by Mysti Parker
****
Our second guest of the night—a hefty woman with an Alabaman accent—signs her credit card receipt when Muzak goes nuts again:
This time it’s Sir Mix-a-Lot loudly proclaiming his love of big butts with Baby Got Back. The Smythes have gone to dinner. I’ll have to handle this one solo.
The woman’s cheeks turn shades of red I suspect no human eye has ever witnessed. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“No, ma’am. It’s the new music system. I’m terribly sorry.”
“It’s not funny. If all the other hotels weren’t sold out for the rodeo, I’d take my money somewhere else. And you better not have put me in that dead person’s room.” She snatches her keycard and hurries down the hall with a pink-flowered suitcase bumping along behind her.
I notice Henry, thank God, standing there with two take-out boxes. “That was uncomfortable.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Did you put her in the dead guy’s room?”
“No, I put her across the hall.”
Henry laughs. “You’re too nice. I would have.”
He sets the food on a table in the dining area. I come out to the lobby just as Chris De Burgh interrupts Sir Mix-a-Lot with Lady in Red, a song that couldn’t be more perfect for cheek-to-cheek slow dancing.
Henry smiles and holds his hands up in a dancer’s pose. I remember my inner mantra: Henry’s not Nick, and slide into his arms before I can second guess myself. His hands are warm on my palm and on my waist. I decide to simply enjoy this—a nice guy, some cheap Chinese takeout, and dancing to the malfunctioning Muzak.
The chorus brings goosebumps to my skin. I let my head rest against his shoulder, right where I wanna be.
Episode #7: McMuffins and Scooter Wrangling
At my fifteenth yawn after clocking out, I decide I’m too old for double shifts. I pull into Shady Serenity at 7:15AM, take a gulp of cheap gas station coffee, and burn my tongue. I’m fanning it with my hand, as if that’ll do any good, when my cell phone screen lights up. It says Henry in the caller ID.
Good morning, the blue bubble says. I had a great time last night. Let’s do it again soon—maybe with a movie on the side?
After I dished out all the dirty details—well, maybe not all of them—about me and Nick over our egg rolls last night, I’m surprised Henry’s not “lost” my phone number. Should I take that as a good sign? My tongue’s throbbing, and I stick it out while I text Henry back:
Sure. Whe-
I backspace and leave it at Sure. Anything beyond that might make me look too eager, and I’m anything but eager. I like Henry. He’s pleasant company. I certainly don’t dread seeing him, but it’s different than with Nick. I’m not skipping-through-a-field-of-wildflowers excited to see Henry. It’s more like being on the first ascent of a roller coaster. I think it might be a thrill ride once we breach the top, but then again the whole thing might derail into one catastrophic disaster.
As I step into the retirement home, Sandy’s laughing behind the reception desk. A man stands there with his back to me, laughing with her, but I know that messy bedhead.
“Hi, Jane!” Sandy calls out.
Henry turns around, still chuckling, and his eyes grow wide. “Wow, didn’t expect to see you here. Couldn’t wait, huh?”
My first instinct is to worry that he’s stalking me, followed closely by the thought that he’s flirting with Sandy. The only non-paranoid thing I can blurt out is: “My mom…breakfast.”
He holds up a McDonald’s bag. “Same here, except it’s my grandpa. He likes McMuffins.”
“Has he been here long?”
“About a month. I’m a terrible grandson,” he says with a shameful smile.
“No, you’re not. You brought him a McMuffin. I just eat the cafeteria food with Mom. What’s on the menu today, Sandy?”
“Oatmeal.” She leans close and whispers, “It’s more like spackling, but it’s not too bad with enough milk and butter.”
I laugh and look at Henry. “See? Now who’s bad?”
“I guess we’re even,” he says.
We walk down the East hall together.
“What’s wrong with your grandfather?” I ask.
“He had a stroke, but he’s getting better. The doc thinks he’ll be ready for assisted living soon.”
“Oh.”
“What about your mom?”
“Early onset dementia.” My voice cracks, knowing that she’ll never be able to live on her own, or even with me, again.
“That’s too bad.” He places a gentle hand on my back. “Would you two want to join Grandpa and me?”
“Sure, if Mom’s feeling OK.”
“Great. See ya soon.” He continues down the hall.
Luckily, Mom is in great spirits when I enter her room. Her hair is curled, and she’s even wearing a little makeup. She looks up from her word puzzle book and smiles.
“You look great, Mom. Ready for breakfast?”
“I’m starving. I didn’t think you’d be here.”
“What? And miss oatmeal day?”
She makes a bleh face and laughs.
“We’re having company,” I say with a nervous quiver. I’m not sure how she’ll react to Henry if I tell her we’re sort-of, kind-of seeing each other. Half the time, she thinks I’m still married to Nick. Will she think I’m cheating on him?
“Is it that six-fingered orderly I told you about?”
“No. His name’s Henry Hermann, the donut guy I met at work.”
“Oh.” She looks worried and confused as we enter the dining room. I’m afraid her moment of clarity has passed, but she waves at Mr. Hermann. “That’s Julius,” she says. “He’s eighty-two and such a nice man.”
“Great! I’m glad you two get along. He’s Henry’s grandpa.”
“Who’s Henry?”
With a sigh, I squeeze Mom’s hand. “Henry, the guy I’m…we’re friends. Go ahead and sit down. I’ll get us some oatmeal.”
I return from the serving line with our tray and two steaming bowls of oatmeal spackling.
Mom is sitting by Mr. Hermann, shaking her head vehemently. “Cake donuts are horrible—dry, nasty things!”
“You haven’t tried ours, honey. So moist they melt in your mouth.”
“Fried are better. You can’t convince me otherwise.”
He pats her hand. “I’ll have Henry bring you out some of each. Then you tell me what’s best.”
“I’ll hold you to it.” Mom giggles—a hand over her mouth, actual giggle.
Looking at Mr. Hermann, I can see the family resemblance between him and his grandson. Same messy hair, nose, and crinkly-eyed smile.
Henry looks up from his McMuffin and smiles. He pulls out the chair beside him, so I take the cue and sit.
“You want to trade?” He holds up his half-eaten sandwich.
“No, thanks. I love spackling.”
We eat while watching my mom and his grandpa. They’re in their own little world across the table, talking about donuts and Wheel of Fortune. Since Mom’s happy and completely ignoring me for now, I take the opportunity to have some talk time with Henry.
“Who started the bakery?” I ask.
“Grandpa did back in the sixties,” Henry answers. “Dad and I took it over when he retired.”
“Your donuts have lived up to the family legacy.” I laugh and swallow my last bit of spackling washed down with a copious amount of watered-down orange juice. The gritty acidic liquid gives me courage. “Nick used to get mad every time I ate a donut. Said it would just go to my thighs, and I was already too ‘fluffy’. I ate a whole dozen Krispy Kremes the day our divorce was final.”
“Good for you—even though you ate our competition.” He laughs. Then, he leans close and whispers, “Like I said, he’s an idiot. I think you look awesome.”
Either it’s gotten really hot in here, or I’m blushing like crazy. I grab a napkin, duck my head and pretend to wipe my mout
h.
Time to shift the conversation before my cheeks go Chernobyl. “What about you? Any baggage?”
Henry picks some cheese from the McMuffin wrapper. “Not really, except for Anne.”
“Oh...” Great. Henry has an Anne—Boleyn, I wonder? Was that the woman I heard when I called him yesterday? I really want to ask, but the words get stuck on my tongue. Deep breath—OK—now speak! “Is Anne-?”
Behind us, a commotion starts up—chairs clatter, tables bang against one another, and diners yelp. I spin around to see Mr. Reynolds on his power scooter, which isn’t a surprise. But he flies through the dining room on his three-wheeled conveyance, legs and slippered feet sticking straight out to the sides. The few diners in his path manage to dodge him, but their breakfast isn’t so lucky. Oatmeal, spoons, and watered down juice splatter on the floor in his wake.
He hangs on for dear life to the handles as he parts the waters of dining hall furniture. “The throttle’s stuck! Get me off this thing!”
Henry jumps up to face the one-horse stampede. Mr. Hermann moves lightning fast for a man of his age and helps Mom out of her seat. I rush to her other side, and we usher her out of the way just in time. Mr. Reynolds careens into our table. The crumbly, gooey remains of our breakfast land at our feet. Henry jumps on one side of the scooter, true cowboy style, and yanks some wires loose. The scooter groans to a halt.
Mr. Reynolds goes semi-limp, his body slumping in the seat as though his eight seconds on the bucking scooter had worn him out.
“Are you all right?” Henry asks.
The old man nods. “My thanks to you, young man. Just put a new battery on that blasted thing. Must have been too much horsepower. Tell you what, that right there reminded me of the time when a tank went haywire…”
He launches into another Korean War story as a couple nurses come to his aid with a walker. One of them looks our way and says, “So sorry. Everyone OK?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“Good. Mr. Reynolds, you know you’re not supposed to drive that thing in here.”
They lead him toward the door. Henry and I help straighten up the mess, while Mr. Hermann stands by Mom, one arm wrapped around her shoulders. She looks up at him like Miss Kitty admiring Matt Dillon.
“Thank you, Julius,” she says, and I swear she just batted her eyelashes.
“No trouble at all, ma’am.”
When she turns to me, her face is scrunched up in confusion. “What are you doing here? Where’s Nicky? He never comes to see me anymore.”
“Come on, Mom. Let’s go to your room and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Henry and his grandfather say goodbye as we walk out of the dining hall. I still want to know about Anne, even if her name sucks me farther into an alternate Tudor reality. But, maybe some things are best left unsaid for now.
Or maybe I’m just a big chicken.
