Page 66 of Too Old for This
But the smartest thing we did was bring a Polaroid camera. Janet and I took pictures in front of all the famous casinos. I still have those photos. They’re faded and buried away in a box, but they exist. Back then, I was so proud to show them off to anyone who would look. Sometimes, I just stared at them. Those pictures were proof that I had done something, that I had been somewhere.
I rarely post on social media, but not because I don’t understand it. I don’t post because I do understand. The urge to proveI have livednever goes away.
Norma has the same urge, and she does not resist it. She posted a picture of the card I typed out for her, a close-up of the message:
Stop looking
The card wasn’t signed. There was no indication of who it had come from. Norma was left to fill in the blanks on her own.
Can you believe someone left this for me at my hotel?!? Something happened, and nobody is talking, and I don’t know who to trust anymore.
#WhereIsPlum #NeverStop
I was surprised she didn’t post it last night after my phone call. Instead, she waited until this morning, and that seemslike an awful lot of patience for Norma. Not that I’m judging her. My opinion is based on what I’ve seen.
She didn’t just post once this morning; she posted twice in a row. The second was a video. Norma combined a bunch of photos into a montage.
Plum as a child. Plum as an adult. City of Salem welcome sign. Cole. Salem police station. Baycliff police station. Salem airport sign. The typed note. A stormy sky. A blue sky.
And another picture of Bluebell Lane.
It all connects…but how?
#WhereIsPlum
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Monday morning, I get up early to make the two-hour drive out to Tranquil Towers. At first glance, it really does look like a castle nestled in the woods. Turrets on every building. Rows of huge, arched windows. A manmade lake serving as a moat.
I am not disappointed. From the outside, it lives up to its website.
Tranquil Towers
Why retire in a home when you can live in a castle?
The moat has a bridge. A guest parking lot is on the other side. I am greeted at the front door by a man dressed in a formal uniform. Not quite a palace guard, but reminiscent of one.
The double doors must be twenty feet tall, made of woodwith cast-iron hinges across the front. They open together, ushering me into a lobby that looks like a cross between a church and a castle. Light beams down from the high windows and skylights. The walls are brick, every doorway is arched, and Persian rugs cover the floor.
My appointment is with Miss Marcia, who looks about sixty and has a stern, severe face that reminds me of a headmistress. I’ve never met a real headmistress, but the movies taught me this is how they look.
“Mrs.Jones, welcome to Tranquil Towers.”
“Please, call me Lottie.”
“Lottie. A pleasure to meet you.”
Miss Marcia leads me on a grand tour of the Towers, as she calls it. The ground floor has a large dining hall, with ceilings as tall as the front doors, and long tables with lanterns and fruit bowls in the center.
I am a little enchanted by this place. The windows, the wall lighting, the old-fashioned paintings everywhere. The turrets are residential units.
“We have a waiting list for those,” Miss Marcia says.
I imagine dying in one of those turret rooms. Unless you’re a prisoner, there are worse places.
We move to the grounds, which include a community garden, a topiary maze, bocce ball, pickleball, and tennis courts.
This isn’t a real medieval castle. It was built only thirty years ago, and there are signs of that everywhere. Theelevators, the wide walkways for wheelchairs, the call buttons on the walls, and the handrails in the bathrooms, along with the indoor swimming pool, medical facilities, and central heat.
