friends. When she returned to Gilia, Ms. Clarisse continues to be the scary resident my co-workers have nightmares about. When I asked her about making friendships with her neighbors, she told me she couldn’t share her story to anyone. Telling a resident in her circle about her life would be scandalous, and the media will make haste to gobble it up. According to Ms. Clarisse, she had a long desire to find a genuine person she could trust and share her story with.
“You’re that person.” she confessed.
14th of March
It has been well over a year since the day I was involuntary pushed to become Ms. Clarisse attendant. Within that year, everyone wanted to know the secret that tamed the wild Ms. Clarisse. A few attendants started admitting their residents were troublesome, but of course, none have been capable to top Ms. Clarisse. When I advised them to grow a friendly relationship with them, they saw it more as work. Those who care for Ms. Clarisse on my days off, tried to convince me to tell her to treat them nicely. They couldn’t understand that Ms. Clarisse was kind to me because I sincerely wanted to care for her. These attendants were only out to look for themselves. Ms. Clarisse did not give me any special treatment because I have won her trust. I have no control of her destructive behavior against others. To my surprise, I learned that her sour attitude is not out of spite with the staff of Gilia. Her problem, is a family problem.
Over the months, I’ve learned to mentally record two types of eyes on Ms. Clarisse’s face. She has her gloomy eyes, worn when she was by herself, tired, and rolling to the past. Then, there’s the frightening eyes of a hawk—beaming at the staff for cooking the wrong meal. Sad or hawk eyed, they are influenced by her children, who are everything to her.
On the contrary, I was raised in a way that makes my resentment towards my mother easy. If Ms. Clarisse is like my mother, then I can understand why Troy and the rest neglect her. I want to believe that possibility, but the more time I spend with Ms. Clarisse, the more I’m proven just how wrong I am.
On a good mood, Ms. Clarisse makes me pull the family album from her book case. Together, we will sit in the living room sofa, drinking tea, and going through the photos Ms. Clarisse faithfully collected. Her eyes always sparkle whenever she shared her intimate memories as a child, and later—a mother. Thirty albums packed with pictures of her children in every occasion imaginable. I have felt embarrassed to watch a corporate leader’s first potty-train attempt, and another lose their baby tooth. It made Ms. Clarisse happy to relive those memories with someone. That was when I saw the picture of her cabin.
“That looks just like your portrait.” I said, glancing at the one in her living room wall.
“That’s because it is.” she replied. “It’s been my mother’s mother and so on. This cabin is my most prized possession. I spent my summers there as a child, all the way up to my teens. I often brought my very own children, we spent our Christmas there, cozying up by the fireplace. This cabin is in Washington State, it’s mighty far for an old lady like me to visit. If I could, I would be there right now. That place is my safe haven, it survived many forest fires—the only problems are those mischievous raccoons.”
In the photo, the cabin’s yard is decorated with a swing set, sand box, and rows of flower beds.
In one of the photos, Ms. Clarisse is young and beautiful, her gray hair is a dark blonde, her wrinkles are gone, and her love for makeup, hasn’t changed. Her blue eyes are kind, youthful, not sad or angry like she wears them now. Each photo has a serene smile, a smile I have never seen in person. In those photos, I can see why she is the way she is now, the family she used to know is no longer what it used to be.
Whenever Ms. Clarisse shared her adventures in the cabin on Washington State, it
“You’re that person.” she confessed.
14th of March
It has been well over a year since the day I was involuntary pushed to become Ms. Clarisse attendant. Within that year, everyone wanted to know the secret that tamed the wild Ms. Clarisse. A few attendants started admitting their residents were troublesome, but of course, none have been capable to top Ms. Clarisse. When I advised them to grow a friendly relationship with them, they saw it more as work. Those who care for Ms. Clarisse on my days off, tried to convince me to tell her to treat them nicely. They couldn’t understand that Ms. Clarisse was kind to me because I sincerely wanted to care for her. These attendants were only out to look for themselves. Ms. Clarisse did not give me any special treatment because I have won her trust. I have no control of her destructive behavior against others. To my surprise, I learned that her sour attitude is not out of spite with the staff of Gilia. Her problem, is a family problem.
Over the months, I’ve learned to mentally record two types of eyes on Ms. Clarisse’s face. She has her gloomy eyes, worn when she was by herself, tired, and rolling to the past. Then, there’s the frightening eyes of a hawk—beaming at the staff for cooking the wrong meal. Sad or hawk eyed, they are influenced by her children, who are everything to her.
On the contrary, I was raised in a way that makes my resentment towards my mother easy. If Ms. Clarisse is like my mother, then I can understand why Troy and the rest neglect her. I want to believe that possibility, but the more time I spend with Ms. Clarisse, the more I’m proven just how wrong I am.
On a good mood, Ms. Clarisse makes me pull the family album from her book case. Together, we will sit in the living room sofa, drinking tea, and going through the photos Ms. Clarisse faithfully collected. Her eyes always sparkle whenever she shared her intimate memories as a child, and later—a mother. Thirty albums packed with pictures of her children in every occasion imaginable. I have felt embarrassed to watch a corporate leader’s first potty-train attempt, and another lose their baby tooth. It made Ms. Clarisse happy to relive those memories with someone. That was when I saw the picture of her cabin.
“That looks just like your portrait.” I said, glancing at the one in her living room wall.
“That’s because it is.” she replied. “It’s been my mother’s mother and so on. This cabin is my most prized possession. I spent my summers there as a child, all the way up to my teens. I often brought my very own children, we spent our Christmas there, cozying up by the fireplace. This cabin is in Washington State, it’s mighty far for an old lady like me to visit. If I could, I would be there right now. That place is my safe haven, it survived many forest fires—the only problems are those mischievous raccoons.”
In the photo, the cabin’s yard is decorated with a swing set, sand box, and rows of flower beds.
In one of the photos, Ms. Clarisse is young and beautiful, her gray hair is a dark blonde, her wrinkles are gone, and her love for makeup, hasn’t changed. Her blue eyes are kind, youthful, not sad or angry like she wears them now. Each photo has a serene smile, a smile I have never seen in person. In those photos, I can see why she is the way she is now, the family she used to know is no longer what it used to be.
Whenever Ms. Clarisse shared her adventures in the cabin on Washington State, it
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