Mona was a feisty woman of 89 years. She had lost most of her hair and wore a long blonde wig, colourful hand-knit sweaters, denim jeans (too short) with mismatched socks and Doc Martens. She used a walker with wheels.
I’m in my fifties and have lived across the hall for 6 months, on the tenth floor. Birmingham is a big city, and this building is not the biggest, but large enough that I only know a few people who live on this floor. I sometimes see Mona in the elevator. She often leaves the door of her flat open and talks to people who pass in the hall. I see carers come and go from her apartment most days, and they are often in and out in a flash. Sometimes they wear a blue uniform, and others wear a white one. I imagine they come from different companies. They are paid to help with the practicalities of life, see that the person is up out of bed, able to bath and if not, assist, maybe cook a meal.
From my peephole in the door, I’ve seen several different women and men come and go from Mona’s place. Okay, I acknowledge, I am a curious sort. Because I work afternoons, I see these people most days knocking on her door, that is, if it is closed. Often, it is open.
One morning, I heard voices, and on my tiptoes, from my peephole I saw a large man, more than six feet tall, with bodybuilder shoulders and long grey hair in a ponytail. He wore a black leather vest showing big, bare muscled arms. His jeans were raggedy and he wore flip-flops.
I opened my door and asked if he needed anything. Mona spoke from inside her flat, “Tell that nosy neighbour that we don’t need anything other than some peace and privacy!”
“I think she heard you,” he said with a smile.
Then he walked toward me with his hand out. “I’m Kevin, Mona’s carer.”
“Oh!” I said and gingerly shook his hand before closing my door.
I wondered so many things; what agency would hire someone like him to care for an old lady? Was Mona safe with him?
Over the next week, he came every day. Sometimes loud music filtered under the door from her apartment. Other times, I caught the aroma of cooking onions or baking cakes. Some days, he took her out with her walker. They made an unusual sight.
Two months passed by, and he was still coming to care for Mona. I could not help myself. One evening, I knocked on her door. She opened it, the chain still hooked.
“Oh, it’s you.”
“Yes, Peggy from across the hall, may I please come in?”
“If you must.”
We sat in her cosy three-room flat, and I told her I was sorry I had taken so long to give her a proper welcome. I asked her how she and Kevin met, and she said they met in the laundry room downstairs.
“He lives on floor #3. We got talking, and I told him how much I pay each week for carers to come every day. They never stay more than twenty minutes and often run off without even a conversation. Kevin offered to spend two hours a day, and when I asked what he charged, he told me, “just to see my happy face and whatever I could spare and share a meal that he would cook.”
I asked, “Do you know his story?”
Mona answered, “He just got out of prison. He’s on parole. I’m a good influence on him, and he is a big help to me! I get out of this prison three afternoons a week. We go to the corner coffee shop, and sometimes we just sit on the bench in front of the building and people watch. He tells me about his life and listens to me reminisce about mine.”
“Well, I’m happy for you, and I’ve learned an important lesson.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Don’t judge a book by the cover!”
She grinned, “There is only so much you can learn through a peephole!”
