Chapter 9
The boardroom emptied slowly, leaving behind half-drunk coffee and the uneasy feeling that we had all agreed not to pretend.
Alexander waited until the last board member had gone before he turned to me.
“I know you have questions.”
“I do.”
He glanced at Eleanor, who was stacking her papers into her folder.
“Would you rather talk privately?”
“No,” I said. “Not about something that affects all three of us.”
Alexander’s expression tightened, but he nodded.
I kept my voice low. “My grandmother’s kindness doesn’t give you permission to decide what I should accept.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” I asked. “Because you told me about the endowment after you’d already made a plan. You made decisions about the center before asking the people who might use it what they wanted. Then you kept your own plan secret because you thought you knew how the board would react.”
He looked down at the papers in front of him.
“That’s fair.”
“It isn’t just about whether you meant well. You can mean well and still take choices away from people.”
Eleanor set her folder on the table.
“She’s right, Alexander.”
He looked at his mother. “I’m listening.”
“I hope so,” Eleanor said. “I’m tired of being told what would make my life easier by people who haven’t asked me what my life is like.”
For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Alexander pulled out a chair and sat down again.
“I thought I could protect the idea until I had a complete plan,” he said. “I was afraid that if I showed the board something unfinished, they’d dismiss it.”
“And instead you showed them you didn’t trust them with the truth,” I said.
“Yes.”
The answer came without an excuse. That didn’t make everything all right, but it gave us somewhere honest to begin.
He folded his hands on the table.
“What do you need from me?”
I looked at Eleanor before answering. Her wishes were hers to explain. Mine were mine.
“I need you to stop treating my grandmother’s story as evidence that your plan is right. She helped Eleanor because Eleanor needed someone to listen. That doesn’t mean she would have approved a center, or a budget, or an endowment. You don’t get to turn her into a reason I should say yes.”
“I won’t,” Alexander said.
“And I need you to understand that my job isn’t a vote of confidence. I signed a contract to do a specific job. I can still tell you the proposal is wrong.”
“You can,” he said. “Your contract protects that.”
“Then the proposal has to protect it, too. I can’t be the person who gathers people’s questions if the people who raised them have no say in what happens next.”
Alexander leaned back. “What are you asking for?”
“Not a listening session that ends with you and the planners deciding which comments are convenient. The people affected by the pilot need a real role in its decisions.”
“Such as?”
“A group that includes people with Parkinson’s and caregivers. They should help decide the hours and services we test. They should review changes before they’re made. And if something isn’t working, they should be part of deciding what we change.”
“Would they have final authority over the pilot?” he asked.
“I don’t know what the board will approve. I’m not going to promise authority we don’t have. But they need more than an invitation to talk after the decisions are made.”
Eleanor gave a small nod.
“And don’t assume every person with Parkinson’s wants the same thing,” she said. “Or that a caregiver can speak for the person they care for.”
“I agree,” I said. “We’d need both perspectives, and we’d need to ask people what participation looks like for them.”
Alexander wrote something in his notebook.
“Paid participation,” I added. “If we’re asking people to give us their time and experience, it belongs in the budget. We shouldn’t expect caregivers to lose an afternoon’s wages so we can call the pilot community-led.”
“Then we’ll include it as a proposed cost,” he said. “Not an approved expense.”
“Right. Nothing is approved yet.”
He looked at the words he’d written. “I can put this into the proposal. I can’t promise the board will accept it.”
“I’m not asking you to promise that.”
“I can promise I won’t describe it as approved before they vote.”
“That matters.”
Eleanor rested her hands on her folder. “And while you’re making plans for a center, I want to be clear about what I want at home.”
Alexander’s attention shifted fully to her.
“I want help when I ask for it,” she continued. “If I’m struggling with a meal, ask whether I want assistance. Don’t rush in because you’re worried someone might see me take longer. I’m willing to discuss practical help, including meals and transportation. But I want to choose what help I accept and who provides it.”
“Understood,” Alexander said.
“And don’t turn my answer into a safety report,” she added. “If I say I’m managing, you can ask whether I want anything else. You don’t need to watch me to prove you care.”
His face changed. Not dramatically. More like a door closing quietly on an old argument.
“I’m sorry I’ve made you feel watched.”
“You’ve made me feel managed,” Eleanor said. “There’s a difference.”
He took a breath. “You’re right.”
“I know,” she said, not unkindly. “That doesn’t mean we’re finished talking.”
I looked down at my copy of the pilot outline. On the page, the word “transportation” sat above an empty space. So did “hours,” “caregiver coverage,” and “meals.” The plan had a lot of headings for things nobody had yet proved we could provide.
“We can’t write this like the center is already built,” I said. “We need to say what we want to test, what it will cost, and what we’ll do if the numbers don’t work.”
Alexander nodded. “The chair wants a capped budget, a timeline, defined services, and limits on the evaluation.”
“Then the proposal should say what a small pilot can actually tell us. If a few families use a service, that doesn’t prove it will work for every family in San Antonio.”
“Agreed.”
“And if not many people use it, that doesn’t automatically mean nobody needs it. Maybe the hours are wrong. Maybe they can’t get there.”
“Agreed,” he said again.
Eleanor glanced at the empty transportation section.
“You’re going to need to ask people about that before you fill it in.”
“We will,” I said. “But we also need a number the board can evaluate.”
“Then show them what we know and what we don’t,” she replied. “Don’t make a guess sound like a fact just because a blank looks bad.”
That sounded like my grandmother. Not because Eleanor was trying to speak for her, but because she was insisting on the same plain kind of honesty.
Alexander closed his notebook.
“I’ll ask the planner to join us in the morning. We can draft a decision-making structure and get estimates for the pieces we can define.”
“Not just ask for feedback on the structure,” I said. “The participants should help shape it.”
“Yes.”
“And I want that written into the proposal as a condition of the pilot—not something we’ll consider after the board approves it.”
He held my gaze. “I’ll put it in.”
I studied him, trying to tell the difference between a promise made because it sounded good and one he understood would cost him something if broken.
“I’ll continue the work,” I said. “But my continued work doesn’t mean I’ve decided the center deserves to exist. It means I’m willing to help make the proposal honest.”
“I understand.”
“Good. Because I don’t want my name attached to a plan that says families were included when they only got to speak once.”
Eleanor gathered her folder again.
“Then perhaps we should all be careful about what we call trust,” she said.
Alexander stood. “I’ll send a draft tonight.”
“No,” I said. “Send the questions and the work schedule. I still have my café shift tomorrow.”
“I’ll send both.”
I took my papers and headed for the elevator. Eleanor came with me. Alexander stayed behind to call the planner.
As the doors closed, Eleanor touched my arm.
“You were very direct.”
“I was trying not to be rude.”
“You can be direct without being rude.”
“I’m still learning that.”
“So am I,” she said. “At my age, I’ve learned some things. I haven’t learned everything.”
The next morning, Alexander’s email arrived before I left for work. It included the meeting schedule, a list of questions for the planner, and a draft paragraph describing a participant-and-caregiver group with a role in pilot decisions. The paragraph said the group would be paid if the board approved the budget. It also said the group’s composition, responsibilities, and decision rights would need to be developed with participants—not handed down by Carter Holdings.
I read it twice.
It wasn’t a finished plan. But it didn’t pretend to be one.
At the office, the planner joined us with her estimates and a notebook full of calls she had made. We could cost the library room. We could price meal delivery for a limited number of sessions. We could propose staff coverage for defined hours, though the estimate would change if the service expanded.
Transportation was harder.
“I’ve called three providers,” the planner said. “One doesn’t serve the area we’re considering. One needs the service hours and estimated number of riders before it will quote. The third hasn’t responded.”
“How do we set the hours without knowing when families can get there?” I asked.
“We need to ask them,” she said. “But we need a preliminary schedule before we can ask for a firm price.”
“Then the schedule is based on a guess,” I said.
“A documented estimate,” Alexander replied. “Clearly labeled as preliminary.”
“Only if we’re honest about how much it could change.”
“We will be.”
I looked at the draft budget. A capped number could keep the pilot from growing beyond what the board approved. But if transportation costs came in higher than expected, the cap could force us to cut the very service that allowed people to attend.
The planner tapped her pencil against the page.
“I can show a range,” she said. “But the board asked for a capped budget. A range may not satisfy them.”
“Could we propose a limited number of rides and state the assumptions?” I asked. “Then the group helping shape the pilot can review whether those assumptions leave people out.”
“That would make the service testable,” the planner said. “It wouldn’t tell us the full need.”
“Then we say that, too.”
Alexander glanced at the clock. “We have until next Friday to submit the proposal. I’ll tell the board we’re waiting on a provider quote.”
“Tell them what we know,” I said. “And don’t call the blank a transportation plan.”
He nodded, then turned back to the planner. “What’s the soonest the provider can give us a written estimate?”
She checked her notes.
“If I can give them a schedule and a rider limit today, they said they may have it by Thursday.”
“And if they don’t?” Eleanor asked.
“Then we submit the documented estimates we have and identify transportation as unresolved,” I said. “But we’ll have to explain how a pilot can be inclusive if we can’t say how people will get there.”
The room went quiet.
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The board wanted a complete proposal by Friday. We had a way to write down what we knew, a way to name what we didn’t, and less than a week to find out whether the service families had asked about could fit inside the number the board was willing to consider.
The transportation provider still hadn’t called back.
