CONTEST WINNER: FOR A KEEPSAKE by Lynette Tucker

It was a typical Park and Rec senior field trip. Doris sat in her deck chair with her arms crossed and her head down. It’d been the same for every trip on which I had ever accompanied her. If her daughter didn’t pay me so well, I would have found another gig. The referral service assured me there were plenty of caretaker jobs out there. Doris was a challenge. She’d been through four caretakers before me. I guess I had thicker skin. And yet for all that said, deep down I liked her. Even if she was difficult.

     We went on many outings together. Something to pass time on this earth. It was an idea I had talked her into when I first started working for her. People need a reason to get out of bed. Over the years, we built a companionable silence, one that allowed her to grieve and yet allowed me into her life, at least a little bit. I had hoped to make a difference somehow.

     That day the sea air was brisk, and I wondered how I had managed to forget my hoodie once more. Dumb, dumb, dumb. I nearly froze to death last year on this exact trip. I knew we’d take the ferry to Devil’s Rock Park and yet here I was again, shivering. I wouldn’t be able to get the souvenir tee until the end of the trip when I no longer needed the layering, since we always rode inside on the return trip home.

The tour included the same eclectic group of old people as most of our trips, with one exception—a blonde lady wearing pink and holding an old-fashioned camera. Seniors are so stubborn about getting newer, better things. Doris fought me tooth and nail every time I suggested she ditch her camera and opt for a cell phone with camera capability. As I watched Pink Lady go from table to table, she chatted with each unsuspecting person and asked to take their picture. “For a keepsake,” she’d say while snapping a pic and moving to the next table.

Most of the people smiled and complied. Not Doris. She mumbled “Get lost,” and kept her head down.

“As you wish.” Pink lady snapped a quick photo anyway and then moved along, smiling.

She’s pretty resilient not to respond back in kind, I thought. I didn’t remember seeing her on any of the senior citizen trips before; she must be new to the group. Well, at this age, they come and go all the time.

We were still twenty minutes from docking, and I was tired of being cold. I walked over to Doris and whispered, “I’m getting a coffee. Want one?” She grunted an affirmation, and I headed to the snack bar.

When I returned, there was Pink Lady plunked down in a chair right next to Doris, whispering to her. Wow, she’s a sucker for punishment, I thought. I nodded to her as I handed Doris her coffee, tugging her shirt collar up a bit. I was cold, even if Doris wasn’t. Pink Lady smiled, rose from her chair, and left. As I thought about it later, I didn’t see her again for the remainder of the ride to the dock.

After she left, Doris seemed more animated than I’ve seen her in years. Since Thomas had died, Doris had become a very cranky widow. Still, it touched my heart that she continued to wear her wedding ring.

We disembarked and lined up for the typical tour complete with a cute little guide rambling memorized lines. Same spiel as last year. The thirty-minute walk through the caves and up the narrow cliff walk took twice as long with everyone trudging along at an elder’s pace. The highlight of the trip every year was the Wishing Well, a natural blowhole in the lava rock at the end of the cliff walk. Everyone would make a wish and then we’d all turn around and slog back to the ferry in time for the damp ride home.

Doris and I usually brought up the rear, but not this time. Her head held up, she pushed forward to be at the front of the group. I had to apologize repeatedly as she elbowed several people. Even though she wore sturdy deck shoes, I worried she’d slip on the damp path, but her foot never failed. I had to move quickly to keep up with her, concerned the constant ocean spray would make for treacherous footing. Each time the tour guide stopped to point out an interesting feature on the island, I saw Doris looking past her into the distance rather than listening to the speech or reading the posted informational signs.

When we finally came to the Wishing Well, the seniors gathered round in a semi-circle while our guide shared the folklore about this particular spot. Same as last year. The native people on the island believed that a wish whispered into the blowhole would come true if said with a sincere heart.

At the end of her presentation, the guide invited each person to come forward and whisper their wish into the icy spray. Doris stayed at the back of the group, her gaze fixed on the blowhole. I thought it strange behavior, for she had been pushing forward at each stop before we reached this spot. I watched the tiny groups split off and giggle together as they shared with each other what they were going to wish for when their turns came. They’d all be rich and healthy if their wishes came true.

     I joined Doris at the back of the group. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a movement of color. Pink. She came and stood quietly at Doris’ side. They smiled at each other, but not a word was said. I was worried that she was some kind of con artist and spoke up to try to separate them. Doris would have none of it.

     The other seniors, their desires murmured into the spray, had started back down the trail for the return walk. Finally, it was just Doris, the guide, Pink Lady, and me. As I started forward with a hand on her arm to steady her, Doris waved me off. Pink Lady took her arm and walked with her to the spray. She stopped Doris, raised her camera, and said, “For a keepsake”. Her camera captured a smiling Doris.

     Doris leaned over the rail, face tipped into the blowhole. She whispered into the spray. As she stepped back, her hair soaked from the fury of the swell, she nodded to herself, then turned and smiled at me as our eyes met. I nodded back at her,  confused. Then Doris leaned back against the railing and sank to the ground. The guide and I ran to her, yelling for help as we went. One of the other seniors, a retired doctor, came quickly back up the path to our frantic calls. But it was no use. Doris was gone. And the Pink Lady had vanished.

     The ensuing activity felt unreal and disconnected. People came and went. Decisions were made. I felt as if I were watching it all from afar.

The return was an odd one. Doris’ body was below deck instead of her grumpy form in a deck chair. The Pink Lady was nowhere to be seen. To the best of my knowledge, she had not reboarded. In fact, I never saw her again. Had she been a figment of my imagination? No, I refuse to believe that. She was real, I am sure of it, or were we entertaining an angel unaware.

     I leaned on the rail for most of the ride back, my Devil’s Rock tee shirt providing a thin layer of protection against the moist sea air. I didn’t care about the damp. I thought over what had happened and a tear slipped from my eye. As badly as I would miss Doris, I finally felt she was at peace. I believe, deep in my heart, what she whispered that day was to be reunited with her beloved Thomas. I am absolutely positive she got her wish.

 ***

Post-script: I opened the mail today, just like every other day. Among the letters was my next assignment, my next senior care position. But, unlike every other day, there was a pink envelope with no return address. I ripped off the end and out slid a photograph. It was Doris, smiling. And on the back in simple script were the words, “For a keepsake.”