Page 105 of Too Old for This
Norma:Why is it so urgent?
Burke:Because she lives alone and no one visits her.
I don’t know what Burke expected to see on that camera of his. Did he think I was going to walk around my house admitting to murder? Or that I killed someone every day? Maybe he should’ve thought this through a little better.
Or maybe I’m the one who’s wrong. Maybe he is still ahead of me.
That fear rises up on its own. At this point, it feels like I’ve missed so many things it’s become a Pavlovian response.
Norma:I’ll see what I can do.
Burke:You’ll see what you can do?
Norma:Yes?
Burke:Do you want justice for Plum or not?
Norma:I’m trying to find the truth.
Burke:You’re ignoring the truth.
I don’t answer that. We’re done for now.
After hiding all of Norma’s valuables, including the phone, I leave the Dew Drop. The drive home takes less than ten minutes, but the night isn’t over yet.
I change into my nightgown and wander through the sitting room twice, making sure Burke sees me one more time.
On the spur of the moment, I fake a fall.
More of a stumble, really. And I have the walker to help “steady” myself. I continue around the dining room and into the kitchen, disappearing from his view. I figured Burke could use a little action. Probably the only kind he’s getting.
Finally, I check my real phone. Two voicemails. Not texts, actual voice messages. That shouldn’t be noteworthy, but it is. The first message is from my grandson.
“Hi, Grandma. It’s Noah. Just want to say thanks for the birthday presents! I’ve been wanting this video game. And the cookies! You always make the best chocolate chip cookies. Thanks again. Love you.”
Love you.
I replay it a second time, then a third. And once more before listening to the other message.
“Mom, it’s me. Call me when you have a chance.”
CHAPTER 57
The message from Archie makes me feel a little nostalgic. For a long time, our routine was to talk every Sunday. It started when he went to college, then continued during law school, followed by his first job. Throughout it all, I spoke to my son on Sunday evenings.
The routine changed with cell phones and texting and all the other modes of communication. But tonight, he called at our usual time. Ouroldusual time.
“Mom,” he says. Not “Hello.” Not “How are you?”
“Good evening, Archie.” I sit down at the breakfast bar, preparing for a long talk. “That’s quite a tone you have.”
“Well, I’m a little upset. You didn’t tell me you were using a cane all the time. Morgan did.”
Morgan. Can’t wait to hear what else she told him.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“When did your arthritis get that bad?”
