Chapter 21
It was past time for me do the math and make some hard decisions.
My prized nest egg was getting all scrambled up, and I only had thirteen more business days to get myself together before Anya Day.
Thirteen days to prove myself safe and sane, to get the stamp that would allow me to stay in my home, without state supervision.
Take that, APS.
Somewhere in there, Eric Jr. called to ask how things were going for me in Robin Creek. I told him everything, which felt surprisingly good. But he’s no Dr. Phil. “Don’t worry, Momma. If you have to move in with me, I gotcha.”
No big speech, just a simple last-resort solution. “Thanks, son.”
I had no intention of moving overseas, however. I needed to exhaust all domestic options first.
My first move, which broke my heart, was to exchange Celestia for a much less expensive model.
About half the cost of Celestia, to be exact.
Gabriella and Elijah understood that sacrifices had to be made because the cost of having a certified electrician with experience in older homes to travel from Lubbock to Robin Creek and rewire the north side of the house was gonna be twice the cost of Celestia.
I knew this already from my conversation with the remodeling company.
If I hadn’t been a little miffed at them for turning me on to SLAP, I might have asked them for a referral.
Nonetheless, during my Monday-morning work break, I made the call, pushed the numbers to get past the automatic answering system, and talked to a representative at the investment company so I could withdraw funds.
I had to audibly reply “Yes” to the notification that this would lower my payments when time came for me to get monthly disbursements. Didn’t need that reminder.
They asked if I was withdrawing funds to pay medical debts or taxes. “No.”
Why all these questions to withdraw my own money?
The transaction was finalized at the end of day, East Coast time, with the close of the stock market. They cut a check the next day and overnighted it to me. I had the money for the repairs in hand by the time I got off work Wednesday.
Standing in my bedroom and holding that five-figure check, I had to be grateful.
I whispered my thanks to God because, despite all the hassle and the fact that this withdrawal would probably haunt me until the day I died, I didn’t know what I would have done without the money I’d saved outside of my state pension.
I thought about my coworkers MaryAlice and Faye, who were single mothers barely making it on their teachers’ salary.
At one point, MaryAlice qualified for food stamps, and Faye had moved back home with her mother at the ripe age of forty-five to make sure her son could finish college.
They had nothing else except their state pension, which was why they hadn’t retired yet even though they were both older than I was.
Almost all our friends who’d retired before me complained about how the state teacher-pension plan only increased once every twenty years or so, unlike Social Security, which had a cost-of-living increase.
At 3 percent inflation annually, all it takes is about three years until you’re making 10 percent less than your original retirement check—which is only about 70 percent of your last employment check.
“Retirement is a blessing for sure,” MaryAlice had said as they helped me box dry erase boards and markers. “I’m going to try for a promotion to instructional coach soon, get my salary average up higher.”
“Sometimes we have to play the game,” Faye added.
I’d never struggled to make ends meet or pay unexpected bills when I was with Eric.
The last time I’d suffered through money problems was in college, when I lived off excess student loan disbursements.
I made great friends with the girl who landed the mailroom work-study job.
She’d call my dorm hall when she saw a check come for me, and I’d throw on a jogging suit and race to the administration offices, waiting outside the window until she opened that wooden door for me and all the other desperate souls awaiting money from loans, friends, and family.
Of course, I had to pay all that loan money back later, plus interest. But it had been worth it, allowing me to eat a steady diet of ramen noodles in college, and later giving me a career I enjoyed.
I tried to frame this significant withdrawal from my retirement fund in the same light: I’d keep my grandmother’s house, eat Gabriella’s good cooking—hot oven broiler and all—and enjoy the rest of my years in peace, knowing my home was safe and sturdy.
The Chapter Chatters met that evening, a fact that made my heart feel nice and toasty.
Miss Mary’s words still resonated through me as I found a parking spot in the library’s lot.
This town, the people of Robin Creek, had been nothing but good to me.
Except Wardell and Lorenzo, but there were always a few bad actors.
Gabriella, Richard, and the women in this group had welcomed me sweetly.
Hadn’t required anything of me except to show up and be myself, and for that, I appreciated them.
Elijah happily skipped off to his LEGO group, and I entered the main portion of the library looking for Eileen.
We usually got a chance to speak before she started the group, but she was nowhere in sight.
I entered our usual meeting spot ready to share the proposed dates for our cooking party that I’d told Gabriella about.
But immediately, I sensed tension in the room.
Partying was the last thing on their minds.
The chairs were arranged in their usual circle, but the empty one in the center seemed to loom larger than the rest.
“Eileen’s in the hospital,” Sonia informed me.
The words landed with a force I wasn’t prepared for, like a punch in the gut.
“She had a ministroke,” Valeria added, shaking her head. “They say she’ll recover, but she needs to take it easy.”
“Then why are we here instead of the hospital?” I asked.
“I’m thinking the same thing,” Christine said. “But her family’s asked for privacy.”
“And by ‘family,’ we mean the son who’s never around,” Althea added. “The irony.”
I stared at Eileen’s empty seat, processing the news.
“We’ve all been praying for her since it happened,” Sonia said.
“And I lit a candle for her when I got the news,” Lupita added.
That was my first inclination that there was some sort of back-channel communication between them. “When did it happen?”
“Yesterday morning,” from Christine. “My sister works at the hospital. She let me know, and I shared it with the group.”
Trying to hide my offense, I said flatly, “Well, I didn’t get a message.”
“I’m sorry,” Christine apologized. “When we first met, you said you were only coming because you took your grandson to the LEGO club.”
“And Eileen said you were just getting situated in town. We didn’t want to bother you,” Althea concluded.
My mouth dropped as I eyed each one of their faces. They stared back at me as though their collective excuse was valid. Wait… Was this the impression I had given them? That I didn’t want to be bothered? That I wouldn’t want to know if our leader had had a stroke?
“I don’t know what kind of monster you all think I am, but I do want to when know somebody in this group goes down,” I managed to say with a chuckle.
“Girl, stop being so dramatic,” Althea said. “You’re new. We don’t know you like that yet.”
I took my stance. “Well, I’m here to stay. You all and my housemate are the closest people I have to family living in this town. I’m all in.”
“Great.” Christine smiled at me. She lifted a card from her purse. “Sign it.”
Writing my name on that card next to well wishes from the others felt like signing my name to the sisterhood roll. You are sorely missed, Eileen. Praying for your swift healing and return! With Love, Joyce.
“I propose we do something different tonight,” Lupita said. “Journaling.”
Half the room snarled, the other half cooed.
I was a snarler. Writing just wasn’t my thing.
Ever since my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Batton, had rapped a ruler on my knuckles for incorrect pencil grip, I’ve had a thing about printing words on paper.
Word processors and, later, computers saved me from reliving that traumatic memory.
Lupita ripped lined paper from a spiral notebook she had waiting in the wings. “Everybody take a few sheets. Get one of these books off the shelf so you’ll have something to write on. I have a few prompts we could use. Does anyone need a pen?”
“This ain’t school,” Valerie fussed.
Thank God I’m not the only one.
“It’s free therapy,” Christine countered. “We’re all feeling down because of Eileen. If we write a little bit, then share either what we wrote or how it felt to write, we’ll leave a little lighter.”
Sonia shrugged. “It’s worth a try.” With that, she tilted the scale in favor of journaling.
“Okay, ummm… Let me open my app.” Lupita hummed out loud.
All of a sudden, I felt Mrs. Batton looking over my shoulder, warning me that I’d better not “scribble scrabble” all over this beautiful white paper.
I’m sixty, not six years old. I’m not Li’l Joy. I’m Big Joy. Biiiiiig Joy. Joyce. Hicks.
Lupita directed, “First, let’s take a minute to close our eyes and breathe slowly, in and out. Get the oxygen flowing through the system, get centered. A minute starts now.”
Those sixty seconds felt as good as a steaming-hot bubble bath. My joints tingled with a warmth I couldn’t put words to.
“Now, for the next ten minutes, let’s either freewrite or write about what it means to enjoy life in this season.”
Lupita freed me from Mrs. Batton with the word freewrite. Even scribble scrabble must be acceptable with a freewrite. So that’s exactly what I did first. I drew a gaggle of eights for the heck of it. Smiled at them and myself.
You see those, Mrs. Batton?
Then I remembered that Mrs. Batton had gray hairs on her head over fifty years ago; she was probably long gone.
Rest her soul.
And then I wrote.
Sorry for thinking ill of the dead.
I don’t like writing because of her. This isn’t going well.
A lot of people have ruined things for me.
Not Eileen, though. She’s nice and I hope she gets well because she deserves it.
She deserves life. Is that a thing? Does anyone deserve life?
Probably not. It’s a gift. Something that lands in your lap and you either open it and use it—whatever it looks like, whatever size, however many days you get—or you let it sit in that box.
Who is you? You is me. This is my life. My gift. I want to use it. Put it on and wear it, smell it, flaunt it, bling it out!!!
Other times I just want to sit with it. Cherish it. Adore it, all by myself. And be thankful for it.
I hope Eileen gets better.
I hope this business with the house repairs doesn’t take away my joy.
Too passive.
I won’t let it take my joy. This is pipes and wires and man-made materials and money that was never intended to last forever. If I let this stuff steal my joy, everything else is up for grabs.
No. I’m gonna be glad to have my home, my new friends, my family. My grandson. They are all a gift, too. Even if I have to move to Dubai with Eric Jr. It’s not the worst thing that could happen.
Beep-beep-beep. Lupita’s alarm signaled the end of ten minutes.
Valerie whined, “Awwww.”
“Really?” Althea quipped, and we all laughed.
“That was definitely free therapy.” Valerie sighed. She stretched her neck on both sides and let out a belch. “Sorry. It’s cleansing.”
“All righty, then,” Sonia exclaimed. “You got pretty comfortable there.”
“That was nice, Lupita. Thanks for the suggestion,” I had to agree.
We took turns talking about our experience. Everyone said we needed to do more journaling, more deep thinking, more relaxing.
“I can’t wait for Eileen to get back. She’s gonna love it,” Christine said with a hopeful grin.
Instead of rushing out to get Elijah, I kept one eye on the library lobby as I hung around with the ladies a few minutes after our official dismissal time. The air felt lighter now, as if the weight we’d all carried in earlier had somehow been lifted.
This is what friends do, I told myself. They hang out. “Fellowship” is what my mother would have called it.
And it felt good.
My celebrations continued the next day. “This a win-win,” I kept telling myself as I traveled on to the bank to make the deposit.
There was no early-withdrawal penalty, since I was over fifty-nine.
For once, my age worked for me instead of against me.
“Besides, it’s just money. And if the problem can be solved with money, then it’s not a real problem. ”
Eric used to say that all the time. I used to believe him, because that was the two-income lifestyle we lived when we were together.
But things were different now. I had always imagined myself retiring someday, with all my income sourced from something I’d done when I was younger.
Be it Social Security, investments, pension, selling a house, my husband’s retirement, or even kids taking care of me.
What I hadn’t imagined was the idea of legal intervention, of someone declaring me incapable of caring for myself, making decisions for me based on rigid government guidelines, forcing me to withdraw large lump sums of money, telling me who could stay with me and how many days I had to prove myself competent or find myself without a home.
“Depositing only?” the teller asked. Due to the check amount and possibly the fact that my account was newer, I had to deposit in person.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Great.” She did her business and handed me the receipt for our transaction, which I examined and then tucked safely into my wallet. My nest egg was smaller, but my immediate problems were solved.
Or so I thought, until I returned home from the bank to find my ex-husband’s Audi parked in my driveway.