Page 4 of Too Old for This
In the trunk, I find a bag with gym clothes, sneakers, a water bottle, and an energy bar. No electronic devices.
I head back into the house. She brought a tote bag inside with her. It’s in the kitchen next to her chair, and I nudge her body with my foot to get to it. Files, wallet, lipstick, mints, and a variety of other things that can wait. The problems are her phone and her laptop.
I’m hardly a Luddite. I have a Wi-Fi network, my own cell phone, even a computer, but I am no expert. It’s impossible to keep up with advances today. If I take a nap, I miss some new technological advance. And I love my naps.
Regardless of what’s new and improved or better, faster, stronger, I make one assumption about modern life: Every device is being tracked. I learned that a few years ago in a free class at the library. Now I’ve got to decide how to swing this data into my favor.
I pick up a cookie. Shortbread, full of butter and sugar.
Plum’s gadgets will track her here, in my home, at this moment. If I destroy the phone and laptop, my house will be her last known location.
That won’t do.
Now I have to get dressed and go out, no debate about that. Certain things need to be done, and you can’t skip any of them. Nobody wants to end up in the pokey.
I use that word because it sounds better thanprison, not because it’s from my generation. I’m notthatold.
Once I get all bundled up in a coat, boots, hat, and gloves, I wipe down the gadgets. For me, it’s rather late at night. My day should be long over. But for some, the world is just getting started. I remember those days when life didn’t begin until the sun went down, but that was fifty years ago.
I pull out of the driveway in Plum’s car and head down the street. The houses here are large, same as mine, but they’ve been added to, redone, rebuilt. That makes me, and my outdated house, the bad stepchild of Bluebell Lane. But, as I mentioned, I’ve been called worse.
There are only a few places left in Baycliff to get a taxicab that accepts cash. My options are limited to the major transportation hubs: the airport, the train and bus stations. Plum is—was—young and impatient. I saw that for myself. Not the type to waste time traveling on a train or bus. The airport it is.
I pull into the parking lot and pick a place in the corner, where it’s the darkest. Lot of shadows. That gives me a chance to drop her phone and laptop on the ground. I run over both. Twice.
Plum’s digital life ends here.
My last stop is the arrivals pickup, where I dump the electronics in the garbage and search for a cab.
—
Plum’s body is not big. She was short and petite, and I should be able to drag her right across the floor.
This is difficult to admit, but I’m a little afraid that something will go horribly awry and I will end up with a broken hip or arm or leg. An injury like that would be disastrous.
I take a sip of tea before heading to the backyard. My garden is in the center, vegetables on one side and herbs on the other. The rest of the yard is overgrown. It’s tended to a couple times a year when I break down and pay someone to do it.
In the garden shed, I get my wheelbarrow.
Once it’s in the kitchen, I tip it sideways next to Plum so I can shove her right into it, then stand it upright. Again, I take a minute to rest.
I hate that this is necessary. My body has been turning against me for a while now, acting like it’s no longer happy to be here. The worst part is that my mind is still sharp. I am constantly aware of my body’s rebellion.
I swallow a few ibuprofen and get on with it, wheeling Plum into the garage and over to the freezer.
It opens from the top, which means I have to prop up the wheelbarrow and drop her in from above. The process is not pretty and takes an extraordinary amount of effort, but finally Plum is inside. I slam the freezer shut and roll the wheelbarrow back out to the shed.
The last thing I do before going to bed is plug in my rechargeable chain saw.
CHAPTER 3
I wake up with a bit of regret. And I don’t use that term lightly, because regret is one of the most insidious things out there. Arthritis is a close second.
You can’t live and not have regrets. Some call themlife lessonsand try to figure out what they’ve learned from each experience. That’s well and good, but you’ll always wish you hadn’t done it in the first place.
Maybe Plum didn’t need to die. There is a chance, albeit a tiny one, that I would have talked her out of that docuseries. I could have explained more thoroughly that I’ve lived a quiet life for many years and I don’t want to be in the spotlight. Crying might’ve helped.
I pick up my phone and call voicemail. Plum’s messages are still saved, and I listen to the last one she left. It was a few hours before she knocked on my door.
