by Noelle Adams
He hadn’t seemed to really like this area before, being more of a big-city guy, but maybe that has changed.
Shrugging off the memories, I turn away from the photo and keep walking. At the end of the hall is my new apartment.
It’s a studio apartment with a private alcove for the bed. It’s four hundred square feet with high ceilings and some good sunlight that comes in from the windows on two walls and a French door that leads out onto a small patio.
There’s a door that opens to an updated bathroom, and there’s a small kitchenette on one wall with a sink, half-size refrigerator, microwave, and electric kettle. Roger has been busy putting up my books on the bookcases he brought in for me, positioning a new recliner near the window, and laying out my pictures and wall hangings where he thought they might go.
It’s a decent room. It doesn’t feel too much like a hospital, although the bed, sofa, and small table and chairs that come with the room are quite generic.
It isn’t home, but it will be okay. I can live here.
I’ll have to live here.
“What do you think?” Roger asks with a broad smile.
“It’s nice.” I walk over to look out the window. Not only does it have a view of the garden, but it also has a view of the woods beyond. “It’s very nice.”
“I love all the sunshine,” Charlotte says, walking over to open the blinds a bit more.
“Yes, that’s very nice.” I smile at Roger. “Thank you so much for getting it ready.”
“Of course. Just tell me where you want the pictures on the wall, and I’ll hang them for you.”
He knows I never feel at home in a place until the pictures are hung.
We’re busy for an hour or two, and then Roger and Beth finally hug me and say good-bye. I’m left alone in the room.
It’s really quite pleasant. It could be so much worse. I’m not going to feel sorry for myself or complain when I’ve ended up in a very nice home.
I find my comb in my bag and carry it to the bathroom, where I put it down on the vanity.
As I do, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I look so old I barely recognize myself.
Maybe it’s just the lighting here. It’s different from my bathroom in the house. Since I’ve always carried a little extra weight, my face isn’t as wrinkled as a lot of women’s my age, but I see the creases on my forehead and at the corners of my mouth and eyes that stand out in stark detail at the moment.
My eyes are blue, and my hair is steel gray, hanging down to my shoulders since I always had long hair and still can’t bring myself to cut it all off.
I used to wear red lipstick, and I think about putting it on now to brighten up my face before I go down for dinner.
I don’t, though.
My lipstick days are over—just like my days of having a dog are over. I’m not going to be one of those silly women who can’t let go of her younger self and so becomes slightly ridiculous.
I’ve always been intelligent, independent, and practical. That’s what I’ll continue to be.
I can be so here too.
I’m surprised when there’s a tap on the door to my apartment, and I turn too quickly and jar my hip painfully.
So I’m slower than usual as I shuffle to the door to open it.
It’s Charlotte, smiling at me. “I’m just checking to make sure everything’s all right.”
“Yes, it’s very nice. Thank you.”
“I’ll go down with you to dinner, if you want. I know it’s not always easy going alone if you’re new to a place. Some folks have told me it’s like the first day of school.”
It’s a very kind thought, and I accept it. I grab my crocheted handbag and start down with her.
“How long have you worked here?” I ask as we go.
“Almost twelve years now.”
“You enjoy it?”
“I do. I really do.”
“Do you have children?” I ask because I’m curious—no other reason than that.
She shakes her head. “I always wanted them, but it’s not looking like it’s going to happen.”
“Well, you never know. I doubt it’s too late for you yet.”
She gives a little laugh. “It’s getting there.”
“So you’re not married?”
“No.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“I … I think so.”
That answer doesn’t seem promising—nor does the slight twisting of her face as she says it. If a woman isn’t able to say confidently that she has a boyfriend, then it’s likely she doesn’t.
But I like Charlotte and I don’t want to hurt her feelings, so I just nod. “That’s good.”
“His name is Kevin. He’s a lawyer. Oh, actually, Dave Andrews is his stepfather.”
“Oh, really?” I try to sound interested, since I know she just mentions it because I brought up Dave to her before.
“He’s out of town. Dave, I mean. Well, actually, both Dave and Kevin. The family took a trip to Niagara Falls. They won’t be back until next week.”
The truth is I don’t care all that much about Dave. It’s of no interest to me whether he’s in town or not. I didn’t like him before, so I’m not inclined to like him now.
I do like Charlotte, and something tells me that Kevin, the lawyer, isn’t the kind of boyfriend she deserves.
three
I used to always get butterflies on the first day of school. I’d be excited about my new classes, my new teacher, my new classmates. I’d imagine all the wonderful, exciting things that would happen to me that year.
Despite what Charlotte said, the butterflies were entirely lacking when I went down to the dining room last night. Charlotte found me a seat at a table with a kind couple and a rather absentminded woman in her eighties who asked me three times if I liked to knit. They were all perfectly nice, but it’s hardly what I’d call exciting.
Marjorie, the knitting inquirer, invited me to hang out in the TV room after dinner. It appears that’s a popular evening destination, since I saw several people heading in that direction.
Instead, I went up to my room and watched an old British mystery on my own television.
I went to bed early.
This morning, I wake up early, as I always do. Breakfast doesn’t start being served until seven, so I make myself a cup of tea, take it out to my patio, and do a crossword as I wait for the sun to rise. It’s very quiet, with just a few early birds chirping in the trees and the sound of the trash truck coming at one point to empty the facility’s dumpster.
I’m used to quiet mornings, so I’m perfectly happy until it’s light enough outside for me to want to take a walk up to the woods to see my dogs.
That’s impossible, of course.
There’s no reason I can’t take a walk, though. I can see the path that follows the perimeter of the woods toward the valley overlook. It’s still more than an hour before breakfast begins. I have plenty of time.
I could call to ask for assistance in dressing, but I’m not inclined to do that unless I have to. I’m still perfectly capable of taking care of myself. It’s just the household chores that were getting hard for me. I take showers in the evening before bed, so it’s no problem for me now to put on my clothes, wash my face, and brush my hair.
I used to always wear flowing tops or dresses and striking beads around my neck, which I collected wherever I could find them. I still have my bead collection, but it feels like a lot of effort to wear them anymore. After all, the highlight of my days now will probably be going to the dining room to eat. So I stick with a casual pair of pants and a simple top, making sure I have the call button that all residents are given in case of emergency. I’m yearning for a dog as I make my way to the back door of the building and walk outside.
The back gardens lead to the walking paths, and I follow the one I want. It’s slow going because my hip is still weak and my knees and ankles feel sore from my normal arthritis. But I can support
myself on my walker, and it’s really not a very long walk until I reach a bench that offers a good view of the valley.
I lower myself onto the bench, pulling my walker up next to me so it’s not blocking the view but is still in easy reach.
I look. And I breathe.
It’s the same Valentine Valley that I’ve known and loved for so long, with the gentle, tree-lined slopes falling down into the bowl, the lake just east of the center, and the familiar pattern of roads breaking through the woods. This is the opposite side, however, so I’m not looking across at the top of the heart.
It looks different. Vaguely unfamiliar. It’s unsettling.
I tell myself not to be stupid about it. A view from the wrong direction is better than no view at all. I entertain myself by trying to make out buildings I know on the far side, although it’s such a distance that it’s mostly just a guessing game.
I stay on the bench for a long time, and I feel better when I finally get up and make my way back to the building for breakfast.
I can do this.
This situation is not perfect—not shaped as exactly right for me as the three-branch seat on the old oak tree was. It’s more like that one branch higher up: not exactly comfortable, but stable enough to hold me and keep me from tumbling all the way down.
I have tea that afternoon with the spacey knitting lady named Marjorie. Not that she actually knits. I haven’t seen her do so, at least. But she seems fond of asking me whether I do, so I assume it’s something she’s enjoyed at some point in her life.
Marjorie’s skin is like crumpled white paper, and her arms are so thin and frail I’m quite sure I could break one of her bones without even exerting myself.
That’s a macabre thought. Just so it’s clear, I would never actually do such a thing.
Earlier, when I carried my tea out to the veranda, Marjorie smiled, so I went over to sit at the table with her. It’s a sunny afternoon, and many of the residents have had the same idea. Most of the tables are full. Some of the men and women look at me, and I can’t help but wonder what they’re thinking.
I focus on Marjorie, since I’ve met her and she’s right in front of me.
“Are you enjoying your day?” she asks, stirring her tea with a little spoon.
“It’s been very nice. Thank you. I’m still getting used to everything, of course.”
“It’s lovely here. I’m sure you’ll find it lovely. Do you like to knit?”
I shake my head soberly. “I’ve never learned to knit or crochet or do any sort of handiwork.”
Her eyes widen, as if this admission is astonishing. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry to hear it.”
“I’ve managed all right so far without it.” I make sure my tone is gentle, since I don’t want to sound sarcastic.
“We have a knitting circle that meets every Wednesday afternoon, but if you don’t knit, you’d be bored there, I’m afraid.”
“Probably so. I’ll have to miss out. Thank you for the thought, though.” This is the first time she’s mentioned the knitting circle, and I’m pleased to know there is actually a purpose to her questioning.
“What do you like to do then?”
“I enjoy crosswords and other word games. I read too.”
“Oh, you do?”
“I was a librarian for a long time.”
“A librarian! How lovely. My eyes are so bad now I can’t do any reading.”
I wonder how her failing vision might affect her knitting, but I don’t ask about it. “I also like to take walks, at least as much as I can with this new hip.”
“Walking is so good for your health.”
I smile. “It is.”
“We have walking paths here you should try.”
“I’ve already done so. I took a walk this morning to the bench that looks out on Valentine Valley. It was lovely.”
“Oh.” Marjorie’s brown eyes go wider than normal. “Oh. Oh. The bench?”
“Yes,” I reply slowly, startled by her dramatic reaction. “Do you know the one I mean?”
“Yes. Oh, yes. That’s Dave’s bench.”
I frown. “What do you mean it’s his bench?”
“It’s his bench.” She looks very concerned for a few moments, clucking her tongue and stirring her tea vigorously. Then she relaxes and lets out a breath. “Oh, it’s all right then. He’s out of town this week, isn’t he?”
I can only assume she means Dave Andrews, since Charlotte also told me he’s out of town this week, going to visit Niagara Falls with his family. My spine stiffens with annoyance at the idea that he would claim a bench that is clearly part of the common grounds and property and thus available for any of the residents.
Maybe it’s just one of Marjorie’s eccentricities. I can hardly assume Dave has been selfish and entitled with no more evidence than one old lady claiming the bench is his.
“I don’t know,” I say, careful not to convey any feeling. “But I assume I’m allowed to sit on the bench if I take a walk in the mornings.”
“He’s not here this week,” Marjorie says, smiling at me in her genial way again. “So it’s not a problem.”
This annoys me, but I don’t want to be one of those crabby, irritable old women I used to laugh at. I push the thought out of my mind.
After all, I am going to walk to the bench every morning and look out to the valley. So there is no reason to be annoyed by the thought of anyone trying to stop me.
The week goes quickly, although each individual day seems to drag. I’m not sure how that happens, but it sometimes does. At three o’clock in the afternoon, it feels like it’s been an eternity since morning, but when I wake up in the morning it feels like a new day can’t possibly be here already.
Whatever the reason, it’s Saturday before I know it. The weekends don’t feel any different to me than weekdays do now, but I still always wake up on Saturdays with a happy feeling and the idea that I’m allowed to take it easy today.
When I was living in the house, what that meant was not doing any of the daily chores and fixing something easy for meals. Here, it doesn’t mean much of anything at all, since I neither cook nor clean.
I lie in bed for a few minutes, trying to decide if there’s anything slightly different I can do to mark the day as a Saturday. There’s a bus to a shopping mall this afternoon that I can join, but I’ve never enjoyed shopping—particularly from large chain stores—so that seems like a lot of effort for no enjoyment.
I can skip my walk, since that’s my main exertion for the day, but it’s also the thing I enjoy the most, so I’m not about to miss out on it.
I can call Roger and Beth to see how they’re doing. Roger has called a couple of times this week to check in, but Saturday is a good day for a longer chat.
That will be something. Then maybe I can choose one activity to participate in today instead of spending all my free time in my apartment, as I’ve been doing.
I’m pleased with this plan, and I’m in a good mood as I go outside just after the sun rises and take my normal path. The walk has gotten a little easier, even with just the days that have passed this week. That’s encouraging.
Perhaps soon I can graduate to a cane rather than using the awkward walker.
I’ve started taking a book with me in the mornings, so I’ll have something to do should I decide to stay a little longer. The path is as quiet as ever, and the bench is inviting and solitary as I approach. It’s backed by two lovely weeping willows, and one of the branches is low enough for the lacy leaves to brush the back edge of the bench.
I take my place, moving my walker out of the way and breathing deeply of the cool air. It’s the first day of September, and at the moment it’s starting to feel like fall. It even smells like fall—that damp, earthy smell that gets wafted with the cool breeze.
I love when summer ends. I always have. I find the heat and humidity oppressive. Years of working in a school setting has ingrained September as the time of new starts, fresh opportunity,
brand new school years waiting to be filled with anything.
For the first time in a long time—in at least two months—I feel a kind of pulsing in my blood. Not excitement, really, but genuine enjoyment.
There’s fog out in the valley this morning, covering the trees with thick, wet grayness, some of the edges of the clouds breaking out in silver when hit by a stream of sunlight.
It’s like the valley is asleep, just on the edge of awakening.
“What are you doing here?”
The voice is startling, unexpected, rough with what sounds like displeasure. I give a little jump in response and turn to see a man standing a ways down the path. He’s clearly come up from the main buildings as I have.
It’s Dave Andrews. He’s changed with the years, just as everyone does, but he’s still unmistakable with his straight posture and cleft chin. He has stopped walking and is glowering at me.
I have no idea what his problem is, so I say the obvious thing. “Excuse me?”
“What are you doing on the bench?”
I remember Marjorie’s worried tone as she said the bench was Dave’s. For a moment, I feel a familiar shiver of concern at having broken a rule. I’ve never been particularly rebellious, and I’ve always hated getting in trouble.
Then I come to my senses. I haven’t broken any rule. This bench is part of Eagle’s Rest and is not Dave’s personal property. I have nothing to be ashamed of here.
I lift my eyebrows, determined not to let him put me at a disadvantage. He always used to, when we worked together. “I’m sitting. Is there a problem?”
He comes closer, still glaring. He walks a lot better than I do. He must not have a bad hip or knee. He’s a few years older than me, I believe, but he seems to be in pretty good shape.
His attitude … well, that’s something entirely different.
“It’s my bench.”
