The Shoebox Under the Bed

The old woman was napping when she walked in. Why, Glenda wondered, when she was probably the facility’s best physical therapist, was she assigned to this frail, 94-year-old woman? “Mrs. Pottmeyer isn’t going to get a lot of benefit from range of motion exercises,” Glenda said to her supervisor. “Can’t you assign her to one of the newer therapists on staff?”

“I could, but I believe that neither skills, nor experience should exclude any physical therapist, including one as good as you are, from doing the mundane now and then,” Glenda’s supervisor said. “Besides, we’re a bit slow this week. The census is down.”  

For the first two days of that week, Glenda went into Mrs. Pottmeyer’s room and put the woman through various stretching and range of motion exercises. She said good morning to the woman when she came in and goodbye when she left. Other than that, the only time she spoke was to give instructions or offer encouragement. Mrs. Pottmeyer made no attempt to engage Glenda in conversation, but her eyes followed the therapist’s every move.    

On Wednesday, Glenda didn’t get to Mrs. Pottmeyer until visiting hours. She met Mr. Otto Pottmeyer, who was three years younger than his wife. The man was brushing his wife’s hair. “Why hello,” he said. “My wife says you’re a quiet one. Nothing to say except ‘can you raise your arm a little higher.’”

While Glenda went about her work, she chatted with Mr. Pottmeyer. He was a pleasant man who clearly still loved his wife. “We’ve been married for 70 years. Seems like seven years to me though.”

The man had such an agreeable manner that Glenda enjoyed talking to him. On Thursday, Glenda deliberately waited until visiting hours to see Mrs. Pottmeyer. She was happy to see Otto there. A tall mustachioed man, he insisted she call him by his first name.  “Do you have any children?” she asked.

It was an odd moment when Mr. and Mrs. Pottmeyer both answered. He said four and she said two. “We had four children,” Otto said. “We lost our son in the Vietnam War. Our daughter, God rest her soul, died of polio in 1955. She was just four years old.” Mrs. Pottmeyer closed her eyes. Her husband moved to her bedside and held her hand.   

That night, Glenda went out for hamburgers with her boyfriend Brant. “I’ve been taking care of this 94 year old woman,” she said. “Her husband is 91 and he is still so full of life, in love with his wife, if you can believe that.”

Brant smiled. I hope some of that magic rubs off on you.”

Glenda squeezed Brant’s hand. She knew what he meant. She’d been distracted lately and too busy for romance. “They’re so lucky, you know? I can’t imagine what it would be like to feel that way about someone for so many years.”

“Are you treating her tomorrow?” Brant asked. Glenda nodded. “Ask them for the secret.”

On Friday, Glenda stayed busy all morning. She was looking forward to spending time with the couple again. But when she got to Mrs. Pottmeyer’s room that afternoon, Otto wasn’t there. “Where’s your husband?” Glenda asked.

“Not feeling well today. I told him to stay home and rest.”

“He’s a lovely man,” Glenda said. “What, if I may ask, is the secret to such a long and happy marriage?” She raised the woman’s arm and started the exercise regimen.

“Life isn’t always what it seems, my dear. Otto? Yes, he’s kind and he’s been a good husband, but he wasn’t my first choice.”

“I’m shocked. He’s such a nice man. Was he a good father?”

“Oh, yes, he was a very good father and a good provider.”

“You had four children together. There must have been some chemistry between you.”

Mrs. Pottmeyer laughed. It was the first time Glenda heard her laugh. It wasn’t unkind; wistful, perhaps. “Reach under my bed dear. There’s a shoe box. I can’t get to it.” Glenda did as she was told and handed the box to the woman. “Raise the bed for me a little, please. She carefully lifted the lid from the box and sorted through some papers. She pulled out letters and notes, faded and fragile, handling each one carefully.  Finally, she came to a photo of a man in an Army uniform.  She handed it to Glenda.  

“Who is he?”

“That’s Charles, the love of my life. We were supposed to be married. But he died somewhere in France. His body was never recovered.”

“But you were lucky enough to find Otto. You love him too, right?”

Mrs.. Pottmeyer sighed “Otto’s alright, but he’s not Charles.” A tear rolled down each woman’s cheek.

Their tears were for different men.