by Bee Douglas
“Can I get ya anything, darlin’?” Karen asks, piling her frizzy brown hair on top of her head.
“Vodka and cranberry, please?” I sit my bag on the floor and climb up on an empty stool.
She snaps a bubble with her gum, rolling her eyes. “No man’s gonna wanna be with someone who drinks such prissy drinks.” Just my damn luck. An eternal spinster is giving me dating advice.
I spin around a few minutes later, sipping at my drink and catching the sight of Aggie bowing after her set. All she needs is the word “encore” shouted once and she’d be right back at it.
“Where have you been?” Aggie asks. I sigh, hoping she would have just taken my presence and ran with it.
“You know Mr. Marion? The guy on the third floor that sweet talks everyone?”
As she mills through her mental stock of patients at the nursing home, it takes her a few moments before it dawns on her. “Of course! He told me I reminded him of Bridget Bardot.”
James Marion had been with us for the past five months. When his family brought him in, I was confused. For an 87-year-old man, he’s very spirited. Every morning he would request a walk around the courtyard, and he constantly flirted with the nurses. It wasn’t until I started pulling more night shifts that I was able to understand just how bad he was. I saw firsthand the bouts of anger and confusion - the complete opposite of the James Marion I had come to know.
“Tina walked in and found that he had passed on. I helped her with all the calls and paperwork. This was the first death she’s had on her shift.” I down the rest of my drink, savoring the taste. I didn’t tell her that I had to take a good twenty minutes locked away in the pantry before the migraine I got subsided. The second I did that, she would throw yet another one of her doctor television shows or brain tumor speeches at me. Then again, depending on how many drinks deep she is, I’d get the Angel of Death jab. A few months back, after one too many shots, she admitted that she’s convinced the migraines that come out of nowhere are directly related to the passing of a patient.
“That’s so sad,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
I nod. Leaning over the edge of the bar, Aggie takes hold of a bottle of liquor and two shot glasses. I wait for Karen’s smoke induced hack to yell at Aggie, but it never comes. She’s distracted, talking to a guy at the other end of the bar. It’s the same one that I had to squeeze past to get in the door. Etta’s always has a wide range of people in it. There are bikers and divorcees. College boys calling out the middle-aged men when they nudged a pool ball with their guts. This guy, however, doesn’t fit in here. I can’t tell if it’s because of the intimidating vibe he’s giving off or stern scowl on his face. For a man, he’s gorgeous. I have never quite understood the whole five o’clock shadow thing, but it works for him. His strong form and striking eyes don’t hurt either.
“To Mr. Marion,” Aggie toasts. She hands me a shot glass filled to the brim.
The alcohol burns going down, but the warmth that pools in my stomach is worth it. “To Mr. Marion.”
Aggie belches, making me laugh. She’s one of the very few people that know anything about my life. We met in college. She partied, I studied. She winged it, I crammed. Our friendship isn’t based on our similarities, but it thrives on our differences. She has been there through every twist and turn of my emotional rollercoaster, while I was there to help knock down every single one of her roadblocks. Aggie is the calm in my storm. I am the mercenary in her battles.
“That song was beautiful.” The owner of Etta’s hobbles over. Not only is he one of the sweetest barkeeps around, Bernie is also Aggie’s estranged grandfather. As far I know she is the only one of her family members that keeps on contact with him. Through our friendship, I’ve learned that rags aren’t the only people with dirty laundry. Riches have them too. They just have access to dry cleaners to get the tough stains out, bringing their garments back to life.
Leaning over the bar once more, Aggie kisses her grandfather on the cheek. “Thank you.”
“It was a little edgy for my taste,” he says, “but you sure showed it who's boss.”
An arm snakes its way around the back of my stool. “She sure did, didn’t she?”
I don’t need the look Aggie gives me to know who found his way over. The heavy breathing gives it away.
Most would view Sam as the all-American boy he pretends to be. He went on to play college football after high school, only to have his semi-pro dreams ended by tearing his ACL. Now he works at his daddy’s car dealership, charming his way to commission based paychecks. Sure, he’s handsome. Blonde hair, high cheekbones, and a smile that can brighten the darkest of moods. But to me, he’s an annoying gnat. No matter how many times I swat, he keeps coming back. I thought by not returning his texts, he would get the hint. I was wrong. He twists my obvious lack of interest as a sign that I’m playing hard to get. And yet, him getting me is the last thing I want.
“If I knew you were coming, I would’ve dressed up a bit.” I catch Aggie’s eye roll as he grabs a beer from Bernie. He’s fishing around for a compliment. It’s his trademark, and it fuels his ego. I made the mistake once before of falling for it. That was the night Aggie slipped him my number. I still have yet to forgive her for that.
A slight wave of applause comes from around the bar. After Aggie finished her rendition of Bitch, someone else climbed up and sang. I debate feigning sick to get away from him, but I doubt that would work. I also don’t have any more cash to spare for a taxi. Flashing my friend a smile, I slip through the crowd.
Benny’s our neighborhood DJ. He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t sing. I don’t even think I’ve heard him speak. He was hired to entertain the drunken crowd and he does just that. Leaning over his tablet, I scroll through artist after artist, song after song. It takes me a minute of browsing for something to catch my eye. It’s a simple song. Not real popular anymore, but it will have to do. After showing him my selection, I step out onto the small stage. The spotlights Bernie had installed a few years ago aren’t the greatest. They’re cheap, but they do their job. I found that if I stand in just the right spot, they block out the many unfamiliar faces. And better yet, all the faces I wish I didn’t know.
The soft sound of piano keys plays from the speaker. Gripping the microphone tight in my hand, I close my eyes and let the song come to life.
“You only need the light when it’s burning low.”
My mother left us when I was little. There were never any pictures of her around the house. My father burned them all. I once found one of her sweaters balled up in the top of one of the closets years later. That caused him to break. It was then that I learned that the smallest of snowflakes could be the beginning of the mightiest of avalanches.
“But dreams come slow and they go so fast.”
I don’t think about her. I have too much on my plate to lose sleep over a ghost. I don’t have very many memories about her. There’s one that’s haunted me through the years. I don’t remember the way she looked in it, just her voice. It’s something I will never be able to forget. It was like I was witnessing the creation of a masterpiece. She used her voice to command the notes, making it her own.
“‘Cause you loved her too much and you dived too deep.”
A pain starts radiating in my head. It begins with just a whisper, turning over full force. Stars dot my eyes, but I take a deep breath and push through the pain. For this moment, I let the memory of my mother’s voice take over. Just for a moment is all I need.
“Only know you lo-”
I should have known my moment wouldn’t last. It’s not for me. I’m not the person that gets to savor the rarest times in life. No. I’m the person that drops to her knees in front of a crowded bar. The pain pulses with such a furry that I cannot physically see. The poor people at Etta’s aren’t being blessed with a once in a lifetime rendition. No. They get to endure me screaming out in pure agony.
...
I toss my keys on the
counter as I quietly shut the door. They land with a padded thud. The pile of mail is another thing on my to-do list that I’ve been putting off. There’s a new addition to the collection that catches my eye. I pick up the bright red envelope, flipping it over. The words FINAL NOTICE are stamped across the front.
“Join the party.” The chuckle that slips out of my mouth is bitter. I lay the invoice face up on the pile. Maybe George or Dina will notice it. Maybe one of them will actually pay it. Or maybe, just maybe, Hell will freeze over and I’ll turn into one of Hannah’s ice princesses.
Aggie gave me a ride home. I told her several times she didn’t have to, but she kept saying how she was worried about me. Your grandfather passing away should trump your best friend getting a migraine. I’ve known her long enough that the ride was just a distraction; a way to keep herself from getting overwhelmed with emotions. As nurses, we find different ways to cope with situations like this.
I grab water from the fridge and tiptoe through the living room. I live in one of the two bedrooms on the first floor. Hannah has the larger of the two. I gave it to her a little over a year ago. Her secondhand dolls and stuffed animals need more space than my crocs and scrubs. I peek in to her room, finding her fast asleep. Her blonde curls are fanned out on her pillow and her chest moves in slow, even breaths. I slink into my own room, shutting the door with a slight click. Waking her is the last thing I want to do.
I switch on the bedside lamp, illuminating the room. Mounds of clothes take up the floor. I mentally move laundry up a few notches on my to-do list. I plop down on the bed and slip off my old boots that are barely hanging on by the seams. Vintage is what Aggie calls them. I should get up and change into pajamas. Instead, I grab a few aspirin from the nightstand and swallow them. Laying back against the pillows, I shut my eyes for a brief moment.
A soft knock comes from the door. A moment later, Hannah’s chubby little fingers pry it open. “Are you here, ‘Ora?”
“Of course,” I reassure her. She quickly slips inside and clambers in bed. “What are you doing up?”
“I had a bad dream. There were bees.” Hannah’s tiny form snuggles up close up me.
I probably will never have the heart to break it to her that there are more terrifying things out there than bees and flies. Hell, spiders can be placed on the same level as puppies and rainbows compared to some of the things out there. For now, I’m perfectly fine with bumble bees being her biggest problem.
“No bees will get you in here,” I tell her. Her honey colored eyes look up at me. She may have been pushed around by some big bad bug in her dream, but she’s a hustler in her waking hours. “You want a story, don’t you?”
She nods, causing a few curls to fall in her face. A smirk plays on her lips knowing that she’s won me over. “P’ease? A prince and princess one.”
“You know princesses don’t need a prince to save the day. They can do it on their own.”
“Duh!” She giggles like that’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard. “But someone needs to tell her she’s pretty and rub her feet when her shoes hurt.”
I feel bad for the poor bastard that gets wound around her finger. He’ll be in for a wild and crazy life, but she deserves nothing less. That’s why I’m in the position that I’m in, because she sure as Hell deserves more than what I was given in life.
I reach over and turn the light off as we snuggle into bed. “Once upon a time...”
3
Nora
I shut the light off and crack the door, letting Mr. Roberts nap. He’s convinced that if the door is completely shut, no one will visit. But leaving it wide open will only welcome in riff-raff. I always make sure I leave it open a couple inches, just enough to let the hall light stream in. When I first started working at Beacon Light, I used to dread the thought of possibly turning into a loon. But it didn’t take long for me to realize that some of the loons here are my favorite.
I grab Mr. Roberts’ file from the circulation desk, making a few notes and keeping track of the medication I just gave him and his vitals. There are a few more patients I want to make my rounds to before I sit down and do a complete update on their files. That takes a good amount of time out of my day, but I don’t gripe. I honestly think it’s a great system. Families can log in and pull up their loved ones’ charts and see how they’re doing.
“Do you think downing three coffees is too much this early in the morning?” Aggie slides against me, resting her head on my shoulder. I glance at the clock hanging above us. It’s nearly half past two in the afternoon.
I roll my eyes and give in to her dramatics. “Are you able to write legibly?” Aggie grabs my pen and signs her name on a post-it. Her signature is as perfect as ever. I chuckle, kissing the top of her head. “You’re good.”
“Thank heavens!” She walked into work this morning with a Starbucks cup in hand and dark circles shadowing under her eyes. Usually she’s bright eyed and bushy tailed. Our supervisor has referred to her once or twice as Beacon Light’s personal Mattel Barbie. It honestly took me by surprise seeing her like that.
I hand her my half empty cup of stale coffee from the lounge. Her nose wrinkles, but accepts it. It isn’t her overpriced favorite, but it’s coffee. Our blood has turned into a mixture of espresso and energy drinks long ago. “I don’t know what you’re doing here. You should’ve called off.”
“And hear my father bitch all day long? I’ll pass.”
Years ago, Aggie told me that her grandmother would visit frequently growing up. The two of them had been close. But her grandfather? Something happened long before our time that left the Gunthrie family in a state of major discord. It all seemed to be centered on Bernie. As far as I know, Aggie is just as clueless to what happened. When her grandmother, Etta, passed, Aggie tried reaching out to her grandfather. There’s never been a big connection, but she tries. And after his entire family turned their backs on him, I don’t have doubt in my mind that he appreciated any and all attempts she made.
“I know I wasn’t close with my grandpa, but it still bothers me how badly Daddy talks about him.” My heart breaks a little more as her eyes start to water up. “I mean, he never made me or any of my friends pay for drinks. And he started karaoke night for me, you know? I told him I liked to sing and the following week, there was a sign for a designated karaoke night.”
“He was so proud to have you as a granddaughter. He wanted to show you off to everyone.” I wrap my arms around her.
“Have you talked to Sam?” Changing the subject? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I roll my eyes and turn away, walking toward the staff kitchenette at the end of the hall. “Nora, slow down! I can’t walk that fast!”
That’s the point, I want to tell her. Being blessed with long legs means I can walk with a wider stride. It’s the best tactic to avoid your best friend’s awkward questions. “He did text me.” I slow, letting her catch up. Her brown eyes widen in interest. “But I didn’t text back.”
“What the fuck, Nora?!” One of the physical recovery patients shoots Aggie a dirty look. The old lady probably would’ve whacked her with her walker if she could stand long enough without it. “What are you waiting for?”
A pay raise. George and Dina to step up in the household. The mountain of bills to disappear. The world to not weigh as heavily on my shoulders. “I don’t know. Something more than a hook-up. A spark, maybe?”
The truth is, I do know. It sure as Hell isn’t some love at first sight scene in a movie, or a one night stand that leads to a happily ever after. I don’t have the energy or time to juggle another person in my life. It’s been years since I’ve gone out on a date. The last time I did, I came home to a toddler Hannah screaming her head off. Her stuffed bunny fell on the floor, and George and Dina were fast asleep in their bedroom upstairs. I made the decision then to focus on only the necessities in my life. As a rule, Hannah’s needs will always come before my own. A man is not a need; he is a want. But I am human - a fem
ale human with hormones and a libido. I always keep extra batteries in my nightstand for when they start acting up. Problem solved.
“Why don’t you date him?”
She hands me the now empty Styrofoam cup. “I don’t want a boyfriend. Especially not Sam.”
“And I do?” I laugh, tossing the cup in the trash.
“Nora,” her puffy gaze locks into my own, “every time you walk too fast, I’m terrified that a wildfire is going to start from your crotch. You’re young. You’re hot. Your vagina shouldn’t be drier than a desert. You want a spark? You’re going to get one.”
I want to deny it, but I can’t. Reason being, she’s right, even in such a dramatic sense. Also, because the tears rolling down my face from laughing make it hard to talk. “You are such a bitch, Aggie.”
“You don’t ne-”
“Nora!” One of the newer aids pokes her head into the kitchenette. Her sweater hangs off one shoulder and a gleam of sweat coats her forehead. “We need you.” I stare at her, my head tipping to the side. “Miss Jeanie won’t take her meds again.”
Fuck. Imagine a stubborn, tantrum prone toddler stuck in the body of an 80-year-old lady. That’s Miss Jeanie. I pat Aggie’s shoulder as I walk out. The aid and I trample down the closest stairwell. We hit the third floor just in time to see a phone book being launched out into the hallway.
Double Fuck. Note to self: when in need, phone books can be lethal.
Rushing inside the room, I find Miss Jeanie standing at the edge of her bed. Her green robe is hangs haphazardly around her frail body. Another aid cowers in a corner.
“Jeanie!” My voice is loud, catching her by surprise. She drops the box of tissues she’s holding; her arm cocked back and ready to throw. “What are you doing?”
She raises a shaky finger, pointing at the cornered nurse. “It was her! She said that if I don’t take my medicine, they’d take me away.”
