26
“That Debra bitch is nuts,” Kiara says.
I crack a thin smile over my cup of tea. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Kiara rolls her eyes. “Her mother fell in the shower . Unless you were showering with the woman—which would have been way more concerning than you being neglectful, by the way—there’s
no way you could’ve stopped it from happening.”
“Yeah, but if she’d had proper home care, the kind that help with bathing and things—”
“You said she didn’t want that,” Kiara interrupts.
Across the table, her mom, Carla, nods in agreement. “You haven’t told me anything to make me think this woman has dementia,
or anything else that would impact her capacity.” She gets up and walks to the kitchen, returning with a packet of biscuits,
which she offers to me and Kiara.
I take a biscuit with a sigh. It’s been two days since Mrs. Finnamore broke her hip, and John’s parents invited me over for
dinner to cheer me up. He and his dad are outside on the deck, throwing a ball for the dogs.
“I see this sort of thing all the time at the hospital,” Carla says, watching me. “Adult children don’t want their elderly parents living at home anymore, so they try to demand we hold them in the hospital until they can get to a nursing home.” She takes a sip of tea. “They think it’s a terrible decision for their parent to stay home, and sometimes, they’re right. But what they don’t seem to realize is, people have the right to make bad decisions. We can’t force people to accept home care or go into a nursing home against their will, not unless they’ve clearly been proven to lack the capacity to make medical decisions. And that usually happens from something like advanced dementia. Being stubborn and set in your ways doesn’t count.”
“I know,” I say heavily. “I just feel so bad. And Debra’s never going to let me help her mother out anymore.”
Carla snorts. “You may be surprised. If her mother won’t accept home care, the only option is for Debra herself to care for
her. Somehow, I don’t see that happening. Not from everything you’ve told me about her.”
I sigh again. “Maybe.”
“Don’t stress about it too much,” Kiara says. Then, through a mouthful of biscuit, “I can’t wait for this weekend. I’ve made
the cutest barrel-themed necklaces to sell. And Cara’s still baking stuff for you, right?”
“She is, yeah!” I say, grateful to change the subject. “She said she’s making a bunch of Canada Day–themed stuff. Cupcakes
and cookies and things.”
“She’s really good,” Kiara says. “She made the best cake for my birthday last year.”
“What cake?” John says, stepping in from the deck. His father is still outside; I can hear him trying to coax their German
shepherd to come inside.
“That cookies-and-cream cake Cara made last year,” Kiara says.
“Oh, yeah.” John nods. “That was sick.”
He sits down beside me, throwing an arm over the back of my chair. I lean into him a little. He’s been really great these past two days. He called the Charlottetown hospital to ask for news on Mrs. Finnamore when I was too nervous to do it myself, and at work he’s been popping out from the garage every hour or two just to check on me. Kiara and Rose have also been amazing, texting me all the time to see how I’m doing. Even Doris has been helpful, in her own way. When I told her what had happened, she snorted and said, “Boo-hoo. I’ve broken both my hips, and no one threw me any pity parties.”
John’s father, Laurent, comes in, and the conversation turns to the trip that he and Carla are planning for this winter. As
we listen to them talk, John shifts his chair a few inches closer to mine. Carla refills my empty teacup, and Laurent says,
“You would love that, Emily,” when they’re talking about a hiking trail in Scotland. The tight knot that’s been living in
my chest since Mrs. Finnamore’s fall loosens up a little, and I lean a bit more into John’s arms.
“John says you’re looking into museum jobs in Charlottetown,” Carla says later, as I help her take the dishes to the kitchen.
“Oh, yeah,” I say brightly. It’s part of my “staying in Waldon” plan. If I’m going to be truly happy here, I need to find
a job I’m more passionate about. “I really love volunteering at the museum in Waldon, but it doesn’t actually pay anything.
And there are some really cool museums in the city.”
Like the Anne of Green Gables museum, for example. I had a total fit when I found that one, even if they don’t technically
have any job openings right now. I sent them an email anyway, just to inquire, but I haven’t heard anything back.
Carla puts a hand on my shoulder. “I hope you find something good. I know a lot of young people want to get off the island these days, but”—her eyes twinkle mischievously—“I think John would like it if you stuck around.”
I smile at her a bit shyly. I still get a tiny bit nervous around her and Laurent. I really want them to like me. Just because
it’s nice to be well-liked, you know. Not because I secretly think they might be my in-laws someday.
“I’d like it too,” I say honestly.
The next day is Saturday, only two days before Canada Day. My shift at the museum doesn’t technically start until noon, but
I head in around ten because there’s still so much I need to do, not least of which is inflating about a million red and white
balloons. I get lightheaded just thinking about it.
There’s a small line at the door when I arrive at the museum.
“Excuse me,” I say, stepping around people. “I’m not cutting,” I add hastily, seeing some dirty looks come my way. “I work
here.”
“Is the front desk opening up any time soon?” demands a woman balancing a toddler on her hip.
I frown. “It should be open...” I trail off as I reach the front of the line. There’s no one at the desk. Weird. I thought
Brenda was supposed to be here this morning.
“I can get you all sorted,” I say to the people in line. “It’s five dollars a person, three for children under ten.”
For five or ten minutes I answer questions and hand out tickets, until the final visitor disappears into the museum. I peek
outside to make sure no one else is about to come in and then head to the break room. There’s no one there, but Shelley’s
voice is emanating from her office. Taking a steadying breath, like I always do before I talk to Shelley, I head over there.
Her office door is open. She has her phone pressed to her ear and is laughing loudly at something. I don’t know why, but her laugh is almost more unpleasant than her usual scowl. I can’t hear what the other person is saying, but I just have a feeling it’s something mean-spirited.
She frowns when she sees me in her doorway. I turn to leave, but she waves a hand for me to stay.
“I’ve got to run,” she says to the person on the phone. “Talk to you later.”
I force a smile. “How’s it going?”
“Great,” she says.
And, ugh, even the way she says that is annoying. Sort of condescending, like, “ Obviously I’m great, my life is so much better than yours.”
(Okay, I may have developed a serious grudge against Shelley.)
“Did Brenda call in sick?” I ask. “There’s no one at the desk.”
“Oh, no,” she says. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I’ve spoken with the board of the historical society, and they think
it’s time we have some consistent staffing. Especially now that things are picking up so much.”
I frown. Consistent staffing, what does that mean?
“We’ve hired two paid staff to work the front desk for the rest of the summer,” Shelley goes on. “Really bright college girls
looking for summer jobs.”
“Oh.” I try to think of something to say. “That’s great,” I manage finally.
And it is great, actually. This place should have consistent, paid staff. And it’s the perfect job for college students, since the
museum is busiest in the summer.
I just... wish I could have been considered. Not that I mind volunteering, but it would’ve been nice to start getting paid a little for my work.
“So, anyway, we won’t really need volunteers anymore,” Shelley says.
My heart does an awful thud-thud in my chest.
“Oh, I don’t mind staying on!” I say quickly. “I like working here. Maybe I can just... focus on the events and the school
tours.”
That wouldn’t be so bad, really. It’s my favorite part of the job.
“Oh, the girls can handle that,” Shelley says. “Thanks, though.”
I stare at her for several painful heartbeats. Does she mean—
Is she firing me?
“I can help with other stuff,” I say in a thin voice. “Whatever would be useful.”
“Oh, no,” Shelley says. “It’s fine. Thanks, though.” She repeats that stupid, condescending phrase again. “And you’re still
welcome to come to our event on Canada Day,” she adds. “It’s going to be really wonderful.”
My mouth drops open. I’m still welcome ? She says it like it’s her event. Like I should feel lucky she’s even giving me an invitation.
Suddenly I want to burst into tears. This is my event. I did so much work!
I open my mouth to try to argue, but before I can speak, a pretty girl in her early twenties edges past me into the room.
She has two coffee cups in her hands.
“Should I, like, go sell people tickets?” she asks, as she hands one of the coffees to Shelley.
“Thanks, hon,” Shelley says. “Sit down a minute, first, we need to talk about the Canada Day party.”
Hon ? Who is this girl, her daughter?
The girl in question looks at me inquisitively. “Do you work here too?”
“She used to volunteer here,” Shelley answers, before I can speak. “She helped plan the Canada Day event.”
Helped? Helped ? I planned the whole thing! Me and Trey and Kiara, I mean.
“Cool,” says the girl.
“Are you two—related?” I ask. Somehow, I keep my voice from shaking with anger.
“Oh, yeah,” the girl says pleasantly. “Shelley’s my mom. Mom slash boss, now.” She cracks a white-toothed grin.
I fix Shelley with a frank, incredulous stare, but not a lick of shame crosses the woman’s face.
“Close the door when you leave, will you?” she says. “We’ve got a lot of work to do!” she adds to her daughter, in a bright,
jovial tone that makes me want to smack her.
My fists clench at my sides. I can’t just let her fire me. I have to stand up for myself.
“I don’t think this is fair,” I blurt out.
Shelley raises an eyebrow. “Come now, Emily,” she says. “You’re being a bit rude.”
There’s an edge to her words. A bit rude. That’s just what I said to her at the Barrel Into Summer event.
That’s why she’s doing this. She’s probably been planning it ever since then. She just needed me to plan the whole Canada
Day event for her first.
“You can’t just—”
“The door, please,” she interrupts. “Thanks.”
Her daughter is looking between us uncertainly. Shelley’s smile is smug.
With shaking hands, I turn on my heel and storm out, leaving the door wide open behind me. She can close it her damn self.
My fury carries me all the way to the parking lot and into my car, and then it gives way in a big painful whoosh . I stare blankly at my steering wheel for a moment, processing what’s just happened.
Then I burst into tears.