LimeLight

by Melody Carlson

  “Hello.” She smiles and hands me a business card. “I’m Melinda Maxwell from Senior Services.”

  I examine the card, and it looks to be authentic, so I open the door wider. “Yes?”

  “You must be Mrs. Ford.”

  “Ford?”

  She frowns. “Yes, I believe that’s the name I was given. Mrs. Ford?”

  “Fioré.”

  “Oh, well, then. Mrs. Fioré…I’d like to come in and have a nice little visit with you, if you don’t mind.”

  It could be my imagination, but it seems she is using baby talk with me. As if she thinks this is how you address “elderly” people. I do not care for it. In fact, I find it highly offensive, not to mention affected, and I’m tempted to tell her so in no uncertain terms. But then I think better of this and invite her in.

  “Thank you.” She comes into my house and looks around my still messy living room, as if taking some sort of mental inventory.

  “Things are rather messy,” I explain. “I had a rather disturbing day yesterday… I’m sure you heard.”

  “Only yesterday?”

  I frown at her. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, simply that, uh, people sometimes get confused as to time frames and when something really happened. What you think was only yesterday may have actually started, say, a month ago.” She smiles again. But now I see that it’s as phony as her fake Gucci handbag.

  “Perhaps,” I say in a cool voice. “But since I have been in this house for less than two weeks, I do not see how that is possible, Ms. Maxwell.”

  She waves her hand. “Call me Melinda, please. And I was just using that time period as an example.”

  “I see…”

  She glances at the fireplace. “That’s cozy. Did you make that fire?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Oh. Who did?”

  I want to ask her if she has any intelligent questions to ask me but decide to bide my time with this woman. “I don’t happen to know who made it.”

  She nods, looking at the shards of shattered glass still in and about the fireplace. “Right…”

  “I mean, it might’ve been the policeman—I don’t recall his name. No, actually, I believe it was the paramedic. It’s been a rather hectic morning.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Would you like to sit down?” I finally ask, thinking that we might as well get this wrapped up as soon as possible since this woman is as aggravating as a broken heel on the way to a premiere.

  “No, actually, I’d like to look around, if you don’t mind.”

  “Suppose I do mind?”

  She smiles. “I’d like to look around anyway.”

  “Why is that? Are you going to write up a report on me?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Fioré, you should be careful. You don’t want paranoia to kick in.”

  “Well, am I wrong?”

  “If you must know, I’m here at the police department’s request. I need to do an evaluation.”

  “Why?” I glare at her. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

  “I don’t even know you.” Again with the smile. “That’s why I’m here, Mrs. Fioré. I want to get to know you. One of the ways I get to know my senior clients is by looking around. I see how they’re getting along and whether or not they’re in need of assistance.”

  “Fine,” I snap, tired of this cat-and-mouse game. “But you might as well know the place is a complete disaster. Everything that could go wrong did go wrong last night. And it wasn’t my fault either. I did all I could to make this work. But I believe I have been sabotaged.”

  Her eyebrows rise. “Sabotaged? Really?”

  I simply throw my hands up. Perhaps I should keep my mouth shut around this woman.

  She nods toward the kitchen. “May I look around?”

  “I doubt I can stop you.”

  She sort of laughs, then proceeds into my kitchen where her laughter comes to an abrupt halt. “Oh my!”

  I look around the kitchen too, suddenly seeing it as she must see it—as my sister and her friends and the public servants must’ve seen it—broken dishes on the floor, scattered clothing all around, random household items dumped from the cardboard box I used as kindling, my Armani pantsuit with horrible red wine stains, a large knife nearby. But then I see what her eyes are really focused upon—my makeshift commode.

  “What is that?” She points to the structure.

  “You mean the Crock-Pot and the crate?”

  “Are you using that as a toilet?”

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear that I had a plumbing problem.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Last night my toilet backed up, all over the bathroom. I haven’t had a chance to clean it up.”

  “Is the bathroom this way?” She heads down the hallway.

  Before I can direct her, she opens the door to the guest room/office. “Well, now, whose room is this?”

  “No one’s.”

  “Oh.”

  Then she moves on to the bathroom, opens the door, and glances around. Making a face, she quickly closes it. “That is disgusting.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “What’s this other room?” She reaches for my bedroom door, but before I can answer, she opens it and enters. Like my sister, she picks up the wine bottle and holds it out. “Do we have a drinking problem?”

  “I don’t know, do we?”

  “Do you always take a bottle of wine to bed with you?”

  “Only when the plumbing backs up, the house nearly burns down, and I expect to suffer from hypothermia before morning.”

  “I see…”

  “Yes, I’m sure you do.”

  She shakes her head. “You’re not much of a housekeeper, are you?”

  “No, actually, I am not. I haven’t kept house since I was a child. I married a very wealthy man, lived in a beautiful mansion, and always had servants who did the cleaning and cooking for me.”

  “Really?” She looks at me with skepticism. “Sounds like a dream life.”

  “Yes, it was…”

  “So, what happened? If what you’re saying is true, how did you end up like this?”

  I sit on my bed and sigh. “I wish I knew.”

  “Surely, you must know. If you really were as wealthy as you say, you must know what happened to change things for you. Tell me, I’d like to hear your story.” She actually pushes my clothes off my chair and sits down.

  “I got old.”

  “Oh yes. Getting old can be difficult. But it’s not the end of the world, Mrs. Fioré.”

  “And you know that for a fact, do you?”

  She smiles again, and I swear I’d like to rip the lips from her face. “My degree is in gerontology. You may not know what that is, but it happens to be the—”

  “Just because you’ve studied aging doesn’t mean you understand it.”

  She blinks. “Are you trying to tell me that you understand it?”

  “I am experiencing it.”

  “Does that mean you understand it?”

  I consider this. The truth is, I don’t understand it. I don’t wish to understand it. But I refuse to give her the satisfaction of hearing that confession.

  “Okay, I think we need to get down to the basics here.” She looks around my room. “But perhaps it would be more comfortable in the living room.”

  “Not to mention warmer.”

  “Yes.” She nods. “Good point.”

  Oh boy, I made a point!

  Soon we are both seated in the living room, and she opens her black briefcase and removes a notebook. “I have some questions.”

  “Is this a test?”

  “No, Mrs. Fioré,” she says in that baby-talk voice again, “it’s just our way of finding out how we can best serve you.”

  “Please, I am not a child, and I am not senile. I would appreciate it if you would address me as an intelligent adult.”

  She nods and looks down at her notebook. “Firs
t of all, is it true you have no source of heat…other than the fireplace?”

  So, for what feels like the umpteenth time, I explain about the furnace. “It had been working perfectly fine.” I remove my purple gloves and set them aside. “Until yesterday. That’s when everything fell apart. I’m sure you may think I’m experiencing paranoia, but I cannot help but think there was a human hand involved.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Well, just consider it. I’m away from home during the day. I return to no heat, stopped-up plumbing, a fireplace that doesn’t work properly… Does that seem like a coincidence to you?”

  “I’d say it’s a stretch of bad luck. But why didn’t you call for help? A plumber? The oil company?”

  “Because my phone wasn’t working.”

  Now I seem to have gotten her attention. “You mean your phone line is down as well?”

  “Not my phone line. My cell phone. I had it all charged, but it would not connect. I tried and tried, but I just couldn’t put a call through.”

  “Where is your phone? Maybe I can give it a try.”

  I nod to the fireplace.

  “You burned it?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Oh…” She studies me carefully, and I can tell she’s questioning my mental capacity. I must either win her confidence or risk being written up as a lunatic, which could mean they would see fit to have me locked away in a place like Laurel Hills or worse. I cannot have that.

  “As you said earlier, you do not know me. And what you’re seeing right now is not the Claudette Fioré I used to be. To start with, the IRS recently forced the sale of my beautiful home in Beverly Hills. They seized most of my assets, and I had to relocate to Silverton because this was all I had. You see, I inherited my childhood home, and although it’s not much, it was better than being homeless. But I’m not accustomed to living in deprivation or being without my household staff. My stepson helped me set up housekeeping, and believe it or not, this place looked rather good before he left less than a week ago.”

  She glances around again. “I did notice that you do have some nice things.”

  I nod. “But even so, I am living in an impoverished way.”

  “And what you’re telling me is the truth, Mrs. Fioré? You really did live in Beverly Hills? You really were wealthy?”

  “Why would I make that up?”

  She laughs. “Oh, you’d be surprised at the things elderly people, in need of attention or suffering from dementia, will make up.”

  “Look at this.” I wave to the abstract behind me. “That is an original Sean Scully. I don’t know if you know anything about art, but it is quite valuable.”

  Melinda frowns up at the painting. “I happen to be quite fond of abstract art, Mrs. Fioré, and I certainly know about Sean Scully. But I can’t believe that’s an original. A good reproduction, perhaps, but not an original.” Then she laughs.

  “Your fake Gucci purse may be a reproduction. Not a good reproduction, mind you, since I spotted it the minute you walked in. But that painting, like most of the art in my home, is the real thing.”

  She stands up, goes over to the painting, and studies it carefully. Then she turns and peers at me. “It’s authentic?”

  “Unlike some people, I do not care for imitations.”

  She points to my hand. “I suppose you’re going to tell me that diamond ring is real too?”

  I roll my eyes. “My husband got it for our fortieth anniversary. He was extremely wealthy. Why would I wear a fake?”

  “Because it’s huge. No way can it be real.”

  “Last time I checked, it was insured for half a million.”

  Melinda shakes her head. “And yet you are living in squalor, Mrs. Fioré, using your kitchen as a toilet, and you have human feces on the floor of your bathroom. Doesn’t any of this strike you as odd?”

  “Terribly odd.”

  “Why don’t you hire household help?”

  “Because I must live on a budget now. A very small budget.”

  “But you could sell something.” She points to my hand. “I’m sure that ring alone could pay for maid service for the rest of your life.”

  “Sell my ring?”

  “Or some art. If they really are originals, you’d only need to sell a few and you’d be set for some time.”

  “My art?” I say sadly, looking up at the Scully. “And then what would I have left?”

  “You might have a clean house and plumbing that works.”

  “I suppose…”

  “Look, Mrs. Fioré, I can’t help you if you won’t let me. Or if you’re unwilling to help yourself. If that’s the case, we would need to find another living situation for you. But if your paintings and jewelry are authentic and as valuable as you say, then I’m wasting my time here. I have truly impoverished people who actually need Social Services.” She studies me closely. “Unless, of course, you have some other challenges, such as the onset of Alzheimer’s, dementia, or some other mental health issue. Is there anything else you’d like to discuss?”

  I just shake my head. This woman may think she understands old people, but she does not understand me. I hold up my hands in true desperation. “I do need help, Melinda. This is the truth… I do not know how to do the simplest of things. I do not have a phone. I do not have heat. My plumbing does not work. And until I can call my accountant, I am temporarily broke. Now, if you really think I should go downtown and pawn my wedding ring to—”

  “No, no, I’m not suggesting that.” She actually seems to give this some thought. “Okay, Mrs. Fioré, this is what we’ll do. Since tomorrow’s Thanksgiving and it’ll be hard to get help, I’ll call the phone company right away. I’ll tell them to get in here today and that it’s an emergency.”

  “It certainly feels like an emergency to me.”

  She nods and writes something down. “Yes, I’m sure it does.” Then she looks up at me. “And then I’ll call a plumber and tell him it’s an emergency as well.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And I’ll get the oil company out here too.”

  “I would appreciate that.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I think that should help immensely, thank you.”

  She puts her notebook back in the briefcase. “And if I’m going to get these people out here today, I’ll have to jump on it.” She stands and hooks her handbag over her arm. “You really knew this was a fake?”

  I nod. “But if it’s any comfort to you, I am rather an expert at these things.” I look down at my sorry looking outfit. “Although I’m sure you wouldn’t know by looking at me just now…”

  “No, but I did notice a nice-looking Kelly bag in your bedroom and several other items I wouldn’t mind having.”

  I smile at her. “Maybe I should have a boudoir sale.”

  “Hey, if you do, let me know.”

  As Melinda leaves, I think it’s possible that I misjudged her earlier. She actually seems somewhat decent, and I find myself wanting to trust her. I just hope she’s sincere about getting me the help I so desperately need.

  It has not been easy to admit how helpless I really am. On the other hand, I do not think I can possibly face another night like the one I experienced last night.

  As soon as Melinda leaves, I straighten my living room. It’s true that I don’t know the first thing about housekeeping, but it’s also true that I’m somewhat lazy, not that I would care to admit this to anyone. But when it comes to menial labor, I am rather unmotivated. However, I was never lazy when it came to other physical exertions, like yoga, golf, tennis, boating…but then those activities were enjoyable.

  As I pick up items of clothing, trying to decide the best places to put them (do I keep them or toss them out?), I realize that I’m getting warmer. I suppose this is from moving about. But the fire has burned down to glowing embers. Fortunately someone, probably that attractive paramedic, has set extra firewood on the hearth. So I throw on a fe
w more logs and continue with my cleaning.

  As I continue puttering about, putting things where they belong, I observe something quite ironic, something that actually surprises me. Putting a room back in order leaves one with a feeling of something… I believe it’s accomplishment. I try to remember who told me this tidbit about housekeeping—that it is its own reward. I think it was Busybody Bea! Perhaps I’m starting to grasp this concept.

  I take a break and fix myself some coffee and a bite of breakfast. But as I sit at the table in my still messy kitchen with my makeshift toilet still in the center of the room, I wonder if Melinda will really follow through with her promises. Perhaps I should consider getting myself a room at that ratty old Motel 6 on the edge of town. Then, as I’m rinsing my cup and plate, someone knocks at the door. I peek out the front window to see a red van, with the black silhouette of a rooster and the words Rooster Rooter painted on the side, parked out front. And when I go to the door, a man in brown coveralls is standing on my porch.

  “Morning, ma’am. I hear you got plumbing problems.”

  “Yes!” I say as if I am happy about that. “Come in!” I open the door wider and let him in.

  “Can you tell me what’s going on exactly?”

  “Well, first I flushed the toilet, and it didn’t go down like it should.” I grimace to remember. “In fact, it went all over the bathroom floor. Then I took a shower, and the water didn’t go down at all. It seems things are stopped up.”

  “Uh-huh. Sounds like a drain problem to me.”

  “Well, my stepson helped me move into this house recently, and he mentioned that I should get a plumber to look at the pipes, or something to that effect. Someone told him that if a house sits too long, there could be plumbing problems.”

  “That sounds right.” He nods. “I’ll go take a look.”

  “The bathroom is this way,” I tell him, wishing it wasn’t in such bad shape.

  “No, my work is mostly outside, ma’am.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll root out your sewer line, and we’ll see if that solves the problem.”