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“You and me are gonna be great friends, Fat Marilyn,” Daphne announced, and then pulled out a flask.
Somehow, Fat Marilyn doubts that, Kylie thought to herself, but she couldn’t help but feel sorry for Daphne, just a little. She had to be miserable as hell on the inside to be such a mess on the outside.
—
Once Kylie had accepted the offer, she was steered toward the Human Resources offices. There, she’d signed contracts and talked salary and all the nitty-gritty details of her job details that both Mr. Powers and Daphne were too important to go over. To Kylie’s surprise, no one batted an eye at her salary demands, just agreed and set a start date. The money was a sum that made her happy, even if it meant touring for the next four months. The fact that they paid her demand without haggling told her she’d have to earn every last penny, though.
—
Still pleased with her new employment, she packed up her gear and headed back out to the street. Instead of returning to her friend’s apartment, though, she took a cab to the outskirts of L.A., deep into the quiet suburbs. “Wait here,” she told the cab-driver. “I promise I won’t be more than twenty minutes.”
“The meter keeps running,” he told her.
Kylie didn’t have a car, so it wasn’t like she could argue over the price. “Fine. Just stay, okay?”
He turned up the radio and gave her a thumbs-up.
Sucking in a breath, Kylie headed into the nursing home.
As soon as she stepped through the doors, the cool waft of air-conditioning touched her sweating brow. The sterile white tile floors were a blinding white, the walls a comforting pink. It almost distracted from the big locked automated glass doors that were only accessible via a keycard.
Kylie went to the visiting window and signed in. She handed the clipboard to the attendant. “I’m here to see Sloane Etherton.”
“Just a moment,” the girl at the window said. She turned in her chair and pulled a folder that was tagged with a yellow slip. “I’m supposed to remind you that your last payment didn’t go through.” She gave Kylie an apologetic look. “Do you need to talk to the billing department to make arrangements?”
She shook her head. “No, I can make a catch-up payment now. I . . . had some financial difficulty for the last few months.” Kylie pulled out her checkbook and began to write. “Everything should be fine now. I just signed a contract for a new job and I get my first advance payment on Monday.” Or as soon as she could finagle something from Mr. Powers. “Can I postdate the check?”
“We’re not supposed to accept postdated checks.”
“Well, I’m leaving the state in a few days to go on tour, so I won’t be here to pay in person,” Kylie snapped, annoyed. “So either you take a postdated check or you take no check.”
But it seemed she’d said a magical word. The receptionist’s head lifted, her eyes wide. “Tour?”
“With Daphne Petty,” Kylie said, writing out the dollar amount for two months of fees. It’d wipe her account, but she was low on choices. “And I’m sure I could get you tickets.” She ripped the check free and held it out to the girl. “If you can take a postdated check.”
“I’m sure I can misplace it for a few days,” she said with a grin, plucking the check from Kylie’s hands.
Five minutes later, she was admitted to the back and down a quiet hall. The attendant at her side held her Nana’s records. “Miss Sloane has been a little difficult lately, Miss Daniels.”
“You know my nana,” Kylie said tightly. “She’s never been an easy woman.” Heck, difficult was probably one of her good days.
The attendant didn’t crack a smile. “She keeps trying to leave. You know that sort of thing is frowned upon.”
“She can barely walk and she’s senile,” Kylie said, unhappy. This wasn’t the first time she’d been told this about Nana Sloane. “I don’t see how she is attempting an escape.”
“Unfortunately we get that a lot with the elderly dementia patients,” the attendant told her. “They get confused as to where they are and try to leave. It’s why we have to keep the place locked down. Sometimes they get creative, though, like your nana, and that’s when things become a problem.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Kylie said, a tension headache threatening to crush her. “But—”
“I know. She has dementia. We know it’s a losing battle,” the attendant said gently. “But we still like to try and drive the concept home if possible.”