Neck-deep in dishonesty

There are weeks that bury you neck-deep in mud.  Last week was one of them.

You know my life. I have a constant caregiver. He is quiet, an introvert like me, but he is very attentive of my husband’s needs. I like him very much. All caregivers need days off to refresh. I understand that. Those of us who have caregivers also have a roster of substitutes for their days off.

This last substitute caregiver seemed like an introvert, quiet, got things done.  He was married with two children but his oldest son had cerebral palsy. My heart cracked at the news. Once I had a neighbor whose charming little boy had cerebral palsy. I couldn’t stop playing with him. I made a mental note of finding him assistance for his son. After all, I was once chairman and president of Coca-Cola Foundation. Surely I could still find help with a few phone calls.

I liked this one as a substitute. His rate was P1,200 per day. I paid him P4,000 for three days, saying the extra was for his transportation. In addition I gave him chocolates and other food to bring home to his family.

He came a second time, seemed quieter. I gave him as much as I had the last time but something about him was beginning to bother me. He seemed not quite there. But he came in for a third time. This time he was quieter and I could see his eyes moving a lot around the room.

His last night was the night before Nena Nakpil’s birthday party. My necklaces — all of which I make myself — were hanging in front of the bed. I had three fake pearl necklaces that I had received over the years. Lately I clasped them together and wore them to lunch. I got many compliments. That night I decided to wear them the next day.

When I went to get my pearls, they were not there. I looked at every nook and cranny; they were not there. How many people were at my flat then? My husband, who is ill, the caregiver and me. So who else would have taken my pearls?

I asked him if he had seen them. “Oh, no, ma’am,” he said. “I never even look in that direction.” But I knew he had taken them. My fake pearls don’t walk. They can’t disappear on their own. I saw him move to the room where he keeps his clothes, then he walked back to the bedroom, then he came to me, my pearls in his hand. “Ma’am, are these your pearls?” he said so meekly. “I saw them under the place where you hang them. They must have fallen because, look, a strand broke.” I knew he had broken it. I’ll bet he thought those pearls were real. I took the necklace from him, disconnected the one he broke and wore the two to the party.

But I was angry. I felt violated. He worked for me so he could steal from me? But what could I do? My husband was sick. I was an old woman. He was a young man. I felt defenseless. I had to go to the party. Nena and I have been friends for 61 years. I had to give a short talk on our friendship. I paid him P3,600 exactly and gave him the Nips I had bought for his children. I had my driver take me to the party but sent him back to watch the man.

At first I thought the pearls were all he had taken. But I had P4,950 paid to me for medicines that I kept in an envelope in a basket in the room to pay somebody else. On Friday, when it was time to pay, it was gone. He had taken it, too. I was so angry I said I would write about him and put his picture in my column too, so that people would be warned about his dishonesty. My son told me I could not do that. It was now against the law. He could sue me for slander. “Why me, when he is obviously the dishonest one?” I asked.

“Nope,” my son said, “not unless you have CCTV proof that he was the one who stole it. He has to be caught in the act and look really guilty for the police to arrest him. You can’t write about it, Mom.”

What kind of a country doesn’t allow us to warn others about caregivers who steal? Aren’t we allowed to protect ourselves? Are we upholding dishonesty? If you want to know who he is so you can avoid hiring him, you may call me. I will send you all the data I have.

See what I mean when I write the week past made me feel neck-deep in mud?

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