Sing it, Sam

by Jennifer Ryder

  “Any word?” I blurt out and then realise she’s talking on her mobile. “Sorry,” I mouth to her.

  The look on her face is unreadable as she pauses and nods her head. She’d be great at poker. “Thank you for letting me know,” she says, her voice firm. “Yes … of course … I’ll try making contact with them again.”

  I gasp and stand, gripping her upper arm. “Was that the hospital?”

  She huffs out a breath and slowly nods. “Mrs Ferguson didn’t make it.” Her thick voice carries the weight of the world.

  My face turns to stone.

  She’s gone. Just like that.

  Tears well in my eyes.

  “I’m going to try to get in contact with her family, yet again. Can you please bring her full file up to my office? I couldn’t find it.” Kathleen sniffs and then retreats down the hall.

  My hands tremble as I search for Mrs Ferguson’s file from the tall white filing cabinet behind me. I eventually find it stuck inside another file.

  As I walk to her office, a series of photos slip from the file and fall to the ground. One is a picture that Kathleen took of Mrs Ferguson and me when we made the floral headpieces; another is of her sitting in a sunny spot in the courtyard with a multi-coloured blanket draped over her lap. My nan had one not so different. It brings back so many memories of the day Nana passed. I swoop up the pictures and shove them into the file.

  When I enter the room, I slide the file onto the corner of Kathleen’s desk.

  “I know it’s sad, Jane. Mrs Ferguson was a colourful character. A lovely woman.” She dabs a tissue at the corner of each eye and breathes in deep.

  “It’s t-terrible.”

  “What’s really sad is that her family haven’t visited her for two years. Some of them are even local.”

  “Really?” I breathe. How can someone treat their own flesh and blood like that? Like they don’t even exist? My hand rushes to my mouth, attempting to cover a sob. I can’t turn into a mess in front of her. I need to hold it together. A cry bursts free of my mouth.

  “Are you okay, Jane?” Kathleen asks.

  “I just need a minute.” I excuse myself and run down the hall towards the far end of the home. I need air.

  Something moves in my vision to the right. Wheels. I move to the left to avoid the resident. My sneakers squeak against the lino floor. My ankle jams against something metal. I fall to the ground.

  “It’s been a while since a pretty thing like you threw herself at me,” Sam says.

  It’s funny. It is, but I can’t even think. She died. That lovely lady is gone. Just like that. I stop a cry from climbing up my throat.

  “What are you doing out?” I push myself to sit up.

  “I’m not under house arrest. Anyway. What’re you doing running down the hall? You know the rules.”

  I close my eyes and rub them with the heel of my palms. All I can see is her glowing face, proud as punch as she crowned me with her floral masterpiece.

  “She’s, she’s ….” My chin trembles as I look up at Sam. Words get lodged in my throat.

  Gone. She’s gone, Sam.

  Sam offers his hand to me. I take it, careful to hold my own weight. He tugs me to my feet with strength I didn’t know he had. “Come with me.”

  His room only two doors down. I hobble behind him, blubbering like a baby as he steers his wheelchair inside. He pulls the vehicle up alongside the bed and points to the comforter, directing me to sit.

  I sit and rest my elbows on my knees. He moves the chair so his knees connect with my shins.

  He holds out two hands and I take them in mine, his skin cool to the touch. I rest our linked hands on top of my thighs.

  “What’s happened?” he asks in a soft voice.

  I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath, trying to calm myself. Warm liquid seeps from my eyes, running down my face.

  “You’re breaking my heart with these tears,” Sam croons, squeezing my hands in his.

  I open my eyes and stare into a pair of sad blue orbs. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”

  I take a few moments, breathing deeply in and out before I steel my resolve and sit up straight. I need to be professional. This is my place of work. I can’t go around bawling my eyes out. Not here. “Mrs Ferguson died.”

  Sam huffs out a breath through his nose. “Oh, Janie. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “The ambulance was for her?”

  “Yeah,” I say and sniff.

  “Shit. That’s really sad.”

  Anger boils beneath the surface as I remember what Kathleen told me in her office. “And her family ... they forgot her. They hadn’t visited in years, and they live here! How could someone do that to one of their own? Old people are still people. They might not be as put-together as us, they might be a little crazy, but they’re still people. They don’t deserve to be forgotten.”

  “Shhhh,” Sam says. “You’re completely right. She didn’t deserve that. No one does, but you know what?”

  “What?” I bark.

  “Mrs Ferguson was lucky.”

  I free one hand from his grip and use the back of it to swipe the moisture from my cheeks. “Yeah? How do you figure that?”

  “Because she had you in her life. You gave her the time of day. You let her express herself, and nurtured her creativity, even if she did make the most godawful head-thingy I’ve ever seen. You let her dress up as the Hulk, for God’s sake.”

  “Do you really think she was happy? That I helped?” Because I want to help people. Ever since I was little, it’s been all I’ve ever wanted. If I wasn’t squeamish when it came to blood and stuff, I would have totally studied to be a nurse or, dare I dream, a doctor.

  “You’ve made more of an impact in here than you know ... and not just with Mrs Ferguson.”

  I take a tissue from my pocket and blow my nose. “Yeah? Who else? Frederick thinks I’m mean, and you ... you don’t even have glasses,” I blurt out.

  “What?” Sam says through a chuckle.

  “You don’t wear glasses for reading.”

  He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Okay, so you got me.”

  “Why did you lie about it?”

  “That little white lie was to spend more time with you. Truth be told, I only started reading that book because you suggested it. If I didn’t tell a furfy about the glasses, would you have stayed?”

  What is he saying? That I’m only here because I feel sorry for him? “If you had asked me, of course I would’ve.”

  “Would you? Would you willingly spend your spare time with the poor guy with the strange disease?”

  “What? That’s not who you are. Don’t label yourself like that.”

  “Then who am I, huh?” he demands.

  I cup his face in my hands and close the distance between us. In a moment of calm, I drive forward and slam my mouth against his. As our lips connect, and tongues dance, my head swirls, crowded with a multitude of emotions. It’s in that moment I know how I truly feel about him.

  I pull back and stare into his striking blue eyes. “You’re Sam.”

  I want Sam. It doesn’t matter to me how he got here, or how we met.

  Sam has touched my heart.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sam stares up at me, a quizzical look splashed across his face. “Why did you … I mean, you kissed me.”

  I press my fingers to my mouth, remembering the feel of his soft lips against mine. Oh god. What did I just do?

  “I’m sorry, I …” I step back towards the exit. He needs a friend in this place, and me? I’ve taken it upon myself to kiss an almost defenceless man. Have I misread the signs? Was I too blinded by my own loneliness to see that Sam isn’t interested in anything serious?

  “Janie,” he says on an exhale. “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not okay. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Liar. I wanted to kiss the cute guy I love spending time with. That’s exactly what was on my mind.

  I r
ush from the room. He calls after me, but I ignore him, mentally kicking myself the whole way to reception. Throwing myself at someone has never worked before. Rejection and me? We aren’t friends. If Sam doesn’t feel an inkling of what I do, and he says he just wants to be friends, will I be able to handle it? If rejection and I are to be reunited, then I’ve potentially lost a friend.

  Great going, Jane.

  On my way home, I drop into the grog shop and buy the finest red wine available in a box—a Banrock Station Shiraz Cabernet.

  After today, I’m going to need more than a glass.

  ***

  I polish off a plate of microwave lasagne for one with some salad on the side. When the last mouthful is down, I dive into a glass of red that’s fit for a thirsty king and then grab my personalised jumbo jar of Nutella and a spoon. I deserve it. I need it.

  I sink back into the sofa. Butch jumps onto my lap and snuggles at my side. I dial Mum’s number and prepare for it to ring out, like it does nine times out of ten.

  To my surprise, the call doesn’t go to voicemail and Mum’s cheery voice answers. “Jane, how are you, daughter of mine?” Music hums in the background along with several other voices and laughter.

  “Hi, Mum,” I say in a low voice, unable to hide the glumness to my tone.

  “Everything alright?”

  “Not really.” Hold back the tears. Hold back the tears.

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  I fill my lungs and push a loud sigh from my mouth. “We lost someone today.”

  “Oh, my darling girl. Who was it?”

  “Do you remember Mrs Ferguson? Beatrice?”

  “Oh, I do!” she says after a pause. “She lived down on Christopher Crescent. Her cottage garden was exceptional.”

  “Yeah, she sure loved flowers. One day we made floral headpieces. You’d swear she thought it was Christmas.”

  Mum sighs noisily on the other end of the line. Sometimes I hate the distance between us as a family. It’s times like this you realise just how precious a good squishy hug from your mum is. “Beatrice was such a creative soul in the kitchen and the garden. You know she used to make the most stunning marmalade with our fruit, and an orange peel and almond biscotti that was to die for. She’d always sell out whenever she had a stall at the pumpkin festival or at the school fete. The sad thing is, darling, that eventually, age takes its toll.”

  “I know. I should have expected something like this was going to happen. I just wasn’t prepared.”

  “Oh, sweetie. Unfortunately, dying and death come part and parcel with working in a nursing home. Personally, I don’t know how you can work there.”

  “Don’t evet get old,” I beg. “Ever,” I add for extra emphasis.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Jane. I’m not planning on leaving this Earth anytime soon and there’s no way I’m letting your father go before me, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with us.”

  Even though I know that one day I’ll have to say goodbye, at least Mum’s promise is of some comfort now. “Well, I promise if I ever have to put you guys in a home, I’ll visit all the time.”

  “As if you weren’t already the best daughter ever,” Mum chirps.

  “I’m your only daughter,” I remind her and scoff.

  “Yeah, yeah. So, tell me, how’s the writing going?”

  “I’m struggling. Next question?” I knew it would only be a matter of time before that came up. I don’t want to disappoint her if I fail at this.

  “What’s good to talk about then?”

  Do I tell her about Sam? “Um, well, there is someone I was going to talk to you about.” Eventually.

  “Ooh, do tell!” The enthusiasm in her voice is off the charts. How many ciders has she had?

  “Don’t get too excited, Mum. It’s not a thing, but I really like him. It’s complicated, though.”

  “Ooh, where did you meet him?”

  “At work.”

  “Pardon?” Mum’s hearing has never been the best. I guess it is pretty loud where she is.

  “At work,” I say, louder and clearer this time.

  “Please don’t tell me you’ve found yourself a sugar daddy. Your father will drop dead on the spot, and like I said—full life, and he’s not leaving before me.”

  “No! Please, God no,” I assure her. “He’s young. Very young. Like my age.”

  “Well, thank the heavens above for that. So, is he a tradesman or something?”

  “No, he lives—”

  “Brian, can you get me another cider?” Mum calls out.

  “He lives at the home,” I finish my sentence, waiting for a barrage of questions.

  “Yes, with ice,” she says again, louder this time. “Do you think he likes you?”

  My boss seems to think so. The look on his face after the kiss though has me wondering. “Maybe?”

  “Then you should ask him out. No point beating around the bush.”

  “It’s not that easy, Mum.”

  “Nonsense, Jane. Young people always complicate things. If you like each other, and he’s a decent guy, then what’s holding you back?”

  I let out a heavy sigh, thoughts of wheelchairs and nurses and so many unknown things swirling around my head.

  “Our tea has just arrived, darling. You should see the size of this fish! Call you later?”

  “Sure, Mum. Say hi to Dad for me.”

  “I will. I expect an update on this boy, too.”

  “Okay. Mwah.”

  “Mwah,” she says and hangs up.

  I toss my phone on the other side of the couch and wiggle in my seat as Butch nuzzles into my side. “What am I gonna do, Butch?”

  He tilts his head on an angle, and makes a noise, which I’m totally taking as him saying, “About what?”

  “What am I gonna do about Sam?”

  Butch rolls onto his back and makes a growling noise, covering his eyes with one of his paws.

  “You’re about as helpful as tits on a bull,” I tell him, scratching him on the stomach.

  Still, the questions plague my mind. If Sam does like me, how is our relationship going to work? Will he ever be able to leave the home? Or am I condemning myself to a relationship that exists within four small walls?

  Chapter Sixteen

  “How are we all going?” Hannah says, opening up the discussion.

  I slouch farther down in my chair at our usual spot in the café and try to think of something worthwhile to say. The din of the Saturday crowd doesn’t help foster my concentration. I’m not a contributing member of this writers’ group. I’m a fraud, really.

  As Janice harps on about an argument she’s had with her new editor, I’m still thinking about Sam and that kiss yesterday. Sam had nothing but encouraging words to say when I told him about my writing—just one more reason to like him. He barely knows me, yet he believes I can do it.

  “She said I should scrap like three chapters!” Janice blurts out. “I mean, I’m sorry, love, I’ve been writing romance for almost a decade. I’d won three RWA writing awards probably before she went through puberty.” Janice scoffs, looking around the table. “I’d like to think that I know what I’m talking about.”

  Wow. If I’m lucky enough to finish a book, and have an editor helping to get it to be as perfect as it could be, I’d be happy to take the advice. I mean, they’re the experts, right?

  Nan always spoke fondly of her editing team. I’m sure someone doesn’t get a job as an editor just like that. They’d have to have studied and be suitably qualified.

  “Yeah, well sometimes brutal honesty is what you need,” Hannah says. “Sometimes you get lost in the words and deviate too far from the story. When I got beta feedback for my last novella, I cut half the book and pretty much started again. Best decision I ever made.”

  Janice huffs and crossed her arms beneath her bust. An awkward silence hangs between us.

  “Well I finally got my groove back,” Leonie says. “Hit ten thousand words with Long-Lo
st Lovers.”

  “That’s awesome,” I offer for encouragement.

  “So happy for you,” Britt says. “Did you take my advice?” she asks with a cheeky wink.

  “Yeah, the oils and everything were perfect. I think taking a bit of downtime with Matt was what was needed. That man sure knows how to work that mouth of his when he wants to.”

  I clear my throat. Well okay then. I’ll be adding Long-Lost Lovers to my to-be-read pile.

  “What about you, Hannah?” Leonie asks.

  Hannah bites down on her lower lip and then releases it. “Well, things are coming along with my new romantic suspense. I’m making good process. I was a little stuck with some technical stuff, but as a result of the other night, I’m worried I’m now on some kind of ‘watch list’.”

  Watch list? Oh, man.

  “What did you do, H?” Britt asks in a disappointed motherly tone.

  Hannah shrugs and holds out her hands, palms facing up. “Well, with my online search history, I’m probably already on one, but the other night I kind of bailed up a young constable.” She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. A deep pinkish hue surfaces on her cheeks.

  Leonie cracks up with laughter. I lean in closer, eager to find out what happened between her and the cop.

  “It’s not funny, girls,” Hannah says through a soft chuckle. “I’ve been struggling with a couple of things and couldn’t find answers online. The other night I’d ran out of cat food, and so I went to the corner store, probably looking like an extra from The Walking Dead. I literally bumped into a policeman. While he was helping me pick up the tins I’d dropped, I thought it was an opportune time to ask him some questions. I’d been cooped up all day, battling with plot-holes, so it was like a sign, us being there at that place and time. And I thought, why not? Ask the man what’s on your crazy-arse mind.”

  “And?” Leonie prompts, shifting forward on her seat and resting her elbows on the table, her hands supporting her head.

  “Let’s just say after my barrage of questions about kidnapping and hostage situations, he took down my name in his pocket notebook, and then wanted to arrange a follow-up discussion with his partner when he was back on shift. When I told him I was an author, I don’t think he believed me. He probably thought I had a mental illness and was pretending to be an author to make my enquiries somehow legitimate.”