Anita Harris eased her car along the circular drive of the old Whitworth mansion stopping just past the front door. She stepped out and looked around. The brick structure was impressive but it had an abandoned look with an overgrown garden and piles of dead leaves, an odd sight on such a pretty spring day. The windows were grimy. Weeds sprouted from every crack in the asphalt. If not for the half a dozen green vans with “FJF Construction” written in orange, she’d think she’d stepped onto a horror movie set.

Anita spent half the morning deciding what to wear. It had been twenty years since she had a job interview and she was in scrubs for the better part of that time. She tugged at her dress here and there trying in vain to make it comfortable, then balanced carefully to the door on heels she was unused to wearing. 

Despite it’s infamy she was not at all sure she was in the right place. It was so empty and quiet. She approached the door, steeled herself with a deep breath, then walked in without knocking. 

“May I help you? This is private property,” a quiet voice said startling her. She turned to see a custodian clearing out the lobby. 

“Oh, hello. My name is Anita Harris. I have an appointment with Mr. Clark. Is he here?”  

The lights were off but the large floor to ceiling windows illuminated the foyer. Construction work could be heard in a distant part of the building. 

“Mr. Clark is in his office. It’s just down the hall there,” he replied pointing with his nose as his hands were full carrying a large portrait of Marie Whitworth, the late matriarch of the Whitworth family.

“Is that Mrs. Whitworth?” Anita asked? “I met her once.” 

“Yes, it is. I’d be curious to hear what you thought of her. The family’s such a fascination around here,” he replied. 

“Well, I only knew her in the end. I was one of her nurses taking care of her in her final days. She seemed…sad.”

“Sad? I’d like to think that at the end of a long life one could at least feel some peace, but I guess that’s idealistic. It’s not the case for everyone, is it?” 

“No, unfortunately, not everyone. Um, Mr. Clark is where did you say?” 

“Just down the hall there. You’ll see the light on in his office. Good luck.” 

“Thanks, uh…” 

“Mr. Miller. Pleased to meet you.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Miller. Thanks.”

Her heels echoed in the vast empty space. She followed the hall to the only office with a light on and saw a twenty-something kid in an ill-fitting suit standing behind the desk. He looked everywhere but directly at her and didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. 

“Hello, I’m Anita Harris. I have an appointment with a Mr. Clark,” she said. “For an interview?”

He nodded. “Call me Garrett.”  

“Hello Garrett. It’s nice to meet you,” she said giving his clammy hand a firm shake. “Is Mr. Clark in?”

He shrugged as if apologizing, “I’m Mr. Clark, but it’s Garrett. Come on in. Uh, have a seat.” He kept putting his hands in his pockets and then pulling them out quickly as though he had been chastised about it. 

“You’re Mr. Clark? Does your father work here too?” There was no way this kid, who was scared of his own shadow, was going to interview her for a job as a nursing administrator at a brand new, upscale nursing home. 

“Um, no,” he replied. “I represent the Barrett Foundation. They own this building and are renovating it into a care home. They’ve sent me to conduct the initial interviews. We have a construction crew in place and a team of custodians and landscapers starting to clean up. Of course once the basic staff are onboard any further interviews will be your job to do.” He looked like a student who had not completed his homework and was silently pleading with the teacher not to call on him.

Garrett stammered through the entire interview. Yet he asked all the right questions, even things she was sure he didn’t understand. They covered her background and the nature of the facility. She couldn’t stop herself from searching for a camera or something that would reveal this was all an elaborate practical joke.  

“Just to clarify, Garrett. You are aware of my husband’s circumstances? He is wheelchair bound and in need of some care during the day. It is my understanding that he could come to work with me where he can be tended to while I work. I just want to be sure that is still the case as obviously it is an important issue for me.”

“Oh, yes, sorry,” he said slapping himself on the forehead then sitting up straight, putting his hands flat on the desk, and taking a deep breath. “Yes, your husband is welcome to be here during the day and you will have what help you need for his care while you are at work. I mean that was the whole point, right?” 

“The whole point?” she asked. 

“For you, I mean. Just, that was important for you so, yes. It’s all good.” 

She stared at him, incredulous. “Great. Well, thank you for your time, Garrett.” He told her he would call with their decision by the end of the week. 

She walked herself out to the lobby feeling as though she’d just been discussing her job at a high school career day and ran into the custodian now mopping the floor.

“How did it go?” he asked and pointed to the wet floor. “Careful, there. Are you our new administrator?”

“Uh, not yet. Are they serious with this kid? I mean. I don’t mean to be disrespectful or anything. He’s not your son or something is he?”

“No, that’s Garrett Clark. He is the Barrett Foundation’s representative for this place. It’s part of their charity or something to run this place for people who can’t afford care.” He continued mopping as he spoke. 

“Right, but, why this kid? Nursing administrator is a pretty important position for this type of facility, wouldn’t you say? And one for which I have little experience. I’ve been a nurse for twenty years but I don’t have much experience as an administrator. Why would they have a kid in his twenties with no apparent experience in much of anything interviewing a nurse with very little administration experience to run a brand new facility?” She spoke as much to herself as to the man mopping the floor. 

He stopped and faced her. “Everyone deserves a chance to move on, don’t you think? To improve their circumstances? Put the past behind them if that’s what they need to do? If they are providing that chance I wouldn’t question it too harshly. I for one have never been a custodian before, but I have things to take care of and if cleaning up this mess will allow me to do that, then here I am until I can do better for myself.” He smiled and nodded to punctuate the point then went back to his mop.

“If you don’t mind a little career advice since your new to this, you might want to wring that mop out a little more,” she suggested. 

“Yep, got it,” he said without stopping. “Hope I’ll be seeing you soon.”

She glanced around the lobby and open first floor and made a decision. “Me too.” She smiled, glanced around again. “I think. They open in a month, huh?”

“We’ll be ready,” he said and when she left he rinsed the mop, wrung it practically dry and started over.

Anita got back into her car and willed it to start. It did, thankfully, and she headed home to do something she should have done before coming. 

Anita pulled in to her own driveway fifteen minutes later and let herself in the backdoor. She hung her keys on a hook and kicked her shoes into the laundry room. 

“Hey, How’d it go?” her husband, Daniel, asked wheeling himself toward the back of the house. 

“I’m not sure. Well I think, but it was weird.” Anita leaned down and kissed him then headed off to change. 

“What was weird about it?” he called after her. 

“I’ll tell you all about it over dinner. I’ve got to look up a couple of things first, then I’ll start cooking,” she said. She got into more comfortable clothes and retrieved her laptop from the den. Why didn’t she think to research the Barrett Foundation before the interview? For that matter, she might have looked up the Whitworth mansion and family as well.

She found a website for the Barrett Foundation but it was pretty basic. It consisted of stock photos of the home in its better days and of nursing care that obviously wasn’t going on there yet. There was a brief paragraph about the Barrett Foundation, a charity funded by private donations for the welfare of the elderly and disabled. There was a link to apply for residency and another to apply for a job there. A banner scrolled across the top announcing the grand opening in just one month.

“I hope the rest of that place is further along in renovations than what little I saw if they think they are going to open in a month,” Anita said to herself. There was no history of the Barrett Foundation or mention of any other buildings, events or sponsorships of any kind attributed to them. No pleas for contributions or “Donate here!” button. 

“Weird,” she said tapping the name into Google to see if she could find anything else. “Nothing.”

In stark contrast there was an endless supply of information about the Whitworth family, dozens of pictures of the mansion inside and out, and countless pictures of the family. The only thing missing was where they were now. She started with Wikipedia to get a general sense of the family and branched out from there reading newspaper articles, blogs, and Marie Whitworth’s obituary. There was an article about Jack Whitworth being hospitalized and in dire condition after a stroke and a number of stories about people who had lost everything when they entrusted their financial futures to his son, Sebastian. Apparently he was quite the investment maverick taking big risks with his and his rich friends’ money. He was good. Big risks brought big payoffs. “But you could afford it when it didn’t work out so well, couldn’t you?” she said.  

Anita clicked a picture of Sebastian coming out of a courthouse flanked by lawyers. His investment acumen for the wealthy simply did not translate for the working class, about whom, by all accounts, he knew nothing. 

“My client made a bold call,” one lawyer was quoted as saying in the article. “That’s what people pay him to do. He acted in good faith for his clients. In the past his bold financial moves have made many of those same clients a handsome return. That this last decision did not pan out as expected is not indicative of wrong doing, as the court has recognized in its just decision. As you know, he recently lost both of his parents. Please respect his privacy for a reasonable time to grieve.” That was the last time anyone saw Sebastian Whitworth.

“Dinner’s ready.”

Anita jumped. “What? I didn’t start dinner yet.” 

“Yeah, it was getting late and you were caught up in whatever you’re doing so I ordered in. The kids are at the table. Want to join us?” Daniel said holding his hand out for hers. 

Anita looked at the top right hand corner of her screen and saw that it was nearly 6:30 p.m. She had been reading for hours. “I’m so sorry, Daniel. I didn’t realize. I’m coming. Thanks for doing that.” 

“I was getting worried. You were in a bit of a frenzy there for a while,” he said heading for the dining room. 

“Yeah, I guess I kind of got lost in it. My interview was at the old Whitworth mansion. Do you remember it? Oh, my god. Sorry, guys.” They entered the dining room and found their two teenagers opening cartons of Chinese food. “Wow, I really zoned out there, didn’t I?” 

“It’s alright. We’re used to it,” her son said. That stung and she caught the look Daniel gave her out of the corner of her eye. Don’t you dare judge me, she thought. You haven’t been here, have you?

“So, tell us about your interview,” Daniel said heaping rice onto a plate. Anita grabbed an egg roll and sat down. 

“It was the weirdest thing,” she said and told them about the state of the property, the manchild who interviewed her and the lack of any substantial information about the foundation or the care home it was supposed to house in a month’s time. 

“Are you sure this place is legit, Neet?” Daniel asked. 

“Honestly, I’m not sure of anything right now,” she said. “But what have I got to lose?”

James Reese sat on the edge of his bed, a hinged double picture frame in his hand. One side held his wedding picture, the other a photo of him and his wife at their 60^th wedding anniversary last year. The images blurred as tears filled his eyes. Nearly a year past her death and he still did not know how to go on without her. What was a year compared to a lifetime spent side by side?

He set the frame down on the bedside table and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief he kept in his back pocket. He had precious little time left to spend in their home. He needed to collect the things he wasn’t willing to part with before his children came and took charge of the packing. 

He planted his hands on the bedside table and pushed himself up with effort, retrieved a box from the corner, and placed it on the bed. He opened the top drawer of the bedside table and started sorting its contents. Her pills, mints and hair ties went into the trash. Jewelry was set aside for his daughter to go through, none of it worth much. There was a small wooden box her father had given to her as a child. He couldn’t remember the significance of it but she kept it close always. It served no purpose and it was sentimental to her, not him, but it felt wrong to dispose of it. He laid it in the box to take with him. 

One of her blue hair ribbons was sticking out of the back wall of the drawer. He wondered how it could have gotten stuck there. He tugged at it, the back wall fell forward. It revealed a hidden compartment that held a pile of envelopes wrapped in the blue ribbon. The paper was increasingly yellowed with age as it got closer to the bottom, the ribbon dirty and creased. Red and blue stripes around the edges identified them as Airmail envelopes, from overseas. James didn’t recognize the envelopes or the handwriting on them. He couldn’t think of anyone they knew overseas who would write so regularly. His heart sank at the thought of what they might contain. 

He reached in to remove them as though they might strike out like a snake and bite him. They all had the same return address in France and each was postmarked in April in consecutive years going back to the sixties and ended several years ago, forty-four envelopes, forty-four years. 

He heard the front door open and put the envelopes in the box, placing the wooden box on top. He moved on to the next drawer. 

“Dad?” his daughter called. 

“In here,” he replied. He busied himself with the magazines and paperbacks in the second drawer trying to compose himself before she came in the room. 

“Good news?” she asked.

“Not for me.”

Susanne saw a letter on the bed, picked it up and scanned it. 

“Dad, this is great news. You’re in. Oh, I’m so relieved,” she said plopping down on the bed. “You’ve been accepted into the new facility at the Whitworth estate. Can you believe it?”

“No, I hardly can, and I’m not sure how I feel about it, Susanne.” 

“Well, you should feel happy about it. It’s supposed to be a much nicer facility than Meadow Villas and it’s free.”

“How does that work, I wonder?” 

“I’m not sure. They work something out with the government or something. Who cares? You’re going to be living in Sebastian Whitworth’s mansion. You are and he isn’t. It’s incredible.” 

“I prefer my own home, thank you very much, our family home, if you recall.” 

“Let’s not do this ok.? You know that’s not an option. What do you think happened to him?”

“Who?”

“Sebastian Whitworth! ‘Jack’s son,’ no one’s seen him in over a year,” Susanne said. 

Susanne, like too many people in James’ opinion, was fascinated by the Whitworth family history. Jack Whitworth was supposedly a real life American dream. Born in poverty, they say he started working when he was eleven. He worked his way through school and up the corporate ladder in a hurry becoming the richest and most famous man anyone in Barrettville has seen up close. He and his wife had one son, Sebastian Jackson Whitworth, “Jack’s son” as he was known. James bristled at the mention of him. He could not comprehend why everyone was so damn obsessed with what became of that man.

Jack was a brilliant businessman. His son was a louse. James had once read that Jack had funded a local women’s center, a black women’s center in the nineteen seventies no less. These things just did not happen at that time, and out of his own pocket. That’s the difference that working for what you have does. His no good son was handed everything on a silver platter. If Jack had a major fault it was in giving his son too much. Every father wants to do the best he can for his family but children need to learn the value of things, the value of life. 

James and his wife, Margaret, bickered over whether to use Sebastian as a financial advisor. A financial advisor, a man like that, James thought. He was against it, but Margaret had other plans. She wanted that big payoff that would give them the money to get not just comfortably by, but allow them to travel, dine out more, “put a little spark in our golden years” she’d said. She went to Sebastian and invested everything, their pension, savings, 401K. She signed James’ name on the dotted line as she had been doing for decades in handling the household affairs. That Jack’s son would allow that tells you right there what kind of man he was.

“She had to go to him. She couldn’t trust me. I trusted her completely.”

“Dad, you’re confusing trust with obedience again.” 

“Don’t start that feminism with me, Susanne. This isn’t about men and women. It’s about sense and recklessness.” 

When Margaret learned that she had lost everything she was terrified, of James’ reaction, of what would happen to them, of what their children would say. She took the remaining cash in her wallet down to a nearby pub for a drink or two to calm her nerves before facing James. Four martinis later she couldn’t put it off any longer. She paid her tab, got in her car and made it three-quarters of a mile before running a red light smashing into a motorcycle then spinning into a tree. She and the cyclist were rushed to the hospital where she was pronounced dead and the cyclist learned he would never walk again. 

“Who cares where goddamned Sebastian Whitworth is? Rotting in hell, I hope,” James yelled tossing a pile of magazines into the trash and yanking open the bottom drawer. 

“Everybody cares. It’s like he disappeared into thin air.” She laid down across the bed on her belly and pulled one of the magazines out of the trash. 

“Along with all of my money.” 

“Along with a lot of people’s money but, according to the judge, the money was lost in the investments. He didn’t steal it. He just made poor business decisions and left all of us high and dry.” She paged through the magazine as they talked. 

“More recklessness and what do you mean, ‘us’?”

She stopped turning pages and looked up at him. James looked down at her and grunted. 

“It’s already a chore to clear out this house. If I’m too sentimental about half of it and you pull the other half out of the trash, it’s going to take an awfully long time to get done,” he said.  

She closed the magazine and tossed it back in the can. 

“Do you want my help or not?” she said getting up from the bed. 

“No, I’m not ready. There’s things I need to go through first.” He put a protective arm across the top of the box. 

“Well, you’re right about one thing, dad. We’re short on time. I’ll leave you to it but by next weekend we’re going to have to start making serious headway on packing and clearing the house.”

“Yes, yes, so you’ve mentioned. I am aware. I was already working on it when you came in and interrupted me.” 

“Fine, I’ll leave you to it. For the record though, I think he’s going to turn up and no one’s going to believe where he’s been.” 

“Who?” he asked getting angry. 

“Sebastian Whitworth! Haven’t you been listening? They’re going to find him where you’d least expect. That’s my prediction.” She hugged him tight and handed him the letter of acceptance from the Golden Years Manor. “This is such great news. I’m really happy for you,” she said kissing his forehead. “Good night.” 

“Good night.” 

James picked up the brochure for the Golden Years Manor that came with the welcome letter. The blue ribbon holding all those envelopes caught his eye. Probably just some notes from her cousin, he told himself. Wasn’t his birthday in April? She had some family there, not that he’d ever known they were in touch. He glanced over the glossy page of the brochure then tossed it into the trash before moving on to the other bedside table.

The smell coconut oil, the grit of sand between her toes, the warm sun on her face, Gladys took a deep cleansing breath. She could hear waves crash and though the moment was otherwise silent, her memories could hear children shriek with laughter.

“Glorious,” she said, breathing in the salt air, the silence, the peace. She sat on a bench by the boardwalk, watched the waves of the Atlantic Ocean crash to shore. This was perhaps the most important decision of her life, and she wanted to dress for the occasion. Her bright red lipstick matched her purse, belt and shoes. They accented her yellow floral print dress.

The season was poised to start, just as Gladys sat poised to step into her new self. Everything was silent and still. Her mind strayed to summers long past when she and her husband and daughter built sand castles, splashed in the surf, then napped in the sand while the sun dried their suits and tanned their skin.

“Mom!” her daughter called from behind her snapping her out of her reverie. She turned toward the voice.          

“Kate,” she said smiling brightly. “I’m so glad you made it. You’re just in time. Look, isn’t it beautiful?” she said pointing her nose toward the sea.

Kate was shaking her head as she approached.

“Mom, I did not get here in time. We weren’t meeting here. I’ve been looking for you all night!” she said. “How did you get to Atlantic City?”

“I Ubered it,” she said holding her head high.

Kate gaped back.

“You Ubered it? How do you even know what Uber is? Since when do you use it as a verb?”

“Oh, Kate, get with the times. This is what the young people are doing these days,” she said with a dismissive wave.

“Mom, you are not a young person and you cannot just take off whenever you want.”

Gladys turned back toward the horizon. “Agree to disagree,” she said squinting into the strengthening sun.

Kate rolled her eyes. “Here. I brought you a sweater and you left without your orthotics. What are you wearing?”

“Those are old people clothes,” Gladys replied tossing them aside.

“Mom, what are you doing? Those are…”

“Will you stop a moment? Just stop, be quiet and look at how beautiful that is.” She gestured, smiling. Kate hung her head and sat down next to her mother.

“Mom, I can’t keep doing this. You have to stop.”

Gladys’ jaw clenched, her body stiffened and she drew a sharp breath.

“Stop what? Living? You need to stop following me around like a nursemaid. I’m not going to sit around waiting to die,” she said.

“I don’t expect you to,” Kate said.

“Yes, you do!” Gladys snapped back. “I’m older. I’m not infirm. I’m perfectly capable of handling myself. Our family spent so many happy summers here. Don’t you remember? Who are you to tell me I can’t come back to say goodbye? I don’t need your permission. If I were living in my own home, you wouldn’t even know I was gone.”

Part of her wished, not for the first time, she had listened to her son-in-law when he offered to help with her finances. Lord knows he’s more reasonable than his wife, but Gladys resented being told what to do and how to do it and of course Kate would never have allowed him to do it in peace. She would have to stick her nose in it. Gladys was glad it was all gone. The money she lost was part of a life that was no longer hers and she was happy for the clean break.

Everything was topsy-turvy. Somehow Gladys had become the petulant child and her daughter had become the strict parent who didn’t understand. That’s why she had to walk away. That’s why, finally, she was ready to step out into a whole new life. The answer to her prayers came in the mail a few days ago. She needed a ceremony of sorts to mark this turning point, closure some would say. Atlantic City was the right place to do it.

“That’s what worries me, mom. Do you know why you’re not living in your own home anymore? You can’t handle yourself. Do you remember why you are stuck with me?”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a dim witted three-year old with a hearing problem. You mean why you are stuck with me. No, please, remind me again, Katherine Jean. Tell me all about how I ruined everything. I blew it. I lost all my money because I listened to that quack. I forget. Tell me.”

She gave Gladys that condescending look that says I’m being patient with you because you don’t understand that I’m right and you’re wrong, but I’ll explain it again. Gladys wanted to slap that look off her face.

“Everything dad worked for is gone.”

“Everything dad worked for? What about me? I was raising you. You don’t think that was work? I will not have this thrown in my face time and again.”

“I’m trying to help you,” Kate growled.

“You’re trying to control me,” Gladys said, her voice quivering. “Keep me still and quiet until you can bury me and be done with it. It’s payback for the times I kept you in the highchair so I could have a moment’s peace, isn’t it? Chrissakes, Kate, I had to mop the damn floor! I wasn’t hiding in the closet with a beer like Mrs. Foyer next door!”

“What are you talking about, mom?”

“Forget it. You can’t keep me tied down. I won’t stand for it. I made a mistake. Do you want a list of yours?”

“Your mistake cost you everything, so now I guess we’re both stuck.”

Gladys sat shaking with anger and frustration but she came her for a reason and dammit she meant to see it through. “I am not stuck and I will not be your problem anymore.”

“What does that mean?”

“I came here to say goodbye to this life. I’ve said goodbye to your father. I might as well say goodbye to you too.” Gladys picked up the urn that had until an hour ago contained her husband’s ashes and threw it into the trash bin.

“Is that dad’s urn? You are not leaving his ashes here, Mom. You have no right. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe what you’re doing. You just throw them into the trash? You’re out of control. You’re incapable of thinking for yourself.”

Decades of dealing with her daughter taught Gladys that when Kate got loud and high-pitched, responding in a low whisper got the best result.

“I had every right and it’s already done so there’s nothing for you to control here. Save your crocodile tears for someone who doesn’t recognize them as such.”

Kate pulled the urn out of the trash bin and realized it was already empty. She looked at Gladys and Gladys looked toward the surf.

“You had no right. He was my father.”

“He was MY husband. It may surprise you to know that he and I were married long before you came along and lived a life together long after you’d grown and gone. I knew him better than anyone and I know this is what he wanted.”

“You could have told me. We could have done it together.”

“This was my time, with my husband. You would never have agreed to it and it wasn’t any of your business to stop me. This, like most things in the world, has nothing to do with you.”

Kate exploded.

“You have taken everything from me. Dad’s money, which should have put Nick through college…”

“Put Nick through college? Put your own kid through college. We already put you through college.”

“Dad’s ashes, which I intended to hold on to…”

“Well, their gone now. Let go. I have.”

“I don’t even have my guest room anymore where I did my sewing and reading and…”

“Sewing and reading? Well, I am sorry to have taken that from you. I’m going to tell you something, Miss Kate. Coming here today was both the most painful and the easiest decision I have ever made. I’m sorry your father died and not me. No wait, no I’m not. Sorry, not sorry. He died and I certainly didn’t wish it on him and I’m sorry that he didn’t get to live longer and that you have to miss him but do you want to know the truth? I’m free. For the first time since I committed myself to a life of service when I said ‘I do’ I’m free. I wouldn’t trade my life with your father, but I won’t sit and let the clock run out on it either. He’s gone. I’m not. And you know what else? I’m glad. I’m glad that the pension and the house and all of it is gone. I’m glad. For the first time in my life I’m not obliged to anyone. For the first time in my life I am free to be me and do whatever the hell I please, starting with no more old lady clothes.” Gladys picked up the sweater and orthotics and tossed them into the bin too. “So thank you for your hospitality, I will be leaving your home shortly, and I won’t be back. Soon you will be free too. Do take care.”

She picked up sequined shoes that glimmered in the growing sunlight as she stormed barefoot to Kate’s car, got in and slammed the door.

Kate had no idea what her mother thought was happening “shortly” and she was certain it was nothing anyway. She got in the car and slammed her own door.

“Want to stop at Chubby’s for ice cream? My treat?” Gladys asked as though nothing had happened.

“I had to take off of work. I’ll have to make up the time,” Kate replied starting the car and putting it in gear.

“Well, let’s go then. One of these days you’re going to look up from your work and you’re going to be me and your son is going to try to lock you away.”

Sitting in the car they faced the sunrise. Kate buckled her seatbelt then reached to help her mother. Gladys swatted her hand away then looked up into her daughter’s face, her countenance changed. She turned toward the sun, nearly fully above the horizon now.

“Look at that, Katie,” she said. “Isn’t it beautiful? We spent a lot of happy summers here. Do you remember? I have so many fond memories.” She patted Kate’s hand. “Let’s go home. You need to get to work.”