“No, thank you.” His blond hair is slicked away from his face, tied back with a silvery bow.
“You sure? The brussels sprout appetizer is our specialty.”
“Baked?”
He pulls a pad of paper from his pocket and stares. “Tossed in hand-picked organic herbs and sautéed in cold-pressed olive oil.”
“I think I’ll pass.” I’m already short six hundred steps today. No room for a fat-ridden snack.
“Okay. Will your guest be joining us soon?”
“I believe so.” I peer in and around the throngs to see my daughter nudging her way through the entrance. “There she is.”
“Nice. I’ll come back in a few.”
Alice snakes her way across the room, looking out of place in the sea of beachy clothes. She’s pretty but pale and dressed in her signature black. Has she gained a little weight? And why the purple hair? What’s wrong with her natural blonde? Maybe she’s going gray and doesn’t want anyone to know.
“Hi, Mom.” She leans over and gives my cheek a peck before settling into her chair.
“It’s good to see you,” I say a little stiffly. Does she know she’s ten minutes late? “Traffic bad?”
“Not really.” Her hazel eyes sparkle. “I’m sorry I’m late, but I was in the parking lot talking to my agent.” She claps her hands together. “I got booked to play backup singer with this great band. A ten-week tour along the East Coast.”
“What band?”
“Atlas Shrugged.”
“Never heard of them.”
“They play indie rock.”
“Any good?”
Her eyes narrow, and her brow lowers. “Don’t burst my bubble, please.”
“I’m not bursting anyone’s bubble. I wondered if they were any good.”
“Would I be touring with them if they weren’t?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I suppose you need the money.”
She shakes her head with an exaggerated sigh.
“Don’t get upset.”
“I’m not upset. I’d just like a little support.”
I breathe deep. “I’m happy if you’re happy.”
“Well, I’m happy.”
“Then let’s leave it at that.”
“Yes, let’s.” She buries her head deep in her menu. She’s angry; I can tell. She’s been angry for as long as I can remember. Well, that’s not quite true. It started the year her father left. That’s when she first grew distant and depressed. The waiter appears, and Alice orders a glass of house chardonnay.
“I’ll have the same,” I say.
The waiter eyes Alice with a smile. “What about entrees?”
“Can you give us a moment?” she replies.
“Of course.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
Her gaze lingers on the slim man as he sashays away. “He’s cute,” she says.
“What do you think of his tongue stud?”
“I like it.”
“You’d never get one, would you?”
She buries her head in her menu again. “You’re being judgy, Mom.”
“I’m not being judgy. I’m asking what you think.”
“I think I’ll have the pasta Alfredo.”
“You sure?”
She rattles her menu. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“I’m having the Caesar salad, no dressing.”
“Of course you are.” She sets down her menu with a snap. “How’s the new Fitbit?”
I glance at the purple rubber wristband attached to the rectangular metallic face. “I like it. It buzzes more than the last one; minireminders to help me stay thin and trim.”
“You’ve always been thin and trim.”
“That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be careful. As we girls age, our metabolisms slow. It’s a fact. Sad but true.”
“Don’t go there, Mom.”
“Go where?”
“Let’s talk about work. How’s work?”
“Work’s fine.” The waiter returns with our wine and flirts with Alice for a little too long. When he moves off, we clink our glasses together, and then I take a sip. Ugh. The wine is oxidized. Should I take a chance and send it back? I glance at Alice. She doesn’t seem to notice. I’ll drink water instead. “I’ve been so terribly busy,” I say. “I can’t remember the last time I took a day off.”
“Why’s that?”
“Oh, there’s been a lot going on at the campus.” I look both ways to make sure no one’s listening and then lower my voice. “This is completely confidential, but my boss just announced his retirement. I’m in line to take his place.”
“Really?” Alice sets down her glass. “You want that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Wouldn’t the executive director position consume your entire life?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It wouldn’t leave you time for anything else.”
“What do I need time for?”
“To live your dreams?”
“This is my dream.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Alice doesn’t look convinced. “Whatever happened to that novel you were writing? And you used to love photography. Remember? You thought you might sell your prints. And what about . . .” Her voice fades, and she drains her wine.
I press the creases from my linen napkin. “Well, things change, don’t they? Sometimes we have to grow up.”
“Don’t be mean, Mom.”
“I’m not being mean.”
“You sound mean.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Can’t you retire?”
“Retire?” I have a vision of sitting alone in the house watching TV. Nowhere to go. No one to see. “I’m only fifty-two. And I couldn’t afford to retire even if I wanted to.”
“But you’ve owned the house forever.”
“I had to refinance when your father left and then again to help your brother.”
“I suppose you could sell.”
“And go where?”
She rolls her eyes in that way she has. “Well, then, I hope you get your wish.”
“It’s not a wish. It’s my right. I’ve worked hard. I deserve it.”
“Lots of people work hard.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning the most qualified person doesn’t always get the job, especially when that person is a woman.”
I take a deep breath. “You’re such a pessimist. Why is that?”
She rolls her eyes again. “I don’t know, Mom. Maybe I was born that way.”
“But you were such a happy little girl.”
“Well, things change, don’t they?”
The waiter appears and takes our order. Alice requests a second glass of wine.
“Is that a good idea?” I ask once he’s gone.
Another eye roll. “I’m an adult, Mom. Can we leave it at that?”
“Remember what happened to my parents.”
“I’m not an alcoholic.”
“Well, you shouldn’t drink and drive.”
Alice drops her head in her hands. “I thought I could do this.”
“Do what?”
“This!” She spreads her arms wide, and the couple at the next table glance our way. They’re young and slim, dressed in expensive hippie casual. I frown at them, and they frown back. I then silently take in the crowd until our meals arrive. Alice dives into hers. I only pick at mine. She’s cleared most of her plate before I’ve made a dent.
“Well . . . I should get going.” She sets her napkin on the table. “It’ll take me hours to drive back to Hollywood on a Saturday night.”
A strand of hurt winds through my heart. “I thought you were spending the weekend with me.”
“I was planning to, but then this gig turned up. I have a million things to do. I leave Monday for New York.”
“Monday?” I set down my fork. “You’re leaving this week?”
“But you don’t know anything about this band, do you?”
“I know their music.”
“But the boys . . . the men in the band? Have you checked their backgrounds? Do you know who they are?”
“I’m a grown woman, Mom. I can take care of myself.”
“Remember what happened in Florida?”
Alice slumps like I’ve sucked the air from her lungs. “Of course I do,” she says in a tiny voice. “I’ll never forget, and neither will you.” She finishes off her wine and sets her glass down with a clank. “Before I leave, I have something to tell you.”
My breathing quickens. Pregnancy? Cancer? Money?
“I didn’t want you to hear it from anyone else.”
My thoughts rattle back and forth.
“Gigi’s pregnant again.”
“Your father’s mistress?”
“She’s not his mistress, Mom. She’s his wife. They’ve been married for sixteen years.”
I shrug. “So she’s pregnant. Good for her. What do I care?”
“Oh, Mom. Don’t be like that. I know you care. And I know it must hurt. But the twins are my sisters. And now I’ll have another sibling too.”
“Half sisters.”
“What?”
“The twins aren’t your real sisters. They’re your half sisters.”
Alice opens her mouth and then shuts it. And then swallows and opens it again. “You can be so cold.”
“I’m not cold. It’s the truth. Anyway, enough of that. Are you sure you want to go to New York? I thought we might spend some time together. Take a trip to Hawaii next month. I’d pay your way, of course.”
“I can’t do that, Mom. This is my big chance. Atlas Shrugged has just signed with Warner’s. They’re opening for some really good bands. They’re the real thing, Mom.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“It’s true this time.” She dabs her lips with her napkin. “Why not invite Adam? I bet he’d like to go.”
I dig a crouton from deep in my salad and take a bite. It’s heavy on the garlic, short on the crunch. “Why would I do that?”
“It might help mend your relationship.”
I pick up my wine and gulp it down. “I’m not sure it needs mending.”
“Of course it does. You didn’t even attend his wedding.”
“That was Adam’s fault, not mine. He chose your father over me.”
“Adam didn’t choose Dad over you. He invited him to the wedding.”
“Along with his mistress.”
“His wife, Mom.”
“Whatever.”
A shadow passes over Alice’s face. “I feel sorry for you. I really do.”
My Fitbit buzzes with a reminder to get moving. “No need for that.”
She glances at her cell and gets to her feet. “I’ll call you when I get to New York.”
“Have a nice flight.”
“Aren’t you going to hug me goodbye?”
“I have to pay the bill.”
She stares at me with sadness in her eyes. “I wish you’d stop.”
“Stop what?”
“You know what I’m talking about.” She comes around the table and hugs my stiff shoulders. “I love you,” she says.
“I love you too.”
Alice hesitates before turning and disappearing into the crowd. I take another bite of salad and then set down my fork. My arms feel heavy. I’m exhausted.
Lately I’ve been waking before dawn with a dream in my head and fear clogging my throat. The dream starts out peacefully enough. I’ve morphed into a grand old oak tree with birds singing in my branches and squirrels scampering below. Then the sky darkens and thunder rumbles, and I begin to grow backward. First my leaves shrink into my branches. Then my branches shrivel into my trunk. My trunk grows smaller and smaller. Soon there’s nothing left of me but a hollowed-out acorn. The sky turns black after that.
The bill arrives, and I scour the numbers, feeling a grateful tingle of relief. “There’s a mistake here,” I say to the waiter, tapping the bill with my credit card. “And that wine was horribly oxidized. You shouldn’t charge me a cent for that.”
Five
Tuesday, May 21
I can’t seem to memorize the Lost Horizons mission statement. It’s stupid. I know. I’ve always had the best of memories. Could recite entire poems by rote. But now I’m unable to recall a simple string of twenty-five words. Seems like it should be easy. Only one line—though a long one. I’ll give myself that.
The mission of Lost Horizons is to offer distinctive, service-enriched housing and health care while contributing to a lifestyle that promotes quality, independence, and prosperity.
I keep stumbling over service-enriched and prosperity. I have to remember those key words. The management team arrives tomorrow, and my interview is scheduled for nine. What if they ask me to recite the statement? It’s something they might do. A test of sorts, and what if I fail? That could be the end of my dream.
Stop it. Think positive! Don’t be so hard on yourself. I finger my Fitbit nervously. I’m the perfect age to be promoted to executive director, and of course I’m as sharp as they come. I shuffle through my papers and glance at the clock. It’s after seven, and I’m still at the office. I’ve missed my evening walk. That means I’ll be short a thousand steps today unless I head off into the dark.
I give the mission statement one last crack, and then I’ve had enough. I sort through a pile of mail and find an envelope addressed to Kai. For the briefest of moments I consider shredding it, but of course I’d never stoop that low. Instead, I gather my things and switch off the lights and head to the small office down the way. He’s not there, of course. Never works past five. That would break his millennial code. I drop the letter in his in-box and am about to leave when I spot an interesting booklet on his desk. SALES ANALYTICS—SERENITY ACRES. I look over my shoulder before opening what appears to be a PowerPoint presentation for the Lost Horizons team. PowerPoint? If he’s planning on presenting it at the interview, he’s dumber than I thought.
I flip to the first page and read the chapter headings: “Sales Growth,” “Profit Enhancement,” and “Expense Reduction.” All three of those make sense. But they’re followed by “Efficiency Ratio.” What’s that? Then, “Delinquent Accounts,” “Breach of Contract,” and “Humane Eviction.” Eviction? We don’t ever evict our guests. I quickly skim through the document pages, pausing on the one titled “Breach of Contract,” where Kai has listed ten “legal” ways to push our destitutes out the door.
Destitute is our internal term for a guest who no longer has the means to pay. We have over two dozen destitutes, many of whom are so old they’ve outlived their savings. But we also have had incidences of inheritances wiped out by bad investments, unethical guardians, and, more recently, natural disasters. According to Kai’s questionable numbers, the destitutes are eating into our profits at a rate of $4 million per year.
“Spying?”
I spin around to find Kai leaning against the doorjamb dressed in fluorescent running gear. His cheeks are pink, his forehead sweaty, his bun in disarray.
“Why, no,” I say, dropping the booklet. “I was . . . delivering your mail.”
“Right.” He saunters to his desk and opens his drawer. “Sorry to interrupt you. I went for a run. Left my keys behind.”
“You didn’t interrupt me . . .”
“No?”
“I . . . like I said . . . I found a letter addressed to you and thought I’d hand deliver.”
“Nice of you.” He taps the booklet. “So what do you think of my PowerPoint?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” His cologne is more powerful than ever. I try not to breathe through my nose.
“Really? You’re never at a loss for words. In fact, you’re usually happy to give your opinion. So feel free to do so here.”
“Well
. . .” I know I shouldn’t say anything, but I can’t help myself. “I did take a glance at the document. I wasn’t snooping, just interested. I suppose I’m concerned about your use of the word eviction. I assume you’re aware of our forever-care policy. We have yet to evict a guest.”
“Yet being the operative word.”
“What do you mean by that?”
He drops onto his chair and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “You must know the destitutes are dragging down our profits. We’re losing millions on them every year.”
A jolt of indignation stiffens my spine. “Technically, that may be true, but we have signed contracts with each and every one of them that guarantees we will care for them, even if their financial resources run out.”
A smug look crosses Kai’s face. “You might be surprised.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’ve had my uncle take a look at our paperwork. He’s a lawyer who specializes in contract law. He thinks there’s a loophole that would free us from our obligations to those people.”
I begin to sputter. “First off, those people are our guests. Secondly, you had no right to show our contract to an outsider. It’s against the rules.”
“It was a blank contract,” he says dryly. “No confidential information was revealed.”
“Still . . .”
“Still, you do understand that our nonpaying guests are eating away at our profits, which is contrary to the Lost Horizons mission to maximize shareholder wealth?”
I throw back my shoulders. “Actually, their mission is to offer distinctive service and housing . . .” I pause, unable to grasp the next words.
Kai offers me a thin-lipped smile. “I believe the correct order is ‘distinctive, service-enriched housing.’ You might want to get that right. Anyway, I’m sure you know the difference between an outward-facing mission statement and the goal of a publicly held corporation. Management will be looking for ways to maximize profitability. You shouldn’t forget that fact. Especially if you want to do well in your interview tomorrow. I’d be happy to give you a copy of my presentation. It might help you score some points.”
I eye him with suspicion. “Why would you do that?”
“Why wouldn’t I? I’m more than willing to share my ideas.”
“Are you?”
What She Never Said Page 3