Making it Work

Making it Work

“You haven’t heard the last of this.”

She listened, and thought, ‘I probably have,” walking back to the kitchen. He rarely remembered gripes long enough to bring them up again. He’d think of another one in a minute or two.

Taking care of Andrew was her job. Other people pitied her. “How do you stand that man! Nothing pleases him!” They went on and on. But, they all judged him by his surface, his irritation, his grumpy. She knew him by his insides, his thoughts, his soul. All the grouch was bluster, sometimes he needed to bluster.

Her favorite time was after lunch. She and Andrew had lunch in the den, in front of a large window. Something about that view always started him reminiscing. He would tell stories of his youth, his family, his wife Judith and their children, all gone now. Sometimes so sad, she wanted to cry. Sometimes so funny she would get a stitch in her side, laughing.

When he started telling these stories, she didn’t believe them. But now, she actually did. It didn’t matter either way. She was all he had on earth now, and he needed to talk to someone. She listened, every day, and now, recorded them.

He talked to her like she was his best friend. And, of course, she really was, and he was hers. However, she was also collecting those stories. Two years ago, she’d begun selling them, under a pseudonym, obviously. Now she had a book deal under contract. She didn’t feel guilty either. He had no one left here to benefit from them, alive or dead. All his stories were about his life before he came to earth, before he had been accidently left behind.

Keeping Andrew alive, happy and talking, was building her retirement, in style.