Generally, our residents stink. They don’t like washing themselves anymore. As if arriving in Heaven grubby doesn’t bother them one bit.
In the morning, during wash time, we often get shouted at. And when we point out to the independent residents that they need to take a shower, ditto. We have to insist.
As for Hélène, she never stinks. She smells like a baby.
The first time I found myself alone with her, it was Christmas Eve. I’d been working at The Hydrangeas for a month. I was on night duty. The nurse had told me to keep an eye on Hélène because she had a slight fever. I went up to take her temperature. She took my hand. It made me want to cry because no one had ever touched me so tenderly. Such motherliness was unknown to me. As a child, whenever my grandmother touched me, it was always with a wash glove.
“How’s the weather on your beach?” I asked.
“Beautiful. It’s August now. Lots of people.”
“Don’t forget to protect yourself from the sun.”
“I have my big hat.”
“Is what you’re seeing beautiful?”
“It’s the Mediterranean. It’s always beautiful, the Mediterranean. What’s your name?”
“Justine.”
“Do you come often?”
“Nearly every day.”
“Would you like me to tell you about Lucien?”
“Yes.”
“Come over here. Put your ear to my mouth.”
I leant against her. I heard what one hears inside a seashell: what one wants to hear.