“Well you’re brave, I’ll give you that. I reckon you’ll be needing a bottle of something afterwards.”
“Yeah, maybe.” I let out a heavy breath. Here goes. “I’d really love it if you came.”
Silence cloaks us. A smile teases at Sam’s lips. “I tell you what. Bring the booze, and I’ll think about it.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The next morning, I almost fall off my chair when Sally-Anne comes into work.
“Morning,” she says, bright as a button with a certain spring in her step. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was glowing.
Did she really have a migraine yesterday?
Mind your business, Jane. It’s not your problem.
“Morning,” I reply from my chair, trying to sound equally as chipper. I blow out a loud breath. The fact that she’s here takes the pressure off me. Now I can concentrate on the workshop.
“The information packs are done,” I tell her as she takes her jacket off and hangs it on the back of her chair.
“Oh,” Sally-Anne says in return.
Oh? I just managed a big part of your job and that’s all you have to say?
“You’re welcome,” I say, and flash her a fake smile.
She adjusts the scarf on her neck, but I don’t miss the purple patch of skin below her ear.
Was that what she was doing yesterday? Getting busy with someone? I feel like drawing attention to the mammoth hickey, but it’s not my place. I’m sure Kathleen will see it eventually anyway. Something that big won’t go unnoticed.
She fishes a phone from her pocket and looks at it as if I’m not even there.
“So, have a good morning,” I say, and select a walkie-talkie from the charger, clip it on the dress of my belt, and pick up the bunch of flowers I cut from my garden this morning.
Her head swings in my direction at lightning speed. “You’re not gonna be around this morning?”
Oh, that gets her attention. She might have to do some work for a change. “Nope. Big workshop on today. Need to get sorted.”
I don’t feel the least bit bad when I leave reception. I’ve covered enough for her lately. Besides, I have a very important job to do.
***
This morning, as well as setting up, I feel I need to spend some time chatting to the residents. I go to the nurses’ station and check in with Paige. I’m relieved when she tells me that Mrs Lee slept well. I leave the flowers at the station for Paige to take to her room.
As I make my way around the home, I remind everyone about the workshop and try and round up a few more participants along the way.
Frederick is a hard nut to crack. He has no desire to do anything arty, but talk to him about food, and he’s in. He promises to come on the condition that the cooking class is held in the next few weeks. That man knows how to play hardball.
Mr Ryan chuckled when I asked him about coming, and reminded me that he’s yet to see lamb on the menu. I promise him that I’ll speak to Pauline about it. I know lamb can be expensive, but I’m sure we could negotiate a deal with Noel, the butcher on Main Street. He played rugby with my dad, so surely, we’ll be able to get mates’ rates.
Shirley is sitting in her usual sunny spot in the corner of the dining hall, book in hand.
“Do you know whodunnit yet?” I ask.
She looks up. With a soft smile, Shirley takes off her glasses, placing them on the lamp table beside her. With her slim fingers, she picks up a lace bookmark from her lap and places it in between the pages. “It’s not that type of book, dear. This is a romance. The old-fashioned kind.”
Shirley flips the book around, revealing a couple on the cover dancing on what looks like the streets of Paris. “Is that your favourite genre to read?”
“Oh, yes, dear,” she says with a swoop of her grey hair from her face. “But I’ll read anything. I can’t be too picky. Sometimes you have to take what’s available.”
“Hmm. I have some books at home I’d be happy to loan you. You’d have to promise to take special care of them though, as they’re signed by the author.”
“I promise.” Her eyes widen as she nods repeatedly. “Who wrote the books?”
“Have you heard of Violet J. Rhynehart?”
“Yes, dear. Her writing is magnificent. I’ve read a dozen or so, but some of her titles are hard to find.”
I lean in close and place my hand on her shoulder. It’s bonier than I expect. “Not so hard when she’s your grandmother.”
“Oh, bless,” she says, and looks down at my name tag. “Rhynehart. I should’ve known.”
“Anyway, I’ll bring some in for you. While I’m here, are you busy this afternoon? I’m running the scrapbooking workshop if you’d like to join us?”
“Thank you, dear, but I need to finish this book so I’m ready for your grandmother’s books. I’m very excited.”
My heart overflows with pride. Whilst it’s been a few years since Nana passed, still, she is remembered, and her beautiful words will continue to be enjoyed.
I pick up Shirley’s reading glasses and hand them back to her. “You’d better not lose these then.”
***
After half an hour, the common room table is set up with sample packs and an assortment of markers, stickers, glitter, ribbon, stamps, and lettering. On advice from Kathleen, I save the scissors and trimmers with scalloped edges to bring out later. She said it’s best to supervise the use of those, especially given the number of arthritis sufferers here. I’m in full agreeance with her. We don’t need any bleeds, and I refuse to be the reason for potential hospital visits.
With ten minutes to spare before the workshop starts, I knock on Sam’s door. He’s sitting on his bed, looking at the walker a metre in front of him. He pushes up the sleeves of his long-sleeve black shirt and places his flattened hands on the tops of his thighs.
“Are you coming?” I blurt out, gaining his attention.
He slowly turns his head toward me and raises his eyebrows. “Where?”
I walk into the room and place my hands on my hips. For dramatic effect, I roll my eyes and swing my ponytail so the long hair rests on my shoulder. “The workshop, Sam. We talked about it.”
A coy grin curls at his lips before he shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Paige said an activity like this would be good for your fine-motor skills.”
His brows knit together. “You’ve been talking to Paige?”
“Of course I have. We work together. It’s to be expected.”
“I mean, you’ve been talking about me,” he says and grunts, as if he’s not entirely happy with the fact.
“Only with your best interests at heart,” I assure him. I do my best puppy-dog eyes and clasp my hands together in front of my chest. “I’m asking you to come. Please. Do it for me. For moral support.”
“Janie, that’d be the only reason I’d come.”
“Good, then. It’s settled.” I look to his wheelchair in the corner. “Want me to bring your chair over?”
“Nope. I’ll take the walker.”
I hope I don’t get into trouble for this. I bring the walking frame within reach and motion for him to take a hold of the black rubber handles.
“I don’t want any photographic evidence of this,” he says, a hint of warning in his tone. “It’ll do nothing for my reputation.”
I move my head from side to side on my shoulders, all attitude. “Uh-huh. And what reputation is that exactly?”
“Bad boy on the retirement block.”
Laughter bursts from my mouth. “Well, this is the first time I’ve heard this. I know you’ve been called Mr Trouble, but bad boy on the block? You’re giving yourself too much credit.”
“Miss Jane?” a shaky voice calls from the hallway.
I turn to the door, expecting Mrs Cassidy to appear any moment.
A thwack startles me, and pain registers on my butt cheek.
My head swings around to find Sam’s hand waving at
me and the cheekiest grin I’ve seen yet. Heat rushes to my cheeks. My nipples tighten. The contact has me craving more of his touch, but now is not the time. “Did you just slap me?”
He turns his head to the side, nods slyly, and winks a baby blue. “See. Bad boy.”
“Miss Jane?” The female voice is closer still.
I hold up a warning finger to my arse-slapping friend. “One sec.”
I rush over and poke my head into the hall. Mrs Cassidy is two doors down, peering into a room.
“Mrs Cassidy,” I call out.
She smiles as bright as the morning sun when her green–blue eyes connect with mine. “Miss Jane. There you are. Is it time?”
Jogging towards her, I guide her by the elbow, turning her back towards the dining hall. “Just about. If you’d like to take a seat at the activity corner, I’ll be with you shortly.”
“Perfect,” she mutters and wanders off.
When I get back to the room, Sam is standing at the walker, white knuckles revealing his tight grip. His focus is unwavering on the floor a metre in front. The walker hasn’t moved from its position.
“I can’t believe you just did that.” I move close to his side to offer support, just as I’ve seen Paige do.
“You liked it, huh?” Sam says with a waggle of his brows.
I choose not to respond, because I more than liked it. I want Sam’s hands on me. If only we could stay in his room and explore that idea further, but we can’t. I have a freakin’ scrapbooking class to run. Go figure.
“How many steps you think I’ve got?” Sam asks, straightening his back.
“I’m not sure. Maybe forty or so? If you get tired, I’m here. You can take a rest.”
Slowly, we reach the dining hall. Sam keeps a steady pace and manages to smile most of the way. We’re met with almost a dozen eager faces, ready to craft their little hearts out.
Sam pauses and turns his head to look at me. “How’s your arse cheek?”
Biting down on my lower lip, I try to supress my grin. “Stop it.”
“Okay, so the other cheek is jealous. I get it. We can sort it out later. Back in my room.”
“If you don’t shut up,” I growl through clenched teeth, “I’ll take photos of you doing craft and send them viral.”
Sam chuckles. “That’s some threat.”
I guide him the final few metres until he slides into a vacant seat beside Frederick. The two men nod at each other. Sam slowly offers his hand, and they shake. It makes me a little giddy seeing them interact like that, knowing I was the one who got them talking in the first place.
“Thank you for joining me today, everybody. So, who’s brought photos or pictures they’d like to use?” I say as I wander around the table, distributing the packs I put together with different coloured paper, ribbons, borders, and stickers.
“Oh yes,” Mrs Cassidy beams as she places a shoebox on the table. She pries off the lid and tips it on its side, unloading hundreds of photos of her feline friend with varying backgrounds and in different poses.
“Oh man,” Sam grumbles.
I bite my lower lip to stop myself from responding the same way. I’m going to be here all afternoon looking at this freakin’ cat.
“Anyone else?” I ask in a high-pitched tone.
“I brought a couple of Judith and I from when we got married. Ain’t she a doll?” Frederick says, showing the black-and-white photos around.
“I have one of my old Mustang. The love of my life,” Mr Blandford says, holding the picture up in front of his chest.
“Great,” I gush.
I continue around the table. Everyone has brought something personal to them, except Sam. Well, I guess that’s because I dragged him here, and at the last minute.
I crouch down beside him. “Are there any photos you have in your room? If you have some on your phone I could print them out in the office?”
Sam slips his hand into his pocket and pulls out a phone. He clenches his hand and stretches his fingers out wide before he presses the screen. A short time later, he smiles.
“Yeah, this one.” He flips the phone so I can see the image.
My heart stalls as I take in the selfie of us on Superhero Day. Heat prickles at my cheeks. “Um, sure. I’ll just send it to my email.”
Sam hands me his phone. I click on the email icon and send it. The phone chimes to let me know it’s gone through, so I hand it back.
“I’ll get it sorted in a minute,” I tell Sam with a nod.
“Maybe print me off an extra copy, huh?” Sam asks with a wink. “So I can take my time looking at those pretty green eyes when you’re not around.”
Frederick nudges Sam’s elbow. “You’re smooth, trouble,” he says, drawing a grin from Sam.
I can’t hide my smile. “Two copies. Not a problem.”
I pick up the pile of blank albums in the middle of the table. “This is your project,” I announce as I walk around the group, placing one in front of each participant. “You can go as crazy or as subtle as you like. Pick out some colours, embellishments—whatever you want. And you don’t have to limit what you design to the album. You could create something to go on the wall or in a picture frame. Whatever takes your fancy. I’ll come around and help you with glue, double-sided tape and scissors if you need it.”
Mrs Cassidy’s arm shoots straight up in the air. “I’ll need some help. I just don’t know where to start.”
Sam sniggers. It makes me want to throw the nearest roll of decorative adhesive borders at him.
“Of course, Mrs Cassidy,” I say politely, simultaneously shooting daggers at Sam. “I’ll just quickly print something out in the front office, and I’ll be back. Why don’t you pick out a few of your favourite pics in the meantime?”
She smiles and sets about flipping through her images, carefully perusing each one. With that many photos, how is she going to be able to choose? I plaster on a smile and duck off to the office.
Sally-Anne is on the phone at her desk when I arrive. It doesn’t take long to pick up on the fact that she’s talking about some music festival, and how the kids’ father needs to take some responsibility and look after them so she can go party with Grant. Is he new on the scene? Is he the hickey-giver?
None of my business.
I print off two copies of Sam’s photo and then head back to the group. When I return, I notice that Mr Thompson has sat down at the far end of the table. He has a deck of cards in his hand, and a row of five cards facing upwards in front of him, side by side. I set about getting an album for him and an assortment of coloured backgrounds. I deliver the photos to Sam.
As I pick up a blue album, I glance back at Mr Thompson. He stands up and peels off his powder blue T-shirt. He circles it around his head twice before tossing it aside, revealing a white Bonds singlet.
I walk up beside him and place my hand tentatively on his bare shoulder. “Are you feeling hot, Mr Thompson?” I ask. “I can adjust the temperature.”
He turns to me, furrows his brows, and grunts, his eyes vacant. He sits once more and deals two cards to himself and others in front of him, some face down, some face up.
“Miss Jane?” Mrs Cassidy calls out and waves her arm feverishly in the air.
When I reach her, I take in the mess in front of her. “Where would you like to get started? Do you want to pick some backgrounds first?”
“Uh, yes,” she says, and babbles under her breath about Snuggles and all shades of blue that she wants to use to highlight her cat’s eyes. It’s hard to understand her when she’s almost frantic with excitement, scooping up anything green or blue within reach.
“How about we pick two of your favourite photos?” I suggest. “Then we can build on that.”
“Put it away, Thommo,” Mr Blandford calls out.
I look up to see what the fuss is about.
Old penis.
Mr Thompson had dropped his trousers and jocks. His singlet sits atop his flaccid dangly bits.
<
br /> With my forearm, I shield my view. Dear God, help me. What do I do?
I scan the room for a staff member, but don’t see any of my colleagues.
Sam starts laughing. It’s soft at first, but before too long it morphs into a hearty belly laugh, causing him to hunch over and scrunch up his face. A tear rolls down his cheek. Laughter spreads around the table, including to Mr Thompson, who has his arms in the air. He swings his hips in a circular motion as if he’s swirling an invisible hula hoop around.
“Oh, man, I am so glad I came out of my room for this,” Sam says and wheezes.
I glare at him and mouth “not helping”, and then swing my head in the direction of the undresser.
“Mr Thompson,” I bark out. “Please stop.”
I approach warily, holding my hand out in a stop sign before me. It’s more to block the view of his bits than anything. The ruckus seems to egg him on, as he starts wolf-whistling and tugging his singlet upwards.
“I still got it at ninety, sweetheart,” he says, and laughs manically.
My hand fumbles for the walkie-talkie on my hip. Once I have it unclipped, I jam down the button on the side, my hand shaking. “Kathleen. Paige. Anyone. We have a situation in the dining hall. Over.”
“What’s the problem, Jane?” Kathleen’s voice blares through the speaker. “Need someone to clean up? Over.”
“No, no spill. Mr Thompson has crashed scrapbooking and is doing a strip show. Over.”
“Da-na-na-nah,” Mr Thompson sings.
Mrs Cassidy, of all people, starts singing along, swinging a piece of ribbon around her head as she positions photos with her other hand.
“Well, that’s new,” the handheld unit screeches. “I’ll send someone right away. Over.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
After I remove the unwanted stripper, the rest of the afternoon is tame. Thank goodness. Paige helps residents who need assistance back to their rooms, including Sam, as I clean up after finally convincing Mrs Cassidy it was time to end the session. And what a mess we’ve made—bits of cut paper, edging, and glitter are scattered everywhere. The joyful mood amongst the group by the end of the session was something to truly be proud of. Maybe it was the strip show that got them loosened up—who knows? I’m slightly scarred by it, but one good thing came out of it. Sam laughed. He laughed so hard that tears sprang from his eyes. Even amongst the panic, the sound of the joyous chorus melted my insides. It’s a pity I couldn’t truly appreciate it by laughing with him.
Sing it, Sam Page 13