I glance up to the clock on the wall to make sure I don’t leave her waiting for one minute longer than I have to.
I’m not surprised to find her right where I left her when I return. Except, she’s not alone. Her friend sits beside her.
Mrs. Archer has more visitors than other residents. Her grandchildren and friends come to Holly Home often, but this particular visitor is my favorite. In my head, I refer to her as the queen because she reminds me so much of the old monarchs I’ve read about in novels. Stately and beautiful, but sharp too, like a finely cut gem. She wears her white hair in a short pixie cut that frames a pair of glacier blue eyes, which hold me captive any time she aims a question my way.
She looks almost frigid sitting there in a simple, perfectly starched button-down tunic with the cuffs rolled to her elbows. It’s layered over navy pants and paired with cream flats. Her collar stands up around a heavy beaded necklace, and her wrists are covered in thin bracelets. Her emerald wedding band glitters in the light.
With her perfect posture and watchful gaze, she looks like she’s holding court. Hence why I call her the queen even though I know her name is Cornelia. She introduced herself to me a few weeks ago, and I fumbled in shaking her hand because she held it out to me as if expecting me to kiss it.
“Ah, there’s the child now,” she says when she sees me walk in.
At twenty-three, I wouldn’t say I’m a child, but I don’t dare correct her. She intimidates me into near silence, something not so easily done anymore.
“Come and play for us, won’t you? Annette said you could take a few minutes off, and I’ve traveled a long way to visit my friend,” she says, patting Mrs. Archer’s hand. “Though I’ll admit, I had another selfish motive for visiting Holly Home today, and it was so I could hear you play.”
I blush and nod. “Of course. Yes, I can play for a few minutes.”
There’s no sheet music for me to reference. When I first started working here and inquired about the piano, Mrs. Buchanan told me no one ever bothered to play it. She wanted to get rid of it to make room for more seating, but it was too heavy and too expensive to deal with, so here it sits, slightly out of tune, collecting dust, and completely untouched except by my hands. Mrs. Archer was the person who first encouraged me to play it. We were out in the hall on a short walk, and she was leaning on my arm, asking me about myself. I mentioned that I could play piano—or at least used to be able to—and she demanded we turn and head toward the rec room. That day, I sat down on the wobbly bench with its one leg slightly shorter than the rest so that I’m perpetually rocking back and forth, and I played for the first time in years.
No sheet music means I’m forced to play everything by memory. Even with the practice I’ve had over the last few months, there are only a few songs to draw from, the old melodies that live in my bones.
I choose a piece my dad used to play for me when I was young, something I would never play for near strangers unless I truly believed they would feel it like I do.
Rêverie.
The piece resonates so quickly with a familiar audience that Cornelia sighs.
“Ah, Debussy. What wonderful taste you have.”
I smile as I continue to play, concentrating on the succeeding notes so intently that Mrs. Buchanan has to walk over to the piano and wave her hand in front of my face before I realize she’s been trying to get my attention for the last few moments.
I immediately stop playing.
“I’ve been standing at the door calling your name,” she chides.
“She was playing for us,” Cornelia says, coming to my defense.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Buchanan’s annoyance isn’t lessened by Cornelia’s explanation. She’s made it clear on multiple occasions that the nursing home isn’t paying me to sit on my butt, even if I am playing at the request of one of the residents.
I open my mouth to defend myself. I’m on break; I wasn’t slacking off. I could go sit in the locker room like everyone else does, but I see there’s no point in speaking up. She’s not here to get onto me for playing the piano.
She nods her head toward the door.
“We need to have another chat.”
I’ve been interrogated by police officers before, and my second meeting with Mrs. Buchanan feels a lot like that.
Her words read right out of a bad cop film. Is there anything new I’d like to tell her? Have I told her the whole truth? She wants to help me. She’s on my side.
When I hold my ground and insist on my innocence, she sighs and presents new “evidence”.
Apparently, since last night, two eye witnesses have come forward and claimed to have seen Mrs. Dyer’s ring in my possession.
“I didn’t steal her ring,” I say for what feels like the hundredth time.
And if I did, why would I be so stupid as to keep it in plain sight after the fact?
“So you’re accusing these two individuals of lying?” She emphasizes that crime as if it’s worse than the theft itself.
I shrug. I don’t know what their motive is for implicating me. Maybe they think they saw me with the ring. Maybe they’re covering up for someone else. I should tell her point-blank that they’re lying, but I don’t want to get on anyone’s bad side. I know better.
In response to my silence, she rearranges some papers on her desk then straightens her glasses on the bridge of her thin nose. When she glances back to me, her eyes are narrowed.
“I didn’t want to have to do this, Maren. I know how important this job is to you, but I went out on a limb hiring you…”
I tune out the rest of her spiel, having heard it plenty of times before. Mrs. Buchanan enjoys rearranging the narrative to cast herself as the hero and me as the serf, but I know for a fact Holly Home gets a tax credit from the state for employing me.
Her next words do catch my attention though. In fact, they pierce straight through me.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to contact your group home. They’ll be calling me in a few days anyway for your monthly check-in,” she says, dropping the threat like a grenade and hoping it’ll do the trick.
I come close to giving her what she wants: an emotional response. My lower lip trembles and my stomach clenches tight. I didn’t think I had any hope left in me for people like her, but I was wrong. After all this time, I’m still somehow wounded.
She knows she’s backed me into a corner. My group home is for young adults with criminal records who’ve aged out of the foster care system and need a safe place to go. We have to adhere to certain rules in exchange for the low rent. One of those rules is not breaking any laws.
“But if you confess…” She lets the suggestion hang for a moment before she continues. “Well, I’d be willing to come to some kind of arrangement with you.”
So she’s offering me a plea bargain: confess to a crime I didn’t commit in exchange for a lenient sentence. It’s bullshit, and instead of saying that to her face, I jerk to my feet and walk right out of her office.
I don’t have a moment to spare either. Tears are personal. My pain is my own, and I’m grateful that I make it out into the hall before I start to cry. I give in to one or two moments of soul-crushing anger, and then I inhale deeply, wipe my cheeks, and throw back my shoulders, unwillingly to succumb to the self-pity knocking at my door. I’ll figure out who’s trying to pin this on me. I’ll get an alibi. I’ll ask Mrs. Archer to vouch for my good character. I’ll hunt down Mrs. Dyer’s ring and get it back to her myself! Anything but admit to a crime I didn’t commit. I won’t do it—consequences be damned.