Change of Scene: A 100 Page Novella (8 page)

“Now?” Greer yelped.

“Right now,” Lise said.

“And what then? Where’s she going to stay?”

Lise shrugged. “She’d never be able to climb the steps at my place. And even if she could, I can’t exactly do my job with her hanging around eavesdropping.”

“You mean your phone sex job?”

“Don’t start with me today,” her mother warned. “If we’re going to move Dearie to another home, the money has to come from somewhere. And right now, this pays the bills.”

“Fine,” Greer said. “I guess that means Dearie’s coming home with me. To my one-bedroom apartment.”

“I guess it does,” Lise agreed. “Think of it as a really good motivation to find her a new place, pronto.”

“There aren’t that many places available, you know,” Greer said. “Not with the little bit she can afford to pay. I drove past a couple of places yesterday after I left the Motion Picture home, which, by the way, is where I want to move if I make it to Dearie’s age. The other joints looked like postmodern Dickens. Bleak, dirty. No trees or grass, just nasty, institutional warehouses for old people.”

Lise gave her a wan smile. “Another reason to die young.”

*

Dearie set her overnight bag on the floor and looked around at Greer’s living room/dining room/kitchen/office, obviously unimpressed. “Where’s the rest of it?”

Her thinning white hair was teased into an elaborate series of whorls and curls that framed her tiny, wrinkled face like a saint’s corona. Dearie had always been petite, standing just a shade over five foot two, but every time she saw her grandmother, it struck Greer that she seemed to grow a little smaller.

Greer turned to go back to the Explorer to bring in the second suitcase containing all her grandmother’s belongings. “This is it.” She gestured around the sparsely furnished room. “
Mi casa es su casa
.”

Dearie collapsed onto the Paul Smith sofa. Greer had stalked this exact sofa on Craigslist and eBay for months before finally committing to paying more for a piece of furniture than she had her first car.

Dearie leaned back on the sofa cushions and fumbled in the pocket of her ever-present sweater, bringing out a pack of Virginia Slims. “Where am I supposed to sleep?”

Greer plucked the cigarettes from her hand. “No you don’t. Not in my house. You sleep in the bedroom.” She pointed through the arched opening. “And the bathroom is right there in the hall.”

“Where are you going to sleep?”

“Where you’re sitting,” Greer said, picking up the suitcase and taking it into the bedroom. “The sofa is actually very comfortable.”

“Is there a television in the bedroom?”

“No.” Greer came back into the living room and pointed at the Danish modern walnut console opposite the sofa. “The only television is right there.”

“Maybe I should sleep out here,” Dearie said. “I don’t sleep so good at night, you know. I usually fall asleep with the television on. You get the good channels, right?”

“Define good channels.”

“Showtime, HBO, Starz, Turner Classic. And, oh yeah, Bravo.
Project Runway
’s my favorite. Back at Point Pleasant, I watched every week with this nice gay gentleman Mr. Shapiro. I think he used to run the hosiery department at Bullock’s, back when women wore hosiery.”

“Back when there was a Bullock’s,” Greer added. “I’m not sure what channels I get, Dearie. I travel so much for work, and when I’m home, I don’t watch much television.”

Dearie picked the remote control up from the coffee table and started switching channels, tsk-tsking with each click of the remote.

“This is awful,” she pronounced, tossing the remote back onto the table. “They have more channels than this at my dentist’s office.”

“Sorry,” Greer said. “But this won’t be for long. I’ve got a line on a couple of new retirement places. In fact, I’ve got an interview at Vista Haven this afternoon.”

Dearie rolled her eyes. “Sounds awful. I thought your mother said you were going to get me into the Motion Picture and Television Home. A couple of the girls I used to work with at Paramount moved out there a few years ago. Everybody says it’s great there.”

“It’s lovely,” Greer agreed. “But there’s a long waiting list. The director told me it could take months and months before a unit opens up for you.”

“Is Michael Douglas still on their board?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“I knew the old man. Kirk. Did I ever tell you about sewing those God-awful toga costumes when I was working on
Spartacus
?”

“No,” Greer said carefully. “I think that’s a conversation I would have remembered. Did you actually get to meet Kirk Douglas?”

“Of course! Who do you think fitted him for his leather gladiator outfit? And those diaper things he wore for the battle scenes? Yeesh! He wasn’t the least bit bashful about having me working down there, either, if you get my drift. The man was a terrible flirt.”

Greer suddenly got a fit of giggles, envisioning a young Dearie draping and pinning Kirk Douglas’s
Spartacus
fabric codpiece.

“We won an Oscar for that picture, you know,” Dearie said wistfully. “Four, I think. But one was for best costumes.”

“I didn’t know you had an Oscar, Dearie,” Greer said. “That’s pretty cool.”

“Well, not me personally. But the studio gave a nice luncheon for all the girls in the workroom. And we all got these little medals. Lise took mine to show-and-tell at school, and I never saw it again.”

Dearie picked up the remote control and flicked the television on and then off again. “I was thinking maybe you could call Michael Douglas, and see if he could pull some strings to get me a place out there.”

“If I had his phone number, I would definitely give him a ring,” Greer said. “But there are two dozen people on the waiting list ahead of you.”

“And what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Stay here with you and die of boredom? Or freeze to death?” Dearie shivered and pulled her sweater tighter.

Greer got up and looked at the thermostat on the wall. “It’s nearly eighty degrees in here, Dearie! You can’t be cold.”

“Could you open up my suitcase and get me my slipper socks?” The old woman’s voice was plaintive. “And if it’s not too much trouble, I’d love a cup of tea and some nice hot soup. With maybe some crackers and cheese? I missed lunch, you know.”

*

“We’ve got to do something,” Greer told Lise when they met for coffee the next day. “She won’t sleep in the bedroom. Says the sofa is more comfortable. She keeps the television on all night, with the volume turned up as high as it’ll go. Game shows! I didn’t even know there was a channel for game shows. She shouts out the answers and then cusses out the contestants if they get the answers right and she doesn’t. And she keeps messing with my thermostat. This morning, I got up, and the heat was on. It was eighty-six degrees. I thought I’d have heat stroke.”

“She’s always had thin blood,” Lise said.

“And she eats like a horse. Seriously! She’s the size of a hummingbird, but she snacks all day long. Cheese and crackers, Vienna sausages, sardines, candy bars, potato chips, Doritos. Half her suitcase was full of junk food.”

“We should all have Dearie’s metabolism,” Lise agreed.

“You know what happens when you eat that kind of crap all night and all day?” Greer demanded. “Gas! It’s horrific. She’s a human fart machine. And she’s smoking in my bathroom. She denies it, but she’s definitely sneaking cigarettes. My place smells like an ashtray. I’m telling you, Mom, she has to go.”

“But where?”

“She probably only weighs eighty pounds, soaking wet. Sean and Luis could carry her up the stairs to your place. Once she’s upstairs, she’d be okay. It’s not like she’s gonna be running out to do errands or something. And it’d just be for a few days. Until I hear something from Vista Haven.”

“No way,” Lise said quickly. “We’ve already been over this. Can you imagine me talking to one of my regulars while she’s got her game shows blasting away? Talk about a buzzkill. I love my mother, but no, she can’t stay with me.”

“I love her, too, but I can’t keep up like this,” Greer warned. “I’m supposed to have a meeting about a new job, hopefully by tomorrow, and if it goes well, I’d probably have to leave town immediately.”

“Then you’d better get busy and call that Vista Haven place,” Lise replied, motioning to the waitress for the check. “You’re a resourceful girl. You’ll figure it out.”

CHAPTER 9

CeeJay finally called on Friday morning. Greer had been up for hours, staring at the phone, willing it to ring.

“So?” Greer said brightly. “Is today the day I get to meet your mystery man?”

“Sorry, but no,” CeeJay said. “He’s still in New York, firming up some stuff with investors. I hate to call you with bad news, but now he’s saying it might be the middle of next week.”

Greer got up and closed her bedroom door. Not that it really mattered. Her grandmother had the television volume turned up so loud, Dearie couldn’t have heard a train wreck, let alone Greer’s private telephone conversation.

“Oh, God,” she moaned. “Midweek? I don’t think I can take much more of this insanity.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“It’s Dearie. She got kicked out of her nursing home, and she’s staying on my sofa while I try to find her a new place. And she’s driving me batshit crazy. Keeps the television on, day and night. I haven’t had any sleep. And who knew an eighty-seven-year-old could eat like that? You can’t believe what I’ve spent on groceries, just in two days. I’m going broke here.”

“She can’t stay with your mom?”

“No. My mother has the good sense to live in an apartment on the second floor. Dearie can’t do stairs.”

“Oh, man. Your grandmother is such a sweetie, but I guess it would get old, having her living with you.”

“I adore Dearie, but I’ve only got eleven hundred square feet here,” Greer emphasized. “I’m telling you, CeeJay, I gotta find some kind of a job, before I do something drastic.”

“
Well
… I wasn’t going to mention it, because I was afraid it might be beneath you, but I’ve been working a music video shoot this week, and the production assistant tripped over some rigging and broke her ankle last night. We’ve got one more day left to shoot. I know it’s not what you’re used to, but the pay’s not bad. And it’s cash.”

“Where? Never mind. I don’t care where. Just tell me the address and what time to show up.”

“What about Dearie? We’re working twelve-and fourteen-hour days, trying to get it wrapped up. Can you leave her alone that long?”

“She’ll be fine,” Greer said. “She’s currently binge-watching
I Love Lucy
reruns. I made a grocery store run last night. There’s a week’s worth of junk food here. And I’ll get Lise to drop in and check on her later in the day. Text me the address.”

“I’ll do better than that. I’m in the car right now. Pick you up in ten.”

“I’ll be ready in five.”

*

The shoot was in a run-down warehouse in the shadow of downtown L.A. Greer had actually scouted it months earlier for a television cop show pilot. The band played heavy metal thrash music, the director was a baby-faced twenty-two-year-old, and most of the rest of the crew appeared to be barely out of high school. And slightly stoned. Greer was kept running nonstop until the director called for a lunch break at 3 p.m.

She sat down at the craft services table, inhaled a stale ham-and-cheese sandwich, and was still listening to her missed phone calls when CeeJay sat down beside her.

“You’re grinning like the Cheshire cat,” CeeJay said, dipping a baby carrot into a paper cup full of hummus. “Good news?”

“Fabulous news. Vista Haven, that’s the home I’ve been trying to get Dearie into, called. They might have a vacancy.”

“Wonderful!”

“Better than wonderful. It’s a miracle. They want me to take her over there first thing in the morning for an interview. And if everything goes okay, she could move in immediately.”

“Fingers crossed,” CeeJay said.

“Fingers, toes, knees, everything crossed,” Greer added.

*

Sunday morning, Dearie sat very still in the Explorer’s passenger seat. She’d taken pains with her appearance, changing her dress twice, fussing over her helmetlike hairdo, applying face powder and lipstick, even donning pearl earrings.

Greer glanced over at her. “You look very pretty,” she said soothingly. “I love that pink dress on you.”

Dearie pursed her lips and tugged at the hem of the dress. “You should see the seams on this thing. Whoever made it should be ashamed of themselves. If I still had my old sewing machine…”

“You’d make something ten times better,” Greer agreed. “I remember that dress you made me for my junior prom. I wish I still had it.”

“Copied it straight out of one of your mother’s magazines,” Dearie said proudly. “You looked gorgeous in it, too.”

She stared out the car’s window for a moment. “Maybe we should stop for lunch.”

“You had lunch, less than an hour ago. Breakfast, too. Why are you so nervous?”

“What if they don’t like me at this new place?”

“What’s not to like? You’re a sweet little old lady. As far as they know.”

“Hah!” Dearie said with a snort. “What if I don’t like this place?”

Greer gave that some thought. She was running out of options, but she’d never share that with her grandmother.

“Let’s just take it one step at a time, okay? It looks fine. The director, Mrs. Horan, seemed very nice on the phone, and I did some research on the computer last night. They’ve passed all their state inspections, and there are no complaints about Vista Haven that I can find on the Internet. And if you really hate it, we’ll keep looking.”

“What if they find out what happened at Pleasant Point?”

“It’s not like you actually succeeded in burning the place down,” Greer said. “Anyway, that’s all history. If they ask, you’ll tell them you won’t be smoking inside the building. Right?”

Dearie shrugged.

“Right? This is important, Dearie. It’s a big safety issue.”

“All right. I’ll only smoke outside.”

*

Joenelle Horan toured them around Vista Haven Senior Assisted Living Center. It was smaller than Dearie’s previous address. “Only sixty beds,” Mrs. Horan said proudly. “We keep it small because our residents are like family.” The main building was one story, with two wings jutting out from a central atrium that held the reception area, residential living area, dining hall, and a large multipurpose room where residents could play cards, watch movies, take classes, or do crafts.