Chapter 20
I stood in the Dollar General store, clutching a few home decor items and air fresheners.
The place was nothing fancy, but it had a charm that suited my new life on a budget.
I picked up a simple picture frame and a pretty tablecloth with a floral design.
Maybe it wasn’t much, but I hoped these little touches would make the duplex feel like a welcoming, stable home.
Gabriella would like this, I thought as I snapped a photo of the tablecloth with my phone and sent it to her.
Her reply pinged with a thumbs-up emoji and a Looks great, Ms. Joyce!
message. Our text conversation continued back and forth until she finally wrote, You’ve got this!
Don’t be nervous. APS will see u r doing your best.
Her words were a comfort, but my hands still shook like a chihuahua as I approached the cash register. The cashier, a young woman with a friendly smile, noted, “I haven’t seen you here before. You new to the area?”
“Sort of,” I replied, trying to force a smile, but my nerves were so rattled, it came out more like a grimace. “I spent summers here when I was younger.”
“Welcome back, then,” she said cheerily. We exchanged a bit more small talk, but I could hardly focus on her words. This afternoon’s visit from Adult Protective Services weighed heavily on my mind.
“Have a nice day,” the cashier said as she handed me my receipt. I mumbled a thank-you and hurried out of the store, my heart pounding.
I was hoping for a chance to explain that this was all a huge misunderstanding from the very beginning of the visit. Then, hopefully, I would exchange another pleasant goodbye as the caseworker left with a smile.
Back at home, I plugged in the air fresheners and felt a renewed surge of determination.
I went through each room, covering each surface and checking every nook and cranny with disinfectant wipes.
The faint scent of lavender filled the air as I moved from room to room, thanks to my new diffusers.
I made sure all the light switches worked and that the water ran clear from every faucet.
“Everything is going to be perfect,” I murmured to myself, trying to calm my nerves.
In the laundry room, I checked on Celestia again. She was covered with blankets, so as not the raise suspicions about my spending. I was certain splurges weren’t allowed, if the APS folks went by the same book as the SLAP group.
The doorbell rang.
I froze, my heart clawing its way out of my chest. Taking a deep breath, I wiped my hands on my apron and answered it.
“Hello, Ms. Hicks,” said the woman standing on my porch.
She was dressed in a crisp navy suit, white blouse, and black kitten heels.
Her stern expression reminded me of a tax auditor—someone who wouldn’t hesitate to point out any flaws.
“I’m Anya Bryson from Adult Protective Services.
You were referred to us by the Senior Living Advocacy Program, and I’m here to ensure your living situation is safe and meets your needs. May I come in?”
My knees went weak with nerves. Anya wasn’t the same person I’d talked to a few days earlier when I’d reluctantly agreed to the appointment.
“Of course,” I managed to reply, stepping aside to let her in. Her smile walked a fine line between tight-lipped professionalism and warmth, which only served to intimidate me further.
“Would you like some tea, coffee, or water?” I offered, desperate to utter words so I could breathe.
“No, thank you,” she declined politely, glancing around the room with an observant eye.
I wished Gabriella had stayed home from work or that I had invited Richard over to charm our visitor. But it was too late for that now.
Everything will be fine, I thought, even though my insides felt as jiggly as Jell-O. I just need to get through this visit.
Anya scribbled notes onto her electronic clipboard. I wondered what she could possibly be writing down so soon. “You’ve barely been in the house,” I joked nervously. “What’s there to write?”
Anya looked up at me, her expression unreadable. “I can smell the air fresheners you’ve used,” she said, her voice neutral. “While it’s a nice gesture, a strong scent can sometimes cover up potential concerns that may need addressing.”
My stomach dropped. I’d only wanted to make my home inviting and pleasant for her visit, and now it seemed like I’d made a mistake. Again. I bit my lip, trying to suppress my regret.
“Let’s begin with the interview portion of the visit, Ms. Hicks,” Anya continued, shifting her attention to me. “I’ll be asking you a series of questions to ensure your well-being. Do you understand?”
Her tone made me bristle, but I swallowed my pride and nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“Great.”
I gestured for her to sit on my couch and wondered if my cushions were soft enough, firm enough, upholstered well enough. Would they say it presented a knee hazard for being too low, a hip hazard for being too high? My worst-case imagination was in overdrive.
Anya swiped to a new page on her clipboard and readied her stylus.
In this monetary pause, I took the opportunity to interject the speech I’d been practicing nearly all morning while at work. “Miss Bryson—”
“Please, call me Anya.”
I swallowed a little relief. “Anya. I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding.
When I went to SLAP, I asked for help with my electrical wiring so I can get an oven installed.
I’m perfectly stable, mentally and financially—I only had a hiccup in my plans.
Somehow, Jennifer—that was her name—fell under the false impression that I’m struggling, being scammed, and incapable of caring for myself. None of that is true.”
Anya nodded and said, “That’s good to hear. I understand that there might have been a miscommunication at some level, but, like me, those of us who serve our senior population would rather err on the side of caution than underserve.”
My translation, despite her politeness: Lady, I’m doing my job.
“I can respect that. I’m just sayin’, I hate to see you wasting your time with me.”
Anya scrunched up her lips, apparently thinking. Then she said, “Ms. Hicks, I understand that you’re single and living alone, correct?”
“I have a tenant,” I said. “And I’m making friends at the library.”
“Yes. But you don’t have family or anyone with a close, non-transactional relationship?”
I didn’t answer the question. “I’m not the only one in the world in my predicament. This whole visit is ridiculous. You should be retraining Jennifer, not investigating me.”
“I understand how this might feel invasive and unnecessary. Or even humiliating,” she stated.
“To say the least,” I agreed. It was a small relief to know she wasn’t reading a script off a screen.
“Sometimes, when people live alone, they don’t recognize the changes that are occurring in them and around them.
And loved ones don’t pick up on the signs of, say, early dementia.
And how would they know if you were having blackouts or placing yourself in harm’s way if they’re not around?
How would anyone know if you’re struggling? ”
I gave her a perfectly reasonable answer. “You’d know because I am cogent.”
Anya smirked. “Your vocabulary certainly suggests that you are not experiencing cognitive decline.” She jotted something on her forms.
Yes!
With that, I resolved to let this woman do what my taxes were paying her to do, then let her get along her way, to someone who might actually need her services.
“Let’s start with your routine,” Anya launched. “Can you describe your daily routine, including how you manage personal care?”
“I get up most mornings around seven. Get myself and my grandson, Elijah, ready to go to the recreation center. He goes to the day camp and I go to my job—”
“Oh, you have a job?” she interrupted me.
“Yes.”
“Hmm.” She flicked a finger across her screen. “Didn’t know that. Are you volunteering, or is it a paid position?”
“Paid. I’m an administrative assistant.” I gave her the details of my job description so she’d lose any remaining doubt about my mental faculties.
“Thanks. And what about after work?”
“Let’s see… I run errands, watch a little television, maybe take a catnap. Then I pick up my grandson no later than six, and we get ready for dinner. Sometimes I cook, sometimes Gabriella cooks. Well, mostly it’s Gabriella. She’s an amazing cook.”
Anya smiled.
I continued, “We might watch a movie or sit out on the porch while Elijah plays with his friends. And then we settle in for the night. Do it all again the next day.”
Anya tilted her head. “When do you take care of your hygiene? Baths and such?”
I didn’t realize she’d want to know all my personal business. “Oh, at night. I like to take plenty of showers and baths.”
“Perfect.”
The first question seemed simple enough, but with each one that followed, my anxiety grew. How do you manage your medications? How do you manage your finances? Who would you call if you needed help? Have you experienced any falls or injuries in the home recently?
Every question felt like an accusation, and I fought to keep my composure as she probed into areas of my life I’d rather keep private. I answered, though, and tried to keep that “hostile witness” spirit at bay.
“Tell me about your relationship with Gabriella,” she asked, her eyes still on the screen. “She’s your tenant, correct?”
“Y-yes,” I stammered. “We share the kitchen, but we have separate living quarters. We get along well.”
Anya pressed, “Does she contribute positively to your overall well-being?”
“Of course,” I answered more firmly this time. “Gabriella is kind and supportive. We’re friends, and she’s always there for me when I need someone to talk to.”
“All right.” Anya made a note and glanced up from her notes. “Looks like we’re done with the interview portion of this visit. Let’s move on to the inspection, shall we?”
“Of course.”