Forgotten: Seventeen and Homeless (8 page)

"You sound like you wish I were dead." She looks at me with steely blue eyes. "Is that what you're saying, Adele?"

Okay, this is the last straw and I know it. I take in a long, deep breath. Be calm. Do not react. Then I look evenly at her. "No, Mom, I don't wish you were dead. I just wish you'd grow up. And if you can't grow up, I just wish you'd go away and leave me alone. Because, seriously, you wear me out. I can't take the drama."

I look down at my hands, and tears slide down my hot cheeks. And I really hate to cry. It feels so weak. I know it was wrong to say all that to my mom, but for the most part, it was the truth. I do feel worn out. I want the drama to end.

So I look up and am about to tell her I'm sorry but that something has to change, and she's not even in the room. I can hear their voices in my mom's room, and I suspect she's telling him about what an ungrateful child I am and how I don't respect her. I don't even care anymore. It's like I'm emotionally drained. The only feeling I'm really cognizant of is that I'm hungry.

I go into my room, get dressed, and put my hair into a tidy ponytail. I put on my coat and get my bag, making sure my old address book is in there because I still have all the phone numbers of the places I worked, and then I head out. I am going to get a job today. My sights are set on the twenty-four-hour restaurant, but since I have to pass by the nursing home, I decide to stop in there as well. River Woods Care Center looks nice enough from the outside. A long, low brick building, neatly kept grounds, lots of windows. It might not be such a bad place to work. Plus it's only a few blocks from Westwood Heights.

"Do you have a resume?" the middle-aged woman at the reception desk asks me after I explain why I'm here.

"I don't have one, but I can make one if you-"

"No, that's okay." She smiles and bends over to look in a drawer. "Let's see, I know the applications are here somewhere. I don't usually work at this desk, but our regular gal is sick today."

I wait as she pokes around below the desk, then finally pops her head up with an application in hand. "You can fill it out here if you like. There's a dayroom around the corner with tables and chairs."

I thank her and take the application over to what looks like an oversized living room. About half a dozen elderly people are sitting there. Some in wheelchairs, some on the other furnishings, but all sitting separately. As if they don't really know each other. Or maybe they don't want to. There's a big TV going with some kind of sports show on, but no one seems interested. I sit on a molded plastic chair, fish a pen from my bag, and, using my best penmanship, carefully fill out the application.

"What are you doing?" A frail-looking white-haired woman pushes her walker over to the table where I'm writing.

I smile at her. "Filling out a job application."

Her pale blue eyes widen. "To work here?"

I nod. "Do you think I'd like to work here?"

She looks over her shoulder, then back at me with a thoughtful expression. "You seem like a nice girl."

Now I'm not sure what she means by this observation, but I thank her. "Do you think a nice girl would want to work here?"

She lifts a shaky hand to rub her chin. "Well, I suppose a nice girl might want to work here for a while. But not for too long."

"Yes ... well, it would only be part time."

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

She looks shocked. "Oh my. You're only a girl."

"How old are you?"

She gets a sly look. "Twenty-nine."

I try not to laugh.

She lowers her head in a confidential way. "If you reverse the numerals, you can guess my age. I like number games. I used to be a teacher."

I figure she must be ninety-two. And she seems to be mentally sharp, which makes me wonder why she's in here. But I don't think it's polite to ask. I'm sure there are all kinds of reasons elderly people are in here.

"Now I must get my exercise," she tells me as she pushes her walker away. "I fell and broke my hip, and the doctor says the only way I can get better is to walk and walk and walk. And if I get well enough, I can go back to my house."

"Oh, that's good. Yes, be sure you get your exercise."

She pauses. "What's your name?"

"Adele."

"Oh, such a pretty name."

"Thank you. What's your name?"

"I'm Mrs. Ashburn."

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Ashburn."

Then she smiles and shuffles away. And I turn my attention back to the application. By the time I'm done, I feel rather pleased with myself. For my age, I think my work references are fairly impressive. Hopefully whoever reads this will agree.

"Here you go." I hand my application to the woman at the reception desk.

"That didn't take long." She glances down at the application, then nods. "But it looks like you filled in all the blanks."

"I did my best."

She studies me with interest now. "You know, the manager is on the premises this morning. I'll bet she could see you now if you like."

"For an interview?"

"Why not? Do you want me to buzz her and see if she's interested?"

I agree, and less than five minutes later, I am sitting in front of Ms. Michaels. I'm guessing she's about my mom's age, but she dresses more conservatively and has an air of authority about her. "You seem young to have had quite a bit of work experience." She peers over her reading glasses at me with a curious expression.

I decide to keep everything about this interview as honest as possible. "My parents divorced when I was twelve. My mom has had some health challenges, so I've tried to help out by working when I can. Summer jobs ... part time after school ... however I can earn some extra money. The jobs just kind of added up."

She sets down the application. "I can see that."

"And we just moved here in August for my mom's job, but now it looks like she's unable to work. So it's important I find work ... as soon as possible."

Ms. Michaels nods. "I'm sorry to hear about your mother's poor health. Hopefully she'll get some kind of assistance."

"Yes, that would be good." I'm curious as to what kind of assistance Ms. Michaels is referring to, but I want to stick to the interview. "So, anyway, in the meantime I need to do what I can to help out. And since I live within walking distance, this seemed like a good place to start."

"I noticed you live nearby. And you say you can work evenings and weekends?"

"That's right."

"And I assume these are the correct names and phone numbers for your references?" She studies me closely, as if she thinks I just made them up.

"As far as I know, they're correct." I nod firmly. "I always keep references handy in case I need to find a new job. And I'm pretty sure their recommendations will all be positive."

"You seem like an intelligent girl. And I'm guessing you're a hard worker too. But how are you with elderly people? Do they make you uncomfortable?"

"I've never really known any elderly people, but I don't think I'm uncomfortable with them. I just had a pleasant conversation with Mrs. Ashburn. She seems like a sweet lady."

"She is a dear."

"And she was getting her exercise so she can go home again."

Ms. Michaels frowns. "Yes ... well, that's not likely. Her daughter hasn't told her yet, but Mrs. Ashburn is a permanent resident."

"Oh . . ." I'm surprised at how disappointed I feel about this. Mrs. Ashburn seemed so hopeful about going home.

Ms. Michaels seems to be observing me very closely, almost as if she's trying to sense my character. "I see you've done some restaurant work, Adele, so I assume you're good at waiting on people, cleaning up messes, getting your hands dirty. Because I'll be up front with you-this isn't a job for princesses. Most girls your age wouldn't be that comfortable helping with the needs of the elderly."

"I'll admit it's not exactly my dream job." And then I confess to her that my next application was going to be for the twentyfour-hour restaurant on Main Street.

"Well . . ." She presses her lips together. "If you're willing, I'm willing. I'd like to try you out here."

"Really?"

She nods and sets my application in the basket on the corner of her desk. "How soon can you start?"

"Anytime you want, I guess." But suddenly I feel a little concerned. What if I'm making a mistake? What if the restaurant job would be a better fit for me? And what about tips? And food?

"How about if you start today?"

I blink. "Today?"

"Is that a problem?"

"I, uh, I just have one question."

"Yes?"

"Well, I don't want it to sound wrong, but one of the reasons I was leaning toward a restaurant job was so I could have some of my meals there." Okay, I'm embarrassed to have just said this.

But she just smiles. "You're welcome to have meals here too, Adele. In fact, some of the seniors would probably get a kick out of it."

"Really?"

"Sure. As long as you work hard and don't spend all your time eating, but I doubt that'll be a problem." She sticks out her hand. "So unless there's a problem with any of these references or your background check with the police, you've got a job." She pauses to look at me. "There won't be, will there?"

I shake her hand. "No, of course not. I've never had any problem with the police."

"I didn't think so."

Okay, my cheeks warm as I recall how close I came to calling the police on my own mother last night. Still, that didn't have as much to do with me as with my mom and her new friend. Not that I plan to mention this.

Now Ms. Michaels asks for my food handlers card, which I give to her. Then she's on the phone talking to someone named Mary. She hangs up and gives me directions to the kitchen. "Mary is our head chef, and she's been needing help in the kitchen. Let's get you started in there and we'll see how that goes.

So, just like that, I am employed. And I will do everything to make sure I stay employed for as long as necessary. I just wish my mom could do the same.

n my very first day of working at River Woods, I put in a whole eight hours. And while I feel really tired as I walk home, I must admit that it really isn't the hardest job I've ever had. The Hot Diggity Dog House was much worse. Even babysitting was harder. The worst part of my day was working with Mary (or Scary Mary as I heard an orderly named Sam call her behind her back). Mary runs her kitchen like she thinks she's an army sergeant. She's probably in her late forties, wears her gray hair in a butch, and is built like a tank. And she had no problem ordering me around and complaining about anything that wasn't done to her specifications.