My eyes go back to the green bedspread, to the hands on top of it clutching at the covers. The woman in the bed is tiny. Her mouth is open and her eyes are closed. Her hair is long and wavy and white, spread out over the pillow.
“This is Mrs. Davis,” Nurse Small says. “I’ve no idea how your grandfather even got to know her, or what they could have talked about. She’s like this almost all the time now.”
“She has dementia?” I go. She’s already told us this, I know she has, but I want to make sure, I want to know Aunt Ruth was telling the truth.
“Alzheimer’s. End stages. Although, physically, there’s nothing wrong with her. No telling how long she’ll stay like this.”
Sergei keeps his voice low, respectful. “Dziadzio always said she was a good listener.”
We stand there for a minute, all three of us. I’m trying to see something in her face, some of me, some of you from your photo, some of Aunt Ruth, but there is nothing recognisable there. Her thin white hair is like any old woman’s white hair. Her face is more hollows and shadow than face. She is nothing to do with me, this old woman, this body. Nothing to do with you.
Nurse Small is turning to leave, and after all our efforts, all our work, this is it, this is all there is. I scan the room then for some other clue. The bedside locker is hospital furniture—no books, no photographs, only a green plastic jug of water and matching cup. There’s a narrow wardrobe and on the wall next to it, there’s a painting of a horse in a field looking towards a river. Nana Davis was an artist, she painted. I don’t know how I know this, but suddenly I know it is true.
“Is that her painting?” I hear myself say. “Did she paint it?”
Nurse Small glances back to where I’m pointing at the wall. She shakes her head. “No, those paintings are in all the bedrooms.”
She leads the way back into the two-tone green corridor and we’re following her out as quickly as we followed her in and Sergei turns back and gives me a look, mouths something, and then I remember.
“Oh, I’m sorry, can I use your bathroom?”
I don’t know what I would have done if she’d said there was a bathroom back at the lobby or that it was only for residents or if she’d wanted to escort me there herself. But that’s not what happens. She points me back down the hall we’d come from, back towards Nana Davis’ room, and tells me that when I’m finished, follow the hall straight back to reception.
I walk towards where she pointed, past the door to Nana Davis’ room. I do actually need the loo, but I don’t have time to do both. When I hear the double doors closing, I look over my shoulder and I see the hall is empty so I turn around, go back the way I came. I’m outside Nana Davis’ room. My heart is beating a gazillion beats a minute. It’s going to explode, that’s what it feels like.
What if someone comes in? Another nurse? What if Aunt Ruth decides to visit today? What would I do if she walked in? I take a deep breath. There is no one, no one is coming.
Nana Davis is in the same position—mouth open, fingers clasped. She could be dead, she looks like she’s dead. Only if you look at the sheet, the green blanket over it, you can see her chest is rising and falling. Just a fraction, but a fraction is enough.
I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.
“Nana Davis?” I go. Silence. “Nana Davis, it’s me. Rhea, your granddaughter.”
Nothing happens. I don’t know what I think is going to happen. This isn’t a movie, she’s not going to hear my voice and wake up and suddenly be okay and conscious and able to have a conversation, and, even if she was, what do I think she might tell me? What do I want to know?
The double doors close again. Voices. It’s Nurse Small, I know it is. I can’t be in here. I look out the door but it’s not her, it’s another nurse who has gone into another room. This is my chance to get out of here and I’m just about to when the idea comes into my head. I know it’s a bad idea, that I should ignore it and hurry up the hallway and back into the lobby, but my feet don’t want to ignore it, and they take me across her room and to the locker, next to her bed.
I open the drawer first. I don’t think I’m breathing then, I know I must have been but I don’t know how I could be, with my hand rifling around to find something among the sleeve of plastic cups, two packs of tissues, a pair of glasses in a case. I close it, open the door part instead. There’s a shelf that separates it into two: two rows of clothes. Nightdresses on the top, something silky, a blouse or a slip.
On the bottom part, there’s proper clothes, winter clothes, jumpers. It’s a long time since she’s worn any of these. I’m about to close the door; I’ve done everything I can, there’s nothing here. And then something makes me push my hand underneath the black cardigan with the gold buttons, something makes me push my fingers right to the back.
I feel cardboard and I pull it out—a cardboard wallet, blue with white writing on the front. The kind that holds photos. I’ve seen it before, this wallet, or one like it, and it takes me a second to remember it’s what I’d expected to find two years ago in Dad’s wardrobe. I’d thought I might find it there, I wasn’t looking for it here.
I hold the top of my backpack with my mouth, unzip it. Aunt Ruth was always giving out when I did that. When I get it open I shove the wallet in there and my hand feels something else, something unfamiliar. It’s a Discman, Michael’s Discman. I don’t know what it’s doing there, I didn’t put it there, but I don’t have time to figure it out, so I shove the wallet in and zip it back up again.
I’d love to say that I glanced back at her before I left, that I leaned over and kissed her head or even that I said goodbye, but I didn’t do any of that and I want to tell you the truth, and the truth is that I slung my backpack over my shoulder and stepped back out into the corridor and hurried back to the lobby as fast as I could without running.
When I get there, Nurse Small is back on the other side of the reception desk. Now that we’ve got her talking, she doesn’t seem to want to stop and she laughs a big laugh as she tells us about how Mr. Shapiro and Mr. Reilly always used to argue because Mr. Shapiro always wanted to watch Jeopardy! when Mr. Reilly wanted to watch the news and wasn’t it the strangest thing, the two of them passing within two weeks of each other.
The strap of my backpack is burning a hole in my shoulder, as if she can somehow know what is inside, as if she might try and grab it from me. And maybe Sergei senses something, because he looks at his watch then and says something about how we’re running late to meet his aunt and I nod and say we’d better go. But Nurse Small won’t let us leave, goes into this whole thing asking us where we’re meeting his aunt and starts to give us directions about the best way to get there. I think we’ll never get to leave, but finally we’re pushing through the revolving doors and onto the sidewalk and at last I can breathe again.
It’s all I can do to stop myself breaking into a run, and I must be walking fast because Sergei’s telling me to slow down and that she could be watching through the window.
At the end of the block, I wait for him. He’s laughing, rubbing his hand over his hair so his curls stick up in all directions.
“Jesus, Sergei, I don’t know where you get the nerve to do shit like that, I really don’t.”
“Me? My nerve? You were amazing, Irish bullhead—I mean Natalie Peterson!”
We’re both cracking up. I don’t know what’s so funny really, but it’s as if there’s all this nervous energy in my body and I’ll burst if it doesn’t find a way out. I don’t want to just stand there though, I need to put distance between us and the nursing home.
“C’mon, Serg, seriously, I need to get the hell away from here.”
I’m leading the way, heading back the way we came, towards the subway. Sergei’s beside me, until he’s not, and when I glance back, he’s stopped outside an Irish bar.
“What do you say to a celebratory drink?”
“It’s not even two o’clock, Serg.”
“It’s five o’clock somewhere.”
The bar looks posh, nicer than the places we usually go. “They probably won’t serve us.”
“They don’t serve us, then we don’t drink.”
“Aren’t you hungry, Serg? I’m hungry.”
“So, you eat, I’ll drink. Or we can do both.”
I thought we were going back to Michael’s. I’d been looking forward to it, having his apartment to ourselves, taking the packet of photos out of my backpack, lining them up next to each other on the floor.
“It looks pricey, Serg.”
“Don’t worry about it, my treat.” He smiles. “Come on, we deserve a celebration.”
We get seats at the bar and the waitress gives us a big menu. I’ve already made up my mind to get shepherd’s pie before the barman puts down my Coke and Sergei’s pint of Budweiser. Sergei’s still deciding and I’m listening to the music, Van Morrison. Van Morrison makes me think about Dad. And thinking about Dad makes me think about the Hendrix CDs on my shelf back in Coral Springs, and that makes me think about Michael’s Discman in my bag.
“Serg, did you put Michael’s Discman in my bag?”
I ask the question in a really normal way. I have no idea, yet, where it will lead.
Sergei rubs his hand over his hair, looks at the menu. “What?”
“Michael’s Discman. Did you put it in my backpack?”
He puts the menu down and takes a drink of his pint.
“Rhea, there’s something I have to tell you.”
Writing this, I’m remembering how my heart did that thing again, how it sped up in only a few seconds. Before Sergei can say what he has to tell me, the barman is back to take our order. Sergei smiles and his face is back to normal as he orders a burger, medium rare, Swiss cheese. The barman turns to me and I remember I want the shepherd’s pie.
When he leaves, I’m about to ask Sergei what he was going to say, but I don’t have to.
“I put the CD player in your bag. I … I wanted you to have it. A present.”
A waitress passes by with two big plates of potato skins, crispy brown on the outside, melted cheddar, scallions. In the middle of the plates, there’s sour cream dip. I should have ordered potato skins.
“What are you talking about?”
He rolls his neck, takes another drink of beer. He hasn’t taken off Michael’s jacket. “Don’t freak out, Irish bullhead, but we’re not going back to Michael’s. He kicked us out.”
Behind Sergei, there’s a bald man at the bar eating French onion soup and reading a paper. I wonder, is he listening.
“Why? What did you do this time?”
I only mean to ask the first part of that question, the “why” part, but somehow the second part slips out. It’s the hook that Sergei has been waiting for.
“What did I do? What did I do?” He looks around as if someone else will answer. “He’s the one with the problem, Rhea, he’s the control freak.”
I keep my face sympathetic, I try to. “So, you had a fight?”
“It wasn’t just a fight, Irish bullhead. At first, he wouldn’t let me into the apartment. When he finally did, he lost his shit. He told me not to come back. He called me a fucking rent boy, Rhea.”
He says that really loud and the man with the soup looks over.
“When did this happen?”
“What? The other night.”
“Which night?”
Sergei takes another drink. “I don’t know, Wednesday, Thursday? Who can keep track.”
Something is slowly starting to dawn on me. Sergei fixes the collar on Michael’s jacket where it’s sticking up.
“So how come we were there last night?”
He pulls something from his pocket and puts it on the bar. A set of keys.
“I knew he wouldn’t be back last night. I heard him on the phone to his wife—it was one of the little brats’ birthdays.”
“You got a copy of his keys made?”
Sergei is grinning a weird grin. “Sure. Why not? What else would he expect from a fucking rent boy?”
The barman comes with our food, places it down. The shepherd’s pie is in a bowl. Gravy drips down the side.
“What the fuck, Serg? You should have told me, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. We shouldn’t be eating here, blowing money on this—”
“Relax, Rhea, just eat it.”
“How can I, Serg? This is pizza slices for three or four days for both of us, not to mention the price of the beer—”
He’s started his burger already. “We’re fine for cash, eat up.”
“No we’re not, I’m not. No one’s giving me a job, Serg, I’ve tried everywhere and now if we don’t have Michael’s, if we’ve nowhere to even shower—”
“Rhea, we’re okay for money, okay?”
“What does that mean? You’ve fifty dollars? A hundred? A hundred dollars barely lasts a week in this city, Serg.”
He takes something from his back pocket, puts it on the bar between us. It is a clip, full of notes, a clip full of notes we’ve both seen before.
“You took his money?”
He takes another bite of burger, chews.
“You took his fucking money, Serg?”
“Keep your voice down, will you?” He snarls it, doesn’t say it. His mouth is full. “Do you want the whole city to know?”
“There was over a thousand dollars there, Serg, you can’t just take it.”
He slams his burger down hard on his plate. The barman glances over.
“Why not? Why can’t I? We need it, we need this money. What’s he going to buy? More Ralph Lauren polo shirts? Another skateboard for his kids because the other one is an old model? More of those horrible pictures he had on his walls?”
“I like those pictures.”
“It’s not the point, Rhea, the pictures aren’t the fucking point.” He pushes his plate away and grabs his beer, spilling some. “He used me. He owes me. I deserve this money, we both do. We didn’t trash the place, we left it nice, I didn’t take anything else, I swear, just the money.”
“And his clothes?” I say, gesturing at his jacket.
“One fucking jacket, a shirt, so what? Something for me, just like the CD player was a little something for you. I thought you’d like it, you’re always going on about how much you miss your fucking music.”
“I don’t want it.”
“So, fine, don’t take it, give it to me. I’ll take it.”
He’s calmed down then, is calming down, like he thinks the worst of the fight is over and maybe it is. He turns back to his burger and I pick up my fork, pierce the top of the shepherd’s pie. Steam comes out. Lisa’s mum made shepherd’s pie a few times, in a big casserole dish. She’d cut squares of it, so it stood tall on a plate. It was nicer, somehow, than being in a bowl.
I don’t know why but it’s thinking about Lisa’s mum that makes it sink in. Makes everything sink in.
“He could have come home last night and found us there. He could have called the police. Had us arrested.”
“Rhea—” he says. “Come on.”
“You said you’d made up with him. If the police had come, I’d have been arrested too, no one would have believed I didn’t know.”
He smiles his best Sergei smile, the one that had charmed Nurse Small and Michael and Nana Davis’ doorman. And me. “I knew he wasn’t coming back.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“I knew, Rhea. I knew we’d be okay. Do you think I’d have put you in any danger? We’re a team, remember?”
A team, pitching our wits against the city, how long ago was that? Four weeks ago? Less? More? Being a part of a team means working together, being honest. Not lying to each
other.
I put my fork down. “I want you to put the money back.”
He laughs. Some bits of burger land on the bar. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You know I’m not doing that.”
“He won’t be back until tomorrow. You have time to put it back and the Discman too. And then I want you to get rid of those keys.”
He swigs the last of his beer back, signals the barman for another.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then that’s it, I’m not on this team anymore.”
He rolls his eyes. “Come on, don’t be an Irish bullhead about this. I know you’re mad at me but we both know you’re not going to do that.”
My heart is doing that crazy beating thing, my stump hurts. I feel sick, I don’t even want the shepherd’s pie. I push my stool back, stand up.
“Sit back down, eat your lunch. I’m sorry about last night, if you don’t think I was a hundred percent honest with you.”
“A hundred percent honest? Try zero percent honest.”
I’m putting on my jacket then and he’s laughing, but it’s not his real laugh, I know him well enough to know that.
“Stop this, we both know you wouldn’t last five minutes in this city without me.”
I don’t answer him, Mum. I don’t say anything because I’m remembering that first time we met in the Y, when I stood up for him in a way he’d never stuck up for me. And I know that if I start to say anything, it won’t just be about him, it’ll be about every other person who’d never stood up for me since the beginning of time.
I reach down for my backpack. I pick it up, I don’t grab it. I almost take out the Discman but what’s the point? He’s not going to give it back anyway. And I don’t storm out, I take my time to put it on and then walk away from Sergei like I’ve always walked away from him, like I know I’ll see him later. As I get closer to the door, my feet are going faster, they want to run, but I make them slow down to a normal walk, even when I hear him calling after me. The door is heavy but a man coming in holds it open for me and I thank him before I turn left, downtown. I keep walking, like I know where I’m going, but I don’t know where I’m going. I keep walking, away from Sergei and my Coke still sweating on the counter and my shepherd’s pie which is getting cold by now.
How Many Letters Are In Goodbye? Page 10