When the Sun Was Mine

By Darlene Jones

Her dream was to go to university. Instead she's in a nursing home hunting a killer.

When high school graduate, Brittany Wright, gets a job cleaning at Happy Hearts nursing home, she is terrified of old lady Flo and desperately wishes she could be in college instead.

An unlikely friendship develops between the two. Brittany discovers that Flo, who may or may not have Alzheimer's, is in grave danger. But, from whom and why?

As Flo's condition worsens, Brittany scrambles to save her. But, ironically, it may be Flo who saves Brittany.

When the Sun was Mine: If you like suspenseful mysteries with complex and strong characters you'll love this adult read, hopeful and humorous in spite of the ugliness of Alzheimer's.

Buy When the Sun was Mine to experience a unique friendship steeped in intrigue and surprising twists.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darlene Jones
• Release date: Oct 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310981463

Darlene Jones

Darlene Jones is a retired educator and writer. A graduate of the University of Alberta she was a teacher, principal, second language consultant, and staffing officer with Edmonton Public schools. Her multiple roles included second language curriculum development for secondary students. After retiring she continued to provide educational workshops for teachers in the province of Alberta. Her career began as a volunteer with Canadian University Services Overseas. She taught school in Mali and it was the plight of the Malians that inspired her to write her first novel—science fiction—described by readers as a "think piece." She continues to write fiction that incorporates topics such as world affairs, aging, and Alzheimer's, with the added mix of adventure, romance and humor.

Book preview

Chapter 1 – Flo

Almost. Almost there. Ah. Come! Yes! Yes! Come. Oh, yes! Spasms rocked through me. Exquisite joy flooded my body. I stretched my legs, pressed them together to hold the feeling as long as possible.

Oh!

At the sound, I swiveled my head to turn to the door. A young thing stood there, eyes wide, hand clamped over her mouth, staring at me.

Don’t look so shocked, Missy. I may be old, but I’m not dead yet.

I pulled the covers up to my shoulders, not that the threadbare scrap of cloth they called a sheet hid much. The blanket wasn’t any better. Old and worn, like me and everything else in this hell hole, but I spread it over myself as best I could, more for her apparent sensibilities than for my own modesty.

Jesus, girl. A little privacy would be nice. Didn’t anyone teach you to knock before entering? Never locked my door, but that hadn’t been a problem before. No one came in this early in the morning. Hell, no one ever came in. Not anyone who counted anyway. Well? Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?

Still she didn’t speak. Too scared? Too stupid? Ugly sort of girl, but good cheekbones. Soft and lumpy; not anorexic, like so many of this new generation, but not fit either. Bet she sat around all day with her nose buried in a book. Glasses perched precariously at an angle on her face, the bits of duct tape not quite up to the job of holding them together. Wouldn’t be long before they fell apart completely. And that hair. Thick rich brown, but shaggy and ratty looking. Must have hacked at it herself. Pretty sure it had a natural curl that would look great with the right cut and good conditioner.

Surprised they let her work here looking like that. On second thought, not surprised at all. No one wanted to work in this dump. No one wanted to work with the demented. Fucking Alzheimer’s. God’s will, they said. Ha! I’ve got news for God. He screwed up big time.

Well, are you going to stand there staring all day?

The girl—she couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen—grunted, but didn’t have the good grace to divert her gaze. Frozen in place by shock? What a dolt. Her face was beet red, as they say.

I decided to try a little test. I pretended to throw the covers off. From beet red to redder, although that hardly seemed possible. I thought the poor thing would faint dead away.

I win. I win.

Huh?

Made you blush.

She mumbled something and twisted her hands as if they could somehow get her out of the predicament she found herself in.

Sex is great, you know. Now, she looked everywhere but at me. Lord help us. I thought the youth of today knew it all. Blow jobs at fourteen, fucking at sixteen. Drugs, sex, and rock-n-roll. Wasn’t that how it went? No, no, the hippies were long gone. What was the latest trend? Damn! Impossible to keep track of it all. Twerking. That was one I’d heard recently. Surely she’d heard it too, knew what it was.

Memes.

Huh?

Do you know what they are?

She shook her head.

Neither do I, but I see that word all the time. One of these days I’ll google it. I would too, if I remembered.

I studied her face, her body language. A sheltered little thing. No convent schools around here so where had she grown up? Not that convent schools produced innocents. I remember Mary Magdalene went to live with an aunt. We all knew that meant she was pregnant.

Sex is great. I think I already said that. But masturbation works too. Ever tried it?

She shook her head, and clapped her hands to her blazing face. She looked down at the floor and shuffled her feet.

Jesus, girl, is there a life in there somewhere? Maybe she was a zombie. Didn’t know if I really believed in them or not, but the stuff in Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo scared the crap out of me and what I’d seen in Haiti was damn spooky. I peered at her name tag. What’s your name?

B-b-b-brittany. Brittany Wright.

Ha! Brittany Wrong would have suited her much better. Black shoes scuffed and worn, the backs mushed down so badly that they were more like a clog and the sole slapped her heel with every move she made. Hadn’t seen polish in a decade, not that they were worth polishing. Typical of the crap staff were supplied with around here. Her name tag pinned on crooked, army-green uniform rumpled, a couple of safety pins replacing buttons, and pockets bulging with wadded Kleenexes that she stuffed back in every time they threatened to fall out. Allergy sufferer, what with that Rudolph the Reindeer nose. Hell, didn’t she know there were meds for that nowadays?

Reactine.

Huh?

Quite the vocabulary you’ve got going there, girl. Reactine. For your allergies.

Oh.

Another brilliant response. The girl was a frightful mess. What can I say? This place didn’t have the greatest standards. Professionalism blew out the window many a long year ago.

New here?

She nodded.

Of course she was new. They were all new. Every few days, one or two staff left, one or two arrived. Revolving door here at Happy Hearts Home—now there’s a fitting name for you. Easy exit for them, but not for us. Once incarcerated, we were lifers with no chance for parole. Victims of the system in this wonderful country of ours.

Brittany shuffled her feet. Um … I’m supposed to check if everything’s okay.

I gestured around with a wave of my arm. What’s not to be okay?

Brittany scanned the room. Her nose wrinkled. At the smell? Not my fault the window was open and the smoke from the incinerator blew in. Luck of the draw getting this room. She gave a little shake of her head. Didn’t like the cracked lino, the battered chair, the bare walls? Okay, I admit, that was my fault. I’d brought my dresser, but hung nothing personal and had no knick-knacks. The last thing I wanted was to make this miniscule square of earthly space I now occupied look or feel anything like a home. It wasn’t and never could be.

Well?

I….

The girl was obviously at a loss and I wasn’t about to make things easier for her.

Brittany!

Shit! The ward supervisor. Get out, you miserable little snot, I hissed. Now!

Bitch! She said just loud enough for me to hear and then she scrambled for the door, slamming it behind her. Ha, girl had some spunk after all.

Chapter 2 - Brit

I leaned against the door, my hand over my pounding heart. I couldn’t believe what I’d seen. I could never have imagined such a thing. Lying there naked, her hand running along the inside of her thigh up to her crotch. Caressing herself like that. And she was old. Way older than … oh, Lord, my mom. Did she…? No. Impossible. Not my mom. No.

Her face was movie star gorgeous. Made me think of the actresses in those oldies Mom and I watched—Lauren Bacall, Rita Hayworth, Hedy Lamarr, Veronica Lake…. I felt a sharp pang of jealousy. What I wouldn’t give to have a bit of that beauty.

When the old bat was my age, she’d have been like Melinda I bet, the most popular girl in school. The one the rest of us hated and envied. Guys must have swarmed around that long slim body when she was young. I bet she’d still have tons of men after her if she wasn’t in this dump.

And it was a dump. Looked bad enough on the outside. I’d always walked on the other side of the street and scurried past as fast as I could on my way to and from school. Seeing it up close, and smelling it, made me want to puke. I’d run for my life and never come back if I had a choice. And, after what I’d just seen….

The old lady had been so … so blatant about it all. She’d scared me. I don’t mind admitting that, but I was excited too. My hand crept downward of its own accord. My lower abdomen tingled, a delicious exquisite feeling that faded all too soon. I needed someone to talk to and it wouldn’t be the old witch. Or my mother. I needed Rose, but she was away at school. I should have been there with her. I closed my eyes as another wave of envy washed over me. I took a deep breath. I was at work. I had to get a grip.

Brittany? I stuffed my hands into my pockets and a bunch of Kleenex spilled out. I bent over and swiped them up, wadding them into a ball in my hand. What had she said? Reactine? Maybe I could get some, see if they worked. Oh, there you are. The matron waddled over. Tiny balls of fat for feet at the end of heavy ham legs, tiny hands with rings on every fat finger, hands that hung from stump arms. Her fat head with tufts of hair sticking out in all directions, bulging cheeks, all of it perched on a trunk of a neck, and those beady eyes…. She terrified me. Yeah, just looking at her made my skin crawl. I stiffened my spine and faced her. I could see this through. Jobs were pretty much non-existent in our town and I needed the money. She gestured to the door behind me. Were you in Flo’s room?

I nodded, still too shaky to speak.

Her eyes drew together in a fierce scowl. I thought I told you that room is off limits to everyone but senior staff.

Crap. She sounded angry enough to fire me on the spot. I nodded again. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—

Flo’s Alzheimer’s is very advanced. Any upset to her routine is too much for her. We ask all new staff to stay away. Only people she’s familiar with go into her room.

Okay, okay, I get it. God, nurse Matthews was much worse than old lady Flo, huffing in my face, bits of saliva gathered at the corners of her mouth.

Come along, dearie, I’ll show you around the ward and explain again what you’re to do each day.

And then I got another grand tour of the dismal place. Ward A. A for Alzheimer’s I guess; the oldest part of the building dedicated to the loony. But as far as I knew most of the patients in here had Alzheimer’s, not just those in this ward. And why give any of them a nice place to live; after all they wouldn’t know any better. The walls, with faded peeling paint, the floors with cracks and not a glimmer of a shine, the battered door jambs—how could anyone deposit a family member here?

Do they ever speak? I asked as we went from room to room, some with decorations and photos and nice easy chairs, others sparsely furnished, but none as dismally barren as Flo’s.

Some do, but little of what they say makes sense.

What about Flo? I couldn’t resist asking. What does she say?

Matthews snorted. Not a word.

Never!?

Never.

***

I stumbled home eons later. A day of emptying garbage cans, cleaning toilets, carrying food trays, loading the dishwasher, mopping floors, and listening to nonsensical conversations, the shoes they gave me falling off with every step. I had them in my back pack along with the uniform. I thought maybe I could fix them. At the very least I was going to polish the shoes. I’d sew new buttons on the uniform, and let down the hem—it was ridiculously short on me—I’d been scared to bend over for anything all day. Washed and ironed, it might look a bit better and at least I’d know it was clean. I groaned as I trudged upstairs. Oh God, how could I possibly go back tomorrow and the next day and the day after that?

How was your day, dear? Mom’s cheery voice grated. Always see the positive. That was Mom.

Okay. Lots to learn and get used to.

Oh, honey, don’t sound so down. You’ll be fine. You’re a bright girl. You can do anything.

I know, Mom. I’ll be fine. I squirmed out of her hug and headed to the bathroom. I needed a long hot shower.

Wrapped in a towel, I sat on my bed and combed my hair. I turned away from the mirror. I didn’t need to see myself to know it looked like hell, all scraggly. I desperately needed a proper styling, and some decent conditioner, but I refused to dip into my savings. I’d have to get Mom to trim it for me on the weekend. I flung the comb against the wall. A couple more teeth fell out as it clattered to the floor and lay there looking like a mangled bird.

That’s when I started to cry and didn’t think I’d ever stop. It