“We’re a private facility,” Eric continues, “one of several across the country owned by a group called Advanced Retirement Solutions. I am the administrator of this center. We are licensed and inspected annually by the New Jersey Department of Health and Senior Services.
“We are an assisted-living facility, not a nursing home, so our residents are all in good health—physically speaking. But we do have some residents with dementia. One of our older residents, Bert, is beginning to show some signs, and we also have two young residents suffering from the disease. Anna is thirty-nine. She has younger-onset Alzheimer’s, the memory-related type of dementia that most people have heard of. Luke is forty-one. He has a variant of frontotemporal dementia, which affects speech and word production. He finds it physically difficult to speak as well as hard to find the words he needs. He’s mostly nonverbal these days.”
“Wow.”
“Although you won’t be responsible for caring for the residents, you’ll be interacting with them daily. How do you feel about that? Do you have experience with the elderly or disabled? Grandparents?”
“I don’t have any grandparents or any real experience with the elderly. But that’s something I’d like to change.”
This part, at least, is true. I’ve become all too aware recently how tough life can be. And from the weight of Eric’s nod, I determine I’ve convinced him, too.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” he says, and laughs again. “Anyway, that’s enough from me. Do you have any questions?”
“Just one,” I say. “As I mentioned, I have a daughter at Elementary school. Clementine will be at school for the bulk of the day, but she’s with me in the early mornings and after school, so I’d have to bring her here. And I’ll have to walk her there and back, but it’s less than five minutes each way.”
I sit tall and try to look confident. Like this is one of twenty jobs I’m interviewing for, instead of my last hope.
“Actually, I think the residents would love having a child around,” Eric says. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with your work, of course.”
I let go the breath I was holding, and Eric rises to his feet.
“Well, then, how about a tour?”
I smile and haul myself upright, ready for a tour of my new life.
*
Four months ago, my life fell apart. Not slowly, like a terminal illness, but all at once, like a fatal car accident. At least, it was all at once for me and Clementine when Richard told me what he’d done. And it was all at once for the thousands of investors who lost their money. But for Richard, it was more like lung cancer for a heavy smoker. He must have known that disaster was inevitable. But he chose to keep going, in the hopes he’d be that one in a million who came through it unscathed.
It was 3:15 P.M. on a Tuesday when his car pulled up. That should have been my first clue. I’d been married to Richard for ten years, and in all that time he’d never been home at three fifteen on a weekday. The funny thing was, I remember feeling pleased. I’d tried a new ingredient in my pumpkin shortbread, and it had just come out of the oven.
“Great timing,” I’d said when he let himself into the kitchen. “You can be my first taste tester.”
He muttered something unintelligible as he landed on a barstool.
“Honey?” I said.
He bent forward, resting his forehead in his palm. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, and his tie was loose.
“Aren’t you feeling well?” I felt his head with the back of my hand. “Ricky?” He hated it when I called him Ricky in public, but in private, it usually made him smile. “Hello? Anyone home?”
The house was full of tradespeople. We were getting the place ready for the summer. A man waved as he walked past the kitchen window, carrying a ladder. I waved back.
When Richard still didn’t speak, I gave him a playful shove. His head tipped back, and that’s when I saw his swollen, crying eyes.
“Richard! Oh my God.”
I’d never seen Richard cry. Not at his mother’s or father’s funerals. Not on our wedding day. Not at Clementine’s birth. Richard was far more likely to punch a wall or drink one too many glasses of Scotch to blow off steam or emotion. “What’s wrong?”
His eyes met mine for only a second. “I’ve fucked up, Eve.”
“You’ve…” I sat down beside him and swiveled his stool so he faced me. “What do you mean? What have you fucked up?”
“My life. Your life. Clementine’s life.” He twisted away, parking his elbows on the marble benchtop. “I’ve lied about my investments, I’ve falsified paperwork. And I’m about to be caught.”
A quiet not-quite laugh came out of me. “Is this a joke?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
It didn’t make sense. Richard didn’t need to lie about his investments or create false documents. Richard was brilliant at what he did. Still, I felt the pinpricks of uncertainty. His eyes were red rimmed, his collar loose. He’d been steadily losing weight for weeks now, drinking more. And a few days ago I’d found him in his study with a face that looked vaguely tear-stained. He blamed it on a head-cold and a lot of pressure at work. I hadn’t thought to ask any more about it.
“But … falsifying documents?” I said, almost to myself. “You mean like a—”