The Collected Regrets of Clover

Not everyone shared Rosita’s cheerfulness. Other residents sat sedately in their wheelchairs staring ahead stoically as if readying themselves for the indignity of being ignored, knowing they’d already been forgotten by the rest of society. But as I made sure to stop and say good morning to each of them, the stoicism melted and the sadness in their eyes ignited into hopefulness as they appreciatively returned my greeting in murmured Spanish.

The past month had already taught me one of my most important lessons in life. During my first couple of weeks, I’d felt overwhelmed with sadness seeing the unfortunate circumstances of these people, finding it hard to see past their debilitating illnesses and slowly wilting bodies. But I gradually began to realize that pitying them wouldn’t take away their pain. The kindest thing I could do for them was to look them in the eye and simply acknowledge their presence as human beings. That’s when I’d promised myself I’d never turn away from someone’s pain, no matter how much I wanted to.

“Buenos dias, Clover,” a distinctly American voice called from behind me.

My pulse thumped in response as I turned around, willing myself to play it cool. “Oh, hey, Tim,” I stammered. “I mean, buenos dias.”

Tim was another volunteer, from Seattle, who’d started at the nursing home a week after me. Since I’d been given the task of showing him around on his first day, we’d gotten to know each other quite well. It was always much easier for me to interact with people when I had a purpose. Plus, I’d discovered one of the benefits of traveling to a place where no one knows you—the anonymity of being a stranger, the potential of a clean slate. In Guatemala, I wasn’t a weird loner; I was fun, confident, and adventurous. At least, that was the persona I’d been trying on for the past month.

“Man, I have the worst hangover,” Tim said, even though his tanned swimmer’s physique looked nothing but robust.

“Did you go out last night?” I searched for something more to say so I didn’t sound like I was interrogating him. “Working with a hangover can sure be brutal.” Or so I’d gathered.

“Yeah.” He took off his Seahawks cap and rubbed his head. “Me and some of the other volunteers hit up a tequila bar last night.”

“Oh, okay.” I hadn’t heard anything about a night out.

He squeezed my arm. “We totally would have invited you but it was super last minute.”

I pinned on a smile. “That’s cool—I was busy last night anyway.” Busy writing in my journal, but still, technically true.

Rosita, who was still clinging to my waist, reached up and tugged Tim’s backpack strap playfully.

Tim looked down at her, as if not sure how to engage. “Oh, hey, Juanita.” He looked around uncomfortably. “I’d better go sign in. Gotta make sure it’s on the record since it’s the whole reason I’m here.” He leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “Those big finance firms love their new hires to have good deeds on their résumés.”

The morning humidity carried the scent of yellow jasmine, filling the courtyard with a subtle sweetness as I walked inside with Rosita. My shift that day was what was generously named “occupational therapy”—basically helping the abuelos put together jigsaw puzzles or create artworks from donated materials like plastic cutlery, paper plates, and old buttons. More often than not, I was just there to keep an eye on them as they sat transfixed by the glacial pace of the Mexican soap opera on the boxy television balanced atop the supply cabinet.

When I arrived in the room, the abuelos were already busying themselves with their crafts. Each resident of the nursing home was issued the same standard set of clothes—the men wore gray V-necks and slacks, while the women had simple house dresses, all in the same floral fabric. I always wondered what each of these people must have been like in their youth, long before they’d ever considered that society might forget them—or at least no longer value them. I could glean aspects of their personalities from the way they carried themselves. While some had relinquished their grooming habits, or weren’t capable of continuing them anymore, others still took pride in their appearance, like José with his short hair slicked neatly to the side and Pilar with her braids twisted up into a tidy bun. And then there were the small but meaningful flourishes that distinguished their otherwise matching outfits—Valería’s frilled apron, Carmen’s beaded necklace, Fernanda’s hand-crocheted cardigan.

What had they dreamed about when they were my age? What did they wish they’d done differently now that the end was near?

In the corner of the room, a round-faced gentleman sat on a battered chair, hands folded tidily in his lap as he patiently awaited my arrival. Arturo had proudly informed me last week that he was a poet, but now that arthritis had commandeered his knuckles, he was unable to put his creations to paper. So I’d volunteered to be his scribe and had spent the past few mornings carefully noting down his poetic observations about life and love.

Today’s poem was about knowing there was a great love out there for you, even if you hadn’t met them yet.

“Until we meet, I’ll look at the moon because it’s the one thing we both share,” he proclaimed in Spanish, his dark irises shining.

“How romantic,” I marveled, enchanted by his unabashed sentimentality.

“I’m sure you’ve already found someone special,” he said, nudging me with his elbow.

“Maybe I have,” I replied, nudging him back cheekily.

I definitely had—and I was pretty sure Tim felt the same way. Over the past two weeks, I’d carefully documented all the signs in my journal. The way he’d put his arm around me casually while he was talking to me. Or how he’d ask me to massage his shoulders when they were feeling stiff. Or that when he needed someone to cover his shift, he always asked me first, not because I was one of the best with the abuelos, but because he knew he could count on me. And then there was that one time I did go out for drinks with all the other volunteers, when he made a point to sit next to me and even squeezed my knee when I paid for his drinks because he forgot his wallet.

In the interest of being a modern, independent woman, I’d decided that I didn’t need to wait for him to make the first move. And my birthday seemed like the perfect opportunity. At the end of our shift that day, after we’d served the residents their evening meal, I was going to reveal that it was my birthday and ask him if he wanted to join me for dinner to celebrate at the tiny little restaurant on the corner.

And that’s when I’d tell him how I felt.

I’d already considered the logistics of how we might keep up our long-distance relationship once he went back to Seattle and I returned to Montreal. It would be a challenge, but I was willing to put in the work. Maybe we could even plan to do our post-grad studies in the same city. There was a good chance he’d end up moving to New York—it was one of the world’s financial capitals, after all.

I was actually pretty excited about it. My first kiss, finally.



* * *



The clanging of the mealtime bell signaled dinner in the nursing home. Ever creatures of habit, the abuelos shuffled toward the stark dining hall, taking their designated seats at the long communal tables.

I felt a squeeze on my shoulder. My giddiness intensified as Tim leaned close and whispered in my ear.

“Hey, Se?orita Clover, do you think you could cover for me for fifteen minutes? I just have to duck out quickly for an errand.”

Butterflies tickled my stomach as I leaned in to whisper back, treasuring the intimacy amongst the chaos of the dining hall.

“Of course.”

He squeezed my shoulder once more. “You’re the best.”

It was hectic covering both his tables and mine, serving the residents their standard portions of rice and beans, and then their cup of lopsided flan. But I didn’t begrudge it at all. Relationships took sacrifices—this was my chance to show him that I was willing to go the extra mile.

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