What She Never Said

by Catharine Riggs

  “Yes.”

  “Well, no, thank you. I have my own ideas. Have a good night.”

  “You too. And good luck in your interview tomorrow. May the best man win.”

  “Or woman.”

  “That goes without saying. And don’t worry. I won’t tell Bob about your snooping. He’d be more than a little pissed.”

  I scurry down the hallway, stomach churning. I’m not worried about Bob. Not the tiniest bit. I’m 100 percent certain he’d take my side over Kai’s. I was trying to be helpful. Deliver a letter. That’s it. So what if I paused at Kai’s messy desk. This is a place of business. Not a private home. Anyway, Kai’s attitude is completely unbearable. He’s an arrogant jerk. He belongs at a cutthroat Wall Street firm, not a life-care community. I wonder if there’s a way to bring up his pitiless attitude in tomorrow’s interview. But I don’t want to sound like a tattletale. I’ll have to think hard on that.

  I decide to take the long route to my car to make up for my missing steps. But when I hurry through the assisted-living wing, an odd sight slows me down. The door is open to Ms. Kingsley’s residence, which is strange since it’s after six. At 104, she’s our oldest resident and typically in bed by five. She’s a founding member of our Pioneer Squad, a dwindling group of guests who have lived at Serenity Acres since the day the campus opened its doors. She occupies one of our larger units, a two-bedroom suite furnished with treasures from her travels around the world. I hear what sounds like crying, so I poke my head inside.

  “What’s happening?” I ask, trying to make sense of the scene.

  Ms. Kingsley is seated in a wheelchair, wearing a pink satin nightgown with matching slippers. White hair billows around her skeletal face; tears run from her milky-blue eyes.

  “They’re moving me,” she wails. “They’re taking all my pretty things.”

  Piles of boxes are stacked every which way. Paintings have been removed from the walls.

  “Who’s moving you?” I ask.

  “He is.” She waves her hands, and Nurse Milo steps from the shadows, easing something into his pocket.

  “It’s moving day,” he says in his heavy accent, “and Ms. Kingsley’s not happy about that.”

  “Why should I be happy?” she asks, wringing her gnarled hands. “This is my home.”

  “Don’t worry.” Nurse Milo pats her on the shoulder. “You’ll love your new room. I promise.”

  “Don’t touch me!” she howls.

  Nurse Milo has been with us for two years. He’s a short, stocky man with peppered hair that’s shorn close to his square head. He emigrated from the Ukraine over a decade ago and has worked in health care ever since. There’s always a smile pasted on his middle-aged face, but there’s something about him I don’t like. Maybe it’s the dark eyes that twitch but don’t blink. Or the frosty hands that never warm. Or the scent of stale cigarettes that follows him wherever he goes. If it wasn’t so hard to find eldercare nurses, I’d have let him go by now.

  “Where are you moving her to?” I demand. “And why this late in the day? You know it’s against the rules any time after three.”

  Nurse Milo fixes his gaze on the ceiling as if the answer might be written up there. “She’s being moved to casita 510 in the new wing. Why now, I don’t know. I’m just following orders. I was asked to keep her calm.” He drops his voice. “I might need to sedate her. She’s not taking this very well.”

  “The new wing? Did the family request a move?” Construction on the new wing was completed last month. Twenty ultramini apartments for our more frugal guests. The bathrooms are large enough to fit oversized wheelchairs, but the studios barely hold a single bed.

  Nurse Milo shrugs. “Does she have family?”

  I think for a moment and then shake my head. Ms. Kingsley never married, and her siblings have long since passed. She was a famous travel writer in her youth. Made enough money to live well for years. But last year her trust fund ran dry, and she joined the ranks of our destitute guests. I have a sudden, concerning thought. Kai wouldn’t dare. Or would he?

  Two handymen enter the room and begin to pile boxes on their hand trucks. “I don’t want to move!” Ms. Kingsley wails. Her eyes go wide with fear, and she grapples for my hand. “It’s because of the money, right? But they promised me, at the very beginning. They promised to take care of me no matter what state my finances were in. Was that a lie? Was it? Was it? Are you going back on your word?”

  She’s right, of course. I’m sure whoever signed her up did promise her, because I, too, have made that promise to every guest I’ve ever enrolled. It’s what I was told. It’s what I believed. “Wait a moment,” I say to the handymen. “Do you know who ordered this?”

  The fatter of the two men shrugs. “That guy should know.” He nods at Nurse Milo. “He’s the one that sent for us.”

  My gaze fixes on Nurse Milo. “Who gave you the order?”

  His eyes shift back and forth, never settling on one spot. “I think it came from sales.”

  “It came from Kai?”

  “I think so.”

  “But he has no right,” I sputter.

  The fat man leans against the wall. “Are we moving this lady or not? I’m already working overtime.”

  I fold my arms. “I believe it’s best if we hold off for now. Let me get to the bottom of this.”

  “Okay,” he replies. “But cleaning is scheduled for first thing tomorrow, and we got orders to paint the place in the afternoon. A new guest is scheduled to move in this weekend.”

  “It’s someone important,” the second moving man adds. “A former governor’s wife.”

  My body temperature begins to rise. “Shirley Bentley?” I ask.

  “Yeah. That’s the name.”

  I take a step back. I’m so angry I can barely breathe. I know all about Shirley Bentley. Met with her demanding son last week. He insisted on pushing his weight around. Wanted his mother placed at once. But the woman didn’t qualify for residency here. She failed our basic health test.

  “The move will have to wait,” I say. “I’ll speak to our executive director in the morning. He’ll instruct you on what to do.”

  The fat man pulls a work order from his pocket. “If you’re meaning Bob Knight, he signed off on the bottom of our paperwork right next to that marketing guy.”

  “Next to Kai?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why didn’t you show me this before?”

  “Guess I forgot.”

  A curse is close to spilling from my mouth, but then I remember our management training. Never let the staff see that there’s disagreement among the upper ranks.

  “All right,” I say, biting my tongue. “Keep going.” I crouch next to Ms. Kingsley, her breath blowing stale and warm. “Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine. We’ll fix up your place extra nice. And Nurse Milo will be giving you a special shot that’ll help you sleep through the night. In the morning, your things will all be in place, and I promise you’ll be pleased.”

  I wait until the shot is administered and then march from the apartment to my office, where I send a scathing email to Bob.

  Six

  Friday, June 14

  Jane and Franklin Carver may seem like an odd couple, but from what I’ve learned about Montecito, they’re actually part of the norm. She’s middle-aged, maybe forty. Or fifty with some work. And he celebrated his ninety-first birthday last week. A May-December relationship coming to its predictable end. The two of them sit across from me now. I have their paperwork in front of me. I’m afraid they won’t like the outcome.

  Franklin, frail as a starving bird, has a mind that seems to be riddled with holes. He hasn’t answered a single one of my questions. Didn’t respond when I introduced myself. Now he sits with eyes closed and head cocked, spittle wetting his pointy chin. I do hope he’s wearing a diaper, or I’ll have to reupholster another chair.

  “Anyway,” Jane says, crossing her sleek legs. “We need help.” She’s dr
essed in a peach-colored frock with matching heels that blend well with my office walls. A tiny white hat is perched on her head, her dark hair pulled tight in a bun. She makes me feel old and frumpy, although I’m dressed in my nicest black suit.

  “Poor Franklin was fine until the mudslide.” Jane fingers the string of luminous pearls that drape from her ultrasmooth neck. “His neurologist says it’s catastrophic for an Alzheimer’s patient to lose his longtime home.” She pats Franklin’s gnarled hand and smiles. “Poor old thing. I’ve tried round-the-clock care, but it’s so unreliable. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to cancel an outing. I’m at the end of my rope.”

  “I understand,” I say. “I really do. And I wish we could be of help. Unfortunately, Franklin won’t fit into our Champion’s Club.”

  “I’m not asking for him to join a club,” she says, her smile starting to fade.

  I glance at Franklin and lower my voice. “Champion is our euphemism for dementia. All dementia patients live in our champion’s wing.”

  “Oh.” She straightens and blinks her eyes.

  “Anyway, Franklin didn’t pass our cognitive tests, but I’d be happy to give you a referral.”

  Jane’s smile snaps off like a blown kitchen light. “What do you mean ‘didn’t pass’?”

  “He didn’t pass the entrance exam.”

  “Entrance exam? What’re you talking about? He’s not applying to college. He needs a place to live.”

  She obviously didn’t read our brochure, so I do my best to explain. “You must understand that Serenity Acres is not just a retirement home; it’s a life-care community. Once an applicant has been accepted as a guest, we support them to the very end.” I pause here, thinking of Kai’s words. Is our commitment to forever care about to be abandoned? But in a heartbeat, I continue on, professional that I am. “As such, at the time of entry, an applicant must pass our physical and cognitive exams.” I hold up Franklin’s assessment. “Unfortunately, Mr. Carver failed in every category.”

  “I don’t understand . . .”

  “We simply can’t accept him.”

  “But . . .”

  “The rules are clearly outlined in our brochure.” I try to hand her a copy, but she waves it away.

  “I’d be happy to pay you immediately,” she says, whipping a checkbook from her purse. “That’s one million, correct?”

  My face grows warm. “I’m sorry, but . . .”

  “And I can pay the first year’s dues as well.” She taps her checkbook with her pen. “And I’ll add a tip. Just tell me how much.”

  Jane’s not the first to try to bribe me, and I doubt she’ll be the last. I slide a business card her way. “I suggest you call Bright Memories. They support all stages of cognitive decline.”

  She sniffs. “Bright Memories? Where are they located?”

  “In Goleta.”

  “Goleta?” She shakes her head. “No. We’re not going there.” She leans forward, her puffy lips growing thin. “The thing is, I ran across Kai last weekend at the club.”

  “The club?”

  “The Montecito Golf Club. I don’t imagine you’ve ever been there, but you must know of it.”

  “Of course I do.” I don’t like her tone.

  “Well, Kai’s family are founding members. Franklin used to play a round of golf with his grandfather every day.”

  “That’s nice, but . . .”

  “And one of Franklin’s grandchildren attends church with Kai. In college they traveled to Haiti together to volunteer on a Habitat for Humanity home. The two of them are quite close.”

  Kai did something for a person in need? I find that hard to believe. “I appreciate the connection,” I say, “but it doesn’t change a thing.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Are you from Santa Barbara?”

  I nod. “I’ve been here for over thirty years.” Franklin slumps to one side and almost topples off the chair. Jane grabs on to his sleeve.

  “But where were you born?”

  “Fresno.”

  “Fresno?” She leans back in her chair, a smirk tweaking her ageless face. “Then you don’t understand how it works here. We locals take care of our own.”

  “I do understand. Unfortunately, rules are rules. There’s nothing I can do.”

  Jane tugs her cell phone from her purse. “Kai told me to call him if I had a problem. I’m sure he’ll work this out. He’s the vice president of sales, after all. And you? What do you do?”

  “I’m the VP of operations,” I say, wishing I could toss her out.

  “Well, let’s give him a call.”

  Clattering down the tiled hallway, I pass our Texas belle, Kate Harrington, who smiles and calls out hello. I do my best to return the greeting, but the words get stuck in my throat. I’m so angry, my vision is blurry. My heart thumps hard in my chest. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. I barge into Bob’s office unannounced.

  “I’ve got to speak with you, now!”

  Bob startles like a frightened cat and springs from his chair. “I take it you’ve heard?”

  That stops me. “Heard what?”

  “Nothing.” He takes a deep breath and settles back down. “Feel free to take a seat.”

  I plop onto the guest chair and lean forward, ready to launch an attack. I sum up the meeting with the Carvers. Recount how Kai tried to overrule my decision in front of a prospective guest. Remind Bob that I’m the VP of operations and won’t tolerate the dismissive behavior of an unethical millennial jerk.

  Bob presses his fingers together, nodding his head nonstop. “Slow down,” he says. “I’m having a hard time following your words.”

  I barely pause to hear him, then rush forward. “And I will not have Kai lording his Montecito connections over me. Who does he think he is? And by the way, you never responded to my emails about Eleanor Kingsley. Why did you allow Kai to downsize her apartment?”

  “The decision wasn’t up to me.”

  “What do you mean? You run this place.”

  “I ran this place. Now I’m a lame duck.”

  “So who . . . ?”

  “The new management, of course.” Bob removes his glasses and rubs his tired-looking eyes. “As for your emails, I recommend you be careful about what you put in writing.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “They’re watching.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Bob sighs and pushes his glasses back in place. “Just be careful. And give the transition time before you pass judgment.”

  “But Ms. Kingsley . . .”

  Bob holds up his hand. “We were asked by corporate to accommodate a new guest, and we complied.”

  “But in no way did she qualify.”

  “Doesn’t matter. They overruled our decision.”

  “Are you saying our current processes and procedures have been tossed into the trash?”

  Bob gets up and grabs a bottle of water from the corner closet. “Have a drink and try to calm down.”

  “Calm down?” I push the bottle away. “How can I? I’ve worked here eighteen years, and I’ve never been treated with such disrespect.”

  “Please?”

  “And that woman, Jane? She only married the old guy for his money, and now she wants to move on.”

  “You don’t know these people or their circumstances.”

  “I know their type.”

  Bob folds his arms and leans back in his chair, a frown further aging his face. “What’s happened to you, Ruth? Where’s your sense of compassion?”

  My Fitbit buzzes, and I give it a tap. “I reserve it for those in need.”

  “There was a time when you seemed to truly care about our families. Sympathized with the difficult decisions they faced.”

  “I still care.”

  “You’re not acting like you do.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but I’m stopped by the look on Bob’s face. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  His weary gaze meets mine. “I was
going to tell you later today.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “It was a difficult decision.”

  I stare at Bob, comprehension dawning. “Don’t tell me . . .”

  He nods.

  I dig my fingernails into my palms. “Who’d they hire?”

  “I’m sorry. I really am. I told the new management they were making a mistake. But it’s all about sales with this new regime. That’s why I’m getting out.”

  “But who . . . ?”

  Bob kneads his hands together. “Kai will be taking over as executive director.”

  “Kai?” I gasp. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I’m afraid not. But please know this isn’t about you . . .”

  I slap my hand hard on his desk. “Of course it’s about me.”

  “I mean . . .” Bob shifts uneasily in his chair. “They were impressed by you. Very impressed. But they were more impressed by Kai’s analytics. They’re going to use his profit model throughout the organization. They think he’s the man for the job.”

  I stumble to my feet. “The man? Are you kidding me? Is that what’s going on here?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Or is it my age?”

  “Ruth . . .”

  “Or both? Because my years of experience run rings around Kai’s sloppy attitude and tenth-rate MBA.”

  Bob rubs his temples like they’re hurting. “Please, sit down,” he says in a dull voice.

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret. Give me a chance to explain.”

  I fight my urge to run from the room and perch on the edge of my chair. “Explain away.”

  “Can I be honest here?”

  “Please do.”

  “The job was yours to lose.”

  A blow to my heart. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I gave you the highest possible recommendation. But you refused to tell the new management what they wanted to hear.”

  “Are you talking about their ridiculous goals?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But they are ridiculous.”

  “Sure they are. But you shouldn’t have thrown that in their faces.”

  “So I should’ve lied?”

  “It’s called playing the game.”