CHAPTER 1
I probably will not get out of this, if I live, I realize as I sit in my senior citizen's apartment. My life is shallow, unfulfilled. Really, it's quite boring. I clean. I get the mail. I drink my iced tea mixed with lemonade in the evening. I try to write, but that's it. That's not living life, and that certainly isn't going to get this damn book done. The book. The stories I'm trying to write are muddled without substance. Pedestrian. The words I have written have no color. The pages have taken on the flavor of old-lady ramblings. And since all my friends are old ladies who ramble, I can't stand that my sacred words have taken on such a judgmental tone. Ah yes, the stories are as boring as my dry wrinkled skin and the aches and pains in my inflamed joints. When did I become so old? I wonder. Convinced I can change the sad, sorry state of my writings by leaving my safe, comfortable home, I've talked myself into leaving to find the stories that elude my pages. I will go back to the place I heard the stories in the first place, stories that have intrigued my overactive imagination like a gathering storm all these years since I retired.
Most of my nursing career after graduating from training was spent at Cre Falls Manor doing long-term care, from green nurse—one not used to the ropes, shall we say—to registered nurse, or rotten nurse, my family would tease; for twenty years I stashed away the tales told at the Manor about the townie's misdeeds. As the years passed, I became a white fixture that passed medication after eight in the evening to the round table of gossipy men. This is where the stories of the past were told. Times were relived. Always, their stories made my fingers itch to write. However, the flavor of those times has become a misty memory, kind of like what I had for lunch today: easily forgotten.
All who discover what I've done will likely declare "the plan" a sign of early dementia. They will shake their heads and say, "She couldn't help herself." When I really think about what I'm about to do, I know the probability of failure is high. The need to abort this insanity, put the typewriter away, and stay safe is pushing at the compulsive need for one last adventure.
I refuse to be impulsive and stupid. I detail the plan intending to tape the envelope to the bottom of my desk and hope—no, pray—it will miss discovery until this misadventure is over. By then, my smart kids will find it and rescue me. I am their mother after all, and since I rescued them from many of their adventures-gone-wrong, they can rescue me from mine. "Oh, please find me," I whisper as I groaningly kneel to tape the envelope to the underside of the desk. It's possible that after what I'm about to do, I will indeed be demented—or worse.
Now for the details; as I look at my list, my mind runs through the plan.
1. Typewriter. My old Underwood typewriter has been custom-modified to include a concealed space underneath, space enough to accommodate a manila envelope with two hundred thousand dollars, the balance of all the money I have left. The lock on the concealed bottom of the case has a thumbprint identification keypad that fits my thumb and my thumb alone.
2. Suitcase. I found a battered old suitcase under a pile of ancient ones at Goodwill and intend to pack as much clothes as I dare take, old clothes, in a much-used state with the labels removed.
3. Car. The 1990 car, for which I paid five hundred dollars cash, has no license plates and no registration, and the VIN number, I scratched to an unreadable state. It runs, rough, but I think it will get me where I want to go.
4. Mail. The post office will deliver my mail to an abandoned house I purchased for the price of the lot. There's a large slot in the door that should accommodate a year's worth of mail without causing suspicion. I'll place a large "under construction" sign on the door.
5. Bills. All of my bank accounts are closed, and utilities and rent are paid in advance for a year. I even thought to cancel doctor appointments. I called the pharmacy to tell them I'd be away as well.
6. Friends. I went on and on to my friends about how I will be on an extended vacation—one long, last trip beginning in Florida to spend some time with my son George. It's a lie. Another mendacity I have repeated many times is that I will probably spend time in Italy for my daughter's last opera performance of this season. I have repeated my lie enough times that my friends have come to think what I'm doing is "oh so much fun!" They think I'm really striking out with independence. It's a lie. It's all a lie. Oh, if they only knew.
Maybe I can get this over with and actually make it to Italy, though, I think as I'm packing. I do love Puccini's La Bohème," and it would be such a treat to hear my daughter sing Musetta.
I have nice friends. We call ourselves "old creaks." The "M&M's" is the group of ladies I sing with. "Between menopause and Medicare" is our slogan. We eat together in our safe, clean, well-decorated dining room on special occasions, like every Friday. We have long discussions about our children, the weather, politics, aches and pains, and the never-ending rent increases. Oh yes, we also have discussions about "dribbling," especially after having several bladder-irritating cups of coffee. We can never agree on whether or not to wear pads or just put up with damp urine odor. I like my friends. I'm bored out of my skull sometimes with them, but I like them. I think they like me too, though sometimes I wonder. I'm just a little odd, my friend Ann likes to tease. And sometimes when I enter a room, the rest of them stop talking and just stare. Don't they know that staring is impolite? But I guess when you get old, you just don't care what's polite or impolite anymore.
My children approve of my safe, clean, well-decorated senior citizen apartment. I do too, I think. The bedroom is just about pace-worthy. Except for the bathroom, the rest of the space is the new open concept. Realtor-white walls, tan carpet, and cable TV. This is as good as it gets, I thought when I first looked at the place. This sounds a lot like old lady whining. I'm really not whining. I could easily live here for ten or more years. Except for this one thing I have to do. I promise I'll come back and play fair. Just find the note, kids, will ya? I think.
The message I record on my answering machine is my most difficult lie before turning the key on my apartment door, telling all who call, including my unsuspecting kids, that I plan to take an extended vacation for a year. "Please do not be concerned. I'm fine and will surely be in touch." The phone calls as they try to reach their always-at-home mother will become frantic. They love me and will be angry and very hurt. Can't help them there. I'm counting on their love, on their finding the envelope taped under my desk and coming to rescue me. Oh dear God, please come and find me! I think. The three of you will be my only deliverance, my only way out of the mess I'm sure to find myself in.
Fortune has it that my son George has taken a job in Florida and is not expected back for a long time. James is on sabbatical working on his PhD, and Marie will be singing with an Italian opera company in Oviedo for the better part of a year. It raises the hair on the back of my neck to realize it's now or never.
With a full tank of gas, the...
