The Women in White

Just before I knock on the door of the small brick house, I’m gripped by the skin-tingling sense I’m being watched.

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But when I twist my head around, the only thing I see is a neglected stretch of yard. It must have been pretty once. The bones are there— brittle rosebushes lining the worn picket fence, gardens overrun by weeds, a graceful sugar maple tree being choked by vines.

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I turn back, shaking off my unease, and knock so firmly my knuckles sting. Betty Sadler is eighty-one. Her hearing may be failing.

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She’s a sweet woman, but incredibly picky. You can’t imagine how hard it has been to fill this position, said the social worker who tipped me off about the caretaker job.

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As the front door opens, I lower my gaze to Betty, who uses a wheelchair. Her white hair is swept into an updo and she’s wearing a pink dress and string of pearls. Her skin is so creamy and unlined it could belong to a woman half her age.

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I aim for a confident, warm smile. “Hi, Mrs. Sadler. I’m Riley Bell.”

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“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Betty’s eyes travel over me and I’m aware of the small mustard stain on my sleeve from a recent fast- food dinner. I’m grateful I at least changed out of jeans and into a skirt.

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“I’ve never heard the name Riley before. Is it Irish?” she asks.

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“Yes, it’s actually my mother’s maiden name.”

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“That explains your pretty auburn hair. Please come in.”

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I follow her into the living room. It smells like lemon cleaner and the furniture looks old but well- kept. The heavy gold drapes are pulled back, allowing the fall sunlight to brighten the space.

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Along with running errands, cooking, and helping Betty bathe and dress, the job requires light cleaning. But Betty’s house is already spotless.

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“What a lovely home,” I tell Betty, wondering if I should sit down or wait for an invitation. “Have you lived here for a long time?

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“Sixty years,” Betty replies. “Time truly does fly by.”