Just past five, Dave comes out to the front desk and hands me my car keys.
“John had to head out to some family thing,” he says. “He said it’s all fixed. Have a good night.”
“Oh—you too,” I say, though he’s already out the door. I gather my things with a strange feeling in my stomach, almost like disappointment. Which is silly, because talking to John is always so awkward. Still, it would have been nice to thank him.
Maybe I’ll make him a thank-you card. That’s a polite thing to do. Plus, I love making people cards.
Spirits lifted, I head out back to find my car. I let out a breath of relief when it starts normally. For a moment I think it looks sort of different inside, then I realize it’s because the engine light on the dash has finally gone off.
The next time it comes on, I swear I’m going to get it fixed right away.
I sing to myself on the drive home, wrapping up an enthusiastic and off-key rendition of Kelly Clarkson’s old song “Miss Independent” as I pull into my driveway. I’m in such a good mood I decide to pop in to visit Mrs. Finnamore. I ring her doorbell twice, since she sometimes doesn’t hear it the first time. I wonder if her hearing aids need to be looked at.
A minute later, the door swings open, revealing a very thin, very rude middle-aged woman.
(And before you say anything, I know what you’re thinking. How can I know that she’s rude just from looking at her? But can’t you just tell sometimes that people are going to be rude, just by the look on their face when you lock eyes with them?)
She frowns at me. “Can I help you?”
“I just came by to say hi to Mrs. Finnamore. I live next door.” I point to my house.
“Is that Emily?” Mrs. Finnamore asks, appearing behind her.
“Hi, Mrs. Finnamore,” I say.
“This is the girl I was telling you about,” Mrs. Finnamore says to the rude woman. “Emily, this is my daughter, Debra.”
The woman—Debra—purses her lips. “You’re the one that helps with her groceries?”
Her tone is accusatory. I glance at Mrs. Finnamore uncertainly. “Er—sometimes, yes.”
I’ve actually only done it once or twice. I’m not sure why I’m lying, except that I have a sneaky feeling I know why Mrs. Finnamore told her daughter about me. A few weeks ago, Mrs. Finnamore told me that her family wants to put her in a home. They all live out west, and they think she’s too old to live by herself.
“Emily’s very helpful,” Mrs. Finnamore says.
Debra makes an impatient noise. “You need help with more than groceries, Mom,” she says. “She hasn’t taken her meds properly for weeks,” she adds to me in an undertone. Which—excuse me? Why is she talking to me like her mother isn’t there?
My hackles are rising, but I force myself to smile politely. “I think she’s doing pretty well.”
Debra lets out a disbelieving breath. “Yes, well, she can’t be depending on strangers all the time.”
“What?” Mrs. Finnamore says.
“I saidyou can’t be depending on strangers,” Debra says loudly.
“I don’t mind helping,” I say.
Debra gives me a condescending look. “Are you a certified home care nurse?”
Okay, I really don’t like this woman. “No,” I say. “But I don’t mind helping with groceries and laundry and things.”
“See?” Mrs. Finnamore says. “Pay the girl to do more, Debra, if it’ll stop your endless fussing.”
Wait, what? I try to backtrack hastily. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean—”
“I’m not going to hire some random stranger,” Debra snaps. “If we’re going to get you home care, it’s going to be a proper nurse.”
“I don’t want a nurse, I want Emily,” Mrs. Finnamore says. “And it’s foolish to pay a trained nurse to get groceries.”
