was on; the kitchen and the downstairs bedroom were scrubbed and usable and just needed repainting; the odors in the house now were of Lysol and bleach, trisodium phosphate, ammonia and Pine Sol. Junk was high in the driveway, with more added daily. The heap looked like a rising volcano of obsidian; some of the trash bags even steamed in the sun.
To Erica’s surprise the house she was unearthing was very nice, as Mrs. Maryhill had said earlier. The first floor had four spacious rooms and a small pantry; the upper apartment had four rooms; and the basement was dry with a good concrete floor.
“Eventually,” the Realtor said, “you’ll have to hire help. If you decide to take out a mortgage, hold off as long as possible. Get the house in the best shape you can before anyone comes to inspect it. Do you plan to get a job?”
“I hadn’t given it any thought yet,” Erica said. She suspected that Mrs. Maryhill had assessed her financial position quite accurately. No one did the kind of cleaning Erica had been doing if they had a tidy fortune stashed away.
“Well, consider it,” Mrs. Maryhill said. “Banks like to think their clients can repay a loan. They’re funny that way.” She smiled widely. “And something else you might consider,” she said, “is doing some volunteer work for the time being. A few hours a week, at least. You’d meet local people who may be willing to give references, you see. You know the rehab clinic over on Country Club Road? That would be a good place for you. Close enough to walk to, but more important, you’d meet a good clientele, some of the patients, doctors, therapists, the sort of people banks adore for references.”
“The only thing I’m qualified to do is teach,” Erica said. “Fifteen years of experience. But I suppose I could work in a kitchen, something like that.”
Mrs. Maryhill shook her head. “No, no. You want to meet people. You have a lovely voice. Volunteer to read to the patients.”
All afternoon and into the night Erica considered both suggestions. Regardless of her years of experience, she knew she would not be qualified to teach full-time here. For that she would need Oregon certification, which would take time, and possibly require some classes, and she had no intention of going that route. She was truly burned out, she admitted, but perhaps she could get a temporary certificate and sign up as a substitute. Most school districts had a number of substitutes who worked all hours, even full-time, but without the perks: no medical insurance, no pension, no paid holidays.
Besides, it would be temporary. As soon as she got a loan, and finished fixing up the house, she would sell it. She didn’t want a house and a job; she wanted some money for the first time in her life. Sell it, take a long vacation, buy a new car…As she scrubbed away grime accumulated over many years, she came to appreciate the fine woodwork, the lovely cabinets, good cedar-lined closets, lead-glass-fronted bookcases in the living room. Two hundred thousand, she told herself. She could endure anything, even teaching fifth grade, for that kind of payback.
More to the point, she would need an income. First she had to spruce herself up, she decided, fingering her hair, lank and mousy brown. She was forty years old and felt fifty, and suspected she looked it. Start with the hair, she told herself; she could not volunteer for anything, much less apply for a teaching position looking like a charwoman.
The next week she put in her application with the school district and then drove to the Kelso-McIvey Rehabilitation Clinic, which turned out to be four blocks from her house. There was a large parking lot in front of the two-story building, a high hedge and a covered walk from a wide drive. A big van under the cover had a mechanism lowering a patient in a wheelchair.
Erica passed it and entered the building, which was not at all institutional. Baskets held potted plants and more plants in ceramic pots were on the reception desk. A teddy bear leaned against a pot with a basket of peppermints nearby. A pretty, blond young woman at the reception desk greeted her and, on hearing her name, said, “Mrs. Boardman will be free in a minute or two. She’s expecting you. You want to sit over there and wait? I’ll tell her you’re here.” She wore a name tag: Annie. She motioned toward a waiting room where a few other people were seated, and then smiled at the patient an attendant was wheeling in.
“Mrs. Daniels! How nice to see you. How’s it going? You look wonderful!”
Erica was not kept waiting long. Annie beckoned her and led the way down a brightly lit corridor, chatting as she walked. “Boy, can they use volunteers here. Half the people you see working are volunteers, in fact.”
“Well, I won’t have a lot of free time,” Erica said.
“Ten minutes makes a difference,” Annie said. “Here we are.”
She tapped on a door, opened it and moved aside for Erica to enter. A tall, lean woman rose from her desk as they entered. She looked to be sixty and was dressed in chinos and a T-shirt. Her hair was gray, straight and very short, almost too severe, but bright blue earrings and a matching necklace softened her appearance, and her smile was warm and friendly as she came around the desk to take Erica’s hand.
“Ms. Castle, how do you do? I’m Naomi Boardman. Thanks, Annie. Will you be around for a bit?”
“Until four-thirty. I’ll be at the front desk until Bernie gets back from the dentist. That should be any minute now.” She smiled at Erica and left.
Then, seated in two visitors’ chairs, Naomi Boardman and Erica talked. It was not a real interview, Erica came to realize very fast. Things had already been decided. Naomi made it clear that they wanted her.
“When I brought it up with Darren—he’s our head physical therapist—we agreed that it’s a marvelous idea, to have someone read to the patients. They work so hard, harder than any of the staff, and they are exhausted by the end of the day. This would be relaxing, and even comforting, we believe.”
The patients varied in age, she said, from young children to octogenarians, suffering the effects of bicycle accidents, strokes, congenital birth defects, fire, brain tumors—all kinds of trauma. Although most of them were outpatients, there was also a fifteen-bed hospital on the upper floor. Sometimes it was filled with a waiting list, other times not. At present, she said, they had eleven patients up there.
Feeling a growing disquietude, Erica asked, “But who would I be reading to? What age group? How many?”
“Well, we won’t know that until you begin. Maybe four, maybe ten. All ages. And anything you would find suitable for your fifth grade classes would work fine.” She smiled at Erica. “You’ll have a lot of latitude. It won’t be so much what you read, you see, as the fact that you will be reading to them. And you have such a nice voice.”
It was arranged. She would begin on Wednesday, starting at five in the evening. Naomi hesitated over the hour. It was best for the patients because some of them were so fretful by then, restless and exhausted, but it might be hard for Erica. Not at all, Erica assured her. Then Naomi called Annie back and asked her to show Erica the facility. “Welcome to the Kelso-McIvey Rehabilitation Center,” Naomi said.
“I’ve never heard anyone call it that,” Annie confided, as she started the tour. “It’s just the rehab clinic. Down that way are the therapy rooms. We won’t go in while they’re being used. This way to the garden. Darren thinks it’s a good idea to get people out in the open as much as possible.”
Erica saw little of the clinic that day, but later she came to appreciate the many ways the curse of institution had been obliterated. One wall held children’s art, colorful, fanciful, honest. Another displayed whimsical figures from Disney or Dr. Suess. Dorothy with her
