Page 53 of Too Old for This
They exchange a pointed look, not bothering to hide it.
Late this afternoon, as I searched through the refrigerator for ingredients to make a nice dish, I realized how silly it was. If I’m surrendering to my old age and my growing weaknesses, it should apply to all areas of my life. Including trying to impress the people at First Covenant.
That vegetable platter was also cheaper than buying ingredients for some fancy homemade dish. I need to pinch my pennies.
“I toured Oak Manor this week,” I say. “And Serenity Village.”
Bonnie throws down her bingo dauber. “Whatever is happening with you has to end right now.”
“I am exploring my options.”
“Well, stop.”
“N-34!”
Sheila stares down at her bingo cards, pretending not tohear a word. Bonnie glares at me throughout the game. I don’t think she exhales until someone yells bingo.
“I can’t bang around in that old house until I forget my way,” I say.
Sheila side-eyes me.
“You are years away from getting lost in your own house,” Bonnie says.
Maybe she’s right, but maybe not.
The problem is once you reach that point, it’s too late. Someone else has to take control of your life—a child or spouse or maybe the state. If you can’t find your way around your own house, you’re no longer capable of making your own decisions. I’d rather make mine before they’re made for me.
—
I win a game of bingo, my first in years.
My ex-daughter-in-law would say it’s a sign. Stephanie has always been into that kind of thing. Like if she burns a piece of toast in the morning, her day isn’t going to go well. Or if she hits every green light on the way to the store, that must mean her life is headed in the right direction. I think a win is just a win. And I’ll take it.
At the end of the evening, Glenda asks if I want the remains of my party platter. “Or the tinfoil tray? Do you need that?”
“I’m happy to donate everything that’s left.” I smile as I say that, as if I’m doing her a favor.
She nods, her face tight.
Look at that. One good thing happened today. Anytime I can make Glenda do that with her face, I consider it an accomplishment.
Whenever I find myself feeling particularly down, or desperate, she is the one I imagine killing. Countless hours have been spent planning her death, and I’ve come up with so many different ways. One of my favorites is hitting her over the head with a pickleball paddle. A fancy one with a painted design on it, the kind ridiculous people use. I’ve never played pickleball, but I imagine it anyway.
I’ve also thought about pushing her off a bridge. Something about that long, dramatic plunge into the water seems so fitting, like she would die the same way she lived: over-the-top.
But I could never do it. Killing Glenda is a daydream that keeps on giving. For years, that fantasy has helped take the edge off.
“Can we talk about what’s going on with you?” Bonnie says.
We’re in the parking lot of the church. Despite the clear, warm night, most people head straight to their cars, which I understand. It’s after nine o’clock and close to my bedtime.
“Do we have to talk now?” I ask.
Bonnie purses her lips. “Sunday, then?”
I nod.
Bonnie walks away, but Sheila does not. She stares at me, her arms crossed, and I swear she is tapping her foot. The aggressiveness surprises me.
