Chapter 10
By Thursday morning, the transportation provider had answered.
The planner put the call on speaker while Alexander and I leaned over her desk. A shuttle could take up to eight riders within a limited service area. The estimate covered a two-hour pickup window, a return window, and one community-room trial day.
The total was higher than we had hoped.
“It’s a quote for this schedule and this rider limit,” the planner said. “Not a promise that eight people is enough, or that the same price works if we change either one.”
I wrote that down.
Alexander studied the draft budget. “If we keep the service to one day, we can stay under the cap.”
“Unless families need a different pickup time,” I said.
“Then we revise the schedule before we commit.”
“Good. And the proposal needs to say the quote only applies to this version. Otherwise, the board may read it as proof we’ve solved transportation.”
He nodded. “Put that in.”
Nothing about the plan was grand. No ribbon-cutting, no new building, no promise that a single Saturday would change anyone’s life. We had a community room the library could lend us, a defined number of hours, and a list of services we could test: help finding local resources, a simple meal, scheduled respite with trained staff, and a small number of accessible rides.
The plan still had holes. At least now we could see where they were.
That afternoon, we invited three people from the listening session to review the schedule. Their names and personal stories would not go in the proposal. Their time, if they agreed to keep helping, would be paid for in the budget we were asking the board to approve.
I explained that before we showed them the draft.
“This is a proposal, not an approved program,” I said. “You can tell us the schedule doesn’t work. You can tell us the services don’t match what people asked for. We won’t write down that you endorsed something you didn’t.”
A caregiver named Denise read the Saturday hours twice.
“You have it from ten to two,” she said.
“That’s what the shuttle estimate covers,” the planner replied.
“Then the estimate has already chosen who gets to come.”
The room fell quiet.
Denise folded the page but didn’t hand it back.
“I work Saturday mornings,” she said. “My sister can sit with my husband after she finishes her shift, but not before. If the program starts at ten, I have to choose between getting help and getting him there.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “We should have asked about the hours before we sent the provider a schedule.”
“You asked,” Denise said. “But I didn’t realize the draft had turned into the real schedule.”
The difference mattered. A preliminary plan could still shut people out if everyone treated it as final.
The planner checked her notes. “We can ask the provider for a revised estimate. I can’t guarantee they’ll give us the same rate.”
“Then let’s ask,” Denise said. “And if it costs more, write down what the extra cost buys. Don’t just call the first schedule more efficient.”
Alexander turned toward the planner. “Can you request an afternoon window today?”
“Yes. But I may not have the answer by tomorrow.”
“Then we mark it as pending,” I said. “We don’t pretend the morning schedule works for everyone.”
Denise looked at me. “And if the afternoon quote doesn’t fit?”
“Then we bring the choices back to this group. We don’t quietly cut transportation and still call it accessible.”
By Friday morning, the provider had revised the estimate. The afternoon window cost more, but not enough to break the proposed cap—if we dropped the expensive public launch event Alexander’s communications staff had been planning.
He stared at the revised budget.
“That event would have brought attention to the project,” he said.
“It would also have spent money before we knew whether the service works,” I replied.
“I know.”
“Could the event wait?”
Alexander crossed out the line item.
“We can spend that money on a day people can actually attend.”
It was the first time I had seen him let the size of the announcement shrink in order to make room for the work itself.
We submitted the proposal before the deadline. It included the shuttle’s written estimate, the rider limit, the changed hours, and a clear warning that one trial day could not tell us how many families needed transportation. It also included the proposed role for participants and caregivers in shaping changes—not as a completed promise, but as a costed part of the pilot the board would have to approve.
At the review meeting, the chair asked why we weren’t proposing the full center.
“Because the building is not the first thing families need to test,” I said. “The schedule is. The access is. The services are. We should learn whether this small version helps before we build something larger.”
“And if the results are inconclusive?” one board member asked.
“Then we report that,” I said. “We won’t claim that one day proves what every person with Parkinson’s or every caregiver needs.”
Alexander sat beside me, hands folded on the table. He didn’t answer for me.
The board approved one capped trial day, with spending limited to the submitted budget and no commitment to ongoing services. Participant and caregiver input would be included in the review afterward. It was not approval for the full center, or for the separate nonprofit plan Alexander had disclosed. It was permission to try one small thing and account for every dollar.
When the chair announced the vote, I felt my shoulders loosen.
Eleanor was waiting in the hallway. She had chosen not to sit through the meeting, and no one had asked her to stand beside us as evidence.
“Well?” she asked.
“One day,” I said. “A room at the library. A meal, some navigation, scheduled respite, and a limited number of rides.”
“Not a cure for everything.”
“Not even close.”
“Good,” she said. “Then perhaps people can tell you what it actually does.”
We spent the next week making calls. Six families registered. Four asked for shuttle rides. We confirmed the library room, arranged trained staff for respite, and ordered a modest number of meals. Denise helped review the afternoon schedule. The planner checked every number against the cap.
It was small enough that I could remember each person’s question without turning them into a statistic. It was also small enough that losing one piece could undo the day.
On Friday evening, the night before the trial, I was at home reviewing the final schedule when my phone rang.
The planner’s number appeared on the screen.
“Emily,” she said as soon as I answered. “The shuttle provider just called. Their vehicle is out of service, and they can’t cover tomorrow.”
I sat up straight.
“Can they send another vehicle?”
“They say they’re trying, but they can’t promise one.”
“How many families are counting on that shuttle?”
“Four. At least three have no confirmed way to get to the library.”
My printed schedule lay open on the table. Four names beside the word TRANSPORTATION.
“Don’t tell them it’s canceled yet,” I said. “Ask the provider for a replacement, even if it means a later pickup. I’ll call the families and find out what options they want us to explore.”
The planner paused.
“And if there isn’t another vehicle?”
May you like
I looked at the four names and the line on the approved budget that had finally made the trial possible.
“Then we find out tonight whether a one-day promise can survive the one service people need to reach it.”
