Page 107 of Too Old for This
I don’t think.
“If I decide to move, I’ll let you know,” I say.
“I’ve been looking at some places up there.”
“Places?”
“For senior living. Stephanie and I were talking—”
“She still speaks to you? I had no idea.”
“Yes, Mom. We’re adults. We do speak. Mostly about the kids. But after Morgan returned and said—”
“Wait, do Stephanie and Morgan speak?” I ask.
“What does that matter?”
That’s a no. Morgan and Stephanie are not on speaking terms.
“Go on. You and Stephanie were talking about me. What did the two of you decide about my life?”
“I’m just trying to help,” he says. “You’re up there in thatbig house all alone, and I think maybe it’s time you consider something smaller. More manageable. A place with help.”
I listen very closely to what he says, parsing through each word. His voice wavers between authoritative and childlike. What I do not hear is an invitation, or even a suggestion, that I move down to California.
“Stephanie said she’s planning a trip up there after the wedding,” he says. “So maybe the two of you can go look at a few of these places, see if any of them appeal to you. And I’m happy to handle any of the details with selling your place.”
“Did I say I needed help?”
“One of them is called Oak Manor,” he says. “It looks really nice, and there’s another one called Serenity Village.”
I did not mention those names to Morgan. That I know for a fact. My memory might be getting worse, but it’s not that bad.
“You just randomly found these places?” I ask.
“They’re on the internet.”
I close my eyes, picturing the look on Archie’s face. The downcast eyes, the vein on his left temple, the way he touches his bottom lip like he’s thinking.
Even on the phone, I know when my son is lying.
“Archibald Matthew Jones,” I say. “You tell me what is going on right now.”
Pause.
“Mom…”
“Yes?”
“I know you went and saw those retirement places,” he says. “Just like I know you went to the grocery store before going to church on Thursday night.”
He can’t see it, but my jaw has damn near hit the kitchen table. “Are you having me followed? WasMorganfollowing me?”
“Not exactly.”
“Thenwhatexactly?”
Big sigh.
