by Hope Lyda
“I’d give anything to be able to visit my dad.” Lysa’s voice softens, and I remember that her dad passed away two years ago. Her catalyst moment to start nursing school.
Guilt conviction sets in. I quickly step off my soapbox and my mind replays Sadie’s inquiry about my avoidance of home. I may not drive by my parents’ house every day on the way to work, but am I really so different from Wendy? “Maybe she is busy and plans to visit, but…” I don’t let myself finish the pathetic remark meant to assuage my guilt rather than grant Wendy grace.
“Don’t forget that you have a meeting with Rae at 11:00. She asked me to block out quite a chunk of time for you to be with her in her royal chambers.”
This annual planning meeting is my life assessment marker. I preface it each year with a short prayer, “Lord, let this be my last planning session. Move me on to greener pastures. Amen.” This year I will add, “May I never have to pray this prayer again.”
I roll my creaky chair out into the hallway so that Lysa can see from her corner corral that my tongue is stuck out. Unfortunately my chair’s momentum forces a collision with Mr. Emil Shannon, who is storming toward the desk with the self-appointed authority his short and corpulent body betrays.
Just as Wendy was to be crowned worst spawn of the year, we are reminded of this poor excuse for a child. Cursing, Emil bends down to rub his shin while his other hand is waving madly in the air, pointing, accusing, searching for a target.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Shannon, but you will have to hail a cab outside.” I roll back behind the counter so there will be a sound-and-fury barrier between us.
He rises and glares over the faux-granite surface at me. “Once again I have had something of great value stolen in this unchecked crime ward.” He waits with nostrils flaring, his breath as shallow as his spirit.
I offer him the look of shock and outrage that he expects followed by an insincere frown of disappointment. “Unfortunately, we don’t have a place for stolen items. They don’t remain in the building, what with all the pawnshops in the area. But if you think you might have lost something that someone else found, then we do have a lost and found bin—”
“I haven’t got all day to spend in this—” He stops talking when he sees that I have stopped searching through the bin so I can listen for his insult. In a lower version of his angry voice he seethes, “Just look, please. It’s a gold watch.”
This runt of a man is the son of Pamela Shannon, a woman with only slight dementia who has picked up a bad habit in her old age. She picks pockets. At first the stack of hundred-dollar bills, Emil’s driver’s license, and a silver pen in her nightstand after visiting hours were a mystery. We finally caught on and confronted her. She laughed at our slow detective work. When she was told that stealing from a son sweet enough to visit regularly was abominable, she laughed even louder.
Pamela’s devilish, in-the-know grin later made sense. Frank heard the bridge room gossip that Emil was robbing Pamela blind and was probably responsible for placing the high-functioning woman here well before there were any signs of physical or emotional need. A quick search through a local real estate website confirmed that Emil was selling pieces of his mother’s property at top market prices.
Now when the metal doors are closed to visitors, we congratulate Pamela on whatever fine object she has acquired and then place the item directly in the lost-and-found bin. It doesn’t bother us at all when Emil shouts, spit building in the corners of his mouth, and reprimands whoever is on duty about the loose security. Important lawyer-man still doesn’t realize that his mother is only doing to him what he is doing to her.
I asked Pamela why she even allows him to return. It turns out he brings pints of butter pecan ice cream each trip as a guilt offering. She just loves butter pecan ice cream and watching him squirm when she refers to him as her “special tubby boy.”
Tubby’s small, bloated face is now hovering just inches from mine. “You do not run a resident community but a home for thieves and vagrants. I should take my mother out of here because of all the criminal activity that goes on.”
I hold out the orange container that has an assortment of books, eyeglasses, and as of last week, Mr. Shannon’s gold Rolex.
“When I get done with the high-profile case I am working on, this place will be my next investigation. You can be sure.” His stubby hands grab for the watch, reaching and retracting like a turtle’s head returns to its shell after an offense.
“How old are you, Mr. Shannon?” I give him a pensive, evaluative look.
“What on earth does that have to do with it?”
“Well, you are right about the lost items scenario happening too often.”
He looks as pleased as a gargoyle can look. Uncoordinated, nervous fingers replace the watch on his thick wrist.
“You know, dementia can set in early in a person’s life. And it can be hereditary…” I leave the deduction to this great lawyer working on a high-profile case.
With a shrug of his shoulders he straightens his suit on the top half. The middle of the jacket is wedged onto his extended belly. Nice suit, evil fit. He spins on his heel and storms toward the glass doors, which he tries to slam, until he realizes they are hinged to close slowly for thieving people with walkers. This really gets to him; he kicks the steel frame of the door and limps off.
Bullied in a China Shop
Rae is a tall, big-boned woman who comes from a long line of linemen. She bellows my name and beckons me to her office. I enter the only room in the building with functioning air-conditioning and breathe in the strong fake scent of gardenia air freshener.
She stands with some difficulty and motions for me to sit in front of her. Mother-of-pearl glasses rest on her nose as she takes in everything about me. I do the same to her. She towers over a glass desk. The light from the backdrop display case of Hummel figurines glows through her thinning hair, giving her a ghost-from-Christmas-past look.
One late night after Lysa and I had written up Medicare qualification reports on residents, we became giddy on Mountain Dew and Goobers from the snack machine. Neither of us wanted to go home because going home meant going to bed and eventually waking up and having to return here. So we restarted the antiquated computer and researched on eBay what we could get if we kidnapped the Hummel porcelain cherubic children and animals. It turns out they are worth more than enough to cross the border and live comfortably for a few years.
The problem with fantasies like that for a somewhat logical person…you always ask the “what then?” question and the dream balloon deflates faster than you can purchase a one-way bus ticket to Mexico. Overanalysis is my own worst enemy.
Our stare down ends with Rae extending a candy dish to me. A cheap peace offering before the battle begins. To be polite I select a red hot, but it is stuck to a wrapped peppermint, and she has to hold the dish while I wrangle the tiny dot of sugar loose. Unfortunately, her patience allowance for me was spent the moment I walked in the door and sucked in some of her private cold air. She makes it clear that she is at wit’s end. Since she was born with a shortage, this comes rather quickly.
Her thin silver pen taps on the glass repeatedly. I chose the wrong candy, so she is going to make me wait and consider how much better life would be had I chosen a golden butterscotch or a root beer barrel. My mind immediately conjures a neon sign that flashes: “Bull in a china shop.” There is no way to avoid such a thought when you are in Rae’s office. This woman, who is one plaid flannel shirt away from a Paul Bunyan portrait, surrounds herself with fragile items that teeter on the edge of possible doom. Delicate crystal figurines in indistinguishable shapes, origami birds midflight, shell saucers holding glass marbles, antique lace doilies draped over the arms of her leather wing-back chair. I want to ask her if she does this to feel powerful. And whether she places herself among fragile bones and tender spirits for the same reason.
Instead I focus on a smear of mascara that is below her right eye. She looks lik
e a heavyweight boxer, and somehow this identity is more user-friendly to me than that of wicked supervisor. So I keep it to myself and refer to her as Sugar Rae in my head.
“Let’s get right to it, shall we?” She adjusts her blouse so that I see mostly the tropical red tank beneath. She is a large stop sign planted in my path. I’m tempted to run it…grab the Hummels and dash for the border after all.
“Well, plans for the Golden Golden party are well underway. We’ll be ready after a few minor details are ironed out, but I’ll have those secured by next week. Blanche, the head of the resident committee, and I are on top of all details.” The big fiftieth anniversary party for Golden Horizons is a bit of a scam, really. The facility is only twenty years old, but apparently an original Golden Horizons started up in Yuma fifty years ago. I guess services to the aging are prime franchises these days.
“What’s left?” Rae twirls the small gold chain around her thick neck. Each time she twists it to one side it disappears into her flesh on the other.
“I just have to confirm the play time and rate for a fantastic fifties band. The Doo-Wops. I thought it would be nice to commemorate the music of the original era. I was only able to get them through a personal connection; they are in high demand throughout the Southwest.” My mouth is rambling along. I don’t know why I need to build up these details to Rae. I’m doing a good job and she knows it. Why do I become so defensive in her presence?
I tell myself to shut up, but I keep on talking to avoid the silence. “This music will go well with the decorations and those invitations you approved last month. The pretty ones with the balloons rising up the side of the page.” They are horrific juvenile invitations instead of the very classy version I picked out. Rae had refused my choice, saying this wasn’t an inauguration or a funeral but a real party. “Parrteee” she had said, like a seventeen-year-old.
“Forget the music. I have that covered.” She stops twisting her chain in favor of pulling my leg.
“You’re kidding, right?” As soon as I say it I try to suck back in the breath that carried those bad, bad words into her space. She never kids. She punishes, insults, tortures. Never kids.
Her Mona Lisa-esque smile quivers. “I have arranged for the band. All that fifties music can still be the theme.” She opens a folder in front of her. I know by the colored label that it is an employee file. I’m several months from a review, so my heart skips a beat. Is she taking over the party plans for a reason? Could this be my firing? Could this be my free pass to another life?
“Beau was spectacular and quite a planner.” She praises the employee who quit.
As sick as I am of this guy, at least he had the sense to quit. “Oh, the one who quit and left you on short notice?” Ha. Take that. I was the savior when Beau the wonder boy left her high and dry.
“Did you ever meet him?” She skips over my comment with the greatest of ease. And her voice even catches with emotion.
Here we go. “Uh, no. Haven’t had the pleasure.” I start to roll my eyes but she is watching me, so I keep them still at the top and pretend to focus in on a mosquito. I grab the air to snare it midflight. My aim is excellent. I ask her for a tissue, a burial for the imaginary bug.
Her usually smooth forehead now has several layers of creases. She looks at me as though I have eaten the bug and scrounged around for more. “Well, he was a good planner.” She pauses to note the obvious contrast between former and current employees. “He left us with some anniversary party ideas before he left five years ago. They’re quite good. I want you to use as many of these as possible.”
She shoves the folder at me. It falls onto my lap and the papers inside start to slip out.
“But I have the party under control.” The last thing I want is to work my behind off creating this big event and have all the credit go to Beau. I’m so sick of him.
“And I don’t need to remind you that personnel files are personal and confidential. I want this back next week. I shouldn’t even be doing this, but his ideas are so great…” She stops talking. A small laugh escapes her throat. “There are even some excellent recipes in there. The residents used to love his lemon chiffon cake, and his black bean, chipotle chili is award winning.” Her fingers go back to the necklace, and she seems to forget I am here. It crosses my mind that possessing Beau’s personnel file is a gift. Maybe in between casserole secrets and event-planning tips there is one write-up. An early bad review. A string of unexplainable tardies. I organize the folder and get up to leave before she wakes up from her daydream.
“Sit,” she barks. I obey
“Our pilates instructor is leaving. I’ll need you to cover for her until you find a replacement.”
“But I’m not trained in pilates. And don’t you hire?”
“Do I need to remind you again that you are the recreational director? First you leave the party details to me, and now you want to get out of leading some harmless calisthenics. These people just want to try and touch their knees, for pete’s sake.”
I’m elated to hear my professional role reduced to inciting knee touching. Renewed conviction to distribute more résumés this week is fueled.
“Is that all?” I’m pouting now. My job description keeps mutating. Even perfect Beau couldn’t keep up the act forever. Maybe he had a breakdown and now lives in the psychiatric ward of Holy Cross Hospital. I grip his file even tighter.
“You should be thrilled that we can hire an instructor at all. I shouldn’t tell you this, but since it relates to you…” She shrugs and opens her drawer. She pulls out a piece of black licorice and starts gnawing. “Our budget is getting slashed at the end of the year. Big time. Whatever you are planning for the fund-raiser had better be huge. Don’t try to push through era bands and plain invitations or the first cut will be your job. Got it?” With each chaw her mouth is getting darker from the licorice. Black is beginning to fill the creases her red lipstick had carved out earlier. “Do we understand each other?”
I stand and look at her…black eye, black lips…and think maybe she is morphing into the devil right before my eyes. “Perfectly.” I spread my healthy pink lips into a broad smile and think bigger. Maybe Beau’s file will include favorite recipes and instructions for a good ol’ fashioned exorcism.
Confessions
I need some breakup advice.” Angelica accepts her plate from our favorite Freddy’s waitress—whom I now refer to as Cruella the Gruel Slogger—and removes her pink tweed Prada jacket, draping it casually but deliberately label-side out on the back of the chair. There is nothing more pretentious than the blatant subtlety of a socialite.
Caitlin points a fluffy-mittened hand toward Sadie. “Don’t ask Sadie to help. All you have to do is look at her and you know she is smack happy in love.”
Sadie smiles shyly. Happiness is indeed written all over her face.
“Slaphappy.” I correct Caitlin with the edge I have adopted since my conference with Rae. Not even my large bowl of coffee softens the stark truth revealed that day. I so need to step out of this version of my life.
“Meeeowwww.” Angelica motions cat claws, indicating my feisty mood is now not only in my head but out on the breakfast table for all to judge.
Caitlin’s eyes are half-covered by yet another hat. A rainbow-colored knit afro has replaced the long-gone non. “Oooohh. Guess who should offer breakup advice? I’d say Mari is in just the right mood.”
“Fine.” I don’t even try to argue. Bring on the ridiculous dating situation Angelica wants to present so I can wallow over her active love life rather than dwell on my nonexistent one. And why does Angelica always get to present our dilemma topic?
Angelica nods, glad that my bad mood will serve her well. “Perfect.” She pushes up her white poplin sleeves and then slides her silver charm bracelet to rest near her elbow, saving it from dipping in her granola with banana chips.
“It’s my regional corporate partner, Josie.” She hisses so the sound of her partner’s disliked name can
sink in. “She is driving me crazy and I must get away from her. She is ruining my reputation.”
“Goodness! Not your reputation. Do tell.” I place my hand to my forehead in Scarlett O’Hara fashion to mock her openly. If she wants to exploit my mood, so be it.
“It’s true. I was all set to start dating this fantastic doctor from the clinic on Centennial. He travels a lot for Doctors Without Borders, and I’m pretty sure he is interested in me.”
“Are you sure that isn’t Doctors Without Boundaries?” I make my judgment known. “Shouldn’t you keep ‘client’ and ‘boyfriend’ as two separate entities?” I use the double finger quote/unquote gesture for added emphasis.
“Well, you don’t have to worry. Josie-Nosey mentioned my faith to the doctor.” Angelica’s fear of public faith has turned into a phobia.
“So what terrible thing happened? You know, it isn’t the end of the world if people realize you actually believe in God. Maybe she saved you from going out with someone who is completely void of faith…or anti-faith…” I pause to take a poll. “Which is worse, do you think?”
“Anti-faith.”
“Both no good.”
Angelica interrupts my runaway commentary. “As it turns out, he’s a Christian. A deacon at his church even. So that’s that.” She wipes away granola crumbs and the chance at romance in one motion.
“So while the rest of us would give anything to connect with a Christian guy, let alone a doctor, you find this combination to be repulsive?” Even though I first challenged the ethics of the situation, my devil’s advocate persona has jumped to the other side. I cannot help but pick apart her line of reasoning.
“He’d expect too much. You know, serious dating, marriage, kids. The whole package. That is so far from what I want. So, Josie has to go.”
