My mouth goes dry thinking about it. That’s three times what I’m used to paying.
“It’s okay,” I mutter. “We’ll be okay. I’ll make it work.”
With the proceeds from Mom’s house, I had well over a year before I would have run out of funds to pay for her care at the old place. Now, I’m looking at five to six months.
I slap my hands onto the table and stand. I need to move around to burn off some of the anxiety creeping up my chest into my throat.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m doing it. I should have done it sooner.”
I pace back and forth in our tiny kitchen a few times until my eyes land on my old sneakers, and I stop dead in my tracks. After a few seconds of staring at my shoes, I walk over, put them on, and tie the laces tight. Then, I leave out the back door, and I run.
Each time my feet pound against the concrete sidewalk, I force another worry from my mind and replace it with an image of the Memory Unit at Meadow Creek Commons—Mom’s new place.
I remember how I showed up without an appointment, and the administrator and the head nurse didn’t object to my unscheduled visit. They gave me a tour without delay. The residents were all clean, with no random patients found left in rooms or hallways by themselves.
As I continue running, I pass Mrs. Nicker, who stops weeding to watch me. Then, as I get to John’s house, near the end of the street, he’s cutting his grass and becomes so distracted staring at me that his usually perfectly straight mowing lines get totally out of whack before he realizes it.
I imagine I’m a sight to see. With how badly I’m panting and the fact that I’m running in jeans, I probably look more like a serial killer is chasing me than someone out for a jog. The thought amuses me, and if I didn’t have to focus so hard on breathing, I think I’d be laughing out loud.
When I’m sure I must have run five miles by now, I glance around me and realize I’m only halfway around our block. God, when did running get so difficult? I used to run ten to fifteen miles every week when I was in high school. I don’t recall it ever beingthischallenging.
Okay. Just distract yourself. Six more houses and you can stop and walk.
The gardens. I think about the landscaping around Mom’s soon-to-be new home, and how beautiful it is. There are gorgeous floral and shrubbery displays across the grounds with paved paths that can accommodate wheelchairs. Families can take residents out for walks along the well-maintained trails.
Almost there.
I push myself past two more houses, then I slow to a walk. I suck in air as I work to catch my breath. I’m not sure I’ll take running back up. It’s a lot of damn work. There’s still a quarter of a block to walk until I’m home. That’s okay, though. I need the cooldown.
I use the time to visualize the most special thing about the new facility—the thing that convinced me it was perfect for Mom. The “Millie Thompson Memorial Gardens.” I recall how my eyes teared up when I saw the gorgeous garden for the memory care unit—one that the residents can spend time in—with a greenhouse and everything. The head nurse even told me there are special volunteers who regularly work with residents in the garden.
I think about how much Mom loved gardening, just as our house comes into view. When I take in the state of her flower beds, guilt floods me. They’re nothing like they were when she tended to them. I’ve let some areas grow wild, while others have become barren, not receiving regular and adequate water or fertilization.
It’s just one more way I’ve let her down. One more promise I made that I didn’t keep.
When I finally make it to our driveway, I walk to the back and sit on the sandstone steps of our back porch.
Mom deserves to be cared for in a place like Meadow Creek Commons. She gave up everything to take care of me, especially her dream of becoming a nurse. It’s my turn to take care of her.
Well, to pay for someone to take care of her since Ifailedat it.
It doesn’t matter what it takes. She’s the onlyrealfamily I have left, and I’ll work my fingers to the bone if I have to, so she gets the best care possible.
Chapter Eleven
Delaney
Iknow I haven’t been on a proper date in years, and I don’t really have any friends left, but spending my Saturday night elbow-deep in chicken drippings is something I never imagined would happen. Still, I’m grateful the temp agency found me a fill-in spot with this caterer. They pay well, and if the people who hired us give a tip at the end, it’s split between everybody. So, even though I’m the dishwasher, I still get a share—and I think I’ve earned it.
When I told myself last week that I’d work my fingers to the bone to make sure Mom could stay at the new nursing facility, I didn’t think it wouldliterallyhappen. Scrubbing the bottom of this pan, now I’m not so sure. Still, I scrub feverishly, throwing everything I’ve got at this damn stubborn little burn stain on the bottom of the serving tray. It’s the last dish I have out of everything brought to me, and I refuse to be defeated by it.
A minute later, I’ve won. Delaney-one, serving pan-zero. I rinse, dry, and then find the pan’s designated location and putit away. I’ve washed all the dishes that made it back to the dishwashing area so far, but I know there are a few left out front.
I turn to Phyllis, the supervisor of our crew. She’s a little spit of a thing, but she runs a tight ship. One would be a fool to take off their hair net before she gives the all-clear.
“Phyllis, is it okay if I go out and get the remaining dishes? I know the servers are busy with desserts and clearing the last of the dinnerware.”
“Sure, honey, you go right ahead. I gotta say, you’re the most eager dishwasher I’ve had. If you’re interested, I think there might be more events in your future.”
