“She could do the same for you,” Mrs. Finnamore says.
Hang on, what?
“Well, now, I don’t know,” Jim says, while I hastily raise my hands up in protest. “I’m doing all right.”
“You’re too old to be standing in those grocery lines,” Mrs. Finnamore scolds. (Which, please! She’s one to talk.)
“How much does it cost?” Jim asks, looking at me.
I open my mouth to tell him apologetically that my arrangement with Mrs. Finnamore is really more of a one-off, but Mrs. Finnamore answers before I can.
“It’s two-fifty for the week, but that’s with her sorting out all those pills the fool doctor thinks I should take. For groceries and laundry I’m sure it’s no more than a hundred.”
“Oh—not that much,” I say hastily. Honestly, I am going to kill Mrs. Finnamore. “Plus, I don’t really have time—”
“I’ll give her your phone number once I get home,” Mrs. Finnamore says, speaking over me. “You’ll be home later tonight?”
Jim nods.
“Very good. Emily will call you then. Tell your daughter I’m thinking of her.”
I smile weakly at Jim and then hurry after Mrs. Finnamore, who is heading for the exit. “You can’t be telling other people I’ll work for them!” I tell her as we get into the car. The rain is still pouring down, bouncing two inches off the windshield.
“Oh, it’s only Jim,” Mrs. Finnamore says, waving me away. “He really shouldn’t be living alone. He hasn’t done well since his wife died last year. Bowel cancer, you know. And none of his childrenlive here anymore... plus his daughter’s in and out of the hospital with her lungs...”
Well, crap. I can hardly refuse to help poor Jim out now, can I?
“I mean... I guess it might be fine, for a little while. No one else, though,” I add firmly. “I don’t have time.”
“Oh, what do you girls do today? Spend all your time tapping away on your phones. Plus, my friend Doris could really use help with her pills. You know she’s on twice as many as I am, and hers are the kind you have to take every day—”
“Mrs. Finnamore,” I groan.
“What? It’s a little extra cash, and it won’t take you five minutes. She just lives up the street from us, you know, you could pop in to her place on those little runs of yours—”
I sigh inwardly and resolve myself to helping out this Doris woman too.
Honestly, before you know it, I’m going to be the unofficial caregiver for the entire town of Waldon.
10
True to her word, Mrs. Finnamore makes me call her friend Doris as soon as we get home from the museum, and I spend Sunday morning visiting both her and Jim to set up a weekly caregiving plan. Between the two of them and Mrs. Finnamore, this new job is going to take up about eight hours a week, which is time I really should spend sorting out my life. But it also means 1,450 extra dollars amonth, which means I can pay off my student loan and move on to my dream life even sooner, so I figure it’s more than worth it.
Jim is easy. He needs his laundry and his groceries done, and he desperately needs someone to tidy up his house a bit. He’s a really sweet man—ninety-six years old and still living at home! He’s a bit quiet at first, but I draw him out by asking lots of questions about the people in the photos at his house. He tells me the most heart-wrenching story about his youngest daughter, who died of leukemia when she was a teenager, and I learn that he worked at the local post office for nearly fifty years. I just know he has all sorts of stories to tell, and I can’t wait to hear them.
Doris is a bit of a different story. She’s stooped with arthritis and so thin that I can see all the knobby bones of her spine, but her spirits clearly haven’t been impacted by her age. She greets me by saying, “You’re the girl Betty’s hired, are you?” And then, “I thought she said you were pretty.”
Without pausing to let me answer (not that I’m sure what Iwould’ve said to that) she proceeds to dictate exactly what she wants from me. “None of this caregiving nonsense, I’m perfectly capable of doing everything except my groceries. That fool doctor took my license away after I had one teensy little accident.”
She tells me several times that she thinks I’m overcharging her and tries to demand I use her ancient car when I get her groceries because she doesn’t trust my “flimsy modern car.” Five minutes in, I decide to be amused instead of offended, but I’m still glad I won’t have to see her more than once a week.
I go for a quick run when I’m done (I feel like I need to run off the whole interaction, to be honest), then I shower and get ready for my first shift at the museum. I put on cropped pants and a button-up blouse that I think looks sort of vintage, and pull my hair into a bun on the top of my head. I scrutinize myself in the mirror, trying to sort out if I look museum-y enough. Maybe the next time I’m at the pharmacy, I’ll buy a cheap pair of those fashion glasses, the ones that don’t have any prescription lenses in them.
I snap a picture of myself in my mirror and send it to the group chat with Fallon, Martha, and Divya.
[11:02]: Image sent.
[11:02]: Starting work at a museum today! Do I look the part?
