by Matayo, Amy
“What are you doing? Lay back down.” A nurse says, attempting to keep my grandmother from getting out of bed. I stop in the doorway and take it all in. I was gone only minutes, so how has she managed this turnaround in such a short time?
She slaps the nurse’s hand and swings her legs to the side. “I’m getting up to pee, that’s what.
“You have a catheter in, Mrs. Floss. Now stay in bed.”
Disoriented, she stares straight ahead in confusion, then snaps to attention and looks at her…you know, to see if it’s true. It is. In her heavily-medicated state, she begins to tug at it while the nurse and I both jolt into action.
“Stop that!” I yell.
“Mrs. Floss, you’re going to hurt yourself!” The nurse insists.
“Get someone here to take it out,” my grandmother demands. Is a sedative out of the question? I look to the nurse for help, but she looks as clueless as I feel. A pity, since she’s the one who spent good money on medical school and should know how to diffuse this situation.
I rush to my grandmother’s side to try and keep her from walking. “You have a fever. Stop walking and lie down.” Clearly, the fever is making her crazy, because I may as well be talking to her I.V. bag with the way she’s already shuffling toward the bathroom, the pole and bag leading the way as she steadies herself with them. She groans audibly as she goes, which should give her an indication that this is a terrible idea. But of course, it doesn’t.
A second nurse casually walks in, then startles to attention when she sees what my grandmother is up to.
“Mrs. Floss, what are you doing? Get back in your bed.”
“You’re talking to a brick wall,” the first nurse says. “If that had worked the first dozen times I said it, we wouldn’t be in this predicament.”
Nurse Two rolls her eyes. “Okay, well if you’re not going to listen to us, then at least let us help you.” It took no time for this new nurse to realize arguing with my grandmother is futile, less time than it takes most people. I sink into a chair and rub my aching temples, then reach for a magazine, glancing at the cover and scanning the headlines. I’ll read anything to keep my mind off whatever is happening in the bathroom. Not an easy thing to do when my grandmother cries out in pain. My stomach turns with the possibilities, so I focus on the page and frantically take in the headlines.
This country singer-Teddy-Hayes-dude is on every single magazine this week, and I’ve never heard any of his songs. Teddy here, Teddy there, Teddy everywhere. He’s cute, but country music isn’t my thing. With a sigh, I flip the magazine open to the first page and scan the highlights, listening as my grandmother argues with the nurse. Stop grabbing me there. Take it out. Now can you please turn around? Nobody can be expected to do this with an audience. The first nurse steps out of the bathroom, and we exchange concerned looks, both our eyes wide. Leave it to my grandmother to baffle the medical staff. I’m certain this isn’t the way things normally work.
“You two can stop talking about me out there. A grown woman ought to be able to use the bathroom without any help,” my grandmother scolds.
“Not one who was recently stabbed. You just went from being nearly catatonic to jumping out of bed and arguing with everyone,” I call. “Are you almost done in there?”
“I’m almost finished. Hold your horses.” I suppose I should be thankful I can make light of the situation, even more thankful that she’s awake and as feisty as ever. But she’s pushing it too hard too fast. I watch Grey’s Anatomy religiously. I know what happens when people do too much too quickly. One minute the family’s all joyful, and it’s a miracle and celebrating, but in the very next scene, the patient is usually dead. Worse, in this situation, there’s no McDreamy to fill my grief-stricken void.
“My horses are officially held,” I say when my grandmother reemerges from the bathroom. She stumbles a bit, and I rush to help the nurse guide her into bed. At least this time she doesn’t protest. For all her sudden bravado, she’s hurting more than she lets on. The apple, the tree. It’s a saying for a reason. I wrap my hand underneath her arm and help lift her into bed. For someone on the smaller side, this is surprisingly difficult.
“Stop tugging on me and let me do it myself.”
“You can’t do it yourself. You’ll pop your stitches.”
“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. How would you like it if I did that to you?”
I raise an eyebrow over her head at the nurse across from me. “You have done that my entire life. I seem to recall you doing that on the day the storm hit when you were talking about my love life. Or lack of.”
As soon as the words are out, I regret them. The same dread that has me staying quiet about her house keeps me from bringing up Paul. And just like that, I just brought him into our conversation.
“What love life? You told me a long time ago that you don’t want one.”
I offer a satisfied nod, “That’s right, and I meant it.” Visions of Chad choose that moment to appear in my mind, and I shift in place.
“Methinks thou doth protest too much,” my grandmother says, looking up at me like she knows something. She absolutely does not.
“And methinks you are not Shakespeare. Now lie down.”
“Always bossy, this one.” She settles back with a sigh and blinks up at me, pain clear in her expression though she’s doing her darndest to fight through it. She reaches up to pat my cheek, a small smile on her face. It’s accented by a wince, but the smile is there all the same. “That’s my girl. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Now where are you going?”
As usual, she knows my every move before I vocalize I’m making one. “I need to go check on the bakery and see what needs to be done to get it back into working order. I should only be gone a couple of hours or so, and then I’ll be back. Okay?”
My grandmother lies back and looks up at me, resignation in her expression. “It’s going to take weeks to get it into shape. From what I remember, the whole front window is busted out, and the furniture is all broken.”
She’s right, I but don’t have the heart to go into it now. The direness of our situation—of our whole town—is too much for her to handle. I make a mental note to ask the nurse to keep the television off for in this room for the foreseeable future. Until she’s a bit stronger. Maybe then the news won’t hit quite as hard.
The last thing she needs to see is the shape of things downtown. There is barely a working shop in sight, volunteers are arriving in droves, FEMA trucks line the streets, and now so many in the Springfield area are homeless. We’re two of them, another thing I’m not quite ready to share. I force a smile I don’t feel and look her in the eye.
“You’re right, it’s all in bad shape, but I’ll get everything taken care of. I’m going to make some calls and set up repairs, and then get started on all the clean-up I can manage. I’ll be back in a few hours, okay?” I stand up and reach for my bag, pushing the strap over my shoulder. It feels heavy, or maybe I’m just weighted. Bone-crushingly weary due to fear and pressure and silent grief and a very real sense of what-might-have-been that I can’t shake. Inhaling a deep breath, I attempt to exhale it away.
“Okay. Have you been by to check on the house? Misty should have plenty of food, but she might need water. Make sure to give her some.”
I freeze. Misty is my grandmother’s pet parakeet. When I checked on the house, the cage was busted open and the bird was gone. The bird’s death would not be the worst thing to ever happen, but I suspect she simply flew off to a more welcoming climate. In the two times I’ve been there so far, there’s been no sign of the bird. Best to keep that information to myself for now.
“Okay I’ll go by the house later today.” I hold my breath, but the answer seems to pacify her for now.
“Alright, but can you tell the nurse to bring me some water? And a magazine if she can find one? And I need some food because I’m starving.”
She isn’t starving, but I pass her the magazine in my hand
and promise to tell the nurse, overcome with the realization that a hospital bed makes my grandmother appear a whole lot older and even less independent than she is. I turn away and walk out of the room, unwilling to let more sadness grab hold of me.
Life is short, but we keep on moving in a futile effort to outpace it.
Even after sweeping and throwing away and hauling furniture to an upright position once again, this place looks the same as it did when I arrived. I’m just locking up, truthfully considering tossing a match into the entire heap and burning it all to the ground, when I hear a knock on the front door. I’m supposed to meet Chad in half an hour, so I assume he’s here to meet me instead. A little thrill runs through me at the prospect of seeing him again, but when I unlock the door, I’m greeted with a surprise.
“I hate to trouble you, Miss Riley. I just didn’t know what else to do or where to go, and Bart Joyner told me you opened up for him yesterday…”
Floyd is a regular customer, one of about ten who show up daily. I haven’t seen him since the storm hit, but he stands in front of me now. Hands shaking, cheeks drawn, nervous and fidgety like he’s expecting to be turned away. I open the door wide, letting him inside the store.
Amanda is already here and has been since shortly after I arrived, sitting with her book in the far corner like yesterday and nibbling on a frozen quiche that I brought in for me but warmed up for her. Sad disposition, cheeks drawn from lack of sleep or nutrition or both, she looked like she could use it more than me. Even so, she’s only eaten two bites, maybe three. I’m not entirely certain she’s even reading her book. Shock is easy to recognize when you’ve been through it before. She’s often staring straight ahead at nothing, displaced and confused and unsure how to deal with it. Eventually real life will catch up to her, but I won’t be the one to force it. So, I wordlessly refill her cup, rearrange the salt and pepper shakers so they’re touching, and walk away to give her space.
“What would you like to eat, Floyd?” I ask, ushering him to a table away from the still-broken window. I glance at the clock over the kitchen doorway. Maybe if he eats fast, I’ll still be able to meet Chad on time. I push down my anxiety about the tight schedule and focus on the man in front of me. He’s the immediate need; not some man I just met who is perfectly capable of learning Bella’s whereabouts with or without me.
The air stirs around us through the small open slat on one side of the heavy plastic that now covers the gaping hole. I have no doubt Chad covered the window himself, though I haven’t had a chance to thank him and I can’t imagine why he would. He doesn’t know me. Men don’t do nice things for complete strangers for no reason.
“I know you’re a coffee drinker Floyd, so I’ll get you a cup while you think about it. I still have some left.”
“I already ate lunch at the handout truck, but I haven’t had my afternoon coffee. I’d sure appreciate some if you don’t mind. And I’ll take a cupcake if you have any to spare. Don’t go to any trouble, though.”
“No trouble at all, okay? I have something in mind for you already.” I walk around with the coffee pot, waving it in the air a bit to lighten the mood. Amanda hasn’t moved from her spot or even acknowledged Floyd’s arrival, so I silently refill her cup again, then place a bookworm-decorated cupcake in front of her—complete with a gray body, two googly eyes, and a paperback replica of Jane Eyre drawn in a near-lifelike form in brown frosting. She might not be interested in eating, but that won’t be because I didn’t provide the opportunity. I wander back over to Floyd just as the front door opens again and Mr. Joyner walks inside. A growl of frustration nearly makes it way out of my throat, but I swallow it. People are more important than personal feelings and plans, even when I momentarily forget.
“Well speak of the devil. I hear you’re telling people I opened the store for you yesterday. You want some coffee or dinner?” I’m normally not open at dinnertime, but our downtown isn’t normally smashed to bits either. You adapt. “I’m making Floyd…what am I making you, Floyd?”
“Sorry about that,” Mr. Joyner answers. “It was just so nice of you, considering I didn’t have any place else to go…”
I wave him off; emotion clogging my throat too much to speak. It was nice while it lasted, but Chad will probably need to go on without me. Thankfully Floyd proceeds to place his order, saving me for the moment. Between Chad, my grandmother, the babies, and all the wandering souls currently inhabiting Springfield, today has been a lot to take. I just need a second.
“If it’s not too much, can I have a bacon and cheese omelet? I know it’s dinnertime, but I always have eggs and haven’t had any since before the storm hit…” My chest constricts as he rubs his hands together and nervously pops a few knuckles. I know what he’s going to say before he continues. “The thing is, Miss Riley, I don’t—”
I clear my throat, praying that my voice will work. “It’s on the house, Floyd. That goes for the rest of you. Whatever you want, it’s on me.” Floyd pats the table a few times while Mr. Joyner tries to protest. As for Amanda, she glances at me before refocusing on her book, but I swear I see a tiny sigh of relief in the rise and fall of her chest. I’ll take it, encouraged at the tiny response. When someone is strong enough to have a reaction—any reaction at all—they’re strong enough to overcome whatever struggle that assaults them. Even if the process takes time. “A bacon and cheese omelet, coming up. Anyone else want something before I head back to the kitchen?”
“Could I have some sausage if it isn’t too much trouble?” Mr. Joyner tentatively asks.
“If I have some, I’ll definitely make it.”
“Me too?” Amanda’s voice is so soft I barely register it, but I do. It takes strength not to overreact in surprise, but I give her a coming right up and escape into the other room before I can’t take any more and my eyes fill with tears. Grief is a tenuous thing. If given too much attention, it can spiral a person into self-validated despair. If not given enough attention, it can make a person feel undervalued and worthless. I’ve spent most of my life in the latter category and would never wish the same on another person.
But shock is another thing entirely. Eventually, the protective wall we build around ourselves will break and usher in a strong gust of cold air. I don’t know if Amanda will be here or somewhere else when that happens to her, but I do know this: it will absolutely happen, and she will crumble. I only pray someone will be around to gather the broken pieces when that day comes.
“What do you mean, he’s back?”
“Your grandfather came back last night around midnight. Says he wants to move back in and start over.”
“What did you say? He knows I’m still living here, right?”
At fourteen, he’d been gone for half my life. Which, for all intents and purposes, made me an orphan one-and-a-half times in the time most girls spent waiting for their period to arrive. If acne and boys were the least of my problems, I’d consider myself blessed. Now I was hit once again with the real possibility that my grandfather was back to take my grandmother. Where would that leave me? Where would I go then?
“He knows. He says he wants to see you and apologize. He loves you, Riley, he just—well, speak of the devil. You’re awake.”
Footsteps shuffled behind me, and I turned to look up at the worn face of my grandfather. He looked younger than I remembered, possibly because everyone looks ancient when you’re seven years old and ten inches shorter. His eyes were cautious but kind. His voice was even kinder.
“I’m sorry Riley. To you and your grandmother. I hope in time you’ll learn to forgive me and let me come back.”
The heart opens wide when it’s met with words you want to hear. Of course, I would forgive him. And I did. You’ll do a lot of things when you want someone to love you.
For three weeks, we were nearly inseparable.
Three weeks after that, he spent his first night away from home. He gave no explanation.
Two months later, he was gone again.
The last words I heard him say before walking out the door were, “If you want to be tied down by that kid for the next ten years, go right ahead. That don’t mean I have to.”
We haven’t heard from him since.
I vowed then that no man would ever make me feel worthless again. These days, I don’t let them get close enough to try.
It takes only a handful of minutes to whip up breakfast-for-dinner for three—an omelet and a triple order of sausage because I am nothing if not thorough when it comes to customer’s requests. I plate all three orders, then add an array of fruit and leftover scones as sides and carry all three out to the waiting customers. They aren’t paying, but I still think of them that way. These three first crossed my threshold two years ago when I opened this place, and they’ve remained faithful ever since. I accommodate everyone in this business, but I’m extra attentive to those who came first and never left.
“Okay, Floyd here’s your omelet, and I threw in a couple other things on the side just in case you wanted them.” I set the plate in front of him, thankful to have something to think about besides cleaning up, insurance, the money I’m losing every day, the state of this building, my grandmother’s health, and Chad likely waiting for me on a street corner five blocks away. That last one is ridiculous anyway. I’ve already decided not to meet him. I’ll find out Bella’s whereabouts on my own…somehow. Still, the number of times I’ve glanced at the door and willed it to open and usher him inside is embarrassing.
For someone as clearly uninterested as me, why is he always in my thoughts?
With an inward growl at my own stupid thoughts, I reach for a bowl and begin to mix another batch of cupcake batter. I have a feeling I’ll need these sooner rather than later. Cleaning can wait, closing the store can wait, but keeping the spirits up of the customers in front of me cannot. Dessert makes everyone feel better—especially when it’s personalized—and right now, I need a change in mood.
And direction.