GLORIA

Gloria didn’t actually live on Azalea Court. She often parked her midnight-blue Subaru wagon just past the turn-off, on the gravel road serving the Community Gardens. Not all year, just for the eight months that the portable toilet was there for the use of the gardeners.

She couldn’t park anywhere for too long at a time, but this was a good spot, one of her favorites. Out of the way. Nothing here but the gardens and the dog park. Pretty and safe. Sometimes the dog walkers tried to peer around the batik fabric she hung over the windows for privacy, but they couldn’t see much and so far—knock on wood—no one had hassled her. She liked watching the same people walk by day after day. The old couple in their matching baseball caps with a logo she didn’t recognize, the smiley redhead walking her dachshund, who had the most amazing collection of knit and embroidered doggy-coats Gloria had ever seen. Not that the dogs in her experience had much in the way of wardrobes. There was the guy with his walker from the Assisted Living facility down the road. He came by most days and always said, “Good Morning.” When he didn’t come, she missed him and worried about his health. Seeing familiar faces made her feel like part of the neighborhood, even though she wasn’t, not really.

Some days, when her stomach wasn’t churning with either hunger or worry, she pretended that she really did live there. In one of the pretty bungalows on the Court, not the pricey new houses in the development. She would consider the various units—this one’s sweet paint job and that one’s backyard with the fire pit. Then she would have to remind herself to Get a Grip. It didn’t do to get too attached to a place, especially one that was totally out of her reach.

Today she saw a cop car on Azalea Court. Worrisome, but she couldn’t afford to run down the battery using the car radio, so she didn’t know what was happening. No matter the reason, police presence could be risky for her. She considered taking a drive. Maybe her friend in cohousing was home today and would let her take a shower. But she was curious. Even in a safe and privileged place like Azalea Court, life could turn so quickly. In the space of hours an ordinary life could become undone.

When Gloria came out of the portable toilet a few minutes later, rubbing her hands with sanitizer, a vaguely familiar woman with purple framed glasses stood in front of her car, holding a stack of papers.

“Good morning. My name is Evelyn and I live over there,” she said, waving her arm, “on Azalea Court. Have you seen Iris Blum today?”

“Who?”

“Old woman. Wispy white hair and green eyes. Probably wearing a blue jacket. She’s missing.” She handed Gloria a leaflet with a large photograph.

“No,” Gloria said, handing back the leaflet. “Haven’t seen her. Sorry.”

“Keep it. If you see her, please call 911 and let them know. We’re worried that she’s lost her way and can’t get home. The police will be searching the whole area soon.”

“Sure. If I see her.”

“Thanks.” Evelyn hesitated. “Iris has Alzheimer’s and her family is very concerned.”

Gloria nodded, but no way could she get involved. She might have to check with her cohousing friend or maybe take a drive. Police search parties poking around were never a good thing for someone like her.