Page 36 of Too Old for This

Sixty years ago, I was a teenager. Young and dumb, and anxious to go anywhere.

I grew up on the eastern side of California, in a small town somewhere between the Mojave Desert and Death Valley.

My father’s behavior never improved—it only got worse—and I had one real friend.

Janet was more of an outcast than I was.

She got pregnant in our freshman year and disappeared until after the baby was born and adopted.

When we were juniors, Janet and I had two goals.

The first was to leave that little town as soon as we graduated.

But until then, we would settle for a trip to Las Vegas.

The city was just a few hours away. It was a rite of passage for every teenager in the area.

Neither of us had a car, so we begged some older girls to take us with them.

They sneered at us, but they agreed to give us a ride if we paid for the gas. I worked as a cashier at our five-and-dime. Janet did some babysitting. It took us a couple of months to save up enough, because the older girls added in food as well.

Finally, we arrived in Las Vegas on a hot Saturday.

Janet and I didn’t look old enough to gamble, much less be in a casino, so most of our time was spent walking around the Strip, dreaming about what our lives would be like when we were old enough to live them.

We would be glamorous, of course, with beautiful clothes and boyfriends. Life would be one big party.

I didn’t believe in those dreams, and I don’t think Janet did, either. We weren’t that dumb.

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 prove I have lived never 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 seems like 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

—

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 wood with 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.

The elevators, 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.

It may be designed to look like a castle, but there’s no royalty here. Just a lot of elderly people and staff. At least the smiles don’t seem too fake.

The tour ends in Miss Marcia’s office, which looks like an eighteenth-century sitting room. She has a pot of tea brought in and we have a chat.

“I’ll be the first to admit Tranquil Towers isn’t for everyone,” she says. “But the people who choose to be here love it.”

“It’s definitely different,” I say.

“So you’ve looked at a lot of places?”

I take a sip of the tea. Different brand than mine, not quite as good. “A few, yes. I’m still trying to decide.”

Miss Marcia pulls out a booklet. Burgundy with gold trim and a crest in the middle. “There’s a lot of information in here. I’m happy to go over it, if you’d like?”

“Yes, let’s do that.”

My phone buzzes. Archie is calling. I motion to Miss Marcia that I have to take it and move into the hallway. Monday morning is an unusual time for him to call.

“Archie? Is everything okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

I am now confused instead of worried. “What’s going on?”

“There’s just a few wedding things to go over. I want to make sure this all works for your schedule.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, and yes, I would love to hear the details. Can we talk later?”

“Are you busy right now?” he asks.

“I’m heading into the doctor’s office.”

Pause.

“Doctor? What doctor?”

“Everything is fine. Just a checkup.”

Not my best lie, but I don’t want to talk to Archie about this. I’m not ready to discuss it yet.

Miss Marcia is sitting behind her desk, and she looks a bit annoyed. Hard to blame her for that. I hated it when customers at the bank kept me waiting while they talked on the phone.

“I guess we can talk later,” he says. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m sure. And I’m looking forward to hearing all about the wedding. Love you.”

I end the call and return to Miss Marcia. It takes over an hour to go through the details, including pricing, and to get all my questions answered. Despite looking like a castle, Tranquil Towers is less expensive than Oak Manor. It’s in the same range as Serenity Village, but much nicer.

As I start the long drive back, I realize why. This place is in the middle of nowhere, two hours away from Baycliff, from my church, and from my friends.