“Yeah, like Chad.”
Robin bursts into a loud guffaw, and then comes Sophie’s voice, ringing from the back. “Girls! You’re not making a mess, are you?”
Chapter Eleven
“Is that so?” I say to my first patient of the day, Ruth.
Ruth is a spry old gal at the ripe age of eighty-six. She’s still quick on her feet, but not as sharp a tack as she used to be because of her unfortunate early stage of Alzheimer’s. Luckily her case of the terrible disease is progressing at a slow pace, but it doesn’t make it any easier on dear Ruth or her family.
As is often the situation with Alzheimer’s patients, some days are better than others. But today’s a good day. Good days are always reasons to smile—especially when Ruth is smiling and excited and padding from one end to another of her charming old house in the quaint Queen Anne district.
“It is so, my dear,” Ruth says. “It is.”
Ruth has returned from her bedroom and is holding in her wrinkled and liver-spotted hands an antique frame. Inside is a black and white photo of a very distinguished-looking sailor. He can’t be more than eighteen years old, and his lone dimple on the left side of his cheek, causing him to look even more childish, makes me think he might not even be eighteen…maybe not even sixteen.
“Very handsome,” I say slightly louder than my normal speaking volume to make sure Ruth can hear. I’m not sure if the reason why she won’t respond to some questions I’ll ask is because she’s becoming hard of hearing or if it’s in fact the onset Alzheimer’s that’s causing her mind to go blank for brief moments at a time.
“Isn’t he?” Ruth says. She runs a finger along the soft jawline of the boy in the photograph. Her nails are acrylic, long, and lacquered a cherry red, thanks to Ruth’s daughter, who insists that her mother have the same bi-weekly salon treatment she’s had for the past forty years. Because while some things change, she says, some things just have to stay the same. I totally get that.
Ruth’s cared-for nails makes me think of Melissa and her pristine nails, and then I’m reminded that I must contact her to see about the meeting with the florist.
Melissa said that sometimes it’s the norm for the bride to meet with the florist, and sometimes the coordinator will come along. This time, however, Melissa thought she’d go ahead and take care of it all by herself. (Yes, I was surprised she was doing something on her own.)
I didn’t put much thought into the matter, because I figure she’s got things worked out, and because I’m swamped as it is. I still haven’t finished those darn clothespins.
“This is Art back when he was in the Navy,” Ruth says.
I snap myself out of my wedding daydreaming. It really is consuming my thoughts on a near twenty-four hour basis. Remember, Claire, I tell myself. Calm down and don’t borrow trouble!
Ruth is still stroking the jaw of the boy in the photograph.
“I can’t believe you’ve never shown me this before,” I say to her. I finish sorting the freshly laundered potholders and tea towels and slowly meander to the cupboards and drawers. Ruth shuffles gaily behind.
“He wasn’t a day older than eighteen in this picture,” she says. “He enlisted in the Navy—the Navy—as soon as he could. Such a brave, brave man.”
I look at her—she’s looking fondly at the photo—and I say, “I’m sure he was a very brave man, Ruth. And handsome, too.”
“Oh, yes,” she says. She thrusts the framed photo at me and urges me to take it, despite of the tower of tea towels in my hands. “Look, look. Real close,” she’s saying, still thrusting the frame at me.
I set the towels down and do as she asks. “Oh, yes,” I say loudly and drawn out. “He is a real looker. Yeah? Very nice.”
“Ohh.” Ruth pats my arm repeatedly. “That’s exactly what we used to say in my day.” She pauses. “Here, I have more photos of Art.” She trots off to her bedroom and I’m left holding the rather heavy frame.
“Just a minute, Ruth,” I call out, not sure if she hears me.
After I finally find a minute to finish putting away the kitchen items, I follow her into her bedroom and let her tell me the story behind a variety of photographs that cover almost every square inch of her dresser.
She’s so cute, hemming and hawing over different photos, lifting up some frames, then setting them back down, thinking better of sharing that one with me for whatever reason. Then finding “Oh! Just the one!” and bringing it for me to see, taking a brief seat next to me on her bed to tell the story behind that particular photograph.
Ruth then brings back another photo, one that I saw not five minutes ago. “This is a photo of Art when he won a whittling contest at the local fair. He won first prize. First prize!”
I give a small smile, knowing exactly what she’ll say next, because it’s the same photo, the same story, the same moment again. But today is a good day. Ruth didn’t put her trash in the bathroom sink like she did the other day, and she’s not asking for the umpteenth time where Schnickerdoodle is. Sometimes I bring him for certain patient visits. Some people really get a kick out of him, and he’s so great with them.
No, today Ruth is doing well, and maybe going down memory lane, looking at photos of her late husband Art is causing her a little setback right now. No worries.
“Ruth, honey?” I say, taking the familiar framed photo from her hands. “How about we do some of those reading exercises together?”
She pauses for a moment, looking down at the photo. I’m waiting for a response, and when I don’t receive one soon I repeat myself, a little louder this time.
“Why are you shouting, Claire?” She looks over at me and pushes her bifocals further up her nose. “I can hear perfectly well, dear.”
“Want to do some reading?”
She thinks on the question for a moment, then says, “Did you bring those crosswords?” She’s now smiling eagerly.
“You bet!” I take her by the hand and lead her into the living room.
“Oh, I can walk faster than you, you slow poke,” she says, sticking her acrylic finger in my back. “Move it or lose it, sister.” Then, like the spry, Sicilian golden girl Sophia Petrillo, she pushes past me halfway down the hall and begins a search for the crosswords I brought along.
***
After visiting my last patient of the day, I’m on my way to pick Lara up from her office. Apparently she’s getting her car detailed and needs a ride to her therapy session after work.
“Sessions still going well?” I ask Lara on the drive to her shrink’s office. It’s over in Belltown, where Sophie lives, so I figured I’d drop by afterward and get another round of yoga in.
I’ve been meaning to sign up for a class at Studio Tulaa, but life’s demanding a lot at the moment. Sophie’s been such a doll, letting me drop by once or twice a week to do some yoga at home with her. I feel it’s time to just go sign up for the darn class already. Robin says they’re great.
“It is going well,” Lara says. She pulls out a compact from her black, leather purse and begins to powder her nose.
“Is your therapist hot or something?” I kid. “Getting all fresh for him?”
“Oh.” She clamps shut the compact after taking one last look at herself in its mirror. “Only a little freshening up. I have a date with Nathan tonight.”
“Nice. Where to?”
“Simple dinner and a movie. Nothing fancy.” She points to the left, telling me to take the next turn.
“Already doing basic, non-fancy dinner and movie dates,” I say. “Must mean you’re headed for serious relaysh mode, eh?”
“What?” She has a perplexed expression on her face.
“You know?” I say. “First it’s all over-the-top dates, to impress you. Then it becomes the routine dinner and a movie. Dinner and Netflix. Dinner. Just coffee…”
“Whatever it is,” Lara says, pointing now to the right, indicating the next turn, “I’m just happy it’s happening. We’re hitting it off well, and i
t’s fun.”
“So you think you can stop therapy soon?”
Lara’s main (and maybe only) reason for seeing a therapist—Jackie’s therapist, in fact—is because of that loser she was seeing from work. Anyway, she was all hung up on him after they broke it off, and it got so bad she went to see a shrink about it. I mean, the girl was stalking him. She definitely needed some help.
The therapy visits have proven really helpful, and as far as we all know, that relationship is still over and done with. It’s probably a good idea that Lara keep seeing her shrink, though, just to keep up with the long healing process. Although, if she’s moved on from what’s-his-face and is now happily ensconced in a relationship with Nathan…
“I don’t know,” Lara says. “I’m doing so well, and Dr. Milbanke’s been a huge part of my healing. I’m kind of superstitious about stopping seeing him. You know?”
“I guess.”
“It’s this parking lot here on the right,” Lara says. She gathers her purse and briefcase from the floor in front of her. “Thanks a million for this. I really appreciate it.”
“Any time,” I say. “Oh, pull hard on the handle. Sometimes it sticks.”
Lara looks at her door handle skeptically and gives it a good yank. It opens, and she looks back at me.
“New problem,” I say with a sigh. “Darn thing decides to stick now and then.”
“Hon,” Lara emerges from the car, “if this door goes, what will you do then? Crawl through the rear?”
I shrug and say nonchalantly, “It’s only in the winter when the driver’s door sticks. I figure if the passenger goes in the summer it’s okay, since the other door stops acting up.”
Lara laughs and shakes her head. “Thanks again. Drive safe. And say hi to Sophie for me.”
She’s about to close the door and I shout out, “Wait! Don’t you need a pick up?”
“Nathan,” she says, bending down and peeking through the doorway. “See ya.” She waves goodbye, a coquettish smile on her lips, and gives the door a good shove to close it.
As I pull out of the drive, gather my bearings, and snake my way along the curvy roads to Sophie’s apartment complex, my cell phone rings. I glance at the caller ID. It’s Mom. I pick up the call, hitting the speakerphone, and leave the phone on the dashboard.
“Mom,” I say, excited to have her call me back.
I was having a little crisis this morning, fretting over the birdcages that I wanted Melissa to look into. I still haven’t heard back from her about whether she actually purchased them or not, and I still have no clue how the florist meeting went.
I went on to Etsy to check out the birdcage lot, and they were sold. Part of me hoped they were sold to Melissa, and part of me feared they’d been sold before she got a chance to snag them herself. Don’t borrow trouble, I remind myself.
So I decided to call Melissa to see if she’d taken care of it. That was yesterday, and I still haven’t heard from her. Ridiculous, right? Aren’t wedding planners supposed to be on call for you, like, around the clock? Aren’t they supposed to be at your beck and call in a way, at least getting back to you before the following day?
Whatever. I called, left a message, then sent a text, just to be sure. When I woke up this morning and still hadn’t gotten word from her, I freaked out and called Mom, for whom I’d also left a message. Thank God Mom was coming to the rescue. I so wish she just lived here in Seattle; it would definitely make planning this wedding and dealing with situations like this easier.
“You phoned, Claire,” Mom says sweetly. “Sorry I couldn’t call sooner. It’s been a very hectic day at work. How are you doing? Better?”
“Not better, not worse,” I say honestly. “I still haven’t heard from Melissa. We’re going on two days here. Mom, what should I do?”
“First, calm down. She’ll get back to you sooner or later.”
“Yeah,” I say with sigh. “It’s the later part that I’m worried about. I’m freaking out! I know she didn’t get those birdcages. Without the birdcages, the whole vintage-bird theme goes out the window!”
“Cute joke,” Mom says.
“Moooom,” I whine. As I make my next turn, my phone goes sliding along the dashboard and plunks on the passenger floor. “Mom! Can you hear me?”
Her response is distant, but she can still hear me. “You’re not talking and driving, are you?”
I wait until I come to a complete stop at the next stop sign before leaning over to retrieve my flying phone.
“Not really,” I say. I set the phone in my lap. “Can you hear me all right? I’m on the speaker.”
“You need to get one of those Bluetooth thingies,” Mom says. I can’t hear her as well as when she was on the dash, although it’s much better than on the floor.
“I’m not getting one of those dorky things,” I say. “They’re so cheesy.”
“Look, dear,” Mom says, “I’ll give Melissa a call for you, just to make sure everything’s all right.”
“Thank you. I mean, it is a bit curious that I haven’t heard back from her, don’t you think? She seems like the kind of girl who is never without her cell phone. Surely she’s gotten my messages.”
“I’m sure she has,” Mom says optimistically.
Or, perhaps Melissa is really busy with all of my wedding planning, and that’s why she’s too swamped to call back. She probably figures that since she did buy the lot of birdcages that there’s no sense in wasting precious time on telling me what I should assume. To be safe, though, Mom can get in touch with her.
“Besides,” Mom says, “I chatted with Melissa not even a week ago, and she is working hard on the wedding.”
“Yeah?” I ask, a hint of enthusiasm in my voice.
“She called to go over the second installment of the payment…the invoice is getting larger, you know, with the additions and all, so she wanted to advise me of the latest installment charges.”
“What do you mean ‘additions’?” I ask, wondering if she’s talking about the pending flower order that I hope Melissa has already arranged with the florist.
“Oh…” Mom’s voice starts to drift, and I know it’s not a poor connection nor the fact that my phone is occasionally muffled by the hem of my cardigan.
“Mom,” I say in an advising tone, “what ‘additions’ are you talking about?”
“A few more people have been added to the guest list.” She sounds meek. She’s guilty. Guilty of not adding “a few more people,” but guilty of growing the headcount to a possibly insurmountable level.
“Mom,” I say, fearful of what her answer will be when I ask, “how many?”
“Two.”
“Oh.” I drop my shoulders in relief. They had begun to inch higher and higher as the trepidation of a humongous guest list increased. “That’s not so bad,” I say. “Two more people. Who are they?”
“No,” Mom says. “Two…Two hundred. The count is now at two hundred people.”
“What?!” I almost swerve off the side of the road at her revelation. Good thing I’m in a practically vacant neighborhood. “What do you mean two hundred people?!”
“Claire, calm down,” Mom says in a sugary tone. “Don’t you worry. Dad and I are paying for all of this. It won’t cost you anything.”
“I know it won’t cost-cost,” I say, utterly gobsmacked, “but it’s costing more time. More work. More jelly jars and favors and…and…work!”
“That’s why we have Melissa, dear.” Mom continues to try to calm me down, tell me that everything will be under control and she’s going to hang up with me right now to call Melissa and inquire about those birdcages. She’ll let Melissa know that she may need to plan on even more food, more tables, more room, more centerpieces for the increased number of tables, more…everything…for what is quickly becoming the fattest wedding Seattle might ever see. Ten to one the guest list grows even more before I become Mrs. Whitley. Melissa better be prepared.
Yoga. Thank God its s
aving and calming grace is just two blocks away.
***
Unfortunately, yoga doesn’t really calm me down all that much. Even getting to hang out with Sophie briefly doesn’t make me feel very much at peace. All I can think about is what’s happening—possibly at this very minute—with Mom calling Melissa.
I told Mom that in addition to being fearful about missing out on the Etsy purchase of a lifetime, I was worried that Melissa didn’t have her facts straight about the peonies. Oh, the peonies! They’re (unlike lilies) one of my favorite flowers. They’re so fluffy and fresh and frilly and feminine. They’re gorgeous, and they look spectacular in bridal bouquets. I just have to have them!
I’m not a pro gardener, by any means. I do, however, have some sort of a green thumb. Not true green…maybe more like dying-grass-green. You know the sickly kind of green—the light shade that grass will turn before resigning itself to a sallow shade when it’s dying? That’s the kind of light green I’m talking about. I try to do really well at gardening, because it’s a lot of fun, and because my idol Martha Stewart says there’s nothing quite like the hobby of gardening to make you feel self-reliant and self-sufficient. But sometimes I totally miss the boat.
Like last season. Oh, God help me. I planted probably a dozen buckets of tomatoes and set them up on the deck in the backyard. It’s a really sunny place, when the sun actually decides to shine. Well, apparently it wasn’t sunny enough, or was it that I watered them too much? Either way, they keeled over. Plumb tuckered themselves out, I guess. Tired of growing, maybe? All they did was produce a ton of leaves and then—poof! Out of nowhere they decided to turn brown, and come September I was literally left with nothing but twigs of a dashed tomato-growing dream.
Now, there have been other seasons where I’ve had tomatoes coming out of my ears, and zucchini, too! Oh, poor Conner. That summer when we had so much squash growing in the garden plot he made for me... We ate so much zucchini bread, zucchini soup, zucchini pesto, and zucchini omelets I thought Conner was going to officially put an embargo on ever buying any form of squash again.
When Girlfriends Chase Dreams Page 14