"Your friend must be quite wealthy," he says as he pulls up in front of Isabella's big house.
"Her parents seem to be."
"And have you thought about living with them?"
I just shake my head. "I'm pretty sure this girl isn't really my friend anymore, not after what happened tonight."
"Too bad." He sighs. "That's what I'd call a fair-weather friend."
I shrug and reach for the door handle.
"Now, you want me to wait for you, right? And take you to where your van is parked?"
I study his face. He really does have kind eyes. And yet I've heard that some sociopaths do too. Is it possible this sweet old guy will drive down some lonely road and slit my throat? On the other hand, I can't exactly walk back to the high school. Still, if I'm going to do this-survive on my own-I need to be street smart.
"I suppose my friend's parents will offer me a ride," I say in what I hope sounds like an offhand way and not an outright lie. "But I'll just tell them I'd rather have a ride with you."
As I walk up to the house, I realize I probably sounded pretty lame, but it makes me feel better, like I'm warning Pastor Roland, if he really is a pastor, that someone knows where I am tonight ... who I'm with.
But even more nerve-wracking than imagining I'm riding around town with an old sociopath is having to ring the doorbell to Isabella's house. My knees are literally shaking as Mr. Marx opens the door. I'm not even sure I can speak or what I will say.
"Adele?" His face creases with worry. "What are you doing here? Is something wrong? Are you girls okay?"
"Not exactly. I mean, don't worry, Isabella's fine," I say quickly. "Something happened . . . and, well, I just needed to leave the dance early. Anyway, I wanted to pick up my things."
He still looks confused. "You're not spending the night with Isabella?"
"No. Something came up. I'm sorry to disturb you like this. But my ride is waiting." I jerk my thumb back to where Pastor Roland's old car is parked. Like me, it looks so out of place in this upscale neighborhood. "If you don't mind, I'll just get my things and go."
"Sure. Come in." He still looks puzzled and perhaps even a bit suspicious as he lets me in.
"I'll just be a minute." I hurry up the stairs. I can hear him coming behind me. Probably to make sure I don't steal the silver or the family jewels.
"Did something bad happen at the dance?" He follows me to Isabella's room.
I turn and look directly at him. "Yes."
He looks totally taken aback at this. "What?"
"Everyone found out that I'm a fraud."
His dark brows draw together. "A fraud?"
I nod as I gather up my bag, carelessly stuffing my school clothes and other items into it.
"I don't understand."
I can feel him watching me, but I don't look up as I sit on Isabella's bed, removing the dreadful knockoff shoes and replacing them with my favorite Frye boots. I'm sure this must look strange with my glitzy dress, but I no longer care.
"What do you mean ... a fraud?" Mr. Marx presses a bit further.
"Yes, that's what I am," I say calmly, like it's really no big deal. "I was pretending to be like them, one of them. But clearly I am not."
"One of whom?"
I stand and look evenly at him now. "You know ... one of the lucky ones. The wellborn elite. But we can't really help it if we're from the wrong side of the tracks, if we're born into the wrong families, can we?"
He looks even more perplexed as he slowly shakes his head. "No, I don't suppose you can help it."
I remove his wife's black velvet cape, carefully smoothing it out as I lay it down on Isabella's bed. "Please tell your wife thank you for the use of her lovely cape. And please tell Isabella I'm very, very sorry.
He looks like he wants to say something more, but no words find their way past his thin, pursed lips. And it's just as well. I pull my jacket on over my little black dress, then push past him, hurrying down the stairs, out the door, and back into Pastor Roland's musty old car, which to my surprise feels much more comfortable than it did on the way over here. Despite that, there's a lump in my throat and I feel close to tears again. I am grateful for the silence as he drives toward the high school.
"You seem like a sensible girl to me." Pastor Roland turns onto the street where the school is located. "And I suspect you'll land on your feet. But if you ever need help again, please remember the mission. It's not perfect, but it's better than the streets."
"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out what looks like a business card. "And our church likes to help out people too." He hands me the card. "Feel free to come visit us if you like. Perhaps this Sunday."
"Thanks. I'll think about it." I point to Darth Vader. "That's my van over there."
"And you were honest with me, Adele? You really do have a job at River Woods Care Center?"
"Absolutely." I even tell him my hours and the name of my supervisor.
"And they really don't mind you parking the van there until you find a permanent place to live?"
I consider my answer. I know I tried to paint this a little different than the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. But what if he knows someone at River Woods? Perhaps it's best to just put my cards on the table and hope he is trustworthy. "To be honest, they don't actually know I've been sleeping in my van. But really, it's only a temporary setup. I do plan to find a better place-just as soon as I can. I mean, after all, winter isn't far off. I know I can't stay in the van forever."
He nods, but I can tell he's not totally convinced.
"I'm sure my mom will be back soon. If not, I'll rent a room or a cheap apartment. I appreciate your concern, but really, I'm fine."
He smiles. "Okay. But remember if you ever need help, our church members might be old, but we're a friendly bunch."
I thank him again. Then with my backpack in hand, I get out and wave good-bye. As I put the key into the driver's door, I cannot believe how thoroughly happy I am to see this ugly black van. It's like I want to give old Darth Vader a great big hug. I get in and start the engine, and with Pastor Roland's car following behind me, almost as if he wants to be sure I'm really doing what I said I would do, I turn down the street and drive toward River Woods. When he sees me turn in there, he continues on his way.
I let out a sigh of relief as I park on the edge of the employee parking section. Now I have no doubt that Pastor Roland is a decent man. Yet at the same time, I'm aware that I've divulged enough information to get myself into trouble. His concern about me living in a van was genuine. But what if he suspects I'm younger than eighteen? What will happen if he calls the state and turns me in?
Still, I decide not to think about that tonight. I am emotionally and physically exhausted and almost too tired to care. Feeling like the Cinderella who never even got to go to the ball, I am grateful for Darth Vader's creepy tinted windows as I carefully remove Genevieve's little black dress, hang it on the hanger, and wrap it in the rumpled plastic.
As I pull on sweats, I am determined to pay for the drycleaning I know the dress will need. But right now, all I want to do is crash in the back of my van and sleep for a long, long time. Or at least until ten thirty tomorrow morning when it will be time to get up and get ready for work. I can't believe I'm relieved to know I'll be cleaning up after smelly old people-unless Bristol does something to sabotage that for me.
he only thing more pathetic than hanging gaudy Halloween decorations in a nursing home is my life. Seriously. It was exceedingly sad last night and it doesn't look much better today. The icing on my flattened cake was waking up in the back of a van with the scratched-up red soles of my "Christian Louboutin" shoes staring me in the face-and realizing that I paid $49.99 for those torturous heels. Fifty bucks wasted! Just shoot me!
"I think it needs to be a little lower, Adele." Genevieve looks up from the safety of the dayroom floor.
I adjust the green-faced
broom-riding cardboard witch down the column several inches. "Better?"
"Now the residents can actually see it."
"You don't think it'll scare them?" I ask with concern.
Genevieve laughs. "Scare them? It kind of resembles them."
"Very funny," Ellen says as she comes around a corner with the med cart.
"Sorry." Genevieve gives me an apologetic smile, then scurries away.
"You better be careful up there," Ellen warns me. "We don't want any workers' comp suits here."
With my masking tape roll "bracelet," I finish adhering the witch to the column, then cautiously get down from the plastic chair I've been perched on. "I couldn't find a stepladder." I nod toward the plastic crate of Halloween decorations. "And Ms. Michaels asked me to put these things up today."
Now she smiles at me. "And Ms. Michaels tells me that you've been promoted from the kitchen."
"Yes. She just hired someone else to help Mary." I try not to look too relieved since Ellen and Scary Mary actually get along.
"We noticed that you handle yourself well among the residents, and it seems a number of them feel quite comfortable with you. So it seems a nice promotion."
I want to add that it would be even nicer if the "promotion" came with a raise but think better of this.
"Just be careful when you're climbing around on things," she warns me as she continues on her way. "No broken bones."
Imagining what a mess my life would be if I did get hurt, I am careful, watching my step as I tape cats, pumpkins, and witches around the nursing home. Still, I'm a bit concerned that some residents won't like emerging from their rooms to discover spiders and bats have invaded their "happy" home. However, no one really seems to notice. Or like me, they just don't care.
"So I'm dying to know," Genevieve says as soon as we sit down for a soda during our afternoon break, "how was your big night?"
I let out a groan. "Don't ask."
Of course, this only makes her push harder. And finally I just dump the whole ugly story on her, and she is genuinely shocked. "You're kidding!"
I shake my head and take a sip of soda.
"Oh, Adele, that's absolutely horrible. You really went to the mission?"
"Don't worry, your dress is okay. But I'll pay to have it cleaned."
"No you won't. Not after the awful night you had."
"I want to," I tell her.
"No way. You've suffered enough." Now she winks at me. "But if it'll make you feel any better, I'll let you help Bess with dinner tonight."
"Bess on a Saturday night." I sigh to think of the poor senile resident who can barely eat and hardly responds to anything. "How much better does it get?"
Genevieve narrows her eyes. "So ... you're really homeless then?"
Okay, this is one part I wish I'd left out of my little confession. I wave my hand in a dismissive motion. "Not exactly. I'm just kind of camping in my van temporarily. You know, until my mom gets back."
"You mean if she gets back?"
I shrug and take another sip.
"I'd ask you to come live with me, but Leon just moved in."
"I know. And really, I'll be okay. I'll probably have enough money to rent a room or an apartment by the end of the month." I pause. "Just please don't tell anyone about this. I can't risk my job. Okay?"
"Sure. You can trust me, Adele."
"And I'll bring your dress in tomorrow."
She just shakes her head. "I still can't believe you had such a lousy night. Some fairy godmother I am."
I force a smile. "Hey, you tried."
"And I take it back, Adele. You don't have to help Bess tonight."
I get up and chuck my empty can into the recycle bin. "No, I think I could use Bess tonight. It'll be comforting to spend time with someone who's worse off than I am."
Genevieve sighs. "Well, that's probably true."
"And if you want, I'll get Mrs. Ashburn ready for bed afterward."
She chuckles. "What are you? A masochist? Some kind of glutton for punishment?"
"I actually like Mrs. Ashburn."
She rolls her eyes. "But the old girl talks nonstop and it takes like forever to get her ready for bed."
"I don't mind."
"Well, you have more patience than me."
It takes all of my patience to try to get Bess to take in some food. And unless she's absorbing drips of applesauce through her chin, I'm pretty sure it's hopeless. I think she wants to die. And according to head nurse Ellen, Bess made a living will that clearly states she is not to have any artificial means of life support.
I glance over at Bess's silent roommate, an unconscious head-injury victim named Clara. She is hooked up to all kinds of machines that burr and buzz and keep her alive.
"That means no feeding tube," Ellen explained. "So unless you get some food into her, she will probably be gone before long."
I smooth Bess's stringy gray hair away from her forehead. Although her pale eyes have a blank vacant stare, I almost think I see the corners of her shriveled lips curl up ever so slightly. Or maybe it's my imagination. "Oh, Bess, you really do need to eat some food. You're so thin."
I slowly lower the head of her bed like I've been taught, tuck her in, and wish that I knew how to pray. Maybe it's the worn black Bible on her bedside table or the picture of Jesus on her wall or just the fact that poor Bess does not seem long for this world, but I have a feeling she could use a real prayer right now.
Unfortunately, I am of little use in the praying department. It's not that I don't believe in God. It's more that I don't really care. And based on the outcome of my life, I don't think he cares much about me either. Yet I'm certain Bess feels differently. But she is so silent and frozen, lying there with her eyes open but not really here. Unable to speak or communicate, she seems stuck between this world and the next. If there is a next. And it seems the least I could do would be to say a little prayer of comfort.
As I straighten the room a bit, I try to remember the short era when I went to Sunday school with Marcie Moore back in second grade. How was it that teacher prayed? Her words didn't sound memorized, and I know she didn't read the prayers out of a book. Her words had seemed genuine and sincere, and I actually believed that God was listening.
As I wipe down the bathroom sink area, which has only been used by caregivers and nurses, I wonder if Pastor Roland ever makes visits here. I've seen other clergymen around on occasion, but I have a feeling it's the family members who make arrangements for this. So far, I haven't seen any of Bess's family visit. Maybe she, like me, has none.
Finally I decide that although I may not know what I'm doing, it's worth a shot. I go over by Bess's bed, put my hand over hers, and close my eyes. "Dear God, I don't really know you, but I'm sure Bess does. You may have noticed that she has a Bible and a picture of Jesus and everything. Anyway, I'm worried she's not going to be around much longer. And I'm not sure how all this works, but I wish you'd help her during this time. Maybe you already are and I just don't know it. But I think Bess needs a friend, and you seem to be the best candidate. So please help her. And while you're at it ..."
I pause because I want to say "ifyou're really there," but I'm concerned that Bess might actually be listening, and, if so, I don't want to worry her about God's status. So I continue on a positive note. "Please help Bess ... and while you're at it, God, maybe you can help me, too." Then I gently squeeze Bess's hand and say, "Amen."
I have no idea whether or not I did that right, but I feel a bit better as I turn off Bess's light and leave the room.
"Did she eat anything?" Ellen asks me as I'm on my way to Mrs. Ashburn's room.
"Not really."
Ellen shakes her head. "I'll call her family in the morning."
"Call her family?"
"To let them know it won't be long. They might want to come say good-bye."
"Oh ... right." I pause by Mrs. Ashburn's door to see that, as usual, she's not in her room yet. If Mrs. Ashburn had her
way, bedtime would be at least an hour later.
"She's still in the dayroom." Ellen frowns. "Good luck."
I find Mrs. Ashburn sitting at a table where a jigsaw puzzle is spread out, and she is intently studying the piece in her hand.
"Good evening, Mrs. Ashburn," I say politely. I know she respects good manners.
She looks up. "Oh, good evening, Adele." She holds a solid blue puzzle piece for me to see. "I'm trying to find the correct place for this."
I frown at the piece. It looks exactly like probably a hundred others. "It looks like sky."
"Unless it's water." She holds up the cover of the jigsaw puzzle for me to see. "Although the blue in the water has a bit more green in it, I think. Unless it's this part here that's reflecting the sky. In that case, it could be the water."
"Yes, I suppose it could be water." I smile at her. "But it's time to get you ready for bed now."
She frowns at me. "Already? I just started working on this puzzle."
I point to the clock over by the television. "But you can see that it's nearly eight now. You actually should've been in your room a while ago." I move her walker close to her chair and put one hand on her elbow to help her.
"Oh, these silly rules." She shakes her head as she pushes herself to a standing position, then firmly grasps her walker. "No one in the real world goes to bed this early, do they?"
"I wouldn't mind going to bed soon," I admit as I walk by her, waiting with each slow step and wishing she could speed it up a bit. "I'm tired."
"Oh, that's right." She stops walking altogether now, turning to look at me. "You had your big dance last night, Adele. How was it?"
No way do I want to tell her what really happened, but even if I give her a fictionalized version, it will slow her down. "I know, I'll tell you all about it as soon as you're in bed. Okay?"
"Like a bedtime story?" she says eagerly.
"Yes. Like a bedtime story."
Now she begins to move faster, her walker squeaking along as she shuffles behind it, and I begin to fabricate a "happy dance story" in my head. In no time, we are in her room, and as a reward, I tell her about the beginning of the evening (which is actually true) as she allows me to help her get ready for bed. With this distraction technique, we actually make good progress, and it's not quite eight when I've got her tucked in.
Forgotten: Seventeen and Homeless Page 11