Sassafras, Part 6


Joan


I guess I was still on New York time, because I woke up early the next day. I was confused when I woke up in Jenny's room, then I remembered everything in a big rush. It felt like back in high school, when Jenny and I used to go out partying. I would wake up in the morning, my head spinning and my stomach heaving. I went into the bathroom and found some aspirin, then washed up.

I fixed a cup of hot tea and found a box of frozen waffles in the freezer. If I was going to stay here I was going to have to get some coffee. I watched the news while I was eating. The weather was going to get worse; it was going to rain this weekend. The funeral was going to be miserable. There was also a spot about a car that was recalled because the seatbelts didn't work, and something about a dead drug dealer from Chicago that was found last weekend in Memphis, Missouri, the county seat of the next county over. Police were investigating, but didn't have any clues.

After I ate I went back to Jenny’s room and picked out what to wear that day. Clothes were my secret indulgence. Some people had comfort food, I had comfort clothes. I told myself the wealthy clients that I worked with at Starburst Properties expected a certain image, but really I just liked nice clothes. That was one of the reasons I left Sassafras. By the time a style hit town it was already last week’s news. I was sick to death of blue jeans and t-shirts. I don’t know if any of the girls in school even owned a dress, much less high-heeled shoes.

I looked through the dresses I brought with me, and decided to wear my favorite, a simple gray cashmere dress. It didn’t have any fancy ruffles or buttons, but I loved the way it felt when I wore it. Like wearing cotton candy. I had been thrilled when I found it in a resale shop in Manhattan. As soon as I touched it I knew I had to have it.

Billy didn't get up until I was almost ready to go to the police station. I asked him if he wanted to go in with me, but he said no. I didn't blame him. He wasn't going to go to school again today, but the Kennedy boys were all in school, so he was just going to stay home. Jenny had left her purse on the kitchen counter the night she died. I picked it up and looked for her keys, but they weren’t in it. We couldn't find them anywhere, so Billy had to hunt for the spare car keys.

While we were looking I started wondering if Jenny had any life insurance policies, or a will. I never had to plan a funeral before. “Billy, do you know where your mom kept her important papers? You know, tax stuff and your birth certificate, stuff like that?”

“There’s some bills and stuff in the desk drawer, but I think she kept most of that stuff in a safety deposit box at the bank.” I looked in the desk while he kept looking for the keys. All I found was a stack of bills and bank statements. She only had $250 in her checking account, but I saw a savings account in Billy’s name. I remembered when she started that account back when he was a baby. In 15 years Jenny managed to save $4,300. There wasn’t anything saying how much she still owed on her house. Her house payment was less than half my rent payment, but she had other bills I didn’t have to worry about, like water and trash and gas. All I had was electric and the phone bill. I wondered how much Jenny’s property taxes were.

There was also a stack of papers from the nursing home Mom was in. The Home. God, I hated that place. I hated it so much I wouldn't even say its name, Sunset Manor. It was always just The Home. I don't guess anybody wants to see their parents in a place like that. I was glad Dad didn't have to go there. He had a heart attack and died at work, slumped in back of his desk. He still had his pen in his hand when they found him, like he was just waiting for his next client.

When the hospital wanted to discharge Mom after her stroke, The Home was the only place with an opening so that's where she went. I hated the place. It looked like a prison, or an insane asylum. And Mom was so vulnerable, stuck in a wheel chair, couldn't talk, couldn't go to the bathroom, couldn’t even put on lipstick.

I flipped through the papers from The Home, and couldn’t believe how much that place cost. The government paid most of it, but there were little things they didn’t cover, like clothes and personal care. The Home made Jenny pay for everything, even toilet paper. She didn’t even have a private room; she was in a room with two other women. I remembered when I went there last time, for Mom’s birthday. One of the women in her room hadn’t been much older than Jenny. She had been in a diving accident, or car accident, I don’t remember which. She was paralyzed, and had a lot of brain damage. Jenny said sometimes she looked like she knew what was going on, and sometimes she just looked vacant. I didn’t remember the other woman in Mom’s room. She was just a little gray haired old lady, but I remembered the younger woman. She could have been somebody I went to school with. It was weird seeing her lying in that bed next to Mom's.

Billy finally found the spare keys in a drawer in the kitchen. Jenny's car was in even worse shape than I remembered. It was a black Honda, probably 20 years old. The paint had started peeling in spots, and there was rust around the back tires. A piece of the grill was broken out, and there was a piece of gray duct tape covering a hole on the right side where the rear view mirror should have been, and one of the headlights was held in place with matching tape. I was glad I didn’t need a car in New York. I took the subways or busses everywhere. Sometimes I had to take a taxi, and once in a while I got to ride in a limo for work when I went to fancy events with Mr. Gunderson or one of the other partners.

I got inside and had to slam the door to get it to close. The seat was pushed back a little too far for me, and I couldn't find the lever or knob to adjust it. I had forgotten how much taller than me Jenny was. I perched on the edge of the seat, put on my seat belt and turned the key, hoping it would start. Of course, it wouldn't start at first, then I pumped it a couple of times and the engine finally turned over. I was glad at least it was automatic. I never could figure out how to drive a stick shift. Every time I had to stop I would forget about the clutch, and end up killing the engine. The teacher in Driver’s Education finally told me I should just give up and stick with manual transmissions.