Sometime around April or May, I renewed my search for a more permanent place to live. I again looked at “affordable housing” possibilities. Most used the same financial criteria for acceptance as had Vintage Woods Senior Apartments. One complex, however, Broadway Senior Center, took medical expenses into consideration, and categorized Mike’s residential care costs as “medical.” There were 119 one- and two-bedroom duplex units, on well-maintained, nicely landscaped grounds, with a pool, clubhouse, and laundry facilities—walking distance to markets and cafes, and just blocks from Dale and Marg’s. At $500 a month including utilities, it seemed a perfect match. My application was accepted, but at number 38 on the waiting list it seemed unlikely that a place would become available during my lifetime. According to the new director the list hadn’t been culled for at least a year, maybe two, so the wait might not be so long.
“Things change fast,” she said. “Keep in touch.”
Within a matter of weeks I moved from 38 on the list to No. 1. As with Vintage Woods, I pictured myself enjoying time in the Broadway Center pool, sauntering up to Starbucks for a latte, occasionally dropping by Dale’s alley garden on my morning walk with Sunny.
When the director called to say two units had opened up, I rushed over, prepared to leave a deposit. I went through both units, one a two-bedroom, the other a one-bedroom. The rooms were quite small, without much natural light. Closet and cupboard space was limited. I doubted that any of my stored furniture would fit. But the outside area and clubhouse were inviting, the location was perfect, and the price was right. With a single bed, it looked as if the bedroom could hold a small bedside table and chest of drawers. I thought the second bedroom could, with a little maneuvering, serve as my office. There would be room for a small computer table, a bookshelf and two basic file cabinets. I reached for my checkbook, saying I’d like to leave a deposit for the two-bedroom unit.
“Why the two-bedroom?” the director asked.
“I’m a writer. I need some office space.”
“A writer?” she said, brightening.
As is often happens when people learn that I write, she told me of a book she wanted to write—if only she could find the time. I recommended a couple of “you-can-find-the-time” motivational books for her, then got back to business.
“Do you need first month’s for a deposit?” I asked.
Yes, she did, but it would have to be for the one-bedroom. They didn’t rent two-bedrooms to singles. It was a hard and fast rule. I went through the one-bedroom again, then asked the director if she would hold it for me for 24 hours, while I mulled things over.
I know. Beggars can’t be choosers. And the one-bedroom was certainly larger than the car that was, of sorts, a home base. Still, I was pretty sure that such a cramped space would not be conducive to writing. Of course, I could always go to a coffee place, or library, or some other public space, but even though the book/workshop business had greatly diminished, I still needed a few files. I needed a few books. I thought back to the ’40s and to my Granny’s trailer—the table with two benches that provided seating for four relatively slim diners, which converted to a bed that could accommodate two very slim sleepers. Maybe I could use such a set-up in the tiny bedroom? I would probably never find another place for only $500 a month. The nearly $200,000 cushion we’d had in 2008 had quickly shrunk to around $30,000. My recent rent-free months had enabled me to stop hemorrhaging money. I didn’t want to start again. But as much as I wanted the Broadway Senior Center to work for me, whenever I tried to envision myself in the tiny space, I found myself breathing more deeply, unconsciously fighting a sense of things closing in on me.
I let it go.
I watched the ads, checked Craigslist, drove around, looked at a few advertised places, gradually getting a sense of what was available, where, and for how much. I saw two, 1930s two-bedroom places for $750. Each had spacious rooms with gleaming hardwood floors. The downside was that, although they were in different parts of town, their locations were in competition for the highest crime rates in the Sacramento region. I looked at other rentals that listed for between $700 and $800. Most were shabby, or in high crime areas, or in some noisy, industrial setting. The ones I thought might work weren’t interested in renting to anyone with a recent history of bankruptcy.
Dale, in his wanderings about town, had noticed vacancy signs at two large apartment complexes near Sac State. He took a detour and visited both of the places, talking with each of the managers and soaking up details. He later called, identifying himself as my personal shopper, and urged me to take a look at The Reserve on Cadillac Drive. The manager there had assured him that recent bankruptcy need not be a deal breaker.
The apartment was freshly painted, the carpeted areas newly cleaned and in good condition. There was a fenced patio that could be accessed either through living room sliders or an outside gate. It would be nice to be able to open the slider for Sunny first thing in the mornings, rather than having to rush out for a walk while still barely awake. Both bedrooms looked absolutely spacious in comparison to the Broadway place. There was a small kitchen with a dining space that could accommodate up to six people—again if all of these people were of average or less bulk. According to the manager, Marlene, the residents of the 60-unit complex were split about 50/50 between Sac State students and retirees, with a few working couples scattered in. It was quiet.
In July 2010, I signed a one-year lease, got the basics from storage, and moved in, setting up solo housekeeping for the first time in my life. Not exactly solo. Sunny was with me, but there were no human cohabitants.
After taking the $3,200 each month for Mike’s care from our teacher’s retirement and Social Security income, I was left with about $2,000. My rent would be $950 a month. Tight, but I hoped not impossible. I borrowed enough money against a paid-up insurance policy to cover the deposit and moving expenses and took the leap.
Mike always had very definite ideas about home decor and so did I. He loved antiques and busyness. Royal Doulton figurines and gold-trimmed crystal dishes. Given full reign, he would have filled every inch of space on any table or shelf in our house with a little dish, or silver ornament, a candle in an ornate holder, something he’d brought back from the Soviet Union, or Israel, or from any other number of places he’d visited on choir tours. I loved uncluttered simplicity. We’d lived in a constant state of mostly genial compromise. How far might I take my desire for simplicity when the necessity of compromise was lifted?
Everything needed to be reinvented. Having so long shared the order of my days with Mike, what order would my solo days take? Now I could read all night and sleep all day if I wanted to. Would I? I’d never particularly liked coffee, but I’d liked the companionship and ritual of sharing a cup with Mike each morning while we exchanged sections of The Sacramento Bee. We’d had other casual rituals, too. There was the glass of wine before dinner every evening. The after-church Sunday lunches. Would I develop a habit of solo morning coffee? Would I still have a glass of wine in the evenings? What new rituals might I develop?
From the storage unit I took the furniture that would fit the apartment, and the rest went to consignment. shop, Between what I took for the apartment, had already given to Matt and Leesa and to Cindi, or sold through Craigslist or donated to the Goodwill and The Salvation Army, there was not much more left to deal with.
The figurines, fancy vases, little decorative boxes, crystal candle holders and carafes, were either safely packed away in Joe and Kathy’s barn, or sitting on consignment in an antique shop in Fair Oaks. Winter clothes were stuffed into my office closet. The storage unit was emptied.
As for rituals, it turned out I did still like a cup of coffee in the morning while I read the newspaper. In the evening, Sunny and I generally sat on the patio around 6 while I sipped wine and she sniffed every inch of ground, as if during her two-hour absence some unwanted critter had infringed on her space.
There was the new ritual of hauling my week’s dirty clothes and linens to the laundry room on Tuesday mornings. Tuesdays, because the machines were often taken on weekends and Mondays, and I preferred to have the place mostly to myself. There was the ritual of walking the rent check up to the office every month. Just after coffee and the newspaper, there was the ritual of checking email and sitting at my second bedroom office computer for my daily wrestle with words.
Still, Mike’s present state of being was absolutely heartbreaking, and things could only get worse. But he was in a clean, well-managed, stable environment, and although I was thinking of him, sad for him, worried about him every hour of every day, I no longer felt the burden of the day-in, day-out physical care that his condition had required. My financial situation was dismal, but at least the ordeal of bankruptcy was over.
Jerry and Mike had always exchanged cards, sometimes letters, for birthdays and Christmas, and occasionally spoke on the phone. Jerry continued the practice of cards and letters, even after those communications no longer seemed meaningful to Mike. Although Jerry had reached a stage where he hated travel, he made the trip from Florida to visit Mike shortly after the move to The Guiding Star. He was distraught over Mike’s worsening condition and, in letters, emails and phone calls, he often expressed his frustration over not being on hand to help out. “If there’s ever anything I can do … ” was how he ended every communication. After years of expressing his frustration at not being able to help, of expressing his sincere desire to help, I wrote a letter to Jerry and Jackie, saying that what I most needed at that time was financial help. I said that Jerry had been an amazingly loyal and steadfast brother, and that would remain true whether or not he could offer any kind of financial aid. I said I was writing rather than calling so he and Jackie could talk things over. I didn’t want to put him on the spot. The day he received the letter, he called, asking if $400 a month would help. Of course, it would. Perhaps this is just a rationalization on my part, but I think the contribution of $400 a month was also helpful to Jerry, in that he was providing specific, ongoing help for his brother.
A few weeks into my time at the Cadillac Reserve, having taken Sunny for her morning walk along the levee, put the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher, perused and answered email, I sat at my desk, mindlessly gazing out the window, barely noticing the grass-lined, winding pathway that separated my group of apartments from the apartments across from mine. I turned to the tasks at hand—a blog entry that needed editing, a letter of response regarding an inquiry for a school visit, a phone call to Medi-Cal. In the afternoon I would join two friends for a $20 reflexology session. I was slowly finding a life.