The first thing I noticed that Monday morning was that Helen called me by my full name. For four years, my husband’s ninety-two-year-old grandmother had called me Nattie, a nickname she invented when Marcus and I married. She only called me Renata when something was wrong. Sitting in her bedroom with one hand covering her unwashed hair, she whispered, “Please don’t look at me, Renata.” I sat beside her and told her I was looking anyway, because that’s what people who loved her were supposed to do. Helen had always been particular about her appearance, washing and setting her pin curls every Saturday for nearly sixty years. But after breaking her wrist in July, she could no longer lift her arm to reach her head.
Her daughter-in-law, Carolyn, had offered occasional help, but months had passed. Helen had stopped attending church because she was embarrassed by her appearance. When I asked Carolyn when Helen had last washed her hair, she quietly answered, “Probably August.” I couldn’t believe it. Helen received $1,720 monthly, and Carolyn collected $1,300 for her care. The arrangement was legal, but something about that neglected bedroom made me realize that legal and decent weren’t always the same thing.
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