Mrs. Fossilfuel Wants Me to Move In

Or so it seems. She's asked the agency to find out if I'm available for "overnights" and three evenings from 6 to 10. I signed on for 2 of the evenings, but nothing overnight. I feel sorry for her because she needs someone with her, and wants to escape the spooky Sondra. And loneliness in general.

It is glaringly obvious to me that Mrs. Fossilfuel needs to be in a nursing home. Even though nursing homes can be their own den of terror, she is too frail to be alone.

I did consider for a moment what "overnights" would consist of with a 98-year-old woman. Probably not all that much talking about our boyfriends or doing each other's hair. One thing I forgot to mention about her: she wears a little brown wig that sits on her head cockeyed most of the time. When I go into her room to check on her in her half-sleep, the first thing she does is quickly straighten her wig.

She's on my mind frequently. I wonder what she's doing, what she's worried about, if she's OK. I knew this job would take up a lot of emotional space, but I didn't expect the inside of my head to be the new studio apartment for Mrs. Fossilfuel. At night a tiny little cot pulls out for her, right inside my skull, and she sleeps there, dreaming of the smell of fried potatoes.