I probably will not get out of this, if I live, I realize as I sit in my senior citizen's apartment. My life is shallow, unfulfilled. Really, it's quite boring. I clean. I get the mail. I drink my iced tea mixed with lemonade in the evening. I try to write, but that's it. That's not living life, and that certainly isn't going to get this damn book done. The book. The stories I'm trying to write are muddled without substance. Pedestrian. The words I have written have no color. The pages have taken on the flavor of old-lady ramblings. And since all my friends are old ladies who ramble, I can't stand that my sacred words have taken on such a judgmental tone. Ah yes, the stories are as boring as my dry wrinkled skin and the aches and pains in my inflamed joints. When did I become so old? I wonder. Convinced I can change the sad, sorry state of my writings by leaving my safe, comfortable home, I've talked myself into leaving to find the stories that elude my pages. I will go back to the place I heard the stories in the first place, stories that have intrigued my overactive imagination like a gathering storm all these years since I retired.

Most of my nursing career after graduating from training was spent at Cre Falls Manor doing long-term care, from green nurse—one not used to the ropes, shall we say—to registered nurse, or rotten nurse, my family would tease; for twenty years I stashed away the tales told at the Manor about the townie's misdeeds. As the years passed, I became a white fixture that passed medication after eight in the evening to the round table of gossipy men. This is where the stories of the past were told. Times were relived. Always, their stories made my fingers itch to write. However, the flavor of those times has become a misty memory, kind of like what I had for lunch today: easily forgotten.

All who discover what I've done will likely declare "the plan" a sign of early dementia. They will shake their heads and say, "She couldn't help herself." When I really think about what I'm about to do, I know the probability of failure is high. The need to abort this insanity, put the typewriter away, and stay safe is pushing at the compulsive need for one last adventure.

I refuse to be impulsive and stupid. I detail the plan intending to tape the envelope to the bottom of my desk and hope—no, pray—it will miss discovery until this misadventure is over. By then, my smart kids will find it and rescue me. I am their mother after all, and since I rescued them from many of their adventures-gone-wrong, they can rescue me from mine. "Oh, please find me," I whisper as I groaningly kneel to tape the envelope to the underside of the desk. It's possible that after what I'm about to do, I will indeed be demented—or worse.

Now for the details; as I look at my list, my mind runs through the plan.

1. Typewriter. My old Underwood typewriter has been custom-modified to include a concealed space underneath, space enough to accommodate a manila envelope with two hundred thousand dollars, the balance of all the money I have left. The lock on the concealed bottom of the case has a thumbprint identification keypad that fits my thumb and my thumb alone.

2. Suitcase. I found a battered old suitcase under a pile of ancient ones at Goodwill and intend to pack as much clothes as I dare take, old clothes, in a much-used state with the labels removed.

3. Car. The 1990 car, for which I paid five hundred dollars cash, has no license plates and no registration, and the VIN number, I scratched to an unreadable state. It runs, rough, but I think it will get me where I want to go.

4. Mail. The post office will deliver my mail to an abandoned house I purchased for the price of the lot. There's a large slot in the door that should accommodate a year's worth of mail without causing suspicion. I'll place a large "under construction" sign on the door.

5. Bills. All of my bank accounts are closed, and utilities and rent are paid in advance for a year. I even thought to cancel doctor appointments. I called the pharmacy to tell them I'd be away as well.

6. Friends. I went on and on to my friends about how I will be on an extended vacation—one long, last trip beginning in Florida to spend some time with my son George. It's a lie. Another mendacity I have repeated many times is that I will probably spend time in Italy for my daughter's last opera performance of this season. I have repeated my lie enough times that my friends have come to think what I'm doing is "oh so much fun!" They think I'm really striking out with independence. It's a lie. It's all a lie. Oh, if they only knew.

Maybe I can get this over with and actually make it to Italy, though, I think as I'm packing. I do love Puccini's La Bohème," and it would be such a treat to hear my daughter sing Musetta.

I have nice friends. We call ourselves "old creaks." The "M&M's" is the group of ladies I sing with. "Between menopause and Medicare" is our slogan. We eat together in our safe, clean, well-decorated dining room on special occasions, like every Friday. We have long discussions about our children, the weather, politics, aches and pains, and the never-ending rent increases. Oh yes, we also have discussions about "dribbling," especially after having several bladder-irritating cups of coffee. We can never agree on whether or not to wear pads or just put up with damp urine odor. I like my friends. I'm bored out of my skull sometimes with them, but I like them. I think they like me too, though sometimes I wonder. I'm just a little odd, my friend Ann likes to tease. And sometimes when I enter a room, the rest of them stop talking and just stare. Don't they know that staring is impolite? But I guess when you get old, you just don't care what's polite or impolite anymore.

My children approve of my safe, clean, well-decorated senior citizen apartment. I do too, I think. The bedroom is just about pace-worthy. Except for the bathroom, the rest of the space is the new open concept. Realtor-white walls, tan carpet, and cable TV. This is as good as it gets, I thought when I first looked at the place. This sounds a lot like old lady whining. I'm really not whining. I could easily live here for ten or more years. Except for this one thing I have to do. I promise I'll come back and play fair. Just find the note, kids, will ya? I think.

The message I record on my answering machine is my most difficult lie before turning the key on my apartment door, telling all who call, including my unsuspecting kids, that I plan to take an extended vacation for a year. "Please do not be concerned. I'm fine and will surely be in touch." The phone calls as they try to reach their always-at-home mother will become frantic. They love me and will be angry and very hurt. Can't help them there. I'm counting on their love, on their finding the envelope taped under my desk and coming to rescue me. Oh dear God, please come and find me! I think. The three of you will be my only deliverance, my only way out of the mess I'm sure to find myself in.

Fortune has it that my son George has taken a job in Florida and is not expected back for a long time. James is on sabbatical working on his PhD, and Marie will be singing with an Italian opera company in Oviedo for the better part of a year. It raises the hair on the back of my neck to realize it's now or never.

With a full tank of gas, the tires checked, and latex gloves on, I drive out of Green Bay, Wisconsin, praying this old Toyota will do the job. Wild-looking, wide-eyed, and nearly paralyzed with fear, I turn the corner toward Highway 29 with my few possessions and my Underwood typewriter. And we head north.

The Crow's Nest Motel, with its cloying mixture of mold and body odor, some two hundred miles from the old 29 turnoff, is my destination. The rusty Toyota I purchased puddle-jumped up the highway from dusk into the dark of night. This blustery night smells like rain and, with it being this cold, possibly snow. Keeping to the back roads has been more of a problem than I anticipated. Upkeep on the once-familiar old roads going north has been pretty much nonexistent. Mile after mile of potholes and brush growing close on the shoulder has slowed my journey down to a crawl at times. Crazed, desperate not to get pulled over by a local constable, I push this old trap over one logging road after another. Snowflakes swirl in front of the slow-moving jalopy. White-knuckle driving has made the arthritic joints in my hand scream in pain. I have rheumatoid arthritis, and my usual painful joints are now howling. I'm going to have to sleep for a few hours. The car's exhaust could easily gas me. But going any farther is out of the question. I'm not making it to the motel anytime soon, so I better pull off.

Pulling over as far into the brush shoulder as I can, I rest my head in my arms on the steering wheel, feeling as though sleep is far away. But when I open my eyes again, I'm surprised to find it snowed at least an inch while I slept without dreams. Past the point of no return, and with no coherent thought process, I just pull back onto the road and automatically keep heading north to Cre Falls and the Crow's Nest Motel.

I barely remember stopping to sleep. Too numb to be surprised, at last I turn up the hill to the motel. I'm not even taken aback to see it standing much as I remember it. Putting the twenty-two dollars in the night cash box attached to the front office door, I retrieve the key to number six.

Sleep deprivation and dehydration feed my adrenaline. When I pick up the bedside lamp and slam it into the TV screen, I'm surprised that it explodes. Sparks, smoke, and glass shards fly back at me. Making as much noise as possible, I trash the small room. I roll up the bedding and toss it in the corner. The mattress and box spring, I move crosswise on the bed. While I was bumping up the road, I collected my urine and feces in a bucket, the contents of which now stain and puddle on the threadbare faded carpet. The room smells like an outhouse on a hot, humid summer day. Knowing adrenaline is my only source of energy, I smash the window with the 1950s pole lamp. Glass litters the floor.

I am dressed in a thin cotton shift that falls above my knobby arthritic knees, and my saggy breasts flop up and down as I jump. By now, half-crazy, I'm screaming in a loud-pitched wail. My hair is dry from over-perming and is standing around my head like a salt-and-pepper halo. It looks like ozone escaping the trashed TV screen has given it life.

Then I hear the siren. Oh God, here they come! The fear in my gut makes me feel faint. There's no turning back anymore. The siren howls as Cre Falls's black-and-white careens around the corner into the motel parking lot. Standing by the broken window, I get a good look at the faces of two young cops. I don't recognize either of them, but I bet I know their daddies. They certainly shouldn't know me. "Come and get me, boys. This wacky old lady is waiting!" I scream.

What looks like Cre Falls's finest rookie butts the door, breaking the frame. If he had turned the knob, the door would have opened. Idiot, I think. Ah, the enthusiasm of Cre Falls youth. Looks like the several hundred dollars I put under the Gideon Bible in the bedside drawer won't be enough to take care of this mess.

The rookie yells back at the other cop, "Jon, my God, I just stepped in shit! The frickin' smell in here is way bad. Get the old lady standing by the window. Her feet are bleeding pretty badly all over the place from broken glass. Jesus, this place is a fucking mess. What the hell? It looks like robbery."

Jon, seemingly the seasoned hard-ass, makes his way into the room. After gagging a couple of times, he vomits in my transport pail. Clearly reluctant to come any farther into the room, Jon orders the rookie, "Grab her before she bolts!"

If he puts his hands on me, I'll go berserk, I decide. Funny thing, I can't stop screaming. Got to run! Jumping Jesus, they'd better catch me before I have a heart attack. Just as I make it around the bed, I slip in urine mixed with bowel movement and fall hard. Out of breath, lying in urine, and still screaming at the top of my lungs is as nuts as I need to be.

The two officers finally grab me under my arms and haul me to my feet. Jon's green, pasty complexion, helped along by the looks of my bloody feet and urine-soaked nightgown, prompt him to say, "I don't know what happened here, but this screaming witch is nuts. I don't want her in my ride. Call County Rescue while I hold her. Lady, stop swinging your arms, goddamn it. Hurry, Dave, make the call. She's starting to scream again. Jesus, good thing we're wearing latex gloves. Too much who knows what flying around?"

I don't know how I could have done this differently. Incredibly, when I got into the car and headed north, it seemed as though some kind of influence was directing this outcome. I'm out of control now and totally exhausted. My throat is burning, and my head is pounding. The stabbing pain in my feet is probably why I can't stop screaming. I try to find the neat, proper old lady sitting contently with no worries some two hundred miles away, and she's not here in this wrecked motel room. I want to put my head on Jon, the cop's shoulder, and beg him to take care of me. I want him to call my children. My jaw is clenched. No words leak out of my mouth.

Dave comes back into the room. "They're here," he says tersely before heading back outside. Through the open door, I see the ambulance skid around the corner and into the parking lot of this wretched place, lights flashing and sirens wailing. Opening the back door of the rig, two EMTs jump out. Grabbing the gurney, they head for the open motel room door.

The cops let go of my arms. Before I can slip away, the EMTs put a gait belt around my waist. One has a stethoscope, and after placing the cold bell over my heart, he says, "She's pretty tacky." By this time my screaming has turned to whimpering. The squad boss assesses me for obvious broken bones. I'm as surprised as he is when he finds none. The squad boss yells over my screaming, "Let's put her back on the floor so we can get the backboard under her. What's her BP?"

The EMT with the cuff and the stethoscope yells, "She's back to screaming and I can't hear a thing. Get her strapped to the gurney and let the emergency room get her vitals."

Jon yells in the EMT's ear, "She must really be hurting. She's hardly stopped screaming since we got here. Boy, the fucking stench is getting to me." Without ceremony they put me on the gurney and strap me in, totally forgetting the backboard. Someone covers me with a blanket.

The EMT with the clipboard motions Jon outside the motel room. Neglecting to close the door, he says, "What do you have on her?"

Looking at his notebook, Jon says, "No name, no address, no identification on her; old beat-up suitcase with a few clothes, Underwood typewriter with some kind of locking mechanism, her ride was probably that old red Toyota over there. No license plate, and I can't find a registration. The damn VIN number is scratched out. I'll see if the fingerprint guy can lift her prints. I still can't figure out why she's wearing latex gloves. It must be a germ thing. She could have come in overnight because she didn't register at the Nest's office. Far as I can figure, she hasn't been robbed. Found several hundred dollars under the Gideon Bible in the room. Crazy Butch will want the money to pay for the mess, I suspect, but for now the money's going on my report and in the evidence bag. Dave and I will spend the rest of the shift trying to figure out who this old lady is. For now, though, she's a Jane Doe."

The other EMT, still standing beside me, yells from the room, "Let's get her out of here! Dr. Murray is on call in the ER. Let's do our best to spoil his night, eh? Say, cover her face; it's starting to rain. I call it just one more perfect night in Cre Falls."

Lying on the gurney in the parking lot, I can hear raindrops falling on the pavement. Struggling to get the blanket away from my face, I open my parched mouth to try to catch a few drops. I must look really loony now, with my arms in restraints and my mouth wildly open, searching for raindrops. Classy, I think. I can feel warm sticky liquid pooling under my feet, and I wonder how badly I'm cut. My insane act is hardly an act anymore. Oh, I'm afraid! I'm afraid they will find out who I am and somehow even more afraid that they won't, and I'll have to go through with this crazy plan. Somehow the doc has to send me to the nursing home and not to Marshfield Hospital's eighth-floor nutty ward. My throat hurts from screaming. Better keep screaming tonight, though, because nothing is coming out of my mouth tomorrow. I hope the EMTs take good care of my typewriter and the suitcase. Two, maybe three, minutes more pass. Come on, come on! I think. My butt and hip hurt from the fall. I really need something to help the burning in my feet. Stop standing around talking, and get me there, you idiots, I want to say. But all that comes out of my mouth is screaming.