Free Big Guy by Robin Stevenson Page A

pretty crappy. But now, first day of the new job, I’m wishing I was back at the A & P with the rest of the guys.
    To be honest, this job’s a little freaky. I thought I could do it, but now I’m not so sure.
    I’m standing in the middle of the living room in one of the residents’ apartments. It’s bigger than I expected. It’s a large square room with a gray carpet, not much furniture, a narrow window overlooking a parking lot.
    I glance down at my file and read her name again. Aaliyah Manon. I don’t have a clue how to say it. I should’ve paid more attention during the orientation. I dredge through the mud of my memory and come up with an image of Francine’s mouth opening and closing as she drones on and on. I can remember her smoker’s breath and the way her red lipstick bled into the little wrinkles around her mouth, but I can’t remember anything that’s going to help me get through this next hour.
    â€œHello?” I call out.
    No answer.
    I cross the living room and gaze out the window. Eight in the morning and barely light out. Pouring rain. It’s rained every freaking day this month. Cars pull in and out of the parking lot, an occasional pedestrian hurriesby, clutching an umbrella. Above the street, red brick buildings meet a greasy gray sky.
    I look at my watch. My stomach is a tight twisting knot.
    â€œIn a rush, are you?” a voice says.
    I look up, wondering how she managed to enter the living room so quietly in that bulky wheelchair. The first thing that strikes me is how young she is. Not more than thirty. Maybe even younger. I’m surprised. Francine told me most of the residents were old. The woman is very thin, and one side of her face is pulled downward, mouth and eye drooping slightly. It makes her expression hard to read.
    â€œI told them not to send a guy,” she says. “Francine knows I don’t like male care workers.” Her speech is slurred, but despite this her voice has a sharp edge that adds to my nervousness.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I say. “Do you want me to call Francine? See if there is someone else?”
    She shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I have to be somewhere in an hour. I need to get ready.”
    â€œOkay then.” I think back to Francine’s words this morning. Just be matter-of-fact, Francine said. Remember, the residents are used to having assistance with personal care. If you aren’t sure about something, ask.
    â€œWhat can I help you with, then?” I realize I’ve forgotten to introduce myself. “Ahh...I’m Derek.”
    Aaliyah struggles to push her long dark hair off her face. Her movements are stiff and jerky. “I need to shower. I need help washing my hair and getting dressed.”
    â€œNo problem,” I say. I manage to keep my voice light, but inside I’m freaking out a little. I’d take my old job back, right now, if I had the chance. Screw the three-dollars-an-hour pay difference. I dig my fingernails into my palm and follow the wheelchair down the hallway.
    The bathroom is large and a sling hangs from the ceiling.
    Aaliyah sees me looking at it. “I’m not using that anymore,” she says. “You just have to help me move onto the chair.”
    Chair? Then I see it, in the shower: aplastic chair with little holes in it for the water to run through. “Okay.”
    She sighs. “Are you new? I mean, I know you’re new here, but please tell me you’ve done this before.”
    Here’s the thing: I had to lie a little to get hired. Okay, more than a little. I told them I was twenty and that I’d done a couple of college courses. Told them I took care of my aunt who has MS. No one ever checks up on stuff like that. Truth is, I’m seventeen, just dropped out of high school, don’t even have an aunt.
    I shrug. “I’ve, ahhh, done some...”
    Aaliyah’s eyes are