Sing it, Sam

by Jennifer Ryder

I pick up my phone and scroll through Instagram, searching the hashtag #nursinghome. In no time, I am blown away by the enthusiasm of people who work in homes, their passionate posts, and their dedication to the elderly and making their time memorable. I write down a few ideas to research further.

  Dance therapy—the macarena?

  Painting.

  I know it’s been done before but using different materials and watercolours can mix it up.

  Gardening club.

  Now is the perfect time for planting bulbs for spring, so it’d be great to get this underway. Also having our own herb garden would be a great project. I can talk to Pauline about using the herbs in our cooking which I think the residents might get a kick out of.

  Makeovers.

  We could have a mini nail salon, perhaps even look at doing some makeup tips. I could ask a local Arbonne or Avon rep if they’d be interested in spending a couple of hours here showcasing their products. You never know—they might end up getting a few sales out of it.

  I go back to my computer and refresh my Facebook feed. Before too long, I come across a video titled ‘This woman riding a horse for a final time will make you weep’. With a title like that, of course I have to watch it.

  An eighty-seven-year-old lady, who was an accomplished rider when she was younger, gets to have a final ride, albeit assisted. As warned, I’m wiping away tears, but I can’t help but grin. The smile she wears at the end of the video is priceless. So beautiful. It’s so nice that someone organised that for her. What a kind and caring thing to do for someone in their final days.

  I fan my face and take a deep breath, composing myself. The sliding doors open. What timing.

  “Hello, Miss Jane,” a handsome voice croons.

  Glancing up from my computer screen, my eyes widen as Mr Fantastic Forearms himself beams at me. He’s wearing much the same as what he did last time he visited the home—a blue and white checked shirt, folded to the elbows, and dark blue jeans.

  I stand up and smile. “Ah, Clark Kent. I didn’t recognise you without the glasses. How’s things?”

  “Good, good. Except the toes. Still recovering from the dancing.”

  “Oh,” I say with an understanding nod. “Kara?”

  “Yeah. Nice girl, but as a courtesy to her dance partner, she might wanna consider flats next time.”

  “If I see her between now and the pumpkin festival, I’ll be sure to suggest it … subtly, of course. After all, it’s in a barn, so heels won’t be practical anyway.” It’s more a dress-and-boots deal, which I love.

  He smiles fleetingly and nods.

  My phone buzzes on the counter beside me with a text from Mum, lighting up the screen and showcasing a picture of Butch.

  “Cute dog,” Ben says, eyeing the screen and leaning on the counter.

  “Oh, that’s my boy, Butch.” I pick up the visitor book from beside my computer and slide it across the gap in the counter, placing a pen at the spine.

  “Nice. How’s my little brother today?” he asks as he fills in the next vacant row in the book.

  Stellar at kissing. Last time I saw him, his lips were against mine. Oh, that mouth.

  Heat rushes to my face. “Great,” I blurt out. “I mean, good, I think.”

  Way to be subtle, Jane.

  “That’s good,” he says and hands me back the pen.

  I take the book and set it aside. “Hey, I know this might sound really random, but just wondering if you might know what happened to Sam’s dog?”

  He narrows his eyes. “Ed Sheeran?”

  Huh? He must have misheard me. “No, Sam’s dog?”

  “Yeah, that’s who I’m talking about. A very loveable Golden Retriever. His full name is Edward Christopher Sheeran, but from what Sam told me, that was too much of a mouthful to call out in the park.”

  Laughter erupts from my mouth when I picture it. “Yeah, I can totally understand that. You know, I’ve never heard of someone naming their pet after a celebrity.”

  “He’s Sam’s idol, and the dog’s a very nice shade of ginger.”

  Awwww. He sounds adorable. “Sam said he had to give him up? Do you have any idea where he might be?”

  Ben rubs at his smooth jaw. “We found a home for him through the RSCPA’s Adopt a Pet website.”

  That might mean I can track down the owner. “Do you know where he went?”

  Ben scratches at the back of his neck. “Um, I could try and find out?” He shrugs his broad shoulders.

  I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face. “If you could, that’d be awesome. I just thought if the dog was local, I could maybe ask the owners if we could borrow him for a few hours one day.”

  “That’s a sweet idea. I’ll make a call and let you know. What’s your number?”

  I write it down on the back of a business card for the home and hand it to him. He presses the front of his iPhone several times with his index finger. A second later, my phone rings. A random number flashes on display and then the call is disconnected.

  “There you go,” he says, and points to my phone. “Now you have my number.”

  I pick up my phone and save his number as ‘The Sheriff’. “Thanks. Hey, don’t say anything to Sam, ’kay? I’d hate to ruin the surprise. Well, that’s if we manage to track him down.”

  Ben clicks his tongue and winks. “My lips are sealed.”

  I press the button to unlock the secure doors, and Ben swaggers through.

  “I’ll see you later,” I say and smile.

  He tilts his head. “Yes, ma’am.” Ben disappears down the hall, and I go back to my desk and do some more research.

  Before long, the secure doors open and Kathleen farewells the two gentlemen who accompanied Mrs Lee earlier. They leave empty-handed, their heads hanging low.

  My chest tightens as the doors close behind them. I hope Mrs Lee’s first night is okay. In the morning I’ll pick some flowers from my garden for her. It’d be nice to take some kind of offering with me when I visit. If she feels like talking to a complete stranger, that is.

  Kathleen enters the office and slides a slim white folder back onto the bookshelf. She shuffles some other paperwork in the black binder in her hand.

  “Mrs Lee seemed pretty upset. Hopefully she settles in well,” I say and smile briefly.

  Kathleen’s brows knit together. “Hopefully,” she says and sighs.

  “I’ll pop by and see her tomorrow. I thought I could chat to her about her interests. See if there’s something that might help make the transition a little easier.”

  “That sounds lovely.” Kathleen glances at the clock on the wall. “You about ready to pack up?”

  “Yeah, I am. I finished ordering all the stuff for the scrapbooking workshop. I was just googling some ideas for next month. I’d like to bring back bingo, too.”

  “Sounds perfect. Mrs Cassidy is chomping at the bit for scrapbooking. Oh, I forgot that a postcard came for Mr Blandford. It’s in the mail tray. Would you mind taking that to him before you go?”

  “No problems.”

  I shut down my computer and pick up the postcard from Fiji. I resist reading the card along the way and imagine which of his family members has taken time out of their busy holiday schedule to think of him. It doesn’t happen often enough around here, if you ask me.

  I take the tropical photo to room eight. The door is open, and Mr Blandford is asleep in his chair, facing the window. I set his mail on the table beside his chair, next to his reading glasses. It’ll be a nice surprise for him when he wakes up.

  ***

  When I walk into the rear of reception, Kathleen is slumped in my chair, elbows on her thighs, head in her hands.

  “Kathleen?” I squeak, moving closer.

  She lifts her head, revealing a set of glassy eyes. “I just took a call. This job,” she breathes, swiping a tear from her cheek. “Some days you think, ‘Okay, it’s gonna be a good day’”.

  I rush over and crouch at her feet, plac
ing my hand on her knee. “What happened?”

  She places her hands over mine. “Mrs Lee’s husband just passed away.”

  My brows knit in confusion. “Her husband?”

  “They were set to move into one of our joint rooms. When I met them a few months ago, they were both so eager to join us. Mrs Lee was upset today because her husband was in hospital, and she was to spend her first few nights here alone. Her sons expected he’d be discharged within a few days. Unfortunately, there were complications with his health.”

  I stand and clutch at my chest. “That’s terrible.”

  “Her sons are coming back tomorrow to break the news to her. I’ll have Paige give her a sedative tonight to help her get some rest. I’m told she hasn’t been sleeping as it is, and they’d like her to try and get a full night’s sleep before they have to give her the news and start making funeral arrangements.”

  I sniff and tell myself to be strong. I can’t melt every time something like this happens. “If there’s anything I can do, please just ask,” I plead, straightening my spine.

  “Thank you, Jane.”

  “I’ll give her some time before I go see her.” The next week is likely to be the hardest of her life. I don’t want to complicate that by talking to her about things that will be the furthest from her mind.

  “Yes. I think that’d be best.” Kathleen lets out a heavy sigh and rises from my chair. “It always comes in clusters of threes, you know? I hate to think who’s next.”

  An empty feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. It’s just another reminder of how short life is. How fragile and fleeting it can be.

  I may have only spoken a few words to Mrs Lee, and never met her husband, but that doesn’t mean what’s happened doesn’t affect me.

  It does.

  So very, very much.

  Chapter Nineteen

  After packing up, I go to the bathroom and splash my face with cold water. I say a silent prayer for Mrs Lee and her family, and take a moment before I feel settled enough to see Sam. Whilst he was a great support to me after we lost Mrs Ferguson, I can’t run to him every time something like this happens. Especially if it’s going to become commonplace. Besides that, more than anything, Sam needs positive vibes. He’s doesn’t need to be reminded of death.

  “Knock, knock,” I say softly as I tap my knuckles on his open door.

  Sam is propped up in bed, pillows supporting his back, white covers bunched at his waist. He glances up through his dark lashes. “Hey,” he drawls. There’s no sign of Ben.

  Memories of our last kiss come flooding back, filling my body with warmth from my centre outwards. “Hey,” I mimic, trying not to show how a simple ‘hey’ has me giddy.

  Taking a step into the room, I remember what Kathleen said about ‘decorum’. Which is hard to comprehend when Sam is freshly shaven, and I can smell his enticing aftershave from here.

  “Do you mind if I close the door?” I ask and take grip of the door handle.

  “Not at all,” he says, licking at his lower lip. “Actually, I’d prefer it.”

  I sweep the door until it’s almost closed and tug the handle down, clicking it quietly shut so the noise doesn’t reverberate in the hallway. “Don’t get any ideas. I got blasted earlier.”

  “Boss lady chewed your arse, huh?” Sam says in a soft voice.

  I perch myself on the edge of his bed, close to his shins. “You could say that.” But then she turned it around by giving me a ticket to be alone with you. “I still have my job.”

  He sighs. “Oh, good.”

  “I just need to be aware of where I am and what’s expected of me. So be good.” I wave an outstretched finger at him.

  He wraps his hand around my accusing finger and tugs my arm to bring me closer up the bed. “You’re the one who threw herself at me. It’s not my fault.” He smirks. When he does it lights up his face, revealing more of the Sam I know exists beneath the layers of hurt and heartache.

  I play-punch him in the shoulder with my free hand, keeping up with the charade. He winces, but I can tell it’s for show. “You practically dared me.”

  “Aren’t you glad I did?” He brings our joined hands to rest on the bed.

  Yes. “Maybe.” I let out a heavy sigh and decide to change the subject. “So, tell me. How was your visit with the sheriff?”

  “You know.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Just talked shit really.”

  “Like what?”

  Sam’s brows draw together. “I dunno. Nothing much.” He pauses and looks up to the ceiling, and then back at me. “We were talking about the pumpkin festival.”

  As a child, the festival was the highlight of the year—a close second to Christmas. Dad and I used to make scarecrows, taking out the occasional ribbon, and I’d spend hours getting through the hay-bale maze with my school friends. I ate anything and everything from the rows of food stalls until I was almost sick. I always made it out of the gates without throwing up, but there were many times that the car trip home brought me unstuck.

  My cheeks stretch to accommodate a wide smile. “I love the festival,” I gush. “I’ve never missed a year since I was born.”

  “So, it’s good then?” he asks, lifting his brows.

  “Course. It’s huge ’round here. People come from everywhere. The town swells from five hundred locals to sometimes six or seven thousand. It’s good for the area and brings some of the more remote people in to town to be social. My parents used to be big supporters of the event, until they set off on their travels.”

  “Do they play country music at the dance thingy?”

  “It depends on what band they can get. Council budget is usually pretty tight, so sometimes it comes down to volunteers.”

  He nods. “Right. So, you’re goin’ this year?”

  “Of course. Wouldn’t miss it.” I’m not planning on breaking tradition. Nothing has ever kept me from it, and I can’t imagine that’ll change.

  “Good to know,” Sam says, like he has something to hide.

  “You know, I was hoping to take out the prize for award-winning golden nugget pumpkin, but unfortunately, no entry for me this year.” I stick out my bottom lip, pouting just like I did when I sprung Butch attacking my crop.

  Sam blinks in quick succession, staring at me.

  I draw my brows together. “What?”

  A smile tilts his lips, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re serious,” he says on an exhale. “Aren’t you?”

  I scoff. “No one jokes about pumpkins around here,” I say and smirk. “Serious town business, it is.”

  “Fair enough. So why no entry? And what on earth is a Golden Nugget?”

  “Well, they’re a small, round pumpkin with a deep orange colour. They kind of look like a baby basketball, a little bit bigger than your fist.” I cup my hands as if holding one of my homegrown beauties. “I’m guessing that’s why Butch decided to treat my crop like his own personal toy collection. Anyway, regardless, I’ll be there to support the community and all that. It’s a celebration of rural life.”

  And by support, I mean slurp my body weight in liquid-gold pumpkin soup and golden butternut bread, followed by eating way too many pillowy pumpkin scones with whipped cream and maple syrup.

  “Small towns, huh?” Sam taunts. Is he having a go at our one-hundred-year-old tradition?

  My hands move to my hips. “I’ll have you know that the Rhynehart family held the record for the heaviest pumpkin for ten years running. A two hundred and twenty kilo Atlantic giant was our best.”

  “Hey, your family must be really proud,” he teases.

  I poke out my tongue at him. “As a matter of fact, they are.”

  Sam leans forward and chuckles. Clumps of his unruly hair fall in front of his eyes. I find myself mesmerised as he sweeps his hand back through the rogue strands, revealing the smooth skin of his face once more.

  I clear my throat, resisting the urge to—what did he say earlier? —throw myself at him.


  “What do people do with that much pumpkin anyway?” He says it like he has no idea how he’s just affected me with a simple head sweep.

  I clear my throat. “Duh. Soup and scones. What else?”

  “I hate soup. It’s not food.”

  I lean in close. “I’d say that quiet around these parts,” I warn with a smirk.

  A few seconds pass where we stare at each other.

  “You gonna snuggle with me, or what?” Sam challenges, patting the sliver of bedspace beside him. Slowly, he shuffles over and raises his brows. “C’mon.”

  “Okay, but no more bashing pumpkins.”

  “Deal,” he says, triumph splashed across his cheeky face.

  I kick off my shoes and cuddle into the warmth of Sam’s side—on top of the covers. Not sure I’ll be able to trust myself under there with him.

  He hums and kisses my forehead. Wiggling in beside him, I share more of my childhood memories: the face painting, the pumpkin rolling, the pride that winning ribbons brings. Talking about it only affirms my love for the event and my hometown.

  “And the food,” I gush, burrowing farther into his side, “It’s amazing—so much variety. I mean, some things are crazy, like the pumpkin pie ice-cream two years ago that made me wanna puke. It was like baby food seriously gone wrong, and don’t even get me started on pumpkin spice lattes. Coffee is coffee. Drink it like it’s supposed to be drunk.”

  A trolley rattles somewhere down the hall, which means soon I have to go. It’s that time already?

  “And then you’ve got your curries,” I continue. “Thai style with coconut is my favourite but the Indian is pretty moreish too. A few of the alternate stalls had pumpkin and chai protein balls, which just looked plain scary. I love how people embrace it, though. Something for every taste, I guess.”

  A knock on the door fills me with disappointment. I should go.

  “Dinner,” a familiar voice calls out, muffled behind the timber. The door swings open.

  Wide eyes flicker from Sam to me and then back to him.

  “You tucker him out, girl?” Pauline asks from the doorway.

  “What?” I ask and turn to find Sam’s eyes shut. When did he fall asleep? A part of me is disappointed to not have had his whole attention, but another part is relieved that he’s getting rest. I forget sometimes that he doesn’t have the energy I do.