s me. I’m no stranger to filling voids with things that are maladaptive to my health. At its core, it’s no different from whatI do. My method is just easier to hide with long pants. But the root of this behavior is often the same: grief and depression.
“That’s okay. Let’s get you into bed.”
I enter her room and walk her to her bed. She posts a hand on the mattress and eases herself onto it. I help lift her legs and pull the covers from the end of the bed to cover her. It was weird. Every room I’ve seen has had their beds made, but hers is undressed. At first, I thought she just had a nap. Then I realize: she just doesn’t want anyone to disturb the memory and time capsule of this room.
“It didn’t always look this way. Ever since my mate passed on, I haven’t been able to bring myself to do anything. I get overwhelmed and then...” She fiddles with one of the tissues on her bed.
“I understand. Do you... prefer it this way?”
“Yes,” she lies.
“Has anyone tried to help you?”
She shakes her head fast. “No, I’m too embarrassed. Besides my son, you’re the only person who’s seen it.”
My conscience can’t let her continue living this way.
“How about I take care of it for you and tell you about why I’m a vegetarian? And then you can tell me about your mate.”
