Chapter Sixteen
While having Ellie stay with her was a delight—a girlfriend! She’d never had a girlfriend!—Joy was becoming a little more aware that she…well…that she didn’t do very much.
“What are your hobbies?” Ellie asked the second week.
“Well, I love makeup,” Joy said honestly. “I could do you anytime. You have beautiful bone structure.”
“Um…maybe. I generally don’t wear makeup. I get that you don’t need to work, Joy, but what do you love to do? How do you fill your days?”
“I like to keep up with the news,” she lied, knowing TMZ and E! didn’t count. “I…I like to shop.” She did buy a lot of things; even the Amazon guy was a little judgy, sighing as he backed out of her driveway almost every day. Damn it. She didn’t do much of anything. Hours and hours spent online, looking at…stuff. Wondering about getting more plastic surgery. Getting specialized facials at Artisan Skin Care in Orleans. Planning her own funeral.
“So you never really had a career? Or a calling?”
“No,” she said. “Not really. My brother was kind of the center of my life.”
“Huh. Well. How about volunteering?”
“It’s just that most volunteering involves children, and I hate children.”
Ellie laughed. “Points for honesty. Did you like your painting lesson the other day? Because I’d be thrilled to keep that up.”
“I did like it,” Joy said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Sure.”
“So…not really. That’s okay. It’s not for everyone.”
“I liked the wine and laughing part.”
“So you just kind of shop and…” Ellie’s voice trailed off, and Joy felt a flash of regret. This was where her previous friendships always broke down. When other women realized there wasn’t much to her. Ellie had been very interested in hearing about her childhood, and very sympathetic…no, enraged!…at hearing how her parents had either ignored or belittled her and Paulie. But to a woman like Ellie, who’d had a passion early on in life, who was a wife, who had five children, who ran a business and made beautiful paintings, Joy would be boring. Of course she would be.
“I go to a lot of open houses,” she said. “Maybe I’m interested in real estate. And I…I like to plan my funeral.”
“What?” Ellie’s eyes widened.
“Oh. Don’t you?”
“No,” Ellie said. “That’s a…a hobby?”
“Um, sort of? I mean, I’m alone in the world, so I need to take care of the details myself.”
“But as a hobby, Joy?”
“Just to see which funeral homes offer what,” she mumbled. Yes, she’d been to at least five funeral homes in the past year. Yes, it gave her some pleasure to make sure she’d get a beautiful casket and urn. Yes, it was comforting, sometimes, to imagine herself dead, if only to be with Paulie again. And sure, she could see how someone like Ellie Smith would never have those types of thoughts at all.
“Have you ever seen a therapist?” Ellie asked.
“I just never found anything I loved,” Joy said. “The makeup artist stuff was kind of fun, but to be honest, my specialty was getting married. And the thing I loved most was being with my brother.” She grimaced. “I’m probably a little addicted to plastic surgery. There’s not much to me, Ellie.”
“Oh, nonsense,” Ellie retorted. “You’re incredibly bighearted, for one. You’re so interested in other people. And I get the impression that you’re very empathetic.”
“What does that mean?” Joy asked.
“You feel the feelings around you. I bet if Lark is sad, you’re sad. Or if your brother was upset, I bet you were upset.”
Joy’s mouth fell open. “That’s true!”
“As for the husbands, you were just looking for a place to belong. I get it. Listen, I’d love to keep talking, but I want to get some painting in today. That’s my therapy. All my fury at Gerald, splattered on the canvas. I can’t tell you how good it feels to not be working on a sunset.”
“Rage-painting,” Joy said, nodding.
“See? Empathy. I’ll see you tonight, okay? My turn to cook.”
The conversation left a niggling feeling in Joy’s brain. She should be doing something. Funeral planning as a hobby did sound weird. She just wanted to make sure her ashes and Paulie’s would be buried together, or scattered together. Just together somehow. He’d been her person.
When you lost a spouse, you were a widow, and everyone knew to offer condolences and ask how you were doing and offered to fix you up when enough time had passed. If you lost a child, well, there were people who’d check in on you for the rest of your life, understanding that you were damaged goods from then on out. At least, Joy assumed you would be.
But when you lost your person, and that person was your sibling, you didn’t get the same respect. Paulie had been Joy’s person. The first one she’d call. Her favorite friend to do things with, whether it was gossip or see a movie or eat. She had nobody now. Her mother still walked the earth, but she didn’t count. And until recently, Joy had never had a female friend. Lark was such a sweetheart, but she was decades younger than Joy.
But Ellie…Ellie was becoming her friend. When they’d first met the day Lark moved in, Ellie had cocked a curious eyebrow at her. Joy saw a woman with paint-stained clothes, a trim figure and a face untouched by Botox or filler. One of those irritating earth mother types, she’d thought, certain that Ellie was drawing her own negative conclusions about Joy. And yet here they were. Ellie was going through a rough patch with her marriage, and Joy was empathetic. Ellie was full of energy and life, even while she was figuring stuff out with Gerald (who’d always seemed a little pompous to Joy).
But for the past few weeks, the two women had talked and laughed and shared and bonded.
Suddenly, Joy wanted to do a little better. Be a little more. She could be the type who’d take lessons here and there, try new things, have more in her day than the internet and her own upkeep. She was…what was that word? When you had energy but weren’t sure what to do with it? Restless, that was it.
“Come on, Connery, we’re going for a ride,” she announced. The dog tore circles around her, yelping with delight.
Route 6 didn’t have any traffic heading west today, so she breezed down to Orleans. She’d take 6A, maybe, to kill more time. Maybe she’d start antiquing. That was a big deal on Cape Cod. She could learn to love antiques and fix them up and sell them. Except she didn’t know how. But she could learn! Or maybe she could learn to sew. There was a fabric store in Orleans. She could make her own clothes. Become a designer. Or she could go to Rock Harbor and see if she liked deep-sea fishing. Actually, not that one. She hated fish, and the idea of hauling one out of the water, touching its cold skin, already had her dry heaving a little.
Okay, what else? She did love open houses, that little glimpse into someone else’s life. Yes! She could become a real estate agent. But she knew from selling the town house and buying this place that there was a lot of paperwork involved. Legal stuff, very boring. So not that, either. Oh, what was that career called, where people brought in furniture and throw pillows and made an empty house look sophisticated and full of promise? So it would sell quickly? She could do that! She was good at buying stuff, that was for sure, and life with Paulie and Abdul had upped her awareness of quality furniture.
“You want to be a whatchamacallit, Connery, baby?” she asked. He grinned up at her, his brown eyes twinkling. Paulie would have loved her fur-baby.
She was checking her right eyelash in the visor mirror when a sign on the left caught her eye. With a screech of tires, she took a hard left into a wide driveway flanked by gates, causing Connery to skitter on the seat.
“Sorry, baby, sorry!” she said, reaching over to steady him.
A white and blue carved sign with gold letters announced Bayview Senior Living Community. Below that, a smaller sign read Model home tours available daily.
Basically, an open house, plus a chance to see the staging. There was the word. Staging. She’d check it out.
A senior living community, huh? Her mother lived in crappy little senior housing development (trailer park) in Florida and hated everything about it, but that was her calling card, wasn’t it? Joy could tell this place was nice. Expensive landscaping, brick sidewalks, gray-shingled buildings with white trim and window boxes. Very Cape Cod, very tasteful.
She found a parking space, clipped on Connery’s leash and went into the main building.
“Welcome to Bayview,” said an attractive woman behind the counter. “Can I help you?”
“I was just passing by,” Joy said. “I have a home in Wellfleet, but maybe I wanted to check this place out. You know.”
“Of course!” said the woman. “Let me get Vicki for you. And hello, handsome! What’s your name?”
“Connery. Like Sean,” Joy said. The girl looked blank, and Joy sighed. Kids today.
A moment later, a woman about Joy’s age came out of an office. She was dressed to kill—beige suit that looked amazing against her brown skin, but which would’ve made Joy look washed out. She had close-cropped gray curls, tortoiseshell glasses, high heels…supersophisticated.
“I’m Vicki Simpson, the manager here,” she said.
“Joy Deveaux. And this is Connery.”
“Hello, Connery! I’d be more than happy to show you around. Our sales director is off today, but we’re thrilled you’re here. Are you looking for yourself or someone else?” They walked down the hall, Connery practically skipping alongside them.
“Possibly my mother,” Joy said, though she’d stab herself in the face before bringing her mother within a thousand miles of her. “She’s quite senile.” If only that were true. Mama had turned meaner in her old age and loved nothing more than to bring up Joy’s failings as a daughter, starting from when Joy was around three and didn’t fit into an Easter dress Mama had made. Another unpleasant topic was how wonderful Daddy had been. Joy would say, “Was it wonderful when he broke your arm?” or “Like that Christmas when he knocked out two of your teeth?” and Mama would hang up on her. It was proof of life, at least.
Bayview was swanky, that was for sure. There was a media room with plush recliners and a big screen, a game room, art room, music room. A dining hall that was quite attractive, overlooking the golf course. A library with a big fireplace.
“As you can see, our residents really enjoy the space,” Vicki said. It seemed true…everyone who saw them smiled, and one guy winked at Joy. His wife glared at her, as if Joy was the one at fault. Lady, please, she thought. I could do a lot better than your husband.
They went into the model home. Yep. Staged. There was a rather ugly modern light fixture over the dining table, a navy blue couch in the living room, big candles in the fireplace. Some boring-looking books on the built-in shelves. Meh. She could definitely add a little flair. For some reason, there was a bowl of real lemons on the marble counter. At least a dozen.
“Don’t those rot?” Joy asked.
“Oh, um…I imagine someone comes in and takes care of that. Have you thought about your own housing plans?” Vicki asked.
“I live on Chequessett Neck Road in Wellfleet,” she said, having learned that the address usually got some admiration.
“Very nice,” Vicki said. “And you’ll be able to stay there as you get older?”
“Mm-hmm.” She had no plans to get that much older. If the day came when she couldn’t make herself a gin and tonic and shop on the internet, she’d just swim out to the horizon or, more likely, toss back some sleeping pills with a vodka chaser. She looked down the hallway to a set of doors. “What’s down there?”
“That’s our Memory Care Unit,” Vicki said. “Alzheimer’s, dementia, folks who need closer supervision. Maybe that would be appropriate for your mother?”
Hell would be appropriate for her mother, but Joy said, “Possibly.”
This section was equally posh, but the residents were neither coming nor going. Many were in wheelchairs, and Joy’s immediate impression was…well…not to be too self-involved, but holy crap! She was young compared to these folks!
“Hello, beautiful lady,” said one little old man. “Would you like to date me?”
“Oh! No, but thanks,” Joy said. “I’m flattered.”
“Bob here is our resident flirt,” Vicki said. She closed the hallway door behind her. “You can see we have excellent security measures so no one wanders off,” she added in a lower voice. “Bob, how are you today?”
“I’m sad and bored,” he said. “Can I go home? Or would this beautiful lady like to date me?”
“A dog!” said one woman. “Is this my dog? Can I keep this dog?”
Over my dead body, Joy thought. “This is Connery.”
Connery put his gentle paws against the woman, who started to cry with happiness. “I love you,” she said. “Thank you! I can’t believe you’re here!”
“Florence loves animals,” Vicki said.
Connery moved to the next patient and nuzzled his leg, and the gentleman automatically reached down to pet him. Another resident came out of his room, moving slowly with his walker, to see Connery.
Vicki smiled and sighed simultaneously. “Sorry, we just lost an activities director and we haven’t filled the position yet. There’s not usually so many folks just…hanging around. We pride ourselves on keeping our residents engaged and active.”
“What kind of activities are there?” Joy asked as one woman opened her mouth wide, exposing a complete lack of teeth. Seriously, what kind of things could they do? Eat soft food? Nap? Cry?
“We have music therapy, art and movies. There’s a master gardener who teaches about houseplants and window box herb growing.”
“Where are my shoes?” one woman bellowed. She only had a few wisps left for hair. “You stole my shoes! I know you did! You! Black lady! You took my shoes.”
Vicki ignored her. “We also have certified therapy animals come in once a month. And once we find a new activities director, I’m sure that person will come up with some new ideas, too.”
Activities, huh? It didn’t look like some of these people could do much more than sleep and…well…die, Joy thought.
“You have beautiful hair,” Bob said. “I could look at hair like yours all day.”
“Thanks, hon,” she said. “I pay a lot for it.”
“You’re a beautiful lady. Would you like to date me?” he asked.
“I’m all set, thanks,” she said.
“Give me back my shoes!” the balding woman bellowed.
“Betty, I don’t have them,” Vicki said calmly. “You’re wearing shoes.”
“These are not mine,” Betty said. “These are not my shoes!”
“Did you check your closet?” Joy asked. “I bet they’re in there.” She remembered going to see Nonna in a nursing home…people parked in hallways, tied to their wheelchairs, or wandering in johnnies through the halls like extras in a horror movie. This place was quite nice. Money could buy a lot of comfort, that was for sure. As always, she felt a rush of gratitude for Abe. Best ex-husband she’d ever had.
“Anyway, would you like to see the restaurant? That’s another dining option,” Vicki said.
“That activities director job…what are the requirements?” Joy asked.
“Really, it’s about personality,” Vicki said. “A person who’s fun, tolerant, comfortable with the community, creative…”
“How about me?” Joy asked. “Can I apply?”
An hour later, Joy was a part-time assistant activities director at Bayview Senior Living Community, Memory Care Unit, as long as she passed a background check, which she would. She’d make forty cents above minimum wage, had a flexible schedule and wasn’t sure what the heck she’d signed up for.
Aside from doing makeup for Paulie, she hadn’t had a job since she worked at O’Dell’s Auto Parts when she was first married to Frankie. She wasn’t sure she’d last very long, but you know what? She had a job. She had somewhere to go every day where people would be waiting for her.
She couldn’t wait to tell Ellie and Lark.