Page 10 of Just Beachy

“The only way you’ll get me in a place like this is to drag in my dead body and prop it in a chair.” Grand halts in front of a love seat just inside the front doors. “Like they’ve done to this poor soul.” She jabs a finger toward a wispy-haired woman slumped in the corner of a love seat. The woman’s hair does, in fact, blend with her face and clothing as well as the brocade back of the padded seat. Herblue-veined eyelids, which provide the only hint of color, are closed.

“That’s Mrs. Finklestein,” the saleswoman snaps. “She’s one of our friendliest and mostactiveresidents.”

“I can see that,” Grand says.

Despite the decibel level at which she’s being discussed, Mrs. Finklestein doesn’t budge.

“All those water aerobics classes and bingo games must have tired her out.” Grand leans closer as if examining a specimen at the zoo and raises her voice even further. “Or maybe she’s got her hearing aid turned off!”

“Mother!” I can tell that all my mother wants now is to get out of this place before something happens. “I think we should—”

“I’m sure she’s just resting her eyes.” Our tour guide reaches out a hand toward the woman’s shoulder. “Mrs. Finklestein?” The saleswoman’s hand makes contact with the closest bony shoulder. She prods gently. “Mrs. Finklestein? It’s me, Margaret. Are you okay?”

The answer, apparently, is no. Because instead of responding, Mrs. Finklestein folds in half and slides in a boneless heap onto the shiny beige floor.

• • •

There’s shouting. Acrowd forms. We stand in the midst of it as the wail of a siren (my second in less than twenty-four hours) draws closer. We watch the paramedics kneel beside Mrs. Finklestein. When they take her away, there’s no need for a siren.

Badly shaken, we leave Covington Arms and stop for lunch at Athenian Garden, an old-school been-around-forever Greek restaurant back in St. Petersburg. This is the second time in that same twenty-four hours that I intend, make that need, to drink. The second time I’ve contemplated death. The second time someone tries to talk me out of drinking “so soon after rehab.”

“I do not belong in a place like that Buffington Arms,” Grand says for what might be the tenth time.

“Covington, not Buffington. And it’s a beautiful, well-run place. And safe.” My mother’s reply is automatic.

“There are people dropping dead in the foyer,” Grand points out. “When you’ve lost your husband and your friends have started dying off, the last thing you want to do is greet the Grim Reaper among strangers.”

“Oh, Mother.”

Grand takes a long sip of her Chardonnay. I tell myself there must be some way to reach a compromise, but that’s not a word my mother or grandmother has ever embraced.

“I just want you to be safe,” my mother says. “You have high blood pressure, brittle bones, and”—she hesitates—“and you’re taking medication for your memory. The doctors told you to stop driving, yet you completely ignore their advice. You’re just lucky you haven’t killed yourself or anyone else.”

Grand puts down her glass and considers my mother. “I am not going out like Mrs. Finklestein,” she says quietly. “I intend tolivethe rest of whatever life I have left. In a place of my choosing.”

“I’m not trying to run your life. I’m just trying to be here for you. Like Daddy would have wanted.”

I know I’m not the only one wishing Grandpa Henry were here right now. His name and his memory somehow take the edge off, but when my mother gives me “the look” that tells me I’m now supposed to help her convince Grand that this is the place for her, I just can’t do it.

“I appreciate your concern, Natalie,” Grand says. “But make no mistake. I intend to drop dead in front of a canvas in my own home studio.Notin the lobby of a senior living community.” She takes a long gulp of her wine for emphasis. “In fact, I guess this is as good a time as any to tell you that I’ve already bought a smaller home.”

“Oh. That’s…I mean…” My mother attempts to regroup. “What?”

“I’ve already bought a new home.” Grand’s smile is triumphant. “Right on Treasure Island. So I guess you can go ahead and put my house in Atlanta on the market.”

“But how…why…” It’s deer-in-the-headlights time—a look I never expected to see on my mom’s face.

“But what could you have bought without so much as a conversation?”

“Natalie, darling, there was nothing to converse about. You’re in real estate. You more than anyone know how emotional home purchases can be. When a place is right, it’s right. And the place I bought is absolutely perfect. Itspoketo me.”

I want to ask her what it said, but I suspect this would push my mother all the way over the edge. “Where is it, Grand? Can we go see it?”

“Of course. I’ve been dying to show it to you.”

Mom sighs.

“It’s a totally renovated three-bedroom town house—with an elevator and a perfect space for a studio—right on the water in the building next to Myra’s.”

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