Iris had been in her new apartment for a month, and she hated it. Still, she tried to make the best of things. She had her walls painted a deep, soothing blue, and Charlotte took her shopping to buy a new bedspread in a rich, deep russet, like a bite of plum. She also bought a new stereo and a television. She didn’t want to have to answer questions, to have her grief out there shimmering in front of her, but she kept photographs of the girls in her nightstand, and every night, she looked at them.
But when she left her room, she felt the world crashing down around her. The halls were filled with people struggling with walkers or, even worse, being pushed in wheelchairs. Most people dressed nicely, but there was a woman at the end of the hall who wore nothing but the same black dress day after day, as if she were at her own funeral.
It was the beginning of June now, and warm enough to sit outside, but then what? Was she supposed to just stare at the driveway?
Meals were the worst. All those people sitting at the tables, waiting like patient children, and the food was like that mystery meat the girls used to joke about being served up at their school cafeteria. Everything was starchy or from a can, bonneted with cheese, and though she had never been a cook, she did have a sense of taste. She looked around her table, at the six other people, and one woman was shoveling in the food. “This food is terrible,” Iris said out loud on her first night, and everyone looked at her.
“You get used to it,” a man said to her.
“What are you talking about? I think this spaghetti is tremendous,” a woman said.
“Why should I get used to it?” Iris put her fork down. She had a can of tuna and macaroni and green peas in her apartment. A stove that worked. She stood up and walked out of the room and went back to her apartment, where she made herself a meal. She put Frank Sinatra on her stereo, but when the food was ready and she put it on her plate and sat down at the table, she burst into tears, her appetite gone. She stood up and dumped the food into the trash.
She’d never get used to it.
CHARLOTTE CALLED HER a few times a week and came to visit every Sunday, and Iris tried not to complain, because Charlotte seemed to have a new lightness about her and Iris wanted that to last.
Every floor had a TV room, a game room with a pool table, and a sitting room with couches, and there was always someone to keep you company. Iris played pool. She watched programs she didn’t really want to watch—nature shows about wild seals, or courtroom dramas.
One day she was reading the newspaper when she saw an advertisement for a special exhibit at the local museum. She wanted to go, and then she realized there was no one stopping her. She could really come and go as she pleased. There was no one she had to even tell. Her heart began to beat faster, and she dressed up, putting on a favorite blue dress and her best shoes, and then she walked outside, past the concierge, out to the street, to the pay phone, where she called a taxi. No one stopped her. No one gave her a second look when she went to the museum and bought her ticket.
By the time she cabbed home, it was dark. When she came inside, everything looked different again. The people sitting at the chairs didn’t look as old as she had thought they were before. The man laughing didn’t seem crazy anymore. One of the women stood up when she passed. “I like your outfit,” she said, and Iris felt herself glow. She didn’t feel helpless any longer.
Back in her room, Iris opened up her top dresser drawer, and there, under her nighties, was the postcard from Lucy. She took it out and stuck it on the mirror of her vanity.
She had so much she wanted to tell Lucy. She wished Lucy knew where she was, how she was doing, so that they could share it. She wanted to tell her, Do you remember the time we made brownies and we both ate the batter before it cooked? Do you remember when you told me there was a contest going on at the gas station and I could win fifty dollars if I just said, “Yabba dabba doo,” like in The Flintstones, and I did, and you laughed so hard at me, and then I laughed with you?
There had been no more postcards from Lucy. Iris kept wondering, what had she done to make Lucy leave? How could she make amends to her if she didn’t know?
The other residents talked about their kids all the time, but she never mentioned Lucy, because what would she say? My other daughter’s living a life I know nothing about and I don’t know why?
Well, she was still strong, still active. And she had to admit that living here had eased a lot of her burdens. She didn’t have to worry about the grass being mowed, or the basement leaking. She had time now for more things. Tomorrow she would call the police and ask them if they had any more leads. She would take out another ad in more newspapers, and this time, she’d put in a photo of Lucy.