7
The sun emerges from the clouds just after lunch, and the rest of the day is bright and warm. All the day’s clients are nice,
and I spend a few fun hours researching degrees in paleontology, which is one of the careers that survived my “Potential Careers
List” pruning earlier. I can totally see myself working at some beautiful, remote site, digging up dinosaur bones and brushing
them off with those tiny little brushes. (It’s always seemed to me like it would go faster if they used larger brushes, but
maybe they get paid by the hour or something.) I think it would be so cool to hold something in your hand that’s millions of years old. And who knows, maybe I could discover a brand-new type of dinosaur, and they’d name it after me! The Emilyosaurus.
Actually, no. That’s stupid.
They shouldn’t name it that.
Just past five, Dave comes out to the front desk and hands me my car keys.
“John had to head out to some family thing,” he says. “He said it’s all fixed. Have a good night.”
“Oh—you too,” I say, though he’s already out the door. I gather my things with a strange feeling in my stomach, almost like
disappointment. Which is silly, because talking to John is always so awkward. Still, it would have been nice to thank him.
Maybe I’ll make him a thank-you card. That’s a polite thing to do. Plus, I love making people cards.
Spirits lifted, I head out back to find my car. I let out a breath of relief when it starts normally. For a moment I think it looks sort of different inside, then I realize it’s because the engine light on the dash has finally gone off.
The next time it comes on, I swear I’m going to get it fixed right away.
I sing to myself on the drive home, wrapping up an enthusiastic and off-key rendition of Kelly Clarkson’s old song “Miss Independent”
as I pull into my driveway. I’m in such a good mood I decide to pop in to visit Mrs. Finnamore. I ring her doorbell twice,
since she sometimes doesn’t hear it the first time. I wonder if her hearing aids need to be looked at.
A minute later, the door swings open, revealing a very thin, very rude middle-aged woman.
(And before you say anything, I know what you’re thinking. How can I know that she’s rude just from looking at her? But can’t
you just tell sometimes that people are going to be rude, just by the look on their face when you lock eyes with them?)
She frowns at me. “Can I help you?”
“I just came by to say hi to Mrs. Finnamore. I live next door.” I point to my house.
“Is that Emily?” Mrs. Finnamore asks, appearing behind her.
“Hi, Mrs. Finnamore,” I say.
“This is the girl I was telling you about,” Mrs. Finnamore says to the rude woman. “Emily, this is my daughter, Debra.”
The woman—Debra—purses her lips. “You’re the one that helps with her groceries?”
Her tone is accusatory. I glance at Mrs. Finnamore uncertainly. “Er—sometimes, yes.”
I’ve actually only done it once or twice. I’m not sure why I’m lying, except that I have a sneaky feeling I know why Mrs. Finnamore told her daughter about me. A few weeks ago, Mrs. Finnamore told me that her family wants to put her in a home. They all live out west, and they think she’s too old to live by herself.
“Emily’s very helpful,” Mrs. Finnamore says.
Debra makes an impatient noise. “You need help with more than groceries, Mom,” she says. “She hasn’t taken her meds properly
for weeks,” she adds to me in an undertone. Which—excuse me? Why is she talking to me like her mother isn’t there?
My hackles are rising, but I force myself to smile politely. “I think she’s doing pretty well.”
Debra lets out a disbelieving breath. “Yes, well, she can’t be depending on strangers all the time.”
“What?” Mrs. Finnamore says.
“I said you can’t be depending on strangers ,” Debra says loudly.
“I don’t mind helping,” I say.
Debra gives me a condescending look. “Are you a certified home care nurse?”
Okay, I really don’t like this woman. “No,” I say. “But I don’t mind helping with groceries and laundry and things.”
“See?” Mrs. Finnamore says. “Pay the girl to do more, Debra, if it’ll stop your endless fussing.”
Wait, what? I try to backtrack hastily. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean—”
“I’m not going to hire some random stranger,” Debra snaps. “If we’re going to get you home care, it’s going to be a proper
nurse.”
“I don’t want a nurse, I want Emily,” Mrs. Finnamore says. “And it’s foolish to pay a trained nurse to get groceries.”
Debra rolls her eyes. “I’m going to be the one paying for it, Mom. It’s not about the money .”
Okay, things are getting way out of hand here. “Look,” I say quickly. “You’ve got the wrong idea—”
“How much do you charge?” Debra interrupts.
I stare at her, totally thrown off-balance. Five minutes ago, I was singing Kelly Clarkson in my car. Now I’ve been dragged
into a very uncomfortable, private family dispute.
And yet... why shouldn’t I do it? I don’t mind helping Mrs. Finnamore, and if it would get her daughter off her back about going to a home, isn’t
that a good thing? Plus, I can tell just from looking at Debra that she’s got lots of money. Look at those perfectly pressed
clothes, look at those shiny Chanel earrings.
“For groceries and laundry?” I ask, to buy myself some time to think.
“ And make her take her blister pack meds properly, and keep the house from turning into a pigsty,” Debra says.
I bite my lip, thinking quickly. How much do I think a private caregiver charges? Forty dollars a week? Fifty?
“Sonny McNeil’s girl charges two-fifty a week,” Mrs. Finnamore says. “And she doesn’t even do the laundry.”
My mouth drops open. Two hundred and fifty dollars? A week ?
Luckily, Debra is frowning at her mother when she says it, which gives me time to rearrange my face into a look of calm composure.
“Two-fifty seems about right,” I say, nodding like someone who totally knew that information beforehand.
Debra heaves an aggrieved sigh. “I’ll have to think about it,” she says.
“Of course,” I say. Then, because I’m feeling a bit evil, I add, “Just let me know soon, before my schedule fills up.”
It has the effect I intended. I can practically hear Debra’s unpleasant brain whirring. To her, her mother is a problem, and
this is a quick solution.
“I’ll let you know,” she says stiffly.
I smile at her. “Very good. Have a nice night.”
I catch Mrs. Finnamore’s eye as I turn to leave, and I could swear I see a mischievous glimmer in her eyes. I have to fight
to keep from laughing. How did such a cool lady wind up with such a nasty daughter?
I head home and make myself some pasta, and I’m not ten minutes into an episode of Schitt’s Creek when the doorbell rings. Fifteen minutes later, I sit back on my couch with a grin on my face and a crisp check for a thousand
dollars in my hand. In cramped, slanted handwriting, Debra’s written on the memo line: For private caregiving services, May 23–June 23.
I prop the check up on my coffee table and beam at it.
I guess I’m a private caregiver now.