Heart Matters

Debbie and I were fortunate enough to land summer jobs cleaning temporary apartments in New York City. The apartments were occupied by people with short term NYC business and travelers who preferred the hominess of apartments to hotels. The administrators for the apartments were in an office in Brooklyn. They put us in the lower Manhattan cleaning territory and we got to live out of our suitcase, staying in whatever apartment happened to be unoccupied that week or part of that week. It was fun to see the different apartments and we just wanted to go out to cafes and listen to live music for people under twenty one who didn't have IDs for the nightclubs. On the weekends, we exhausted ourselves with sightseeing because we were both from the Midwest and had never seen the Empire State Building, Ground Zero, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, or The Statue of Liberty. We soaked it all in and vowed to see more of the world.


Debbie was studying to be a nurse. I was a liberal arts major and a little worried about graduating and winding up in another cleaning job so I talked to Debbie a lot, while cleaning, about what I might do with my life. Even though I admired her for going into a practical profession that paid well enough and even offered travel possibilities, I could not quite see myself as a nurse.

“Will you have to empty bedpans.”

“The human body and it's emissions are not disgusting to me. Anyway, I don't believe I'm in college studying for bedpan emptying even though many people ask that same question.”

“But you will have to deal with the body and its emissions.”

“I like working with people.”

“Some people might be in a bad mood.”

“I know how to humor them. I like all kinds of people.”

“You might meet some attractive doctors.”

“That's not why I'm becoming a nurse.”

“I know but it's still a possibility. You're entering into the interesting community of medical professionals, not like me.”

Debbie did not immediately respond to my self pity.

“I'm headed for the unknown.”

“You should figure out something practical to do, Rita, in today's economy.”

“You sound like my mother but you're right.”

During my last conversation with Debbie, we had discussed narrowing liberal arts down to some kind of art or education. Now we discussed the merits of professional careers in business or engineering since medicine was too messy for me.

“Maybe it would be fun to be an accountant with many different kinds of clients who mostly keep you busy during tax season.”

“The rest of the time you could travel.”

“Or maybe I could become a Doctor of Dustology,” I said while emptying the vacuum bag.

“You could analyze the dust in vacuum cleaners all over the world.” Debbie sounded excited.

“That could be interesting. How does the inside of a New York City vacuum compare to one in India or New Zealand.”

“The good part is they'll have to fly you all over the world to analyze the dust.”

“Or, they could fly the dust to me. Imagine getting all those packages of dust in the mail.”

“They wouldn't do that because there would be too much concern about bringing invasive bugs into the U.S. Better to fly you to the dust than to fly the dust to you.”

“You are a nursing student.”

“Who are they anyway?”

“They?”

“You know the one's who are going to decide to fly you to the dust rather than fly the dust to you.”

As I thought about this important question and replaced the vacuum cleaner bag, we heard the outside apartment building buzzer.

“Don't answer it,” cautioned Debbie.

“Why? We don't have to let them in.”

“Them again.”

“What if it's Jehovah's Witnesses?”

“They always find a way in but we don't have to open the apartment door after we've looked through the peephole and can see that they're in religious formals.”

“Religious formals?”

“You know,” I said whispering just in case they had found their way in. “Young women, who look like they should be wearing jeans, in clear nylons and imitation Burberry coats.”

“How do you know it's imitation,” Debbie whispered back.

The buzzing sounded again. This time I spoke through the intercom feeling a chill as I pictured religious fanatics waiting to pounce.

“My name is Sally. I'm a social worker,” said the voice. She didn't sound like a liar.

Debbie clapped her hand to her forehead and stopped whispering.

“I forgot that the agency did say something.”

“What?”

“It was awhile ago but when I went across to Brooklyn to pick up our checks, the woman at the desk said something about a social worker bringing us a helper.”

“Who has to be brought by a social worker?” I questioned as I buzzed her in.

“They said she has a low IQ but she's nice and a good worker. She'll help us a lot because she is strong enough to lift furniture.”

“I'm not sure I want to work with a low IQ strong woman,” I said before opening to door to reveal a tall woman wearing painters pants, a sweatshirt and sneakers. Her thick muscular build and short brown hair almost appeared masculine.

Smiling with her thin lips she said, “Hi, my name is Cindy. What's your name? She held out her hand.”

“My name is Rita,” I said shaking Cindy's chapped hand. “This is Debbie.”

A petite blond woman with shoulder length hair not much older than us, probably a recent graduate of social work school, said in a somewhat nasal voice, “I'm Sally.” She held out her hand.

“Everyone is shaking hands,” said Cindy. “That's nice.”

We talked a little about the job. Cindy would be joining us every morning for a few hours. Sally would accompany her the first time then she would just drop her off so if we cleaned more than one apartment in a morning, Cindy would be traveling with us. We were instructed to make sure that she stayed with us especially because she had a heart condition that prevented her from running for any reason.

“She can lift but she can't run,” said Sally. “Lifting is not strenuous for her but running can change the rhythm of her heart.”

“She'll be in good hands with us,” I said. “Debbie is studying to be a nurse.”

“Great. Lifting is OK, running is not OK and she sticks with you and Rita. She knows her limits plus she has a GPS chip on her wrist just in case she gets lost but she doesn't tend to wander.”

After Cindy's first morning of effortlessly lifting couches and tables like super woman, we invited Sally to come with us that evening to listen to a folk singer at a cafe named Tea and Cookies. The cafe was owned by a celebrity who traveled the world collecting over one hundred different kinds of teas that he enjoyed writing about for the lengthy evolving menu. Sally agreed that the combination of complex tea, cookies and folk singing would be fun.

“I like tea and cookies,” said Cindy.

Sally put her hand on Cindy's muscular forearm. “Another time Cindy. We'll take you out another time.”

“You will,” Cindy's voice rose an octave. “You'll take me out another time.” Her voice rose another octave. “I like going out another time.”

The following morning Sally and Cindy met us outside the apartment we would spend the next two hours cleaning. I was a little nervous because Cindy would then be accompanying us to another building three blocks away without Sally. What would we do if something surprised her and made her forget the rule about running? Although Sally assured us that we wouldn't need Cindy's emergency pills or 911, she also said it was part of her job to make sure we were prepared for the worst scenario.

While Cindy was holding a heavy overstuffed chair up in the air practically like a balloon and I was vacuuming under the chair, I smelled something familiar.

After I turned off the vacuum cleaner I asked Cindy if I smelled roses.

Cindy smiled with her thin lips.

“Are you wearing Rose perfume?”

Cindy laughed and asked me if I was married. Then she asked Debbie if she was married. After we both confirmed that we weren't married Cindy told us why she was wearing Rose scented perfume. His name was Robert and he “worked” as a fireman.

“Cindy and Robert sitting in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g,” Debbie started and I joined in.

“Hey, I know that song. Let me sing it. I know that song.”

“Let's here you sing it.”

Cindy sang enthusiastically without any awareness of tone, “Cindy and Robert sitting in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Cindy with the baby carriage.”

We clapped for Cindy's performance and informed her that it was time to go to the next job.

“Do you have keys?” she asked us.

Debbie let Cindy hold the key ring holding many keys for her to jingle as we gathered our supplies and put them into the hand truck ready to walk the three blocks to the next apartment.

“Do you drive a car?”

“Not with these keys.”

“Not with these keys?” Cindy jingled the keys again before handing them back to Debbie. “What you do with these keys?”

“We open apartments just like this so we can clean.”

“Apartments just like this. Are we going to another apartment just like this?” Cindy's voice rose eagerly.

“Well, maybe almost like this.”

“Almost like this. Almost like this.” Now she bent her knees, clenched her fists and looked like she was stopping herself from jumping for joy.

“We're going to another apartment almost like this,” Cindy told an elderly woman in the hallway who nodded her head.

“We're going to another apartment almost like this,” she told a man on the street pushing a large shopping cart over flowing with castoffs.

“You want to come clean my cardboard refrigerator box,” the man mumbled without looking at us.

“He wants us to clean his cardboard refrigerator box,” Cindy repeated for us.

“We're not stopping,” said Debbie.

Cindy happily yelled back to the man with the shopping cart. “We're not stopping!”

The next apartment was on the ground floor with well placed light colored antiques and had a garden in the back with many flowering potted plants. It was the prettiest apartment we had cleaned so far.

“Wouldn't it be great if the owner of this apartment was away for the rest of the summer,” Debbie said dreamily.

“And it turns out to be too pretty for the business people,” I replied.

“Not perfect for the vacationers either.”

“No one want to take care of the plants except for us. Debbie and Rita to the rescue.”

“The owner of the apartment is a wealthy aging heiress who was a single child, never married, never had any children and has no remaining family or close friends. Her closest companions are the flowers in the garden,” Debbie expanded.

“She is eternally grateful to the two young women who took care of her flowers during the summer she went away in search of more flower species,” I added.

“Then what happens?” asked Cindy with wide eyes.

“She leaves us all her money and we live happily ever after,” Debbie concluded as she unpacked our supplies then footnoted, “Rita doesn't have to decide on a career. We better get to work.”

“Rita doesn't have to decide on a career. We better get to work,” Cindy chanted.

We fell into a routine of Cindy lifting, Debbie dusting and Rita vacuuming as though the three of us had worked together for years. We took a break by going through the sliding glass doors into the garden.

“What are you going to be when you grow up?” Cindy asked Debbie.

“A nurse.”

“You're going to be a nurse. I'd like to be a nurse. What does a nurse do?”

“Have you ever been to the doctor's office or the hospital?”

“I've been do the doctor's office.”

“Did someone come in and take your temperature and your blood pressure.”

“What's take your temperature?”

“When someone puts the little stick in your mouth.”

“Yes. Someone put the little stick in my mouth.” Cindy's voice rose with the passion of understanding.

“Are you going to take my temperature and make sure my heart is OK.”

“I might do that for all different people.”

“You're going to take the temperature of all different people and make sure their hearts are OK.”

While listening to Debbie and Cindy, the memory of Sally telling us that Cindy knows she's not supposed to run popped into my head.

“What are you going to do when you grow up?” Cindy said to me.

“How do you know I'm not already grown up?”

“I'm already grown up,” said Cindy. “I'm thirty.”

“I'm going to be a Dr. of Dustology.”

“Dr. of Dustology,” Cindy said slowly. “What's that?”

“Rita's going to find things in the vacuum cleaner.”

“You are,” Cindy had a twinkle in her eye. “You're going to find things in the vacuum cleaner.”

“Yes.”

“In here,” Cindy pointed to the upright. “You're going to find things in here.”

“What are you going to find?”

“Dust,” I explained.

“You're going to find dust. Wow! I want to find dust too.”

“We'd better get back to work.”

After Cindy lifted the blond dining set so we could mop, then lifted the lazy boy recliner and a pretty vintage loveseat with cupids in the pattern I said, “tell us more about Robert.”

Cindy blushed and informed us that he was an assistant at the firehouse.

“How does he assist?” Debbie was also curious about Cindy's boyfriend.

“How does he assist? He knows how to make coffee.” Cindy sounded proud.

“And sometimes. Sometimes he's allowed to ride on the fire truck as long as he promises.”

“What does he promise?”

“He promises not to go into a building.”

“Do you mean a burning building.”

“Yeah. I mean a burning building. He has to promise not to go into a burning building just like I have to promise not to run.”

When Sally came to pick Cindy up at the apartment with the garden in the back, we decided to to leave our hand truck with the cleaning supplies inside, wash our hands and go to a nearby sidewalk cafe for lunch.

Sally had been a little quiet the previous night when we went to the Tea and Cookies cafe, ordered heavily fermented smokey tea from Thailand accompanied by lavender infused biscotti and listened to a pretty good folk singer. I wondered if she was having second thoughts about going out with the cleaning people. Debbie reminded me later, when we returned to our temporary apartment, that Sally had been a college student just a short time ago.

At the vegetarian middle eastern sidewalk cafe we ordered stuffed grape leaves, tabbouleh, and kefta kebabs. Bold delectable spices greeted us between palate cleansing sips of fresh tamarind juice. Sally became more talkative.

“I had a good time last night at Tea and Cookies. Last June I graduated from social work school in New Jersey and got this great job right in the city. Even though my friends were envious they almost never visited me here. I would either go back to New Jersey or watch videos in my tiny studio apartment.”

“My mother always advised me to join a group,” I offered half halfheartedly.

“What kind of group?”

“You know like a book discussion group. Or, you could take something like a yoga class.”

“I'll go to a yoga class with you,” piped in Cindy.

“Oh. Well, anyway, I had a good time with you guys last night.”

“Sally had a good time. Sally had a good time with you guys last night.”

I asked if Cindy had echolalia

Sally had a gleam in her eye that told me her mind was elsewhere. She was happy to hear that we were going out every night and she could join us anytime. As we worked our way though lunch, she began to look less mousy plus her stuffy nose seemed to clear up.

After a morning rain, the pristine seventy-five degree air and strong sun made us relax in our chairs with an after lunch plate of baklava accompanied by Turkish coffee. I was happy to be in the part of Manhattan with sidewalk cafes, art galleries, small book stores, floor through brownstones and flowers. Work could wait for us here all afternoon.

“Look,” said Cindy with some alarm in her voice. It was the first time she didn't sound happy.

“They just burnt something in the kitchen that made a little smoke,” said Sally with her hand on Cindy's forearm. “It's OK.”

“OK.” Cindy seemed to calm down with Sally's hand on her forearm but I could see the smoke was quickly thickening as it poured out of the kitchen until the kitchen staff emerged looking stunned.

“Cindy!” Sally yelled then jumped out of her seat to chase Cindy who was already halfway down the block. Debbie and I followed them to the end of the block when Cindy surprised us by pivoting back up the street to run after the fire truck parked in front of the smokey restaurant where she fell to her knees then gently lay down on the cement and placed a hand over her heart. Next to her hand was the hand of a short man with Down syndrome.

“You're supposed to stay on the fire truck,” Cindy said weekly.

“I know,” said Robert. “I know I'm supposed to stay on the fire truck.” He kept his hand on Cindy's heart as the firemen rushed into the kitchen fire.

Sally rushed up to them pulling a prescription bottle out of her purse. I watched closely as she placed two dissolvable pills in Cindy's mouth.

“I can feel your heart,” said Robert.

Sally looked at us and said. “The pills work quickly. She'll be OK.”

“Robert can feel my heart,” Cindy said weakly. “Robert can feel my heart,” she said again with a little more strength in her voice.