Cul-de-sac

by Joy Fielding

  “I’m trying not to,” Julia says. She glances at her son, noting the big grin on his face.

  “So, I decided that someone should design a line of swimsuits that stay up, no matter what. And then I thought, why not me?”

  “Why not you indeed?” Julia repeats. Then because she can’t help herself, she adds, “But what if you have to go to the bathroom?”

  “What?”

  “I mean, if they’re that hard to get off—”

  “Mother, please,” Norman interjects. “We’ll hire people to figure all that out.”

  Poppy must be sensational in bed, Julia thinks, nodding and closing her eyes, grateful for the silence that follows.

  “Mom…” she hears in the next instant. “Mother…”

  Julia opens her eyes.

  “We’re here.”

  “What?”

  “You fell asleep,” Poppy informs her.

  Julia looks around, trying to focus. The car is no longer moving. The ocean is nowhere in sight. They’re parked in front of a sprawling white four-story structure in what appears to be the middle of nowhere. The sign on the lush front lawn identifies the building as Manor Born. “What the hell is this?”

  “Now, don’t go getting all upset,” Norman says. “We’re just here to have a look.”

  “I think you’re going to be very pleasantly surprised,” Poppy says, as the car doors lift into the air.

  “I don’t like surprises, and I have no intention of setting foot inside that place.”

  “Come on, Mother. I was talking to Dr. Wilson and he agrees this place would be perfect for you.”

  “You were talking to Dr. Wilson about me?” So that’s what the good doctor was hinting at the other morning when he was ostensibly asking about her health and how she was managing.

  “All I’m asking is that you keep an open mind.”

  “I really think you’re going to be very pleasantly surprised,” Poppy says again, as if simply repeating what she said earlier will be enough to change Julia’s mind.

  “We’re not leaving here until we do this.” Norman reaches over to unbuckle his mother’s seatbelt.

  “This is ridiculous.” Julia refuses to budge until it becomes obvious that Norman means what he says, that they aren’t going anywhere until she complies, and that the sooner she gives in, the sooner she’ll be able to leave. “Remind me never to have lunch with you again,” she says as she gets out of the car, the outside humidity wrapping around her like a heavy wool sweater.

  “Ah, come on, Julia,” Poppy says. “You know Norman just wants what’s best for you.”

  “I think I know what’s best for me,” Julia counters, brushing past her daughter-in-law and marching up the front walk, as eager to escape her son and his wife as she is the hot, oppressive air.

  The front door opens automatically and Julia steps into the spacious, air-conditioned lobby.

  To her great chagrin, she discovers that Poppy is right—she is pleasantly surprised. The lobby is bright and beautifully appointed, the art both colorful and tasteful, the well-stuffed sofas and chairs sleek yet comfortable-looking. The air-conditioning is set at just the right temperature, a rarity in South Florida, where indoor thermometers often register only a few degrees above freezing. It even smells good—fresh but not cloying.

  “No ‘old people’ smell,” Poppy leans over to whisper, as if reading Julia’s mind.

  Indeed, from what Julia can see, there are no old people at all. No elderly men shuffling down the corridors in worn-out slippers, no ancient crones milling about aimlessly, no poor souls lining the halls in wheelchairs, staring forlornly toward the front door, vacant eyes praying for visitors.

  Or death.

  Instead, what she sees is a group of well-dressed seniors, many clearly years younger than she is, talking animatedly by the side of a coffee machine, while others peruse magazines and newspapers in front of a large picture window overlooking acres of well-maintained greenery.

  “What do you think?” Norman asks.

  “It’s a lobby,” Julia says, refusing to be charmed so easily. “Are we done? Can we leave now?”

  “Not quite yet. I’ve arranged with Mrs. Reid to give us a tour. That’s her now,” he says, extending his hand toward the casually dressed middle-aged woman fast approaching.

  “Hello, Mr. Fisher,” the woman says, green eyes sparkling beneath a fringe of wavy brown hair. “Lovely to see you again. And Mrs. Fisher. How beautiful you are.” She directs her attention to Julia. “And so nice to meet you,” she says as Norman introduces them, “although you don’t look very happy to be here.” She smiles. The smile is warm and genuine. “Believe me, I understand. A lot of our residents feel that way the first time they visit.”

  “Mrs. Reid…” Julia says.

  “Please, call me Carole.”

  “Carole, I’m sorry to be wasting your time—”

  “Oh, but you aren’t! I adore this part of my job. Meeting new people, showing off our beautiful establishment. I feel so honored to work here, to be part of such a vibrant community. Come, let me show you around.” She doesn’t wait for an answer.

  Julia sighs, falling into step with Carole Reid as the woman ushers the small group down the wide hallway to her left. “This is not a nursing home,” she stresses along the way. “Nor are you a guest in our facility. On the contrary, we are guests in your home. While we have doctors and nurses on call, and a staff that includes social workers, personal care workers, cooks, housekeepers, and orderlies, residents must be able to take care of themselves. If the time comes that a resident is no longer able to function independently, we have our sister facility just a few miles away to which he or she can be transferred. And while we have excellent dining facilities, no one is forced to take part. You can choose to have all or none of your meals in the dining room. Rates, of course, vary accordingly.”

  She opens the door to the large dining room. Julia does a quick count of twenty round tables, each surrounded by eight chairs, the tables covered in white linen tablecloths and already set for dinner. “We have two sittings for each meal, so even if all our residents choose to eat with us, we’re able to accommodate them,” Carole Reid continues, leading them out of the room and around the corner.

  She shows them the well-equipped gym, the indoor and outdoor swimming pools, and the multiple card rooms, all of which are busy, as well as a small theater where movies are shown once a week, and the drama club mounts its yearly productions. “There’s also a bridge club, a mahjong club, a book club, and a choir,” the woman says proudly. “And we have regular guest speakers and offer frequent and numerous outings. Of course, suggestions of places to go and things to see are always welcome. As well, we offer classes in everything from current affairs to knitting.”

  Julia can’t help being impressed and has to fight to keep her face as impassive as possible.

  “I’d like to reiterate that you lose none of your independence when you move to Manor Born. If anything, you gain: new friends, a sense of purpose, a real community. Would you like to see our model suite?”

  “Lead the way,” Norman says before Julia can respond.

  They take the elevator to the fourth floor.

  Carole Reid opens the door to a spacious one-bedroom apartment as tastefully furnished as the lobby.

  “It’s beautiful,” Norman says. “Lots of space. Plenty of light.”

  “And no stairs,” Poppy adds.

  “Very nice,” Julia says.

  “That’s it?” Norman says. “Very nice?”

  Julia steps back into the hall, walks briskly toward the elevators.

  “It’s all right,” she hears Mrs. Reid say to her son. “This isn’t for everyone.”

  They ride the elevator to the main floor in silence.

  “I thank you very
much for coming,” the woman concludes, as they walk toward the front door. “It was a real pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Fisher. If you have any questions—”

  “You’ve been very thorough,” Julia says. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you. I hope to see you again.”

  “We’ll be in touch,” Norman says. “Could you have been any ruder?” he asks his mother as they step outside.

  “Oh, I think so. Yes, quite definitely,” Julia says. “Will there be any more surprises?”

  “No, Mother,” Norman tells her, his voice resonating defeat. “No more surprises.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “Why won’t you tell me where you’re going?” Erin is asking.

  “I told you,” Maggie tells her daughter. “I’m going out for dinner.”

  They’re in Maggie’s bedroom. Freshly showered, Maggie is wrapped in a large white towel, trying to decide between the blue cotton sundress stretched out on the bed or the pair of white pants and pink silk shirt lying beside it.

  “With who?”

  “With whom,” Maggie corrects.

  “Really?” Erin says. “We’re doing the grammar thing? You’re not an English teacher anymore, remember?”

  Maggie sighs.

  “Fine,” Erin says. “With whom are you going out for dinner?”

  Maggie takes another measured breath and tries to stay calm. Her daughter hasn’t shown the slightest interest in her in months. She never asks about her day or if she’s enjoying her job, and responds with one-word answers when questioned about her own. So why the sudden interest now? Does the teenager possess some kind of special radar? “Just a friend.”

  “You don’t have any friends.”

  “Of course I have friends.”

  “Name them,” Erin challenges.

  Maggie searches her mind for the names of anyone she could plausibly count as a friend since moving to Florida. “There’s Dani Wilson and Olivia Grant,” she offers.

  “Our neighbors? Are you kidding me? You hardly know them.”

  “And there’s Nadine…Jerome…Rita…”

  “Aren’t those the people you work with?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Are you having dinner with them?”

  Maggie hesitates, unable to tell her daughter an outright lie. “No.”

  “So, I repeat, with whom are you having dinner?”

  Shit! This is exactly the conversation Maggie was hoping to avoid. “Just somebody I met.”

  “At the hairdresser’s?”

  “Close by.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I met him at a Starbucks in the plaza. Okay?” Maggie says quickly. Too quickly.

  “You met him? It’s a man?”

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  “You have a date?” Erin looks horrified by the thought.

  “Is that so shocking?”

  “Yes!”

  “Why?”

  “Seriously? You’ve been like one of the walking dead ever since we moved here.”

  “Yes, thank you for that. But in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been making a conscious effort to turn things around. I got a job, changed my hair, I’m engaging more with the neighbors…”

  “Okay, so you’re getting out of the house more and you deigned to say hello to the neighbors….”

  “I did more than say hello.”

  “Okay. Fine. You did more than say hello. That’s not the point.”

  “What is the point?” Maggie asks.

  “The point is that you have a date.”

  “Okay. I have a date.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “For starters, who is this guy?”

  “He’s just a guy.”

  “Some random guy you picked up in Starbucks,” Erin states.

  “Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”

  “Really? How would you put it?”

  “I’ve met him several times. He seems nice. His office is a few doors down from the salon.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s an accountant.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Maggie hesitates.

  “Please tell me you know his name.”

  “Of course I know his name.”

  “What is it?”

  “Richard.”

  “Does Richard have a last name?”

  “Atwood,” Maggie tells her. “Richard Atwood.”

  Erin immediately pulls out her phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Checking Facebook.”

  “What? No. Stop!”

  Erin ignores her, scurrying out of Maggie’s reach, her fingers moving with lightning speed across the phone’s surface. “And here he is! Richard Atwood, certified public accountant. Wow! He’s hot. Oh my God!”

  “What?”

  “It says he was born in…Oh my God! Are you kidding me? He’s twenty-eight?”

  “Is he?” Maggie asks, blushing beet red against the white of the towel.

  “That’s what it says.”

  “Must be a mistake.”

  “Really? You’re going with that?”

  “He looks older.”

  “Does he know how old you are?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Erin throws both hands into the air as she paces between the bed and the window. “So, let me get this straight. My middle-aged mother, who has spent the past year and a half jumping at her own shadow, virtually terrified of every strange man she sees, meets this hot, twenty-eight-year-old guy in a Starbucks, and decides to throw caution to the wind and go out with him.”

  “Well, I’m not exactly throwing caution to the wind,” Maggie demurs. “He’s an accountant, for God’s sake. How dangerous can he be?”

  Erin comes to an abrupt stop. “He’s twenty-eight!”

  “Yes, I think we’ve established that.”

  “Okay,” Erin says, resuming her pacing, “I can kind of get why you’re interested. But what about him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s get real, Mom. I appreciate that you’ve been looking really good since you changed your hair and started wearing a bit of makeup and everything, but come on. The guy’s gorgeous. He could have anybody he wants. No disrespect, but what’s he doing with you?”

  “Wow.”

  “Are you going to have sex with him?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Are you going to have sex with Richard Atwood, certified public accountant?”

  “No! For God’s sake, I hardly know the man. We’re having dinner, period.”

  “Does he know that?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Because that would make sense. I mean, he probably thinks you’ll be so grateful that someone as young and good-looking as he is has asked you out that you’ll just fall into bed with him….”

  “Erin…”

  “Just make sure you use protection ’cause you don’t want to pick up any STDs.”

  “Okay, that’s quite enough.” Maggie fights the urge to push her daughter out the bedroom window. Instead she pushes her clothes aside and sinks down on the bed. “What’s really going on here, sweetie?” she asks when she can find her voice. “Why are you being so mean?”

  “I’m not being mean. I’m just trying to understand….”

  “You don’t have to understand. This isn’t about you.”

  “What is it about?”

  “It’s about me having a life again,” Maggie says. “You’re right. I’ve been a zombie the last eighteen months. And I’m not going to lie, I’m still terrifi
ed. But I can’t let that fear define my life any longer. It’s already cost me my career, my marriage, my identity! I can’t let it take anything else. I need to take back at least a semblance of control. For all our sakes.”

  “And dating Richard Atwood is going to help you do that?”

  “I don’t know,” Maggie admits. “It’s part of it, I guess.”

  Erin looks toward the floor. When she looks back at her mother, her eyes are filled with tears. “What about Dad?”

  “What about him?”

  “Does he know?”

  Maggie almost laughs. “About my new philosophy on life? How could he? I’m just starting to figure it out for myself.”

  “Does he know you have a date?”

  “Oh.” Back to that. “No, of course not.”

  “Are you going to tell him?”

  “Why would I? It’s none of his business.”

  “You don’t think he deserves to know?”

  Maggie buries her head in her hands. “Let’s get something straight,” she says, slowly lifting her head. “I love your father, Erin. Believe me, his leaving wasn’t my choice. I pretty much begged him to stay. He’s the one who wanted out.”

  “Because you were a crazy person.”

  “Yes. I think we all agree on that.”

  “So now…what? You dye your hair blond and suddenly you’re not crazy anymore?”

  “I don’t know,” Maggie admits. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

  Erin sinks down onto the bed beside Maggie. “It’s just that I thought…”

  “You thought what?”

  Erin’s breath quivers into the space between them. “That you and Dad would get back together.”

  Maggie nods, her arm reaching around Erin’s shoulders, drawing her daughter into an embrace. “So did I,” she admits. “But it doesn’t look as if that’s going to happen. Your father has moved on. And it’s time I did the same.”

  They sit for several minutes in silence before Erin pushes off the bed and walks to the door. She stops, turns back around. “Wear the white pants and silk shirt,” she advises. “You look really pretty in pink.”