“Middle of the week. Make sure we have a way to reach you in case I have a question.”
I pointed to the application. “That’s my home phone and my work phone. I’ve got a message machine on both.”
“This your current business address?”
“That’s right. I’m renting space from an attorney named Lonnie Kingman. He and my landlord will both tell you I pay on time.”
“Sounds good. Something comes up, I’ll call. Otherwise, I’ll be in touch once I’ve processed all the applications.”
“Fine. That sounds great. If you like, I can pay the first six months in advance.” I was starting to sound ridiculous, fawning and insecure.
Richard said, “Really.” He studied me, his eyes a dark, brooding brown. “Fifteen hundred dollars, plus the additional one seventy-five for the cleaning deposit,” he said, making sure I knew the full extent of my folly.
I thought about Fiona’s check for fifteen hundred bucks. “Sure, no problem. I could give you that right now.”
“I’ll take that into consideration,” he said.
Chapter 6
Saturday, I opened my eyes automatically at 5:59 A.M. I stared up at the skylight, which was beaded with rain, the entire Plexiglas dome scattered with tiny pearls of light. The breeze coming in the bedroom window smelled of leaf mold, wet sidewalks, and the dripping eucalyptus trees that lined the street beyond. Actually, the scent of eucalyptus is almost indistinguishable from the odor of cat spray, but I didn’t want to think about that. I bunched the pillow under my head, secure in the knowledge that I didn’t have to crawl out of bed for my run. As dutiful as I am about exercise, there’s still nothing more delicious than the opportunity to sleep in. I burrowed under the covers, ignoring the world until 8:30, when I finally came up for air.
Once I’d showered and dressed, I made myself a pot of coffee and owned a bowl of cereal while I read the morning paper. I changed my sheets, started a load of laundry, and generally picked up around the place. When I was a child, my aunt Gin insisted I clean my room on Saturdays before I went out to play. Since we lived in a trailer, the task didn’t amount to much, but the habit remains. I dusted, vacuumed, scrubbed toilet bowls-mindless activities that left me free to ruminate. I alternated fantasies, mentally rearranging furniture in my new office space and thinking about who to query next in my search for Purcell. With Fiona’s fifteen-hundred-dollar retainer now safely in my account, I felt obligated to work through the weekend. I resisted the temptation to theorize after only one day’s work, but if I’d been forced to place bets, I would have plunked down my money on the notion that Purcell was dead. From what I’d learned of him, I couldn’t see him taking off without a word to his wife and small son. That didn’t explain the missing passport and the missing thirty grand, but both might surface in due course. At this point, there was no reason to believe they were germane.
At eleven o’clock, I hauled out the phone book and turned to the yellow pages, checking out the section that listed nursing homes. There were close to twenty by my count. Many boasted large boxed ads detailing the amenities: COMPREHENSIVE RECUPERATIVE LONG-TERM CARE . . . SPACIOUS ROOMS IN A TRANQUIL SETTING . . . ELEGANT DESIGN OF BUILDING AND INTERIOR . . . BEAUTIFUL NEW FACILITY WITH SECURE GARDEN COURTYARD.
Some included cartoon maps with arrows pointing out their superior locales, as though it was preferable to decline in one of Santa Teresa’s better neighborhoods. Most facilities had names suggesting that the occupants pictured themselves any place but where they were: Cedar Creek Estates, Green Briar Villa, Horizon View, Rolling Hills, The Gardens. Surely, no one envisioned being frail and fearful, abandoned, incapacitated, lonely, ill, and incontinent in such poetic-sounding accommodations.
Pacific Meadows, the nursing home that Dow Purcell managed, touted twenty-four-hour RN care and on-site chapel and pastoral services, which were bound to come in handy. It was also certified by Medicare and Medicaid, giving it a decided advantage over some of its private-pay competitors. I decided to make a visit to see the place myself. The regular staff probably wouldn’t be there on weekends, which might prove advantageous. Maybe all the prissy, officious sorts were home doing laundry just like I was.
I tucked a fresh pack of index cards in my handbag, pulled on my boots, and found my yellow slicker and umbrella. I locked the door behind me and scurried through the puddles to my car parked at the curb. I slid in on the driver’s side, shivering involuntarily at the chill in the air. The rain had picked up from the early morning lull and now pounded on my car roof with the staccato rattle of falling nails. I fired up the engine and then hunched over the steering wheel, driving in slow motion while the windshield wipers gave the royal wave.
When I pulled into the parking lot at Pacific Meadows, the sky was dark with clouds, and the lights in the windows made the place look cozy and warm. I chose a spot near the entrance, assigned to an employee whose name had been painted out; black on black and impossible to read. I shut down the engine and waited until the squall had passed before I emerged. Even then, I had to pick my way across the half-flooded tarmac to the relative dryness of the sheltered front entrance. I shook off my umbrella and gave my slicker a quick brush before I stepped through the door. Dripping raincoats and wide-brimmed water-repellent hats were hung on a row of pegs. I added my slicker to the mix and propped my umbrella in the corner while I took my bearings.
Along the wide hallway ahead, I could see a row of six elderly people in wheelchairs arranged against the wall like drooping houseplants. Some were sound asleep and some simply stared at the floor in a sensory-deprivation daze. Two were strapped in, their posture eroded by osteoporosis, bones melting from within. One woman, very thin, with long, white limbs, swung a bony leg fretfully over the arm of the wheelchair, moving with agitation as though prompted by pain. I felt myself recoil as if I were at the scene of a four-car pileup.
At the far end of the corridor, two women in green uniforms piled sheets on a laundry cart already heaped with soiled linens. The air smelled odd-not bad, but somehow alien-a blend of disassociated odors: canned green beans, adhesive tape, hot metal, rubbing alcohol, laundry soap. There was nothing offensive in any single element, but the combination seemed off, life’s perfume gone sour.
To my right, aluminum walkers were bunched together like grocery carts outside a supermarket. The day’s menu was posted on the wall, behind glass, like a painting on exhibit. Saturday lunch consisted of a ground chicken patty, creamed corn, lettuce, tomato, fruit cup, and an oatmeal cookie. In my world, the lettuce and tomato might appear as a restaurant garnish, a decorative element to be ignored by the diner, left behind on the plate to be thrown in the trash. Here, the lettuce and tomato were given equal billing, as though part of a lavish nutritional feast. I thought about fries and a QP with Cheese and nearly fled the premises.
French doors opened into the dining room, where I could see the residents at lunch. Even at a glance, I noted three times more women than men in evidence. Some wore street clothes, but the majority were still dressed in their robes and slippers, not bedridden but confined by their convalescent status. Many turned to stare at me, not rudely, but with a touching air of expectation. Had I come for a visit? Was I there to take them home? Was I someone’s long-overdue daughter or niece proposing an outing in the clean, fresh air? I found myself glancing away, embarrassed I was offering nothing in the way of personal contact. Sheepishly, I looked back, raised my hand, and waved. A tentative chorus of hands rose in response as my greeting was returned. Their smiles were so sweet and forgiving I felt pricked with gratitude.
I backed away from the dining room and crossed the hall. A second set of doors stood open, revealing a day room, currently empty, furnished with mismatched couches, upholstered chairs, a piano, two television sets, and a cluster of game tables. The floors were done in a glossy beige linoleum, the walls painted a restful shade of robin’s egg blue. The ready-made drapes were a blend of yellow, blue, and green in a vaguely floral pattern. Countless throw pillows had been needle-pointed, cross-stitched, quilted, and crocheted. Perhaps a clutch of church ladies had been afflicted by a fit of stitchery. One pillow had a saying embroidered across the face-YOU’RE ONLY AS OLD AS YOU FEEL-a disheartening thought, given some of the residents I’d seen. Metal folding chairs were stacked against the near wall for quick assembling. Everything was clean, but the “decorating” was generic, budget-driven, falling somehow short of good taste.