All the Single Ladies (9 page)

At least she wasn't just complaining. Reasonable social skills could definitely work to her advantage.

“My pleasure. I like to know who's coming and going around here.” I smiled at her. “The kitchen is actually pretty good. They roast fresh turkeys every week. None of that ‘cold cuts with nitrates' business. And the dining room is packed every night.”

“Well, that's nice to know. Anyway, we had another episode of Marcus disappearing, and the next thing I know, Marcus's locked up in a ward. And me? I'm suddenly without my car and my home. It's all pretty depressing, I'll tell you. I'm not sick. Marcus is sick. And because of that, I can't even go to Belk's when I want to.”

“I'm sure it's a pain in the neck but they try to make a shuttle bus schedule that works for everyone. Wednesday is seniors' day all over town. You can save some money at Publix. Five percent, I think.”

“Well, that's something, I suppose. This move is just going to take some getting used to. I guess I just don't like change. At least I've got some of my favorite pieces of furniture and so on here with me.”

“And they are lovely. You have the coolest apartment of anyone here.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes, I know so!” I reached across the table and patted the back of her hand in solidarity. “I know you think this place is a prison but I'm going to tell you something that you will most likely discover soon and it's the truth.”

“What's that?”

“At some point? If we are all lucky enough to live long enough?”

“Yes?”

“It's our house that's the prison.”

I looked at Marilyn's face. The sun was streaming in through the window on a particular slant that made her seem, in that moment, to be a much younger woman. And very beautiful. It was as though I could see who she once was. Then a cloud must've passed over the sun because the illusion disappeared. Now she seemed to be on the verge of tears. Her eyes were rimmed in scarlet and her face held hundreds of tiny wrinkles.

“Is anyone ever happy to come here?”

“The truth? No. I mean, just as you said, it's an enormous change. As we mature, we like our routines more and more. And there's some comfort in really simple things, like knowing where all the light switches are. But unless I miss my guess, if you'll just give this place a chance, you'll be on the go and doing things with a whole lot of new friends.”

“Maybe. I'll give you a maybe. We'll just have to see how it goes.”

“Hmm. Well, I'm sure they've told you about all the clubs and so forth?”

“Oh, yes. I've got a welcome package that looks like a phone book from Atlanta.”

“I know,” I said, and took a bite of my second sandwich half. “It can be very overwhelming.”

“And depressing. You know what I mean? I feel like I've given up too much of my personal life. I have a whole host of strangers—­not of my own choosing, may I add—­who know what medications I take. And Marcus? He doesn't know I'm here anyway. He doesn't even know me.”

There was no response I could offer that would fix that. I wiped my mouth with my napkin and took a sip of tea.

“You know, Mrs. Brooks, I think I have a pretty good idea of how you must be feeling. There's nothing you can do for your husband except watch over him and see that he's being well taken care of. Which he will be. It's simply a terrible thing to see someone you've loved, for most of your life really, in this shape. And you know, no one can tell you whether Palmetto House is right for you except you.”

“Tell my knuckleheaded son and his knuckleheaded wife that.”

I smiled then and she did too.

“I will, if you'd like. They wouldn't be the first children I've told where the bear goes in the buckwheat. Anyway, what I'm thinking is that you seem like a pretty strong lady. You have a fabulous sense of style—­”

“Thank you,” she said, and brightened up a bit.

“And I don't think you'd let anyone really railroad you into something you really didn't want to do.”

“Yes. I suppose you're right. You know what it is that has made me so unhappy?”

“No, ma'am. You can tell me.”

“The love of my life has disappeared into oblivion. And I'm a bit frightened. As long as I was in my own home, I could tell myself that nothing had changed, that I wasn't this old. I could tell myself that maybe Marcus would snap out of it. You know, some days he'd tell me he loved me even when I wasn't sure he knew it was me he was telling. Now he doesn't even know his own name. And being here is hard evidence that my life is almost over too. It just makes me a little sad, that's all. I thought we would have more time together.”

“Then you have to do what I tell other residents to do.”

“What's that?”

“Make good use of every day.”

She was quiet then while she considered my Pollyanna advice.

“You're right, of course. Right now, though, this is like wearing tight shoes.”

“Yeah, you just need to break them in.”

“That's right. I just need to break them in.”

“Tell me; what are your favorite hobbies, Mrs. Brooks?”

“Oh, I don't know. I suppose a good book and someone to take a walk with. I like old movies. And I love live music of all kinds.”

“For starters, why don't you go to the reading room, pick a book off the shelves, have a seat on our newly upholstered sofas, and see what happens?”

“Really? Just walk in?”

“Absolutely! We just got a huge donation of all sorts of novels and biographies. When the residents hear about it, they'll be gone in a flash. We have lots of book lovers here and several book clubs too.”

“Well, maybe I will.” She smiled and exhaled. “I guess I shall have to take charge of my own happiness. Right?”

“Yes! That's the spirit!” I drained my glass of tea and said, “I'd better get back to work.”

“Thank you, Lisa. For lunch and . . . well, for this conversation.”

“You're welcome for lunch. And I enjoyed the conversation too.” I got up and took my plate to the sink.

“Just leave it there,” she said.

I walked toward the door to leave.

“Mrs. Brooks?”

“Yes?”

“If you need anything at all, just call the desk and ask for me. Lisa St. Clair.”

“Okay, Lisa St. Clair, on one condition.” She was smiling.

“What's that?”

“That you call me Marilyn and that we do this again sometime.”

“That's two conditions! Ha ha! But it's a deal!”

I left her then and I felt that her spirits were lifted a little. The transition from private life to fishbowl living could be almost impossible for your emotions to reconcile, especially if you were perfectly healthy. There was always some demoralizing price to pay. Loss of privacy. Condescending health care workers. Nosy residents. But my money was on Marilyn Brooks. She would adapt because she knew that she should give this new life some effort. It was only fair. And if she decided that she didn't like living at Palmetto House, she was free to leave and her son could go scratch his mad place, like my mother used to say.

Later that day, as I was walking out after work, I passed the reading room. To my surprise, there was Mrs. Brooks seated at the library table on one side and the frisky Mr. Morrison sat opposite her on the other side of the table, smiling wide. There was no evidence of a duck. I wondered if Mrs. Brooks would succumb to his charms and quickly decided she would never dishonor her marriage. However, if Marcus Brooks died, things might take another path. It was interesting to consider. It was just as important for me to remember, though, that familiarity with the goings-­on of our residents and patients did not add up to a personal life for me. As friendly as I was with Judy and Margaret, they were wonderful professional colleagues, not really my personal friends.

That's exactly why I set my alarm for six the next morning and why I was in the car with Pickle, a bottle of water, and a to-­go cup of coffee by six thirty. I needed a life of my own.

The sun was already climbing and it was going to be another hot day. Every year I had to get used to the heat all over again. Thank goodness my air-­conditioning cooled the car down quickly. But by the time I reached Suzanne's house and got out of my car, the air felt thick and wet. Suzanne and Carrie were standing on the sidewalk, wearing leggings and running shoes, waiting for me.

“Hey! Good morning!” I called out to them.

Pickle pulled the leash to get closer to them, knowing there was some doggie love coming her way. Carrie was the first to scratch her behind the ears.

“I don't know about that but I'll never get a cute husband if I don't shape up,” Carrie said.

“But your shoes should get you noticed,” I said.

They were hot pink and turquoise with white trim.

“Precious, aren't they?” she said. “They divert attention from my other declining assets.”

“Oh, come on, now,” I said.

“Quit hogging the dog!” Suzanne said, bending down to talk to Pickle in a baby voice. “There goes Aunt Carrie again. We haven't even had breakfast and she's already talking about finding another man.”

“Stop!” Carrie said, pretending to whine.

Suzanne stood up, handed me Pickle's leash, and said, “Let's get the misery over with.”

We walked down the path and over the dunes, and happily for us, the tide was low, giving us plenty of room to walk. There was a breeze. A lovely breeze of salted air pushed my hair away from my face. Runners, groups of walkers, and dogs were all over the place.

“Can I let her run off her leash?” I asked.

Every island had its own laws about animals and the beach.

“Yep. This time of year, Pickle can run around until nine.”

“Great!” I leaned down and unhooked the strap from her collar. Pickle took off with so much enthusiasm that we started to laugh.

“Look at her go!” Carrie said.

“This is fabulous!” I said. “Absolutely fabulous!”

“It kind of is, isn't it?” Carrie said.

“I hate exercise,” Suzanne said. “But if you don't get some cardio, you can drop dead.”

Carrie said, “Bull dukey.”

“I haven't heard that term since fifth grade,” Suzanne said. “Lisa? Tell Carrie what sitting around eating donuts does to your blood.”

“Well, basically, it turns it into sludge,” I said. “Then you get high cholesterol, high blood sugar, ingrown toenails, and hemorrhoids. Next thing you know you have a heart attack and a brain tumor and then you're finito. So, just get some exercise. We could do some yoga. And drink a lot of water.”

“Nicely done,” Suzanne said, and snickered. “And we should swear off donuts until further notice.”

“I'll take the pledge,” I said.

“Me too, okay? Y'all can giggle all you want about me being on the prowl for another husband,” Carrie said, “but y'all will stop your giggling when I find us all one.”

“One to share?” I said, and laughed.

“He had better be a manly man,” Suzanne said in a deep baritone.

“Oh, brother,” Carrie said. “Well, I'll have you know I've already had four inquiries from four very handsome gentlemen about sharing a glass of wine and or dinner.”

“Jesus Lord, my Savior!” Suzanne exclaimed. “John's only been dead for ten minutes! And you sound like Amanda from
The Glass Menagerie
waiting on a gentleman caller.”

“But life has to go on,” I said. “It's okay, Carrie. When you find out where they intend to take you, let me know. Pickle and I will be close by if you need a getaway car.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Better yet,” Suzanne said, “make him pick you up and I'll have Miss Trudie interrogate him. You know, to see if he's worthy.”

“What? Are you insane? Rule one of online dating—­you meet somewhere where there are lots of ­people around. Like a busy bar or restaurant,” Carrie said. “You never let them know where you live until you are absolutely certain that they're normal.”

“Ted Bundy seemed normal,” Suzanne said.

“Until he wasn't,” I said, and chuckled.

“You're right,” Suzanne said.

“Good grief,” Carrie said. “Anyway, I'm meeting candidate number one at Rue de Jean tonight at six.”

“I can't wait to hear all the details,” Lisa said.

We walked a good distance in about twenty minutes and then turned around. Pickle was beside herself with happiness to be chasing seagulls and sandpipers as fast as her little legs would carry her. Without warning, she'd stop and sniff another dog and then take off again.

We said good-­bye at eight, deciding to do it again the next morning.

“This was actually fun,” Suzanne said.

“Sort of,” Carrie said. “I mean, it's nice to be together and all, but I perspired.”

“Oh! Not that!” I said, and laughed.

“God, what a princess!” Suzanne said. “Hey, y'all?”

“What?” Carrie said.

“What are we gonna do about Wendy? You know that furniture isn't hers,” Suzanne said.

“But we have to be able to prove it,” I said.

“There are still boxes of things we haven't gone through,” Carrie said.

“True. Maybe we should all get together one night when Carrie isn't interviewing for her next husband and dig through them,” Suzanne suggested.

“You're terrible,” I said to her with a laugh. “I'll bring the wine.”

“That sounds good,” they said.

“And y'all?”

“Yeah?”

“There's some advantage to limbering up, you know, stretching out your muscles. We should do a few sun salutations before we walk.”

“Good idea,” they said.

“I've got mats. I'll throw them in the car.”