Three people cut me before I ordered. I left, I thought, a polite amount of distance between myself and the mall-goer in front of me, but apparently I’d left so much that they assumed I wasn’t interested, three times over.

I ordered Sylvia May something with berries, fearing my green juice was too new-age for her. I swiped her credit card. I didn’t leave a tip. She wouldn’t have.

I volunteered for the mall trip every month. Most aides dreaded the hassle of taking the residents out. Hauling chairs, lifting bodies, arguing over stops. The pity of it all, taking senior citizens (Duke had been a surgeon) out like schoolkids on a field trip to the same mall where they once bought Christmas presents for kids who are now too busy to visit.

They got so excited. It was familiar. I remember being a kid dropped off at the mall with my own money for the first time, feeling like a king. It was only so long ago. And in this very mall. I shuddered at it, too. But I loved the pressed juice. And I loved Sylvia May. So, I always volunteered.

The mall was surprisingly crowded for a Tuesday. The kids must have been on a break. I weaved through them. The music blared, bouncing around the atrium above us. Sylvia May bopped her head politely to the music. She couldn’t hear more than a hum, but she was always so polite, tacking the May onto her name when I started, without a scene. So there wouldn’t be two Sylvias. Like she hadn’t been there longer.

Sylvia May moved her mouth to say hi as I returned, but no sound came out.

“It’s a berry medley. The girl at the counter said it was her favorite,” I justified, placing the juice in front of her.

She unlaced her hands with a quiet steadiness, every movement costing something. She reached forward for the smoothie, not too fast, not sure exactly where it was. She brought it fully to her mouth because she couldn’t move her head well. She sipped and breathed heavily. She smiled at me, her lips closed, but I saw the speck of blueberry on her yellow (almost brown) teeth when she opened her mouth to say, “Lovely.”

Her eyes caught on a young mom and two boys, one in her arms and one pulling at her side, not yet big enough to waver her posture. I wondered how Sylvia May could love kids so much, given hers.

She was quiet for a long time. Finding words, mustering strength.

“I worked at that Penney’s for 19 years.”

She smiled sweetly and breathed deeply. She couldn’t point, so I followed her eyes to the JCPenney’s across the mall. I could see her moving to finish the sentiment. Not wanting to exhaust herself, I finished the story she had shared with me many times.

“I know, honey.” I tapped her knee, like she would have done if she were telling me.

“It’s how you got out.”

I didn’t know how to get out. I had been trying for 5 years to leave next year. I told her that sometimes. And she would tell me how I am young. How she didn’t leave until she was 38.

I asked if she wanted to go for a stroll by walking two fingers on my palm. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes brightened, like they were trying to reach me.

She held her juice in her lap with both hands. I turned opposite the JCPenney, which I hoped didn’t embarrass her. I couldn’t come here if I were Sylvia May. (But I am just Sylvia). She had had a beautiful life, but two too kids many. And one by one, her parents lured them back upstate. With promises of college tuition and sublet apartments, until the town she saved them from swallowed them whole.

The dark purple juice tipped in her hands. I stopped when she hadn’t moved to correct herself. Sometimes she just couldn’t.

“Let’s take a break,” I said, pulling the cup from her lap and pushing her beside the only open chair, a massage chair, but she appeared to be asleep.

Her head was down, her white hair falling around her face. I unclipped her hair clip. When I touched her face, I knew she was dead. I hesitated, my heart in my throat, pushed her hair back, and clipped it.

I looked around to gauge who knew what was going on. Heads were in phones across from us. A two-year-old fell onto his face in the food court, wailing before he hit the ground. Two teenagers walked past, their hands in each other’s back pockets. No one was looking at us.

The drama of calling 911 in a mall seemed cruel. I felt sick at the image of young, dumb paramedics pounding on her fragile chest. Let her go, let her go! I hated that she faced the JCPenney.

We only had an hour left. So I waited. I talked to her as she grew colder. I asked if the JCPenney looked the same. I bet it did. I almost bought a massage, but my debit card wouldn’t work.

I got up to throw her nearly full juice in the garbage, hesitating before the toss, feeling some odd sentiment towards it, but tossing it anyway. I felt guilty leaving her alone for those 30 seconds.

I pushed Sylvia May to the parking lot. I was aware I was committing a crime, but it didn’t feel like a crime. The van driver greeted her with a soft nudge. Sweat sprouted on my forehead.

“Hey, sleeping beauty,” he touched her shoulder, and wasn’t concerned when Sylvia May did not acknowledge him. That made me feel good, because then he was implicated, too.

I let Sylvia May have the window seat, and I held her hand the whole way (which I wouldn’t have done if she were alive). I got her back to bed. I said I found her dead when I called for dinner. There were tears, but there were no questions.

I put in my two weeks on Friday, and no one was suspicious. I had always talked about leaving.

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Image: “Caution, Colonie Center” by Daniel Nester