The Goddess of Small Victories

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Anna waited at the exact boundary between the hallway and the bedroom while the nurse pleaded her case. The young woman concentrated on every sound, trying to contain her anxiety: wisps of conversation, raised voices, televisions droning, the swish of doors being opened, the clatter of metal carts.

Her back ached but still she kept her bag shouldered. She moved a step forward to be in the center of the linoleum square marking the room’s threshold. She fingered the index card in her pocket to give herself courage. Her well-reasoned argument was written out in block capitals.

The nurse patted the old woman’s age-speckled hand, straightened her cap, and adjusted her pillows.

“Now Mrs. Gödel, you don’t have so many visitors that you can go turning people away. Let her in. Have a little sport with her. It will give you some exercise!”

On her way out, the nurse gave Anna a small smile of commiseration. You have to know how to handle her. Good luck, sweetheart. That was all the help she could give. The young woman hesitated. Not that she hadn’t prepared for this interview: she would lay out the salient points of her case, articulating each word carefully and with enthusiasm. But under the steady, unwelcoming gaze of the room’s bedridden occupant, she changed her mind. Better to be neutral, to disappear behind the unobtrusive outfit she had selected that morning, a beige plaid skirt and matching twinset. She was certain that Mrs. Gödel was not one of those old ladies you call by their first names because they’re going to die soon. Anna’s index card would stay in her pocket.

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