They May Not Mean To, but They Do: A Novel Read Free

Home. Assisted Living—couldn’t everyone use a little assistance in living? Three meals a day—nice comfort food, too. And a room of your own. You would be retired, of course, so you could read novels all day long without feeling guilty, assuming you could still see through the inoperable cataracts you might, at that age, have developed. Really, if people were sent to old-age homes at a younger age, they would get so much more out of them.
    Freddie had already moved her own father into three different assisted-living facilities. The first time, he went to the Motion Picture Home in the Valley, an inviting-looking place with its gardens and neat paths and scattered terraces and benches, though no one could walk on its neat paths or sit on its benches or gaze at the fat roses from the terrace. It was simply too hot, it was always much too hot. Her father had been lucky to get in, though, hot or not—there was always a long waiting list. He was an actor, Duncan Hughes—a minor actor you might see in a party scene of a romantic comedy with Doris Day and Rock Hudson, lifting his martini glass above people’s heads as he squeezed through the crowd and made a few humorous comments to the stars. He had been dapper and not quite dashing when he was young. Now his face showed the good life he had attempted to live. Decades of professional disappointment, as well as his attempts to comfort himself in that disappointment, had left their mark on his florid drinker’s face.
    Duncan had always attributed failure to bad luck. He was a believer in luck and had never reconciled himself to not having any. But at last, Freddie thought, he had hit the jackpot, not one he had expected, certainly not one he had dreamed of, but a jackpot nonetheless: the Motion Picture Home.
    Duncan’s memory had started to go even earlier. He had managed to sign with a new agent, however, a chatty man who operated out of a disreputable-looking office in a strip mall. It wasn’t as if Duncan Hughes would get any parts, Freddie knew that. He wouldn’t be able to remember his cues, much less his lines. But having an agent meant he could still hope for roles, which provided some continuity for him, as hoping for roles, Freddie thought uncharitably, had always been a dominant part of his life. And perhaps having an agent might keep her father sitting safely by the phone rather than driving all over town to open auditions. When he drove to auditions these days, he tended to total the car. The bottle of rye he kept on the passenger seat didn’t help.
    So on the day, a year ago, when Freddie got a call from her father asking if she could drive him to the airport, her first reaction had been relief—her father had finally agreed that he shouldn’t drive! He was asking for help! He was reaching out! But then the rest of the request hit her.
    “The airport? Why are you going to the airport, Dad?”
    “To catch a plane, obviously.”
    “Where is the plane going?”
    “It’s going to Sweden, obviously.”
    “That’s not obvious to me, Dad. Why is it going to Sweden?”
    “That’s where the commercial is being shot.”
    Freddie was devastated. Her father was having hallucinations, she would have to call his neurologist, the Aricept was clearly not helping. She called his agent first, just to ask if he knew of anything that could have triggered the hallucination.
    “Well,” the agent said, “I guess the fact that your father’s been hired to do a commercial and is flying to Sweden—that could have done it.” He chuckled at his joke. “It’s legit, Miss Hughes. I just got the contract.”
    She tried to talk her father out of it, as she had tried to talk him out of driving. She tried to enlist the aid of his doctor, as she had tried to enlist the aid of his doctor in convincing him to give up driving. But she knew he was even less likely to give up a role than he was his car. He had been waiting a long time for a role. She remembered him waiting for