Debra rolls her eyes. “I’m going to be the one paying for it, Mom. It’s not about themoney.”
Okay, things are getting way out of hand here. “Look,” I say quickly. “You’ve got the wrong idea—”
“How much do you charge?” Debra interrupts.
I stare at her, totally thrown off-balance. Five minutes ago, I was singing Kelly Clarkson in my car. Now I’ve been dragged into a very uncomfortable, private family dispute.
And yet... whyshouldn’tI do it? I don’t mind helping Mrs. Finnamore, and if it would get her daughter off her back about going to a home, isn’t that a good thing? Plus, I can tell just from looking at Debra that she’s got lots of money. Look at those perfectly pressed clothes, look at those shiny Chanel earrings.
“For groceries and laundry?” I ask, to buy myself some time to think.
“Andmake her take her blister pack meds properly, and keep the house from turning into a pigsty,” Debra says.
I bite my lip, thinking quickly. How much do I think a private caregiver charges? Forty dollars a week? Fifty?
“Sonny McNeil’s girl charges two-fifty a week,” Mrs. Finnamore says. “And she doesn’t even do the laundry.”
My mouth drops open. Two hundred and fifty dollars? Aweek?
Luckily, Debra is frowning at her mother when she says it, which gives me time to rearrange my face into a look of calm composure.
“Two-fifty seems about right,” I say, nodding like someone who totally knew that information beforehand.
Debra heaves an aggrieved sigh. “I’ll have to think about it,” she says.
“Of course,” I say. Then, because I’m feeling a bit evil, I add, “Just let me know soon, before my schedule fills up.”
It has the effect I intended. I can practically hear Debra’s unpleasant brain whirring. To her, her mother is a problem, and this is a quick solution.
“I’ll let you know,” she says stiffly.
I smile at her. “Very good. Have a nice night.”
I catch Mrs. Finnamore’s eye as I turn to leave, and I could swear I see a mischievous glimmer in her eyes. I have to fight to keep from laughing. How did such a cool lady wind up with such a nasty daughter?
I head home and make myself some pasta, and I’m not ten minutes into an episode ofSchitt’s Creekwhen the doorbell rings. Fifteen minutes later, I sit back on my couch with a grin on my face and a crisp check for a thousand dollars in my hand. In cramped, slanted handwriting, Debra’s written on the memo line:For private caregiving services, May 23–June 23.
I prop the check up on my coffee table and beam at it.
I guess I’m a private caregiver now.
8
As awful as Debra is, I’m determined to do an amazing job at caregiving, for Mrs. Finnamore’s sake. The next morning, I pop over to her house before work to sort out a list of things I’ll do for her.
“You don’t have to do anything,” she says, pouring tea into my cup. “Just keep the money, buy a little treat for yourself.”
“I can’t dothat,” I say, aghast. “Your daughter gave me a check for a thousand dollars.”
“Debra’s got more money than brains,” Mrs. Finnamore says. “She’d pay ten times that to get out of caring for me herself.”
I shift in my chair. “I’m sure she’s just worried about you.”
Mrs. Finnamore makes a dismissive noise. “Biscuit?”
“Er—sure.” I take a chocolate biscuit from the box she offers me. “Really, though, I can’t just take her money. I wouldn’t feel right about it. And there must be something you need help with,” I add. “Some chore that you don’t like to do, or something you don’t have time for...”
I trail off, glancing around her kitchen. I don’t know how Debra could worry about this place turning into a “pigsty.” It’s the cleanest, neatest home I’ve ever been in. It is a bit cluttered, I suppose, with hundreds of porcelain figurines arranged artfully on little tables and shelves, but it’s so clean I could eat off the floors.
