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November is National Novel Writing Month, and I’m writing a novel. The goal is to write a 50000-word novel and finish it by November 30. Do you think I can do it? Follow along on my NaNoWriMo link or read my progress here.

Hi there! Thanks for coming! This is where I’m posting my writing for this year’s NaNoWriMo, more or less live: each time I complete another page of my story, “Have I Told You This Story Before?”, I post it here. If you haven’t read any of it yet, I’d suggest you scroll down and read the posts in chronological order…

Day 23 — 35,302 words; 70% and Only a Week Left! Can She do it, Ladies and Gentlemen?

Posted by tolleyv on November 23, 2016 in National Novel Writing Month daily word count | 0 comments

It had finally happened. They had run out of Ichiban. Instead of letting her life crumble to pieces around her, Nora texted her mom: Hey Mom. Are you going shopping any time soon?

About an hour and a half later, her mom whizzed through the front door, dropped a bag containing milk and stuff on the kitchen table, and ran upstairs. “I have to get ready for work, darling. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to respond, but I got some groceries like you asked!”

Nora took everything out of the bag and spread the contents out on the kitchen table. Milk, Shreddies, tinned corn, tinned baked beans, and a loaf of bread. What on earth was her mother thinking? You always buy Ichiban. ALWAYS. Nora put the milk in the fridge. Then she went upstairs.

Her mother, skinny as a sapling in her matching gray bra and panties, was wiggling into a slightly soiled Denny’s uniform.

“Mom, we’re out of Ichiban.”

Her mother’s head popped out of the top of the uniform, her black hair frazzled and her eyes wide. “Are you sure? I just bought a big pack last week!”

“That’s why I asked if you were going shopping.”

“So sorry, sweetheart.” Nora’s mother rushed to her vanity, pulled a brush through her hair, and wrapped it up in a hair elastic. “Next time. I promise.”

Nora sighed. Her mom was so incredibly good at making promises. She just didn’t tend to keep them. “How about if I just go myself?”

Her mom looked at her. “What, on the bus?”

“People do it.”

Her mom looked at her some more, while pinning her Denny’s name badge to her front. “But then I’d have to leave you with my credit card and… no, I can’t do that. I never know when I’m going to need it.”

For god’s sake! “Mom, I have money. I have a job, you know!”

Her mom stood up, ready to rush to Denny’s. “Absolutely not! That’s your money, for your future. It’s my job to take care of you.” As she ran down the stairs, Nora hot at her heels, she called back, “Don’t you dare spend your money on food! What do you think I work two jobs for? It’s so I can provide for you, Nora. Me!” As she breezed past the kitchen, she continued, “Just eat what I brought. Oh, could you put that stuff away?”

It would have been nice if her mom could have worked maybe one and a half jobs, answered texts so she would know when they were out of Ichiban if she wanted to provide for Nora so badly, and be available for advice maybe ten minutes out of every 24-hour period. As her mom stuffed her swollen feet into her sensible waitressing shoes, Nora said, “Do you have to leave right now? I wanted to ask you some stuff…”

Nora’s mom slung her arms into her jacket and grabbed her keys. “When I get back, sweetheart, okay? I promise. Love you!” She blew kisses and the door slammed behind her.

Another promise she would not be able to keep. Nora had to get up at seven to be at work on time. She didn’t think she’d really be keen on a talk at two a.m. or whatever time her mom came back through the door. She was beginning to understand exactly how Mr. Hoominz, Mrs. Balanafeel, Mrs. Tillynaught, and all the other old people at OG felt. At least she saw her mom from time to time, even if it was a quick passing through between her jobs. At Oleander Gardens, there were no visitors, ever. At least she could text her mom, and might even get a response occasionally. Mrs. Balanafeel couldn’t even bring herself to write a letter, because she knew very well that she would receive no response.

It seemed more important than ever that she figure out what was going on in OG. It wasn’t just a case of the old people having nothing better to do. There was definitely something strange going on there. So it looked like she was on her own for figuring out what it was. What would Grissom do? He’d look at bugs… and there were no bugs in her evidence. But what was there in her evidence? She’d gotten nothing of any value out of the old people, and still had no access to the storage room and the office.

Since the old people didn’t make reliable witnesses, she’d have to talk to someone who would. And unfortunately for him, that somebody was Randy.

Day 22 Part 2: 34,533 and 69, Dude!

Posted by tolleyv on November 22, 2016 in National Novel Writing Month daily word count | 0 comments

Randy wasn’t to be trusted; Ryan was too new to the game; her mother was far to busy to parent; there was only one route to take. Nora settled in with a bag of freshly popped microwave popcorn (extra buttery) and a coke and turned on her laptop. She had the entire fifteen-season run of CSI, the original one, Las Vegas. If she began at the beginning, she could learn the skills necessary to get to the bottom of the Mystery of the Dying Old People.

Grissom was awesome. Nick was cute, in an oldish sort of way. Warwick was Oh-my-God. The rest of them ranged from meh to annoying. After three episodes, Nora: 1) was done with it; 2) had a bunch of new TV friends who she couldn’t wait to meet again; and 3) full of popcorn and sleepy. She also had a new approach to discovering the secrets of Oleander Gardens.

Nora crawled into bed and contemplated. From CSI she had learned the following:

– Any location on the planet has some kind of traffic camera or something filming it.

– All photos and videos can be ‘brought up a little’ to clarify details such as people’s faces and licence plate numbers.

– All people will confess to their crime if faced with enough conclusive evidence.

– Any crime can be solved in 40 minutes.

– All she had to do was examine the scene of the crime, photograph and bag evidence, figure out how the evidence fit together, and she would have her answers.

Nora went to sleep that night actually excited about what she was going to do tomorrow. And she needed a team. Another thing CSI had taught her was teamwork. She would put together a team of the finest minds that OG had to offer.

Next morning, each room Nora entered, she asked questions.

She asked Mr.. Hoominz, as she mechanically changed his lavender bedding and ratty towels, if he remembered how many of the old people had died since he’d arrived.

“Well….” said Mr. Hoominz slowly, pondering… “I came here the year of the flood.”

“Hurricane Katrina?”

“No, the great flood in Hunterville. A footbridge got washed out, and the stream changed course in two spots. One area that was fine for fishing, fine for fishing my whole life, mind you, for as far back as I can remember; why I used to go there with my pop when I was just a little tyke, younger than you! We’d sit on an old log that lay there in the gravel by the side of the creek, where it went round a wide bend, which caused it to slow down and deepen, almost like a pond or a little lake. Anyway, on that old log, we’d tie our flies. My pop, he was an expert at tying flies. And I’m not talking about those newfangled lures you get now, with the shiny bits and the dangly bits and all the doo-dads and fluff. No, my pop, he could take a fish hook, and a couple of feathers, and some line, and he could work magic. Those fish, once we stood up in our hip waders and threw our lines in, those fish never stood a chance.” Mr. Hoominz chuckled at the memory.

“Right.” said Nora. “So, it was the year of the flood…”

“Eh? Oh, no, that came much later.”

“I mean when you first got here, Mr. Hoominz. When you first arrived at ol’ OG…”

“Ol’ OG?”

“Oleander Gardens. This place. You came here the year of the flood, remember?”

“Which flood was that?”

“Um, the one that changed your fishing spot, where you used to fish with your pop? With the old log and the lures made out of feathers? Then the flood came around and ruined everything.”

“Oh, Nora. You’re right, about everything! But how did you know? Well, never mind. I guess even with your powerful gift you can get mixed up sometimes. You see, the flood came much later. Long after my dear pop had left this world. No, sir; we hadn’t been down to that fishing area for such a long time. Why, I don’t even remember the last time I went fishing wiht my pop. When was it now? It was the year that young upstart Kairnes decided to build the new town square. Can you imagine? Anything to win the people over, eh Nora? But what’s the point, once one has already won the election? Am I right?”

“So, after the flood you came to live here, at Oleander Gardens. What year was that, Mr. Hoominz? Do you remember?”

Mr. Hoominz thought for several minutes. “What year was that…” he pondered. “Well, now, I guess that would have been around about the time of the flood.”

Nora was actually finished in his room and couldn’t continue this conversation for any longer regardless.

“We’ll talk more tomorrow, okay, Mr. Hoominz? Or maybe we can chat at lunch?”

Mr. Hoominz brightened. “Fried egg day!”

Next came the room of Mrs. Balanafeel. Mrs. Balanafeel sat at her desk, which had a mirror over it (as did all the desks; Ikea specials in every room). She peered into the mirror through her thick glasses and rubbed at her cheeks with a stick of rouge, her hands shaking like she’d just done two hundred push-ups.

“Hi, Mrs. Balanafeel. Do you want me to help you with that?”

“Oh, Rhonda, you’re such a dear!”

Who the hell was Rhonda? “It’s me, Nora, Mrs. Balanafeel.”

“Nora? Oh, yes. Lovely to see you, darling. We don’t often get visitors.”

“I work here, Mrs. Balanafeel.”

“You do?… Why, what happened to Rhonda?”

An excellent question. It occurred to Nora that she ought to have a notebook or something to jot these things down again. If Rhonda was a previous employee, she might have some information that Nora could use. In fact, she might have been let go because she’d been digging in places Mrs. King did not want dug. Nora would have to be more careful. Regardless, she pulled out her phone and started a new memo. Rhonda, she wrote. Ex employee? Might know something?

“So, Mrs. Balanafeel. Wanting to look your best for the funeral, I see.”

“Oh, yes, dear. Certainly Martha would have wanted me to.”

“Of course. So this Rhonda. Was she here before me?”

Still shakily applying a round red spot of grease on her cheek, Mrs. Balanafeel said, “Hmm?”

“You were thinking of Rhonda when I came in, remember? Did she work here before me? Cleaning the rooms?”

“Cleaning the rooms? Well, I suppose she did, yes. But there were different people here, back then. So many different people. There was Mrs. Rhodes. She came directly after losing her husband, Tim, in a horrific lorry accident.”

“Poor Mrs. Rhodes. What happened to her?”

Mrs. Balanafeel looked shocked, especially due to the wobbly black line of eyeliner she had drawn around both eyes. “Why, she passed, of course, Nora!”

“Is that really the only way anyone ever leaves here?”

“Why of course! We’re seniors. We don’t come here expecting to go somewhere else afterwards! except to our graves, of course.” Mrs. Balanafeel was so nonchalant about it.

“But what about illness? Does anyone ever get transferred to hospital?”

Mrs. Balanafeel thought about this for a long time. She was clearly looking back over her many years at OG, trying to remember if there had been an instance of someone getting transfered to a hospital or something. Finally she said, “She died only four months after arriving, you know.”

Nora sighed. Her work in Mrs. Balanafeel’s room was nearly finished, and she still had no evidence, except for a possible lead to someone named Rhonda who may or may not have worked at Oleander Gardens once.

“That’s often the way,” Mrs. Balanafeel continued. “My Larry, he passed many years ago. But you know, Nora, when a couple has spent fifty, sixty years at one another’s sides, always together through thick and thin, good times and bad, in sickness and in health, as they say, and then one goes, it is usually only a matter of months before the other follows.”

Nora felt broken-hearted. Imagine living with someone for that long! That was at least… four times her own life! Or something like that! So math was definitely not her strong suit, but compared to her life and how long she’d been alive and the few things she’d done, mostly alone, like go to school, move into a really ugly boring house in the suburbs, go to school for longer, drop out of school and get a job at an old folks home, to imagine doing hundreds of thousands of things always with this other person at your side and then losing them. It was nearly unbearable just to think about. That was it. Nora was good on her own.

Day 22; 33,049 words and 66% of the way to my word count goal

Posted by tolleyv on November 22, 2016 in National Novel Writing Month daily word count | 0 comments

Nora had scheduled her day fairly effectively to avoid Ryan after he arrived at four. She gave him a small flicked-wrist salute as she pulled the dust mop out of the janitorial closet at one end of the corridor and he emerged briefly from the games room and disappeared again into the TV lounge at the other end of the corridor. Aside from that, she didn’t run into him again until it was time to pack up for the day and go home.

What the hell was with Mrs. King anyway? She was so mean to everyone, and kept everything under lock and key. Nora kind of felt like going and asking her some questions, but nope. It would have been like asking a zombie why he growled all the time and wanted to eat her. Actually, there was probably nothing untoward going on at all, like Mrs. King said. Just an unusually high frequency of deaths in a nursing home. Old people are fragile and the slightest cold could knock them out, probably. But then why did Mrs. King keep those two storage rooms and her office locked up all the time? Why did Nora clean the whole place except for those three rooms, that nobody had access to? What secrets need to be kept so carefully at a normal nursing home? There was one person who would be able to help her get to the bottom of it, and hopefully tell her it was all normal: her mom. Nora’s mom had worked in probably a million places over the years. She’d be able to tell Nora in a second if this was a normal work environment, or if something was fishy and required further investigation.

Nora stopped mopping for a moment and pulled out her phone. She might as well keep a small flat stone in her pocket for all the calls and messages she got every day. She facebook messaged her mom: Hey! Are you going to be home at all today?

After about twenty minutes, the pithy response came: Of course. Gotta change for Denny’s. Why, is something broken?

No, Mom. Why would she assume that Nora was only texting her because something was broken? Just wondered if you had a chance to talk.

Another fifteen minutes or so. Probably could spare five minutes or so, if you don’t mind watching me change. Is something wrong?

Why did something have to be wrong for a girl to want to talk to her mother? Before she could reply, another message bleeped through: Are you pregnant?!

Oh, for god’s sakes, mother! It was unbelievable how very little her mother actually knew about her. Forget it.

No, what is it, Noogie?

Okay, so at least she knew enough to recognize that she’d fucked up, as was evident by her using her baby-name for Nora, which was only applied in serious situations. Who asks her daughter if she’s pregnant via facebook messenger? Somebody who hasn’t spoken to her daughter except in passing between jobs for approximately sixteen years, that’s who.

Never mind. Just a work thing. I’ll figure it out myself.

By then it was time to wrap things up. Nora did a quick pass up and down the back corridor, then after replacing everything in the janitorial closet, she went through the chapel and into the mortuary to see how Mrs. Ruben was looking for her big day tomorrow. The boom box was still booming and Randy was still touching her up. He was a tireless advocate for looking good in one’s casket. Ryan was there, too, watching Randy apply blusher to Mrs. Ruben’s peaceful face.

“She looks so peaceful,” Nora said.

“It’s the embalming fluid,” said Randy. “It gives her that soft, glowing life-like colour.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her make-up done so tastefully.”

“Thank you. I actually did have a look through her make-up bag, since Mrs. Rubens was somewhat known for her lipstick colours, but none of them really seemed right for the occasion. This is one of mine.”

Nora bent closer to examine Mrs. Ruben’s carefully done lips. It occurred to her that the main difference was that the lipstick colour had not run into the little lines emanating from Mrs. Rubens’s lips. “Are you sure it won’t run by morning?”

Randy shook his head. “With the amount of powder I used, this face is solid. If she was alive, Martha would probably not be able to talk right now.”

“Um, because her mouth is wired shut.”

“Well, that too. But it’s also covered in about a half-inch of powder, which basically solidifies the make-up. Also, I’ll be keeping her in the fridge, so…”

By ‘fridge’ Randy meant the slots in the back of the mortuary which dead bodies could be rolled into and out of. Oleander Gardens had a floor-model two-body refrigerator. Nora had originally wondered, when she first saw it, if it would ever be possible in such a small retirement home such as this one to need both fridges at the same time, but now it seemed more possible, even perhaps likely.

Ryan kept stealing glances at her. She didn’t want to look back at him, since she had not had her hair fixed up or her face spritzed, so she said goodbye to Mrs. Rubens, then to Randy and Ryan, and then left through the mortuary back door.

To find Jim waiting on his bike next to the loading dock.

“Hey, Jim!” She gave him a wave and walked over to him.

“Hey, Nora! What’s new?”

“If you’re waiting for Randy, he might be a while. Mrs. Rubens died and he’s just working on the finishing touches, I guess.”

Jim waved his phone in the air. “Yep, I know the drill. That’s okay; I don’t have anything else to do.

Nora laughed. “Retirement must be boring. You could move in here!”

Jim laughed too. “And be around that knucklehead Randy all day, too? No thanks! A man needs some time to himself!”

“What, are you guys roommates or something?”

Jim smiled in a naughty way and winked. “Something, yeah.”

What. The. Actual. Fuck. How had she not clued in to this? Randy and Jim… “But you’re like, so much older than he is!”

Jim laughed heartily. When he caught his breath, he said, “I’ve always been a bit of a cougar!” and did a little scratchy-cat-hand thing at Nora, which was just wrong. “And on that subject, how’s our little teenage romance coming along? Randy told me that you got all gussied up for Ryan’s first visit here.”

“Seriously?” Randy was unbelievable. “He sprayed water on my face and refused to pluck my eyebrows or anything. I’d hardly call that getting gussied up.”

“Well, I”m sure Ryan sees the many nuanced layers that make up Nora. Besides, you’ve got lovely eyebrows.”

Nora tried to frown, but since both Randy and Jim had now complimented her eyebrows, she did feel a little prettier than she had last time she’d examined them closely in the mirror a few days earlier.

The big metal door creaked and Randy came out, followed by Ryan. Randy gave Jim an adorable little wave. Nora couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it before. But she hadn’t actually been around a lot of gay people, to her knowledge, or a lot of people at all, for that matter. Her limited view of other people’s lives came from TV and movie stereotypes. Ryan gazed at Nora a little too long as he and Randy approached her and Jim, and she wondered why she’d been avoiding him all afternoon.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey. So, did you do any gardening?”

“Oh, no. I guess gardening is cancelled when there’s a corpse to deal with. I feel really bad about Mrs. Rubens, but it was extremely cool seeing Randy at work on her.”

Randy beamed.

Jim tossed him his helmet and said, “Let’s go. We’re just in the way here.”

Oh my god. As the two of them peeled out, Nora turned to Ryan and rolled her eyes. He laughed.

“Are you taking the bus again today?”

“Every day,” she answered. “If we hurry up, we can make the 5:07…” she glanced at her phone. “Or not.”

“When does the next bus come? 5:30?”

“5:27. So let’s boogie.”

“Boogie, eh? Okay, let’s. Sounds groovy.”

It was rare to find a person, a guy especially, who not only appreciated her use of outdated retro slang, but participated in it. They boogied to make the 5:27 bus, neither of them apparently too fussed about whether or not they caught it.

Day 21 part 2 — 31,612 words, 63% towards goal

Posted by tolleyv on November 21, 2016 in National Novel Writing Month daily word count | 0 comments

Instead of continuing her morning routine, Nora finished Mr. Hoominz’s room and went straight to the mortuary. As she went down the hall, she noticed there were no old people socializing in the games room or TV lounge; no old people strolling down the hall with their walkers. Out the back door, the garden was deserted; nobody sat on the solitary bench or bent at titanium hips to sniff the roses. They were scared.

And it was no wonder they were scared. Three completely unexpected deaths in a month? It could be anyone’s turn next.

Sure enough, the boom box boomed some kind of old-school rap song about a paradise for gangstas, and Mrs. Rubens lay inert on the white slab. Randy was in the disgusting process of passing a giant curved needle between her nostrils from the inside. He glanced up at Nora and nodded once, then returned his attention to the needle. Under normal circumstances, Nora would have barfed her pop tarts out, but today was definitely not normal. She swallowed the little trickle of bile in the back of her throat and went deeper into the mortuary.

“How did she die?”

Randy glanced up at her again, but she thought she detected a flash of something in his glance before he looked down to his work again and said, “Old age.”

“She was fine yesterday.”

“This is a nursing home, Nora. They’re all going to die sooner or later. You’re just going to have to get used to that, and try to do your part to make their last days and weeks with us as pleasant as possible.”

What bullshit. “Are you used to it?”

Randy didn’t say anything. He just pulled the thread tight so Mrs. Rubens’s mouth would stay closed during the lightly-attended funeral.

Nora was starting to feel very certain that there actually was something going on at Oleander Gardens, and slightly concerned that Randy was part of it. He seemed so nice, and he seemed to really care about the old people, but how could he have been here for so long and not noticed that something weird was going on? Or were the three deaths in a row just total coincidence since she came along?

“Was there, like, a coroner or whatever? Or does the mortician say how she died?”

Now Randy looked at her. She knew damn well he was the mortician. She was basically accusing him of covering up an unexpected death.

“The coroner came, Nora. As soon as poor Mrs. Rubens was found, this morning.”

“Who found her?”

“Ben, of course. He and Ray do the rounds every morning.”

“Doesn’t that seem at all suspicious to you? That Mrs. King, the owner’s, two bulldogs do the rounds every morning?”

Randy started digging in Mrs. Rubens’s soft neck for her artery. “Of course not. They’re the security guards. Part of their job is to do a morning round and an evening round. Look, I know that now you’re starting to get to know the residents a little bit, their passing is going to hit you harder. And it’s certainly very sad that we’ve lost another one of the people in our care so soon after the last one. But you have to understand, this is a nursing home! It’s filled with elderly people, getting close to the ends of their lives. They die, and there’s nothing we can do about it.” Randy pulled the artery out with a hooked instrument and poked a large hole in it. “If you want a job where people don’t die, try the mall.”

Nora had enough of trying to communicate with Mr. Closed Mind. Maybe he was getting something for keeping whatever it was covered up, although he didn’t really seem like the kind of guy who would be satisfied to profit off other people’s suffering. Maybe they were threatening him. Maybe if someone poked around enough, they got threatened. Mrs. King and her henchmen were definitely a trio to be frightened of.

Nora turned to leave the mortuary and get back to her cleaning duties. More of the residents would be needing her company that morning.

“Don’t ask questions, Nora. There’s nothing we can do.”

She paused in her tracks, back to him. So what that clearly meant was that something WAS going on, and Randy WAS getting threatened. He was warning her not to get into the same position.

Without answering or turning around, Nora left the mortuary and passed back through the chapel with its fake flowers and wooden pews. In a few hours, the pews would be filled with mourners — the staff and residents of Oleander Gardens. No family members or anyone else from beyond the property line. Why was that? Old people have families. Sure, some of them live far away, and sure, they don’t bother to come visit, but surely SOME family members at SOME point would show up for a funeral, wouldn’t they? Did Mrs. King deliberately schedule funerals for so soon after the deaths that she would be certain no family members would show up? But why? What could she possibly gain from shutting out the family?

Nora returned to her cart and her duties. The next room was Mrs. Balanafeel. Mrs. Balanafeel was not her usual goofy self. For once, she seemed to be on the same planet as everyone else; the planet, that is, upon which Mrs. Rubens lay dead with heavy thread holding her mouth closed, about to have her blood replaced with pretty pink embalming fluid. Mrs. Balanafeel sat at her desk. She had a writing pad out, imprinted with pale purple flowers and green leaves, but her desk was so cluttered with framed old faded photos that it didn’t seem like it had any space for writing on it, and Mrs. Balanafeel sat with her pen gripped in one motionless hand while she gazed at a photo of a young child that looked like it had been taken with a retro filter.

“Hi, Mrs. Balanafeel,” said Nora, trying to sound a little bit cheerful, but not too cheerful in light of the fact that Mrs. Balanafeel’s friend was dead.

Mrs. Balanafeel looked in Nora’s direction without actually seeing her, and then returned her gaze to the photos. “Good morning, dear.”

Nora got on with swapping the sheets.

“Why don’t they come?”

Nora had been wondering the same thing.

“Maybe you can tell me. With your gift, you must know. Why don’t they come?”

Nora wadded up the sheet, looking over its white mass at Mrs. Balanafeel’s haggard old face. “I guess they have just gotten too busy with their own lives, Mrs. Balanafeel. But I’m here, and I’ll be here every day. Why don’t you tell me about the time your James won the 4H ribbon?”

Mrs. Balanafeel produced a worn tissue from her sleeve and wiped her face with it. Nora realized she was actually crying.

“You know, for the cow?”

“It was a really wonderful cow.” Mrs. Balanafeel sniffled. She picked up one of the photos. “Do you think he’ll come, Nora dear?” She turned the photo towards Nora. It was a very old, somewhat faded and cracked around the edges black-and-white of her son, James, wearing overalls and beaming next to his ribbon-winning cow. To the best of her knowledge, James had never been out to Oleander Gardens. She highly doubted, given the place’s track record, that he ever would.

“I could be next, you know.” Mrs. Balanafeel replaced the photo on the desk. “Do you suppose he’ll come then?”

Nora felt like crying, too. Her chest constricted so she could barely breathe. That is, if she had breathed, she was certain a tear would escape her eye. She swallowed the feelings and slowly inhaled, exhaled. She smoothed the clean sheet on Mrs. Balanafeel’s bed. “There you go, Mrs. Balanafeel. Clean bedding. Smells like lavender!”

Mrs. Balanafeel didn’t answer. She just sat in the wooden chair at her desk, holding a pen in one hand and the ancient photo of James and the cow in the other.

“Why don’t you write to him?” Nora went into the bathroom and changed the towels.

When she came out again, Mrs. Balanafeel was in the exact same position. Today was Mrs. Balanafeel’s day for the vacuum. Somehow it didn’t seem right to disturb her silent loneliness. Nora pushed the laundry cart out of the room.

As she turned to say bye, Mrs. Balanafeel said, “I don’t think it’s any use,” and put down the pen, gripping the photo frame with both hands. A tear ran through the powder on Mrs. Balanafeel’s cheek.

Nora continued her morning duties in dreary silence. The other old people whose rooms she cleaned were unnaturally subdued and introspective; no stories for her today. It was somehow worse than when the previous old people had died; either the silence penetrated her conscience more forcefully, or else this was the first time she genuinely missed the chatter. Had she really been so callous as to enjoy a day of death because it meant less banter from her wards? The dreary quiet was so deafening that she was tempted to drag the old Hoover back to Mrs. Balanafeel’s room just to break it up a bit.

She took lunch with the old people. Not only because it was hand-made from scratch elbow macaroni with cheese day. Even being in the dining hall felt like being in the grand ball room on the Titanic in its current state. The only sounds were the muffled clunkings of high-quality plastic cutlery on melmac dishes and the light clatter of tea cups upon tea saucers. At one point, Mrs. King clacked in, took a triumphant look around with her lovely manicured hands on her hips hugged by her nice dusty-rose retro dress-suit. Then she clacked out again without speaking to anyone. What was this? Head count? Assuring herself that none of the inmates had escaped? Nora snorted at her noodles. The others at her table turned slowly in her direction and then like so many tortoises, turned their wrinkled countenances back down to their plates.

By afternoon Nora was so determined to speak with someone, anyone, that she hurried through the washing up and wheeled the cleaning cart directly to the games room. What games would be underway in there? A rousing round of bridge? Perhaps the clatter of Yahtzee dice in their velvety black cup?

Mr. and Mrs. Edwards sat at one table, eyes downcast, resolutely placing cards down and moving pegs in a cribbage board.

Mr. Hoominz sat at a card table and did nothing. Not so much as solitaire.

Nora couldn’t avoid vacuuming in here. The ear-splitting wail of the decades-old Hoover did not even cause the batting of an eye or the reducing of a hearing aid.

By the time 3:55 rolled around, bringing with it the impending arrival of Ryan, Nora had not even thought about evian mist bottles or light spot cover-up. She was so down that there was actually no way she wanted to run into him. He would think she was some kind of lame derp for being so depressed over the inevitable loss of an old person. And what did she care, anyway? What did she really think was going to happen? Ryan Calder, Cute Guy from across the street who had entirely ignored her for a decade was going to spend 40 hours at the building where she cleaned up shit and piss for minimum wage and fall truly madly and deeply in love with her because of a few spritzes of expensive water? It was almost enough to make her LOL. Who needed him anyway.

Nora cleaned the deserted salon, although its floors shone from the previous day with nary a gray hair to be found, and then began her last duty, the mopping of the back hall.

As she passed the two locked storage doors, she slowed, lingering outside the second of the two in contemplation. What was behind the doors? She wanted more than anything at this point to find out. What happened to the bodies of the dead people Randy so carefully prepared for their open-casket funerals? What normally happened to dead bodies? Nora actually did not know. That would be one for Google later, after she got home.

The wooden door at the end of the hall clicked open and Mrs. King emerged, followed by Ray and Ben. As usual, Mrs. King glared at her, and Ray and Ben tried their best to look menacing with their ape-like faces and black suits stretched too tightly over their steroidy muscles. Nora gave Mrs. King a quick smile, and did a small two-finger salute at each of the dobermans.

“Just about finished for the day, Mrs. King,” she said. What was getting into her? This was definitely the first time Nora had addressed her boss without being bitched to first. And her eartips weren’t even burning from it. “Shame about Mrs. Ruben.” Oh, now she was really pushing the envelope, whatever that meant.

“Yes, Nora, it certainly is. It has been quite a first month for you, hasn’t it? First Mr. Carpenter, and then our dear, poor Mrs. Cranberry, and now this. I’d imagine by this point you will be getting somewhat close to the residents.”

Mrs. King took a few steps towards Nora, until she was in touching range, but did not move to touch her. “Mrs. Ruben was a friend of yours, was she not, Nora?”

Was she? Until earlier this week, Nora had found the residents of Oleander Gardens irritating, and the staff, except for Randy, frightening. But perhaps she was beginning to feel friendly towards them. The old people, that was.

“Yes, I guess she was, a little. I haven’t really been here long.”

“No, you haven’t. Still, it must have been quite a shock for you to come here this morning and have to face yet another death. I assure you, Nora, it isn’t always like this.”

Nora swallowed the river of spit that was accumulating in the back of her mouth. “It isn’t?”

Mrs. King’s face relaxed ever so slightly from poltergeist mode to angry witch mode. “Not always, no. Sometimes we go for months without a death, or even an illness.”

“What was wrong with Mrs. Ruben? Why did she die? She actually seemed fine to me,” Nora said.

“You have to keep in mind that our residents are old. They come here to live out the remainders of their lives in relative comfort. Unless they become severely ill and need to be moved to a hospice or hospital, where they can receive the kind of treatment we’re not set up to give, the only way our residents leave us is by passing to the other side.” Mrs. King finished off this enlightening spiel with a glance towards the ceiling.

“Yeah, I get that,” Nora persisted. “But was she sick? I mean, what did the coroner or whatever say?”

Mrs. King resumed looking enraged at the entire world and likely the universe beyond it, too. “He said what he always says, of course. She died of natural causes. Now, Nora, why don’t you finish up your work and go on home where you can mourn properly.”

Without extending Nora the courtesy of a good-bye in any form, Mrs. King turned and pushed past her two apes, who obediently turned, too, and followed her down the carpeted corridor to the main entrance.

Day 21 — 29,014 and 58%

Posted by tolleyv on November 21, 2016 in National Novel Writing Month daily word count | 0 comments

As dreaded and anticipated, Nora had ended up accompanying Ryan home on the bus. As expected and dreaded, they had missed the 5:07 bus due to Ryan hanging around to chat with Randy and Jim outside the loading dock. Ryan seemed to think Jim’s motorcycle was the most amazing piece of machinery ever invented in the entire known universe, and Jim was delighted to go over every tiny sprocket and ball bearing with him until Ryan was fully versed in the bike’s anatomy. Randy got in on the excitement, too, inserting whatever little bits of knowledge he had previously gleaned from riding around with Jim all those times. It wasn’t until 5:27 that they were actually boarding the bus.

It turned out okay, actually, because with the sheer excitement of both his first hour with the old people of OG and the fascinating real-life tour of the many molecules making up Jim’s bike, Ryan had plenty to gush about all the way to their stop. Nora barely had to say anything. She told him the names of the old people as he described them, because for whatever reason he had trouble remembering their names even though they had undoubtedly introduced themselves to him; she didn’t know for certain because she was cleaning and dust mopping the staff bathroom and rear corridor respectively at the time. He also retold with amusement some of the stories Nora had gotten sick of in her first week.

“Can you believe that parrot?” For example. “That would be hilarious, don’t you think? ‘How’s the weather today?'”

“Fine weather we’re having,” Nora corrected him, and Ryan cracked up.

“And the Nesbit barn fire. Do you think it was actually a ghost and not a bat after all?”

“Could have been a ghost of one of the cats that died in the fire. I bet that old barn was filled with cats.”

“Hmm, dark.”

By the time they finally got home, Nora was nearly tired of listening to Ryan gushing about how amusing and fascinating and wonderful all the old people were. But it was awfully cute seeing him so enthusiastic; she’d always assumed sk8r bois were always moody and filled with angst. That’s what you’d expect, anyway, from the way they dyed their hair moody colours and wore such angsty pre-faded and pre-ripped clothes. There were more layers to Ryan Calder, aka Cute Guy, than she had ever imagined.

When they reached the middle of the street between her house and his, Ryan turned to her.

Oh, God, he’s not going to try to kiss me, is he? Nora took a tiny step back.

Ryan grinned at her. “Thanks so much for getting me that job. I really did not want to do that whole volunteer thingy, but that’s actually fun, and it’s not like I actually have to do any work or anything!”

Nora nodded. She had to do work. Maybe that was why he was so enthused about the whole deal, while she still found it to be eight hours of irritating old people stories, five days a week. “No probs.”

“I totally thought I’d end up sorting bottles. You know who’s sorting bottles? You know Conner Blanketfield and James Sanders?”

“Oh my God, those two emo kids?”

“Yeah. They’re volunteering at the bottle sorting plant. It was the only thing left. Can you imagine, all those winos and house wives coming in with their shopping carts filled with stinky beer bottles? I went there with my mom like until I was twelve. I actually enjoyed it when I was, like, seven or something.”

“Gross,” said Nora.

“Yeah, so I can’t believe you saved my ass from sorting disgusting bottles for free for forty hours.” Ryan grinned.

“When’s your next, like, shift?”

“Thought I’d come check out gardening. And me and Randy were talking about maybe hosting a movie night in the TV lounge once a week. We could have popcorn…”

“Well, you have to be careful with snacks and stuff, because, dentures…”

“Yeah, but wouldn’t that be awesome? I could get half my hours just sitting around watching movies!”

Old people had such boring tastes in movies. Nora couldn’t imagine a worse way to spend an evening. “Yeah, like Casablanca,” she said.

Ryan’s eyes widened with excitement. “Yeah!”

Nora tried really hard to keep her eyeballs from rolling. Cute, but weird. “Okay, so, see you tomorrow?”

“You bet!”

Great, so he was already starting to talk like Randy. She may have created a monster. Nora gave a quick smile and took off for her front door.

When she turned back and looked through the window, Ryan was still out there, joyfully riding his skateboard back and forth on their quiet suburban street. It occurred to Nora that the dark cloud that usually followed him around seemed to have dissipated. She smiled to herself and opened the cupboard to get out her daily dose of Ichiban noodles, but for some reason found her arm reaching for a tin of beans instead. What was she doing? Was Randy getting to her, too?

Nora changed her first set of sheets of the day in an envelope of depressed silence. Mr. Hoominz’s room was first, but he wasn’t his usual lively, storyful self. He just sat on his easy chair leaving through a crosswords puzzle book and sighing.

As Nora shoved the ‘dirty’ sheet into the hamper and flapped out the clean, lavender scented sheet, she said, “Everything okay, Mr. Hoominz?”

Mr. Hoominz’s head slowly swiveled towards her, and his eyes slowly focused on her face, as if he was just noticing for the first time that she was there, in his room, changing his sheets. He blinked slowly, then said, “Haven’t you heard?”

Nora shook her head. She had heard so much in the past month or so since starting work at Oleander Gardens. What was it this time? The gardening was being cancelled due to possible thundershowers? Mr. Greenfield had misplaced his blue reading glasses? The kitchen was out of Jell-o?

“Mrs. Reubens passed.”

Nora froze, in a hover over Mr. Hoominz’s bed, her arms spread across the sheet in either direction. “What?”

“In her sleep. Last night.” Heavy sigh.

“But…” This was actually really weird. Mrs. Reubens had been 100% healthy and cheerful since Nora had started at the home. The last couple of days she might have seemed a bit, a tiny bit, out of sorts. Possibly a bit slower paced and perhaps a bit of a lower voice. But not dying! “But, she seemed so healthy,” was all Nora could articulate.

Mr. Hoominz nodded drearily, still flipping through his crossword book.

It was a small place. There might have been twenty residents in total. And this was the third death in a month. Something actually wasn’t right, for real. And it didn’t take a psychic to see it.

Nora continued straightening and tucking in the sheet in silence. She wasn’t sure what to say. Before starting at Oleander Gardens, she had had zero experience with death. She’d never even had a pet die. She recalled a hospital scene in the last horror movie she’d watched. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Hoominz.”

The old man looked up at her and blinked tears away. He sniffled, nodded, and wiped his nose with the disgusting hankie from his inner jacket pocket.

Day 20

Posted by tolleyv on November 21, 2016 in National Novel Writing Month daily word count | 0 comments

Mrs. Tillynaught’s face was nearly clear of the mud, so she asked, “Nora, have you had any premonitions lately?”

Last thing on Nora’s mind: her supposed ESP powers. “Um, nope.”

“Don’t you feel like there’s something strange about to happen?”

“Not really.”

Randy said, “Do you, Linda?”

Mrs. Tillynaught glanced heavenward. “It’s been a while since anyone died. And I feel it in my bones. Well, more my skin. My skin and my bones. A slithery feeling.”

Nora said, “Maybe you’re the psychic one.” Maybe you’re the psycho one.

Mrs. Tillynaught giggled, a little bit like a pre-teen grade 10 girl. “Oh, no. I mean, do you really think it’s possible?” She leaned from her chair closer to Nora, who was now spraying and wiping the salon mirrors. “Can people like you recognize those traits in someone else?”

At that moment Mrs. Balanafeel’s unmistakable high-pitched voice said, “And this is the salon. And look, here’s Randy, your supervisor, and here’s Nora!”

Everybody turned to the door of the salon and standing beside Mrs. Balanafeel, who was looking extra round in her horizontally striped sweater set, there he was! Looking resplendent in his pre-ripped jeans and pre-scuffed t-shirt, Ryan glanced around the room, his eyes landing briefly on first Randy, then Mrs. Tillynaught, and lastly Nora, where they lingered and possibly registered a slightly surprised hint of joy.

With a secretive wink of approval at Nora, Randy went over to Ryan and shook his hand. “Excuse me, what? I’m his supervisor? Why didn’t anyone say anything to me, I wonder? Hi, Ryan. Welcome to OG.”

Ryan shook Randy’s hand back. “Yeah, so, I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do. Hi, Nora!”

Randy said, “Yeah, me neither.”

Mrs. Balanafeel said, “That lovely little nurse Nicole said you’re to supervise him. As per Mrs. King.”

“I have to do forty hours of volunteer work,” said Ryan, shoving a slightly crumpled sheet of paper towards Randy. “This is from school. You’re supposed to sign it every time I come here to volunteer. Sorry, it was in my bag.” He tried to straighten it out a bit, and Randy took it. “And could you fill in the top part here, please, if you don’t mind?” Ryan pointed at the top of the sheet.

Randy took the sheet and placed it down on the counter of the salon, between the sterilizing cup of combs and scissors and the little plastic chest of drawers where Randy kept all the clips and curlers and stuff. “You bet,” he said, whipping a pen out of a drawer. He glanced at the pen, “Purple okay?” and started scratching words across the top of the paper.

Ryan glanced at Nora, a slight smile on his cute mouth, possibly shy and nervous? She felt her mouth twitch into an embarrassing grin, blinked, and looked away. She had a very important and banal job to do, and that was to sweep up the floor of the salon, which she got right down to.

As she swept, in the opposite direction of Ryan Calder, she heard him say, “So… what do you want me to do?”

Don’t say ‘help Nora.’ Or DO say ‘help Nora. No, don’t. Or do… or–

“Let’s see. On Tuesdays we have watercolour painting, on Wednesdays, gardening, and on Thursdays, organized games in the games room, which would be things like Bingo, Trivial Pursuit, maybe a bridge tournament…. Mondays and Fridays the salon is open by appointment, and every day the TV lounge and games room is open. That’s just afternoons. Will you get here about the same time usually?” Randy glanced at his watch.

“Yeah, if I go home first to drop off my stuff. Is that okay?”

Randy nodded. “That’s perfect. Probably best thing for you to do is just join in with the activities, hang around the games room, basically talk to the residents and keep them company. They don’t get a lot of visitors.”

“Sure, that’s what Nora was saying,” Ryan said with a quick and, did she notice, nervous glance in her direction. Nora swept faster and with great concentration.

“Let me just finish with Linda here, and then I’ll show you the rest of the facility. Would you care to join us, Evelyn?” Mrs. Balanafeel tittered as Randy deftly removed each pink curler from Mrs. Tillynaught’s hair, brushed it out with the special natural-bristle brush, then shaped it and sprayed it with hairspray until a solid helmet of perfectly formed yellow curls adorned Mrs. Tillynaught’s head.

Mrs. Tillynaught put her glasses back on her face and looked at herself in the newly polished mirror, turning first left and then right to get the profile as well as the full frontal view. Touching her hair ever so gently, she said, “What do you think, young man?”

Randy turned and looked at Ryan. Mrs. Balanafeel turned and looked at Ryan. Nora forced herself to stop pushing the broom long enough to join the others in putting Ryan on the spot.

“Fabulous, ma’am! I think we should get your photo for your Snapchat! Where’s your phone?”

The ladies giggled, Mrs. Tillynaught placing her knobby hand across her bright red lips. Randy grinned. Nora rolled her eyes. As if the old people had Snapchat accounts, or even phones.

“I have no idea what you just said, dear, but it seems to be making me blush,” said Mrs. Tillynaught.

“Shall we?” Randy smiled, sticking out his elbows for Mrs. Balanafeel and Mrs. Tillynaught. Ryan turned and gave Nora a befuddled smirk as he followed them out of the salon.

Alone and lonely, Nora went about her work.

Day 19 part 2 – 26,847 words. At 53% I Actually Feel Like I’m Getting Somewhere!

Posted by tolleyv on November 19, 2016 in National Novel Writing Month daily word count | 0 comments

It was refreshing. “What’s that?” Nora asked.

“Evian water.”

“Isn’t that for drinking?”

“Refreshes your skin. You look tired, like you’ve been not getting enough sleep.”

“I have a lot to do at home.”

“Oh, really? Like what?” Randy was definitely being sarcastic. Nora hadn’t heard such effective sarcasm since she left school. What, was this guy trying to teach her something?

“Like, you know, Facebook, Netflix… there are a lot of movies and TV shows out there that must be watched.”

“Facebook, eh? I bet a lot of your friends are on there posting really fascinating stuff about what they ordered at Starbucks and what fake name they hilariously got the barista to put on their cup. Oh, and let’s not forget the duck-face selfies with cat ears and unnaturally large eyes.”

“Dude, that’s Snapchat. Facebook is all old people, like you, posting about relevant current events and sarcastic videos making fun of irrelevant current events. Oh, and kitties. I’m not allowed to have a cat because my mom is allergic to anything cute or fun, so… yeah.”

“Aww. You poor dear. Well, whatever fascinating stuff is keeping you up till midnight–”

“Try two…”

“Has got to be reduced to the most essential, most fascinating, life-changing, and dare I say orgasmic. You need a good night’s sleep, my darling, or you’re going to fit in here perfectly in a few years.”

Nora rolled her eyes. What was he, her mom?

“And then there’s your diet. Look at your nails. And your skin. Do you drink enough water?”

“Yeah, dude, I drink so much water… there’s tonnes of water in Coke, in lemon iced tea, in koolaid.”

“So what you’re saying is you drink plenty of sugar with some water mixed in to make it go down faster.”

“What about soup? There’s water in soup.”

“You make soup? Now we’re talking!”

“Not make so much as add noodles to a pot of boiling water, stir for three minutes, and then add the flavour pack. I use the actual Chinese import noodles because they have a packet of grease as well as a packet of flavoured powder.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“How else am I supposed to get my protein?”

By now Randy was pulling a soft bristle brush through Nora’s mats. “You know, if you took care of your health, your skin and hair would be radiant. You’re a teenager, for god’s sake.”

“Dude, if I can’t subsist on a diet of Coke and instant noodles in my teen years, then what’s the point of living?”

Randy stepped back, gave her a look of total exasperation, and replaced the natural bristle brush in his hand with some ‘bio’ hairspray. His mouth set in a disgusted frown, he lifted sections of her hair and spritzed them gently. Nora had to admit that her hair actually did look more touchable and less like she had skipped conditioner because she was running late as per usual.

“What about my eyebrows?” she said. “No amount of salad and REM sleep is going to stop the spread of the black shag all over my forehead.”

Again Randy grimaced. “Your eyebrows are delightful.”

“They’re wall to wall carpeting.”

Just then the brown cracked dry mud face of Mrs. Tillynaught returned, with Mrs. Balanafeel in tow.

“Do you know what these ladies would give to have beautiful eyebrows like yours?” Randy demanded.

Mrs. Tillynaught and Mrs. Balanafeel came closer and peered at Nora’s eyebrows, exclaiming enthusiastically, Mrs. Tillynaught dropping flakes of dried mud all over Nora as she did so.

“Ugh,” said Nora, brushing herself off as best she could. “Um.. their right arm?”

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Balanafeel. “It’s one of the few body parts that is still all original.”

Nora chuckled as simultaneously Randy maneuvered Mrs. Tillynaught to the special facial seat where he would begin the ritual removal of the mud mask and Nora’s phone vibrated in her pocket, jolting her to a state of absolute horror.

“He’s here!” She exclaimed, pulling the phone out of her pocket. Sure enough, there was a WhatsApp: Five mins away. Sorry I’m running late.

“Oh my god! What about my eyebrows? Can’t you pluck them or something?”

“Calm down, calm down! Look at Evelyn’s eyebrows. Now look at yours. Can you see what decades of plucking has done to the poor woman’s face?”

Nora looked. Mrs. Balanafeel’s eyebrows no longer existed. In their place, two carefully drawn black lines tried unsuccessfully to recreate the illusion of brows. Nora squinted carefully, trying to pick out at least one actual hair. Mrs. Balanafeel nodded.

“Well, do something!” Nora said. “What kind of mortician are you if you can’t even make the living look alive?”

Randy said, “Good point.” He resumed spritzing refreshing water and something else solution over Mrs. Tillynaught’s face and wiping at it with a special cloth. “Evelyn, please go show young… um… what’s Mr. Right’s name? Justin Bieber? into reception and tell him that Nora is busy and will be right with him.”

With a nod, Mrs. Balanafeel and her penciled-in facial features hobbled out.

“Looking good under there, Linda. Now for our little Nora. We have to do something to give her the confidence of a Miss America. Any suggestions?”

Mrs. Tillynaught, her face still somewhat muddy, contemplated. “Mascara?” she said at last.

“Great plan! Natural, unobtrusive, but will bring out those lovely ethnic eyes. He’ll be smitten.” Randy rooted through some drawers and came out with a chrome pink wand.

“Um…” said Nora.

Randy approached and swiveled the chair she was in first left and then right, peering at both sides of her face. “Maybe a touch of concealer and powder? I don’t have anything that will combat those zits, since we normally cater to the over-eighty crowd, for whom pimples are a thing of the very distant past, but we’ll wing it for now and maybe after you change your diet, sleep schedule, and excercise program, you’ll see an improvement there.”

He dabbed something cool resembling calamine lotion that her mom had always reserved for bee stings and every rash-like problem, which she invariably called eczema. Then he maneuvered it with a sponge and finalized the cheek art with some skin-toned powder, which he applied with a large, soft brush. It was astounding the sheer variety of skin-tone powders he had.

“It’s exactly the same as my skin,” Nora marvelled.

“I use the same powders for the living as I do for the dead.”

Nora almost threw up in her mouth. “Gross!”

“I mean, the same brands! I haven’t actually sprinkled this specific powder on any dead flesh!”

“Phew!”

“And a final touch, some mascara to bring out those beautiful shiny dark eyes. He won’t know what hit him.” Randy deftly applied the soft, non-goopy substance without poking her eyeball once and then stepped back to admire his handiwork. He swiveled Nora slightly so she was looking directly at herself in the mirror.

Nora couldn’t believe her eyes. With some various spritzes, lotion, powder, and black goo, she was suddenly a goddess. Maybe not a goddess, but tolerable to look at for more than a quick glance.

“Wow,” said Nora. “If I ever die, I want you to do my post-death make up.”

Randy snickered. “Deal!”

Nora heard Mrs. Balanafeel’s slightly high-pitched, identifiable from miiles away, voice echoing down the corridor. “She’s got him!”

She leapt out of the chair and grabbed her tunic and gloves. With luck she would be able to resume wiping surfaces before he entered, creating the illusion that she was completely ambivalent to his arrival.

It worked. “Oh, hey, Ryan,” she said casually as she wiped down the chair she had just been sitting in with a wad of dampened blue industrial cleaning paper.

“Nora!” he said. He looked at her for so long she began to feel uncomfortable. That must be how zoo animals felt, she reckoned.

Mrs. Balanafeel said, “I took him to that lovely young nurse, Nicole. She said he should work with Randy.”

“Nice!” exclaimed Randy. He threw Nora a surreptitious wink.

Nora’ heart sank. She hadn’t really expected that vile Mrs. King to suggest that Ryan help her dust-mop the back corridor, had she? Well, at least she’d see him on coming and going, and with luck Randy would be available to beautify her according to Ryan’s proposed schedule.

“How often are you supposed to come?” she asked.

“Like, Tuesdays and Wednesdays,” Ryan answered. With watercolour painting and games night, those were Randy’s busy days, so it made sense.

“Cool,” Nora said.

“Yeah, cool,” Randy said. “I could definitely use the help.”

“Sounds awesome!” said Ryan.

Day 19 — 25,403 words: Finally Made it Halfway!

Posted by tolleyv on November 19, 2016 in National Novel Writing Month daily word count | 0 comments

At three o’clock Nora started getting more flustered than ever. She’d spent the day feeling like her heart was alternating between imploding and relocating to her belly every time she recalled that Ryan was going to join her in Oleander Gardens that afternoon, which was approximately every eighteen seconds. School got out at 3:15, so when she looked at her phone and saw that it was nearly three o’clock the countdown began.

At 3:05 she wiped down the card tables and chairs, and considered whether she should take off her ‘uniform’ of a smock and rubber gloves, or greet him with them on. At 3:10 she vacuumed the games room and pictured the various scenarios in which she met Ryan and showed him in. Would she go right out to the street to meet him, vrr vrr? Would she greet him in the parking lot, vrr vrr? Would she helpfully take his skateboard from him or maintain an air of aloofness and let him carry it in himself, vrr vrr? Would she play it totally cool and wait for him to come buzz the main door, sitting in reception on her phone when Nicole buzzed him in, vrr vrr? It all depended on what kind of impression she wanted to make. Plus she was setting a precedent. However things went between them, whether he became the love of her life or just a guy, or, worst possible scenario, they had a brief but passionate love affair that ended in the flames of a lovers’ quarrel, he had to spend 40 hours at Oleander Gardens. That meant 40 hours minimum they would be together, and her first greeting of him had to set the stage for the remaining 40 hours.

Vrr vrr.

At 3:25 she wrestled the vacuum back into the cleaning closet and thought about what she would say to him when he arrived, and what he would say to her, and how she would introduce him to Nicole. At 3:30 she deserted the cleaning cart and checked her appearance in the staff washroom beside the back door of the kitchen. By now he would have left his last class of the day, sorted his homework at his locker (if he was the kind of person who used his locker), and skateboarded away from school. If he skateboarded directly here, or even took the bus, he could be arriving any moment. She washed the scent of latex from sweating in the gloves all afternoon from her hands and pulled a brush through her hair. She still looked like a high-school drop out working for minimum wage as a cleaner. Not good enough to impress anyone.

He’d be here any minute. Sighing with the low spirits of a forever-alone basement dwelling video game nut, she pushed the stupid cleaning cart, her only defining accessory, back down the corridor to continue her job. No buzz from her phone yet, and it was 3:37. At least if he arrived at 4:00, his first hour would be finishing at the same time that she got off work. Nora’s heart left its temporary position of the pit of her stomach and leapt enthusiastically back into her throat for the thousandth time that day. So what would happen then? Would they walk to the bus stop together, he holding his skateboard? Would they travel on the bus together? Did he prefer the back seat, or a front seat, or the middle? Or did he stand? Would they have enough to talk about to keep a conversation going for the entire ten minute bus ride? What if they missed the 5:07 bus and had to wait twenty minutes for the next bus? That was thirty minutes of conversation! And then there was the walk home! How many awkward silences would be endured before he decided she was majorly lame and not worth any more iotas of his time?

WHAT DID IT MATTER? Why couldn’t she get her mind off Ryan Calder? As if his volunteership at Oleander Gardens was going to lead to any kind of romance or even friendship between them. He was a cute sk8r boi who probably had a girlfriend or seven already, and she was a nothing nobody, not even smart enough to finish high-school and get a diploma, cleaning up after old people for minimum wage.

She stood outside the salon for a moment. Randy was in there with Mrs. Tillynaught. Randy was really a Randy of all trades; as well as mortician and painting teacher, Randy was the resident beauty technician. He and Mrs. Tillynaught, her head covered in curlers and face covered in mud, both smiled and waved with a few little finger wiggles at Nora.

She preferred to clean the salon when it was empty, but according to the schedule posted on a whiteboard on the door, this was a busy Thursday afternoon so she might as well clean around Mrs. Tillynaught. She parked the cart and donned the gloves and, spray bottle in one hand and wad of blue disposable towel in the other, dragged herself into the salon and began squirting the free mirror.

Randy was seated on the other chair waiting for Mrs. Tillynaught to dry and set. He swiveled in Nora’s direction.

“What’s up, Nora?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” Randy turned toward Mrs. Tillynaught. “Sorry, Linda. Pardon my French.” Back to Nora. “You have a cloud surrounding your cute little head.”

“Cute? LOL,” said Nora. She enjoyed speaking in Tumblr abbreviations because she found it amusing. Probably everyone around her thought she was just a typical teenager and really meant it when she said that kind of thing, but it made her giggle inside so she did it. Screw what other people thought.

“Nah, you’re a cutie patootie. And I’m not just saying that because you’re the only person under the age of forty in this place. Present company excluded, of course,” he added, throwing a glance at Mrs. Tillynaught, who smiled back at him. “Uh-uh, Linda. None of that. You’re drying; keep still.”

“Well, you old people might think I’m cute, but I can assure you that a certain Cute Guy who happens to be coming here right now does not.”

Randy faux-gasped in horror at being called old, putting his hand on his chest as if he was having a heart attack. Then he said, “But no. A boy, coming here to date our Nora?”

“Not a date, just a stupid volunteer thing he has to do for school, and like an idiot I got him to come here for it.”

“That was actually genius, Nora. Not only are you providing your little boyfriend with a valuable volunteer experience, you’re also providing someone to help out around here for free, thereby reducing OUR workload, AND providing the residents with someone else to hang out with. Fresh meat, so to speak.”

“All good points, except for the boyfriend thing.”

“Why not? He’ll be here every day or whatever volunteering. I’m sure the seeds of romance will blossom at some point.”

“Why not? Because, this.” Nora pointed at her face. “And this.” Nora lifted some of her drab, already tangled hair and let it drop down onto her shoulders where it lived.

“Well, I think we can do something about all of that! What do you think, Linda?”

Without smiling, Mrs. Tillynaught nodded vigorously.

Nora looked at her phone. It was 3:46. “Not possible. He’ll be here any second.”

“Not impossible, either.” Randy sprang into action, hearing the call of a challenge and accepting it. “Nora, sit here.” He leapt out of the chair and swung it in Nora’s direction. “Linda, run and get Evelyn. She’ll create a distraction while we work on Nora here. But no talking, Linda. We don’t want you to crack.”

Smiling inside but trying to maintain an aloofness befitting her carefully developed aura of giving zero fucks, Nora flopped into the hairdressing chair. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

Randy examined her for a few seconds, then said, “Nonsense. You’re adorable. We just need to give your hair some life, bring out your features a little. Freshen you up after your long day behind that tunic.” He tilted her face back with one hand and spritzed some kind of scented water on it with the other. “Keep still.”

Day 18 part 2 – 24,018 words, and 48% of the way there. I’m catching up!

Posted by tolleyv on November 18, 2016 in National Novel Writing Month daily word count | 0 comments

Nora’s breath got sucked into her stomach as she opened the door and found herself face to face with him. She had always found him cute, for sure, but she had not noticed until that moment how exquisitely handsome he actually was!

“Hey, um, Ryan.”

“Yo.”

So now what?

Ryan fidgeted. He was adorable in his pre-faded blue hoodie, pre-scuffed jeans, and flat-brimmed cap. She glanced down. Of course, he gripped his satanic board in one hand. Had he seriously ridden it across the street? Did it get any cuter?

“Wanna come in for a bit?”

“Yeah. I was just out, you know, over at Johnson Bear Park and figured I might as well stop by on my way home. Not in too big of a hurry to get there, anyway. I thought you might’a, you know, asked your boss about that volunteering thing?”

Nora opened the door wider. The way he stuttered, it was almost as if he were the nervous one. He glanced at her, half-smiled adorably, and passed her into the house.

What on earth was going on with her? She was feeling like an idiotic Tumblr girl high on red velvet cupcakes and pumpkin spice soy chai latte or something.

Ryan glanced around. He leaned his skateboard against the wall beside the door and bent to untie his high tops.

Nora jumped at the chance to talk to him while his face was not pointed in her direction, since it seemed to make her lose consciousness. “Um, so, yeah. My mom’s not here, so…” Good god, it sounded like she was inviting him for sex or something! “So, do you want any chips or anything?” How could anyone be so lame?

Ryan stood up again and kicked at his heels alternately to get off the shoes, which she noticed had adorable comic-book print all over them.

“Chips? Sure. Sounds awesome.” He followed her into the kitchen.

she reached up into the cupboard and pulled out a grand selection: Cheetos and guacamole-flavoured taco chips.

“Your house is, like, exactly the same as mine. I mean, not the furniture or whatever, but the layout. It’s almost eerie. Cool, Cheetos!”

Ryan took the Cheetos bag off her and started to dig in. Nora got two Cokes out of the fridge and they sat down at the table.

“So…” Nora said. “I actually did talk to Mrs. King, the witch who’s my boss at the old people’s place. She said it was totally cool for you to come and do your community service thingy, so… yeah.”

“Oh my god, that’s awesome!” Ryan’s lips were so cute coated in neon orange Cheeto dust. “I only have, like, two months or something, so when can I start?”

“Uh…” said Nora. “I guess just come in after school and we’ll get it figured out. You’re actually really lucky, because my bitchy boss Mrs. King doesn’t want to have anything to do with anything resembling work, so she said for you to just go to the receptionist and she’ll sort everything out. Her name’s Nicole.”

Ryan looked uncertain. “So, I just, like, walk into this place and start talking to some random stranger? Does this Nicole person even know about this?”

Nora hadn’t really thought about it. “I don’t know, I guess. Or you could, like, text me and I could meet you or something.”

“Meet me? Don’t you have to work?”

“I could meet you at the reception desk, or, like, the front door or whatever. The front door’s actually locked to protect the old people from rapists or whatever, so I guess I would have to buzz you in anyway, if Nicole doesn’t know you’re coming. So… yeah.”

“Okay…” Ryan shoved more Cheetos in his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, and washed them down with a big swig of Coke. “So, what do you actually do at this place?”

“Clean.”

Ryan laughed. “That was definitely worth dropping out of school for, hey? Maybe I’ll like it so much I’ll drop out, too!”

Nora laughed, but inside she shuddered. She felt her heartbeat speed up and the blood pump into her eardrums like whisp-whisp-whisp. Was he making fun of her? “Anything’s better than Mr. Ratsoy’s social studies class.”

Ryan laughed, too. “I know, right? Is he even aware that the internet has been invented? I mean, what’s with the VCR? And what about math? Do you have any idea what we’re doing now? Pre-calculus! I barely passed trig. Seriously, when am I ever going to use that stuff, ever?”

Nora shrugged. “Might come in handy after the zombie apocalypse, if you have to design and build your own cross bow out of twigs and palm fronds.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so. Trig, maybe, but not calculus! What does anyone do with calculus? Like, I’m literally sure the only thing you can do with high-school calculus is become a high-school math teacher.”

They both laughed. Maybe he wasn’t laughing at her, but with her.

Ryan continued, “So why not quit now and get a job, like you? I think you got it right, Nora.”

It was so amazing the way he said her name. She must have blushed because her face felt unusually warm and tingly. Either that or she was getting a fever. “Yeah, well, I’m not sure what’s worse, calculus, or pulling piss-stained sheets off some grandpa’s bed while he tells me a totally boring story about the first time he drove his father’s tractor back in the eighteen hundreds for the fiftieth time.”

“Ick. Sounds pretty awful. Don’t they tell you about their interesting stuff from their lives? I mean, some of them must have lived through a war or something. Maybe you’ve got a World War Two veteran in there. Some of them might have been hippies and marched on Washington and done love-ins and stuff. I bet some of them have seen the Beatles in concert, and when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon and stuff. All that history.”

“Yeah, you’d think. But no, it’s mostly stuff about their pets, their dead husbands and wives, their children and grandchildren who live in North Dakota and Alaska and whatever.”

Ryan looked thoughtful. “They must be so lonely.”

“That’s where you come in! While I’m laundering urine out of sheets, you can listen to their heroic stories of training parrots and using cloth diapers!”

“Yeah, sounds good!”

“You know what’s hilarious? They have bad memories, right, and they only have a finite number of stories each, and they always forget that they’ve told me their stories a hundred times already, so last week I started ending their stories for them and now they think I’m psychic!”

“No way! That’s awesome!”

“Yeah, they think I’m some kind of mutant super hero with special powers. Today they actually asked me to use my powers to solve the great mystery of the dying old people!”

“They’re dying?”

“I know, shocking, right?”

“So what happens when someone dies? Do you have like these big funerals with all their crying loved ones and stuff?”

“There’s a funeral, but their families all live so far away, they usually don’t come. I mean, I’ve only worked there for like a month so I’ve only been to two funerals, but that’s what it seems like.”

“I’ve never been to a funeral. Do they get buried here in Fairfield, or do they get sent back to their families? How do you ship a dead body, anyway?”

Nora mulled that over. She honestly didn’t know. The funerary proceedings always seemed to take place at the OG chapel. “When you think about it,” she said, “it is kinda weird. Maybe the old people who want me to save the world with my ESP powers are actually on to something.” She looked at Ryan and tried to breathe and talk at the same time, counting her points off on her now fully-orange fingers in order to keep her hands busy. “They die out of the blue. None of them are sick first.” (point one.) “All their families live so far away, they never come visit, not even for the funeral.” (point two.) “I have absolutely no idea what happens to the body after the funeral.” (point three.) “And everybody seems really frightened of Mrs. King. I mean, she is frightening. But shouldn’t the boss of a retirement home be , you know, sweet and caring?”

They looked at each other for a moment.

“Maybe there is something fishy going on at Oleander Gardens,” Nora said.

“Maybe this community service graduation requirement will be cooler than I thought,” said Ryan.

Day 18 — 22,585 words, 45% there and only ~7,000 words behind schedule.

Posted by tolleyv on November 18, 2016 in National Novel Writing Month daily word count | 0 comments

It was strange that old people were dying with no warning, but she still didn’t see what the ‘mystery’ was. Nora headed out the back door, the one leading to the chapel. There was a back alleyway behind the loading dock which was a faster route to her bus stop then going through the main reception doors and all the way around Oleander Gardens.

As she exited the back door, she found Jim and Randy, which at first seemed normal, but then a bit strange when she realised she was leaving later than usual and they were still there.

Jim stood by his motorcycle, helmet in hand, and Randy stood next to him. Jim waved at Nora and handed Randy a spare helmet. Nora approached them.

“Hey, little lady,” Jim called out. “I’d offer you a ride, too, but this ain’t Vietnam.”

“That’s all right,” Nora said. She was used to old people not making any sense, so even though Jim was not a resident, she just let it slip past. She thought about what the scene when she arrived home was going to look like. Maybe Cute Guy was going to be sitting outside on his stoop, or flicking his skateboard back and forth on the sidewalk. That would make things so much easier. Otherwise… the whole stalking scenario came pouring back into her imagination. “I’m not in any hurry anyways.”

Randy chortled. “What, are the Vietnamese more generous with driving each other home?”

Jim looked at him as if he were a retard. “The Vietnamese don’t get arrested for having three people on a motorbike, one without a helmet.”

Nora actually laughed at this.

“We did notice you’re not in a hurry, though,” Jim said, checking the time on his phone. “Aren’t you usually long gone by now?”

“Oh, I was just chatting with some of your fellow old people.”

Randy laughed. “Oh, snap!”

Nora shook her head at him. Her former classmates using out-dated short-lived fad slang was bad enough, but he was at least thirty!

“Hilarious, you two,” Jim said. “So you’re starting to realize that seniors are people too. I knew this place would rub off on you!”

“Aren’t you looking forward to a nice home-cooked meal, though? Or have you been filling up on Loretta’s cooking?”

Nora laughed at Randy now. “Yeah, good luck finding anything cooked in my house.”

“All right, well, see you tomorrow, sweetheart.” Jim put on his helmet and Randy followed suit.

“Yup.”

Jim got on the bike and started it up. Randy swung his leg over and got on the back. They both gave her a quick wave as Jim peeled out, spraying up gravel and dust.

Nora walked to the bus stop as slowly as she could, mulling over different scenarios. When she finally got home, of course the suburban cookie-cutter street was deserted. Cute Guy was definitely not in front of his house waiting for her. Well, fair enough. He might have been out there for a while, but she was definitely getting home later than usual.

She went in and dropped off her stuff and then looked in the mirror. Still the same plain, unremarkable face, a few pimples on the mid-cheek areas and one large one on the forehead, same slightly too small brown eyes and slightly too shaggy eyebrows. She peered closely at her nose. It appeared to have a hair growing out of one nostril. Her mustache might have even been more noticeable than usual. The little old ladies at Oleander Gardens paid more attention to their appearance than she did! How could she possibly cross the street and talk to Cute Guy looking like this?

Nora ate a peanut butter sandwich, gazing across at his house. It was quiet and still. No sign of a skateboard, hoodie, or vans anywhere.

She went back to her room and flopped on her bed. She would have to do something about her appearance. When it came to her looks, she had always just relied on the stereotype that guys like the ethnic look, which she definitely had with her dark eyes, olive skin, and shiny black hair. But those bushy black eyebrows had to be controlled or they would take over her entire face! If she took on the appearance of a werewolf, Cute Guy would never come near her again, not even to get into an easy volunteer job for school’s stupid graduation requirement.

Nora searched “how to have nice eyebrows” on YouTube and came up with a record number of results. Were the female of her species really that vain? It appeared there were more videos on eyebrow care than there had been on the Trump campaign.

Part way through the fifth video, the doorbell rang. Nora’s heart froze and then squeezed its way into her esophagus, blocking her breathing. Who would be ringing the doorbell if not Cute Guy? She didn’t have any friends, and her mother’s friends knew they could never find her at home. Now she would have to talk to him with those crazy bushy eyebrows all over her forehead. Nora inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. She took one more look in the mirror. At least some mascara or eyeliner… she dug around in her desk drawer until she found a long-forgotten green and pink tube that she was fairly certain was mascara. With shaking hands she applied the black gunk to her eyelashes until she had poked herself in both eyes and was confident that she looked slightly less like a werewolf. The doorbell rang again.

She shoved everything back in her desk drawer and stepped back from the mirror. Maybe if she didn’t wear old tattered sweat pants and an enormous t-shirt she would look more like a girl… but this was crazy. She didn’t even own anything girly, and this was the first time in her life she had even cared about her appearance. He was just a cute guy, for God’s sake. What did she think was going to happen? He was going to fall in love with her for helping him get his foot in the door listening to boring stories for free at the local retirement home and they would get married and have 1.7 kids, a house in suburbia, and an environmentally friendly SUV? Never in a million years, thank you very much. Nora yanked her t-shirt down so the incredibly thought-provoking statement on it, “Malibu Beach, 1978,” was fully visible and went down to open the door.

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