Chapter 17
When I’d first gotten notice from Southern Sons via email that they couldn’t complete the full reconstruction in time, sure, I opened the attachment.
I’d scrolled to the last page and saw the amount needed to continue the work, which might as well have been the same as the national debt because, either way, I didn’t have the money to proceed.
With that, I had closed the document and finished packing the last of my bags at my home in Austin while Eric seethed in his man cave. His man cave had its own bar, along with a theater. It was the perfect hideaway for someone who loved to be alone as much as he did.
But that day, as I rolled and stuffed several pairs of black slacks into a lightweight suitcase, he left the cave door open, filling the bottom floor with sounds of gunfire, cussing, and the sharp sound effects of a violent action movie.
Though Eric had never hit me, he had a way of agitating me all his own.
He’d play music so loud that I couldn’t think straight, or burn several sticks of incense, knowing I couldn’t stand the smell or the feel of thick, smoky air.
For the record, I could be petty as well. I’ve been known to make up one side of the bed for weeks at a time. There’s an art to it.
Anyway, when I got the email about the newly discovered problems and the estimate for what it would cost to fix them, I put the matter out of my mind, choosing to worry about one thing at a time.
Packing and getting to Robin Creek took priority.
And when I’d arrived at Grandma Jewel’s place and looked around, I liked what I saw.
Beautiful exterior and interior paint. White, shiny baseboards.
Working lights. Whatever the Southern Sons still needed to do didn’t seem dire.
When your car still gets you from point A to point B with no problems, it’s easy to ignore a check-engine light. Especially when you don’t have extra money.
Now that I had reopened the email and paid attention to the problems, it all made sense.
Gabriella wasn’t to blame for the oven disaster because that side of the house with the kitchen and laundry room needed rewiring.
The plumbing system needed significant upgrades to support increased demand once an additional laundry room was added.
My heart sank at these first two revelations. It was only a matter of time before things fell apart if I installed Celestia, let alone finished the duplex separation.
Additionally, the heating system needed an upgrade with new insulation; otherwise, the upcoming winter months might make the house unlivable, depending on how Mother Nature rolled in. No matter what, I had to make changes. Time mattered now.
Gabriella had come in late the night before, so we didn’t get to talk about whatever had happened with her and Lorenzo.
Their issue was no longer a priority for me, given the message from Jerry and my scan of the documents he gave me months ago.
In a way, I was glad I hadn’t scoured the estimate.
I might not have left Austin when I did.
Elijah and I were up and out before Gabriella woke up. He and I parted ways at the recreation center, him heading to the camp and me to the offices. The flowers from Richard were holding up nicely, and my framed picture of Elijah scuba diving—a gift from Terri—made me smile despite everything.
No sooner had I logged into our system than Jerry followed up with me again.
“Ms. Hicks, hello again. How are you?”
“Hello, Jerry. I’m fine. Thanks so much for your message. How are you?”
“Oh, I can’t complain. Just wanted to follow up with you about the duplex. Did you get the other work done by someone else?”
I managed a laugh. “No. I haven’t done anything except mess up my oven.”
“Yikes! Sorry to hear that,” he said in a wincing voice.
“Yeah, that wiring can’t be overloaded. According to my records, that oven was the oldest appliance in the kitchen.
The new stuff will turn off before it overheats like that, so I wouldn’t say you’re in danger at this point.
You just need to make the changes before you can move ahead, and definitely before winter with the heating situation. ”
“I gathered that,” I told him. “The problem is, I don’t have the money to do all those things. Not until I’ve been on my job a while longer. I’m wondering if we can prioritize, maybe. Do things in stages.”
“Certainly, I’m willing to do that,” he agreed. “Um…I don’t want to insult you, but have you by chance checked in with SLAP?”
“No. I don’t know who Slap is, and I’m not interested in another off-the-record contractor,” I said frankly.
Jerry laughed. “No. I’m talking about the Senior Living Advocacy Program. S-L-A-P. In Lubbock. They can sometimes help with upgrades, installing ramps and rails, things to help people stay at home as they age. They might be able to help you, though your circumstance is different.”
“No, I haven’t called SLAP.” I laughed at myself. “But I can. I’ll let you know what happens. Thank you.”
I got a number and made an appointment to visit SLAP that afternoon. I got hold of Gabriella by text, and she said she’d pick up Elijah if I was running late.
An hour after I got off work, I found myself signing in for my appointment at SLAP’s West Texas regional office.
The office was a bustling hub of information and assistance, its walls papered with an array of large-print notices and flyers, all aimed at supporting the senior community.
There were comprehensive guides on healthcare rights, notices about upcoming workshops on financial planning for retirement, tips for navigating Social Security benefits, and QR codes to scan for more information.
Aside from joining the AARP and getting a few Tuesday discounts, I really hadn’t considered myself an outright senior citizen.
Yet there I was, with silver hairs streaking through my pulled-back, puffy ponytail.
All I needed now was long compression socks and nursing shoes, which, coincidentally, sounded like heaven.
Every time I hauled myself up from the chair at work, I felt a pulsing in my legs.
It wouldn’t be long before I joined the long-socks club.
“Ms. Hicks?” An unnaturally blond girl, with a clump of hair humped on top of her head held in place by a gold clasp, called my name.
Her bright smile and piercing grayish-blue eyes—reminded me of a Siberian husky—caught my attention right away.
I liked her modest denim skirt with a flared red blouse.
She looked like a first-year teacher, all cheerful and untarnished by reality.
“Right here.” I pushed off my chair’s arm to stand. Gracious, I am old for real for real.
“Hi, I’m Jennifer. I’ll be your liaison. Come this way.”
“Thank you.”
I followed her and the floral scent of her body spray down a narrow hallway, past two more liaisons with name tags outside their offices who were busy talking on their phones.
Once inside Jennifer’s office, I realized how bare the other two offices seemed in comparison.
Jennifer, again in true new-teacher style, had decorated hers with an array of brightly colored posters, each bearing sports-inspired motivational quotes.
A small, lush plant sat happily in a sunlit corner of the desk, its green leaves adding a touch of life to the room.
On her desk, a collection of quirky, fun-shaped paperweights held down a neat stack of papers, and a ceramic mug painted with cheerful sunflowers served as a pen holder.
She also had several pictures of what I assumed were family members.
Her parents, one brother, and grandparents.
Jennifer had made this 10x10 office her own. It made me feel right at home.
She got straight into the work. “I read through the information you supplied online, and I’m hoping we can help.”
“Me, too, because I have a lot that needs to be done.”
“Let’s get started.”
I showed her the email from Southern Sons, my receipt for Celestia, my banking information, my first few paycheck stubs, my rental contract with Gabriella—everything she asked for to document my case, income, and expenses.
I gave her information about my bank accounts, my next of kin.
Everything except my shoe size. She worked with clinical precision.
Her fingers typed rapidly on the keyboard while her other hand flipped through the pages I’d presented like she was sorting laundry.
Jennifer entered the information and figures into the computer. She had two screens open: one for typing, and one for reference. Turns out, that new-teacher feel meant new SLAP liaison. The book was open, and she intended to follow those guidelines with integrity.
“Hmm.” She paused and bit her thumb. Her brow furrowed as her eyes scanned the figures, and a flicker of something unreadable passing across her face. “It looks like you don’t have enough money.”
I nodded. “Yes. That’s why I’m here, for help with the remodeling.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I mean, you don’t have enough money for your daily living expenses. Before the remodel.”
“My bills are paid on time.”
“What about food? Electricity? Emergency funds?” Her perfume seemed to thicken the air.
“This is my emergency, and I’ve come here for funding,” I said.
Jennifer’s eyes scanned the screens again. Then she faced me, her eyes drooping with sympathy. “Ms. Hicks, according to our calculations, you are living below the poverty level.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time an old, single woman found herself in this predicament.” I laughed, hoping she’d join me. But she didn’t.
I swiped the smile off my face. “I’m a bit short for now,” I said.
“But when I turn sixty-two, I’ll start drawing my full teacher pension.
I just have to make it until then. I’m trying not to touch my savings any more if I don’t have to.
If I keep my job at the recreation center, I’ll be fine, don’t you think? ”
She pursed her lips. Sighed. “What about the fire with the original oven?”
“There was no fire,” I corrected her. “It was an overheated burner. My tenant took care of everything.”
I could tell by the way her eyes stayed steady on me that she didn’t believe me. “Speaking of your tenant. She’s paying way less than market value for her side of the duplex.”
“I know. That’s because when I originally advertised it, I thought there’d be two separate units.
I lowered the amount significantly when I realized I’d made a mistake in the advertisement,” I admitted.
“Anyway, Robin Creek is a small town. People help each other out. I was just glad to get someone willing to stay, since I didn’t complete the duplex. ”
Jennifer shook her head slightly. “I hate to say this, but your tenant may be taking advantage of you, Ms. Hicks. It’s quite common for people to underpay senior citizens.”
A wave of irritation washed over me, my jaw tightened, and my hands clenched into fists in my lap.
The only person starting fires was Jennifer, with her suggestion that I was being exploited, coupled with the underlying insinuation that my age made me inherently vulnerable.
What kind of training did she get for this job?
“I assure you that Gabriella is not taking advantage of me. And I may not have much disposable income, but there are plenty of people making it on much less. Is it a crime to be poor these days?”
She gave me a patronizing smile. And then she asked, in that slow, kindergartner-speak tone, “Have you suffered any falls? Or memory loss?”
My eyes narrowed as I fought to maintain my composure. “Jennifer, I don’t know exactly what you’re huntin’ for, but I assure you I can take care of myself. The time may come when I need someone else, but it ain’t today.” I reached across her paperweights and snatched back all my papers.
She jumped back, pressing against her seat cushion. “Ms. Hicks, it’s okay. I can get you help.”
“I don’t need help. I withdraw my request.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” she said.
I froze.
“Since you’re over sixty, and I do believe you’re in danger, I have to report this to Adult Protective Services. I—I hope you understand.”
My lips trembled as I attempted to formulate a word, a phrase, a sentence in response.
Jennifer pointed to her on-screen manual.
“It says that if a client shows signs of financial distress, isolation, or any signs of neglect, I am required to report the situation to the proper authorities for further assessment.” She looked up at me.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Hicks, but these are the guidelines I must follow. ”
“I don’t care what your screen says. Common sense ought to tell you that I only need help with these one-time repairs,” I managed to say. My shaky voice betrayed me, and I took a big gulp of air to steady my brain.
Jennifer’s face flushed. She bit her bottom lip for a second. “There’s no need to be alarmed.”
“You have alarmed me, Jennifer. Sincerely.”
“I understand. Someone will be in touch again soon. Just as a follow-up.”
“Don’t you send nobody to my house,” I all but threatened her in my native Southern drawl. After all these years, I still managed to sound just like Grandma Jewel when she got riled up and lost her religion.
Jennifer must’ve seen something in my eyes, because she recoiled slightly, probably thinking I was hiding the depths of my despair.
She softly stated, “Ms. Hicks, if your home is unlivable, we can help you find another place to stay. From what you’ve shared, it sounds like things might be… spiraling.”
“I am not spiraling,” I said slowly, trying to keep my voice steady. “I am managing just fine.”
Jennifer’s expression didn’t shift. She was in full-on official mode now. “It’s important to take these things seriously. If you’ve felt overwhelmed or neglected basic needs—”
I threw up my hands, exasperated. “Neglected? Look, I’m not some charity case. You’ve got this all wrong.”
Jennifer typed something quickly, clearly making note of my reaction. “I just want to make sure you’re safe.”
The finality in her tone hit me like a boulder. It’s amazing how one person can decide something about you—a judge, a teacher, a social worker—and everything changes.
I stood and pivoted to leave her office, not waiting for her to walk me back to the reception area.
The room seemed to spin for a moment, my legs unsteady as I forced myself to walk away from the desk.
What a waste of time, effort, and gas money.
Worse, now I was on the state’s radar as an old woman in distress.
Broke, possibly duped, and noted as irrational.
Just like my daughter and my ex-husband had said. Just as I had feared.
I’d gone there for help from SLAP. But SLAP slapped me instead.