Jalah tried to smile. Even though it was her back that was broken and slow to repair, somehow the damage seemed to have seeped into her face. The muscles felt tense, unable to work in concert to form an expression so second nature to her. “Yes, I’ll let them in.” If I can get out of this chair. The bitterness of her thoughts would have surprised her in the past. Not now. She looked across the vast expanse of the room that met the elevator entrance on the far wall. It might as well have been the Pacific Ocean. She turned her head sharply instead and stared out her window. Familiar; most days now she rotated between spaces by windows. Like a plant she sought light and warmth, allowing her imagination to take her through the thick glass that separated her from the boundless outdoor air. Rapunzel in a tower, she thought to herself. A buzz finally shook her from here revere; the help was here.
Georgia hurried across the slick sidewalks, dodging gaps in the cobblestones, as she glanced between her phone and the numbers on the buildings. 889, 889…finally the building appeared before her eyes, tall and imposing. Made of money. Wow. She buzzed into the lobby. A doorman hurried up to her and ushered her inside, which was all velvet and crown molding against glass walls. “Welcome to the Eleveer, Miss, how may I help you?”
“Oh, uh, I’m here for the Graysons?” She tried to surreptitiously smooth her flyaway hairs. How much did this place cost? Had to be ridiculous. All of these people live in palaces. Must be nice to quarantine in a hotel. She thought of her own shoebox of an apartment whose rent she had barely been able to pay last month.
“Yes, they are expecting you. The elevator opens directly into their home, so please announce yourself.” Soon she was riding up to the 24th floor: the penthouse. Stepping out of the elevator she could hardly suppress her gasp. The ceilings were lofty, the foyer opening into a huge cavern decorated with sophisticated modern pieces. The chandelier was one of those whimsical curly cues you see in Architectural Digest. She cleared her throat.
“Uh, Ms. Grayson?” Her voice echoed a bit in the space…or was that just her imagination? A figure sat silhouetted in a wall of windows stood across the room.
“Ah yes, you must be Georgia? Welcome to our home. Call me Jalah.” Georgia hovered nervously in the foyer, her toes stopping at the invisible line created by the pocket doors.
“Hi, it’s, uh, great to meet you.” A pause. “You have a beautiful home.” Jalah turned to look out the window.
“It’s nice, I suppose, yes,” she responded. Georgia internally rolled her eyes. Rich people. I bet she doesn’t know anyone would kill for this. The woman tried to stand with effort, but fell back into her seat, breathing hard.
“Do you…” Georgia started forward, hovering with uncertainty.
“No, it’s fine.” The voice was resigned. “Please, come in. I’m a bit less mobile than I used to be.” Georgia walked across the room to meet her. “I just had spine surgery. The recovery has been…slow.” More like nonexistent. Suddenly Jalah wanted to scream. She wanted to throw her lamp at the window and wail like a child in front of this stranger. Get me out of this prison.
Wow, what a place to recover from surgery…like being at a spa in the city. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure it’s been nice to be able to have the space to recover here, though.” Georgia looked around the room again, missing the look on Jalah’s face.
“Yes, it has.”
“So, um, where do you need help cleaning? I can start anywhere you want.” Silence. “Uh, Ms. Grayson?”
“Yes, the kitchen will do.” She dug her fingers into the plush handles of her armchair in an attempt to stand.
“May I…?”
“Yes, I suppose so.” It sounds like a resignation. Georgia helps her stand and guides her towards her walker. Click, scrape. Click scrape. Walking never used to sound like this. “If you could please get those boxes on the upper shelf, I’ve been meaning to go through the china and clean it off. Decide what needs to go.” Georgia nods and reaches on her tiptoes towards the box on the exposed shelves. She feels eyes boring into her back. Probably watching my every move in case I break anything.
I remember when I could reach like that.
Jalah settles herself in a chair by the kitchen window; her next spot on rotation. New but always the same. “So, Georgia, where are you from?”
Oh God, here comes the resume inquisition. “Well, uh, I grew up around the city. You know, in a small suburb. Not too far from here. Nothing that fancy.” She shrugs as she works the rag around the rim of the gold-plated china. This could pay my tuition. Jalah nods. In an effort to be polite she hastens, “And you?”
“I am not from here. My family is from Iran, but I grew up in Southern California. I’m used to the green and mountains. Made much better vista for running.”
“Oh, you’re a runner?” Georgia looks up from her task.
“Used to be,” Jalah corrects. “I was quite good growing up. But I never cared about the trophies, I just loved it.” Georgia nods.
“I’m not a runner but my friend made me run a half marathon. It was terrible,” Georgia smiles involuntarily. “I’ve never wanted to walk so badly in my life.”
“I know the feeling.” Georgia misses her bitterness, still caught up in memories of whining to her friend every mile. “How long have you been in the city? This home is really beautiful, you must love it.”
“Ah, for a couple of years now. Yes, I suppose it’s comfortable.” Georgia suppresses an eye roll. She supposes. “That should be enough for today.” Georgia looks down and is surprised to find the contents of the box empty, the rest of the china placed neatly in piles. She gathers it up and places it back on a lower shelf.
“Ok, I’ll see you next week? Just let me know what time.”
“Yes. Have a good week.” Jalah watches her don her jacket and sling her backpack over a shoulder. She turns and walks towards the elevator.
Georgia: I’d give anything to live in this apartment.
Jalah: I’d give anything to walk like her.
After several weeks the two women fall into a rhythm: Georgia is ferried up the elevator by the doorman and greets Jalah, always sitting at the window in the far corner; by 4:15 PM she settles in her perch, finding her gaze pulled towards the door. On days where Jalah’s pain is all consuming, Georgia works in silence. Georgia feels Jalah’s gaze on those days, an eerie presence that makes her set down glasses and vases extra carefully. Rich people are always in a mood, she assumes. Today, though, Jalah feels only the blunted edges of pain. As Georgia begins folding towels from the laundry, she asks, “Where is your husband? Does he work at this time?”
“Ah, Dario is seldom here.” Georgia waits for her to go on. Not much of an answer.
“I’m sure he’s very busy. Sorry, I don’t mean to pry.”
“No, it’s a reasonable question.” Jalah feels a swell of emotion pushing against her carefully constructed dam. “It was hard, moving to the city. I did not want to come. My life is not here in the claustrophobic concrete where no one celebrates Eid together.”
“You came for his job?”
“Yes, for the most part. Our children were out of the house and he wanted a change. I came because I thought that was what marriage was about: sacrifice. He promised me I would not feel alone, that we would finally get time together. A relationship changes much after your children are gone. Sometimes it is the only thing two people have in common.” Georgia nods silently, surprised at the flood of words coming from the stiffly laconic woman in front of her.
“Well is it better when your kids visit?” Georgia thinks of her family, her aunt in Texas with three grown children and now children of their own that come on rotation every month. Jalah laughs haughtily.
“I am sure they are very busy. California is a long way away.” Georgia is surprised to feel a pang of sympathy for her. But looking back down at the $200 Egyptian cotton towels in her hands curbs the fleeting moment.
“Oh, I’m sure that’s hard. I have family closer to the West Coast too, they visit when they can, but it’s no more than a few times a year with their kids and their schedules.” What I wouldn’t give for once a year. Georgia continues, “Well, you have such a pretty home here, I’m sure it’s like a piece of San Francisco with you.” Living on her husband’s wealth, original. Jalah looks at her for a long moment after Georgia resumes her folding. This naive little girl.
“Places are people.”
“Oh yes, for sure.” People and 8 million dollar mansions.
As dreary February passes into March, Georgia finds herself entering her last day. Classes will amp up soon and her thoughts are consumed with schedule permutations and when to fit in lunch with her boyfriend who works downtown. Absent-mindedly she heads up the elevator, the ritual now mundane, and enters to greet Jalah, stopping dead when she realizes she is not alone. A man with neatly combed silver hair stands beside her wearing a crisp suit that reeks of designer.
“Oh hello, I didn’t realize the help was here. I’m Dario, it’s nice to meet you. Thank you for helping my wife around the house.” His eyes pass over her quickly as he turns back to Jalah. “I’ll be gone a week maximum. Stevenson wants a meeting in New York, so I’ll stop in Jersey for Federica. Maybe two weeks maximum. But the RN will be in starting tomorrow.” Georgia notices Jalah’s shoulders hunch forward. Her face is smooth and blank.
“Have a safe trip.” The words are crisp and clipped, rehearsed. Memorized by heart. The man pats her shoulder and turns on his heel, nodding to Georgia as he steps past her and towards the exit, taking rumbling suitcases with him. Silence echoes in the room.
“So, um, what should I do for my last day?” Jalah barely registers her speech. Of course he would rather spend time with Federica. And of course his ex-wife will be there. Two weeks will be an underestimate this time.
“Oh. Hm, maybe you can help clean a few things in my room? I won’t keep you too long.” Though she says the words she can feel a part of her screaming for this girl to stay. For anyone to stay. The two stand, and with click-scrapes they make their way to Jalah’s bedroom. Georgia’s first impression is of an open aired mediterranean suite. Its white walls are textured, not stark, and drip with hanging plants. Pictures and photographs spot the wall. On the wooden desk is a box, which she pulls towards her as Jalah settles into an armchair.
“So, that’s your husband?”
“That is Dario,” Jalah corrects. Georgia pulls out the first item from the box: a plaque, and begins to dust.
“I’m guessing he leaves often? Visiting one of your kids?”
“Indeed. But Federica is not my child. She is from his past marriage. She is…conveniently close here in the city.” Georgia looks up. That’s messed up. She’s really sick and he just leaves for weeks to see his kid?
“Why doesn’t she come here?”
“Ah, her mother prefers not to.” That’s really messed up, thinks Georgia.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say. You don’t deserve to be here all alone. Although, it sounds like a nurse is coming so that should be helpful.” Wealthy people with their resources. She thinks about her uncle who was still paying off debt from home health care after a stroke. Jalah is silent, so Georgia squints at the plaque more closely. It reads Excellence in Civil Law, Stanford. Jalah Houssein. Georgia feels a jolt.
“You went to Stanford Law?”
“Yes, back then I did. I was quite good.” Images flood back into Jalah’s mind: internships won against legacies who scoffed at her skin color, her accent, her gender.
“Why did you stop?” Georgia feels something close to wonder as she looks back through the box: all awards or clippings from cases won and covered in newspapers, now collecting dust.
“I got married to Dario.” Georgia looks at her. “My advice to you, Georgia, is to never lose your identity in it all. All the money, the perceived power, it is nothing without people and purpose. And you never know when your health will be no more, and the last of your independence taken. Treasure it always.”
“I–Thank you,” says Georgia, stunned. All of her judgments of the woman in front of her swirl through her head. She stands to go. “I really hope you get better. Why don’t we have coffee or tea in a few weeks, once my first set of midterms are over?” Jalah starts incredulously, but a slow smile spreads across her face.
“Why don’t we make it a run? Something for me to look forward to.”
“Only if you don’t mind me whining about distance,” retorts Georgia with a smile.
“Done.”
Sabrina Bulas is an MS4 at the Perelman School of Medicine.
