Ginny Aiken: Priced to Move

What can I say? They’re wacky ones, but they’re my wacky ones. I love them to death.

After hugs and kisses—the real kind, not those oh-so-chic air deals—I make my way to the parking garage, drive home, watch Al and his pal do their thing, sign papers, go inside, drink a tall glass of Miss Mona’s killer sweet iced tea, and then collapse on the parlor sofa.

If you ask me how I did any of it, I can’t tell you, it all happened so fast, like a blur.

And blurring out’s scary. Almost as scary as . . . the other thing.

The TV thing.

Did I really agree to work for Miss Mona? Did I really agree to hawk jewelry and gemstones on TV?

Do I need a frontal lobotomy?

I’ve never had a problem with Wednesday mornings. I do now.

Let me draw you a mental picture: Aunt Weeby . . . her metal contraptions . . . the trip home . . . helped by Miss

Mona. How’s that for scary? That’s what I’m facing today. I’ll take a blue Monday any day.

Oh yeah. I’m ready to pull my hair out over these two. But before I get to my new do, I have to help Erin talk Aunt Weeby into the required wheelchair ride to the parking garage, where Miss Mona is waiting in the Shop-Til-U-Drop Network’s limo. Aunt Weeby’s comfort on the ride home is assured.

Just not her cooperation.

She frowns from head to toe. “What good’s this cute little cast they gave me if I have to ride down to the car in that dumb ol’ thing?”

Erin pushes the chair closer. “Weeby, it’s hospital policy. Remember? We have lots of those around here, and I can’t break the rules. I like my job. What if someone’s spilled water, and you slip on it? How about grease in the garage? The cast won’t keep you from breaking something else if you fall. You want to keep this super-luxurious suite awhile longer?”

Aunt Weeby crosses her arms. “I’m done with being sick. And I can walk outta here just fine too, thank you very much.”

There’s my cue. “Aunt Weeby? D’you want to go home?” “Why, sugarplum, you know I do.”

“Well, then. Piece of cake. Sit in the chair.”

“But—”

“It’s the chair, or it’s the chair.”

Her sigh deserves an Oscar. “Now, you two girls have just ganged up on a poor, defenseless old lady. I ask you, is that right?”

Before I roll my eyes, I catch myself—I did tell you I do that way too much around Aunt Weeby, right?—and only shrug. “Them’s the rules, ma’am.”

She clamps her lips together, the edges rim white. “I just plain hate this. I can do for myself. I’m not really that old, sugarplum.”

The lightbulb goes on in my head. So that’s what this is really about. I drop to my knee next to the green pleather chair where Aunt Weeby’s been ensconced during our argument. “It’s losing your independence that worries you, isn’t it?”

When her eyes meet mine, fear burns loud and clear in the blue. “I’ve never had to depend on anyone”—her voice cracks—“not even on your dear Uncle Harris. And I don’t intend to start something like that at this point in my life.” Her hand is cold against my fingers. “You and Uncle Harris were partners, the real deal, I know. But this is different. Look at it this way. If I was in your place—the broken leg deal—I’d have to accept the same kind of help and limitations you do right now.” I wink. “It’s really not all about you!”

She covers my hand with her other one. “I guess my head knows that, sugarplum. But it’s my gut what hates this being so weak, so needy. I see so many friends who’re in warehouses now—you know. Them nursing homes.”

“Oh, ick! What a nasty thing to say.”

“Listen to me, Andie. I know I’m kinda creaky, but I’ve got me some eyes and ears too. And I know how folks feel when their friends and families muscle ’em into them nursing homes. They feel they’ve been shelved in a warehouse—that’s Paulina Madson, Doc Madson’s older sister, what came up with the name when they stuck her in that Happy Days Acres place. Happy Days Acres! What kinda dopey name is that? I can’t stand it, and I’m gonna fight it to the end.”

No way will she wind up like that. At least, not so long as I’m around. I’ll take care of her. But no matter how strong my reaction, Aunt Weeby’s words scare me more than I let on. I can’t stand to think she’s aged so much. I can’t stand to think of the day when she’ll go home to be with her Lord, even though I know it’s coming. Not too soon, Lord, please.

“Weeby,” Erin says, “what kind of logic is that? You’re going home, woman, not to a nursing facility. You’ll have all the independence you want there. Well, all that your cast gives you, but the cast’s not so bad, right? Staying here, fighting hospital rules, that isn’t independence.”

It’s just stubbornness, Aunt Weeby’s specialty. Something I’m just a wee bit familiar with myself. “C’mon. Miss Mona and the driver are waiting for us. You should be happy, not so down. Let’s get you home.”

“Oh, my, my, my!” She shakes her head. “I shouldn’t’ve put my troubles on you girls. I’m so, so sorry. That’s not right. I do get to go home, and I should be celebrating. Besides. Just look at my darling new cast, Andie. It’s pink!”

My aunt, the pink obsessed. “I can see that. Whose palm’d you grease to get that kiddy cast?”

With a ton of effort, she stands, then tips up her chin and looks down her nose at me—kinda hard to do, since I’m about six inches taller. “I did no such thing. Dr. Takashi told me to choose, and I chose.”

So as not to further irritate her sensibilities, I fight my urge to hold her elbow to help her walk as she crosses to the wheelchair. Instead, I walk next to her, matching her every step, close enough to catch her, if needed.

Finally, she sits, hugs the vase of pink roses I’d sent her, and we head on out. When the elevator finally lands at the appropriate parking garage floor, I take a deep breath.

Almost. I’m almost home.

4 00

Miss Mona spots us. “Why, Livvy! And here I thought you said you wouldn’t ride the wheelchair, no matter what.” She winks. “You going soft on me already?”

Aarrgh! See what I’m up against?

Aunt Weeby glares. “You bite that flappy tongue a’ yours, Mona Latimer. You don’t know beans. This”—she smacks the armrest—“is all about them hospital rules. Can’t have sweet Erin here losing her job over a silly little ol’ wheelchair, now can we?”

“Of course not, dear, of course.” She grins. “Now let’s get you in this car. Davina’s ready to help us get you home.”

The tall, uniformed driver gives me a brief nod. Whoa! This girl’s got at least two inches and a good forty pounds on me. It takes a lot to make me feel petite. Davina does it without breaking a sweat. Bet you shopping’s no treat for her.

Davina turns to Aunt Weeby. “You ready, ma’am?”

“Can’t wait to get home.”

To my surprise and Aunt Weeby’s horror, Davina the driver scoops her up and heads to the limo. Aunt Weeby sputters like a steamed-up teapot but gets nowhere with Miss Mona’s benign giant.

“Why . . . you! Davina! You put me down right this minute.” To Miss Mona, “Call off your goon-girl. And here I always thought her such a sweet thing.” She shakes her head. “I’m perfectly capable a’ making my way to that fancy car a’ yours, Mona. Tell her to put me down right this very minute. Immediately, Mona Latimer!”

Davina’s shoulders shake with silent chuckles. I glance at Miss Mona, who’s got the laugh she’s fighting plastered all over her face, and finally at Erin. Then I get it.

They’d planned this. I’m going to have to give Miss Mona more credit. Aunt Weeby’s no enigma. What you see is what you get—goofy, feisty, lovable, and recovering from a badly broken leg. So it wouldn’t have taken much to figure how she’d react when faced with the wheelchair. But I’m still glad they planned it; Aunt Weeby’s not ready to walk, no matter how much mileage she wants to put on her cast.