“Hi, Mom!” Allison says. “This is Andi.”
Mrs. Whitley puts down the meat and wipes her hands on her apron. It’s the type that loops around your neck and has peaches and pears peppered across the front.
“Well, hello, Andi,” she says and holds out her hand. I’m not sure if I should shake it. My mother always insists one is to thoroughly wash ones hands after handling raw meat. However, I don’t know how to not shake her hand without making her feel bad. I decide to risk it. It must be alright. I don’t get dizzy or sick or anything, even after an hour. Maybe my mother is wrong. Or maybe she means a certain type of meat. I think she mentioned chicken once. Yes, it was chicken. Now I remember. You are never to touch anything or anyone once you touch raw chicken.
“Would you like to stay for dinner, Andi?” Mrs. Whitley says. She smiles and nods her head. “We’re having burgers on the grill and homemade fries.” She says fries like it’s a real treat. And it probably is. I didn’t know you could make them at home.
“I’ll have to call my mother,” I say. “But I’d like to,” I add brightly. This will be fun—a regular family just sitting around having dinner, probably on the picnic table. I can see it right outside the sliding glass door. And the patio is made out of plain cement. I’ve never seen one like this up close. All the patios in our neighborhood have brick or fancy stone work. I feel like I’m in another world completely, but I like it. Nobody puts on any airs.
My mother says I can stay if I like. She’ll have Henry pick me up at eight.
“Can’t you come?” I ask. I don’t want Henry picking me up. He always opens the back door like he’s a chauffeur or something, and he sort of is, when he’s not gardening, but still. It’s embarrassing.
“Well, I’ll be at my meeting until seven,” she says. “And then a group of us are going out to dine.”
“Oh,” I say sadly. I’ll bet Mrs. Whitley would never say going out to dine. She’d say they were going to grab a bite. I look around the kitchen. It’s painted a bright yellow and has white fluffy curtains over the kitchen sink and coffee cups hanging on a wooden spindle. It’s a happy kitchen. I can tell. You get a warm, cozy feeling just standing in it. There’s a small needlepoint picture over a key rack. It says “Home is where you are loved.” Suddenly, I wish I was Allison with just a plain old regular life. My mother would pick me up after being at a friend’s house and she’d be driving a Chevy or a Ford or something—anything but a Mercedes. I hang up the phone. It’s hooked to the kitchen wall.
I tell Mrs. Whitley I can stay.
“Wonderful,” she says and asks Allison to tell her dad the burgers are ready to go on the grill.
Allison slides the patio door open and dashes outside. “Come on,” she says. “You’ll like my dad. He does impersonations. Tell him who you want to hear. He can do anyone.”
I try to think of someone I would like to hear, but my mind is a big blank. Allison’s father is tall and very thin. He wears wire-rimmed glasses and is okay looking, except for his nose. It’s too big for his face. It’s hard to explain, but it ruins the rest of it. Allison introduces me and he says, “Howdy, partner,” and nods his head. And I swear it’s John Wayne! No kidding. Mrs. Whitley brings out the burgers on a big platter. They’re thick and red and juicy. My stomach starts to growl and my mouth starts to water. They look that good and they’re still just sitting there raw as ever. The charcoal is ready and I can smell it. Charcoal just smells good when it’s been burning a while ’til the briquettes turn white—like the food is already cooking when it hasn’t even been laid on the grill.
Mr. Whitley asks me how I’d like my burger. I tell him pink in the center. And he says, “You got it kiddo,” and now he’s Steve Martin. Allison and I are laughing and having the best time. I’m so glad I came. Allison has two little brothers, Zachary and Addison. “It means son of Adam,” Allison says. Zachary is the oldest. He’s eight. He’s got Addison’s head in the crook of his arm and is pretending to make a fist-ball against his head.
“Knucklebone,” he says, whatever that means. Boys can act pretty stupid at times. Addison is really cute. His front teeth are missing. He slips out of Zachary’s grasp and runs the other direction.
“You boys go in and wash up,” Mrs. Whitley says. They ignore her. Mr. Whitley says, “Boys, you heard your mother.” Immediately they march right into the house. I’m impressed, but hope he doesn’t have a dark side to him and beats them and they’re afraid of him, so they do everything he says the moment he says it. I realize my imagination is probably getting the best of me. Mr. Whitley seems very nice. Maybe he just uses a lot of time-outs if they don’t mind and they’re tired of time-outs.
Mrs. Whitley brings out a big platter of French fries. They’re the longest French fries that I’ve ever seen. Then I remember they’re homemade and can hardly wait to try them. My mouth is positively dripping. We each pick up a paper plate. Mrs. Whitley puts an open bun in the center of each one and Mr. Whitley slides a burger onto it. Ketchup and mustard and mayonnaise are already on the table in little plastic Tupperware bowls. I get mine all set the way I like it and am ready to take a big bite when I notice that everyone has their hands folded, except for me, of course. I’m holding my burger. I’m sure my face is redder than the hamburger meat was before it was cooked. I put the burger down and fold my hands. We don’t say grace before meals and now it shows. We do go to Mass every Sunday. But there’s no way for them to know that, unless I tell them, and it would be stupid to just blurt it out. I lower my head and close my eyes.
“Bless this food, dear Lord and the hands that prepared it. Bless our family and bless our guest, Andi. May we be worthy of all your gifts. Amen.”
When our cookout is over Mrs. Whitley says Allison is excused. “Spend time with Andi before she has to leave,” she says, clearing the table. She hands Zachary the bottle of ketchup and gives the empty basket of French fries to Addison. Zachary is moaning. “Why doesn’t Allison have to help?”
“Hush,” Mrs. Whitley says, “you don’t help when you have friends over, either.”
Allison and I go to her room which is at the end of the hall. It’s small but nice. The walls are painted a soft rose color and there’s a pink and white striped comforter on her bed and a matching pillow tossed on a rocking chair. I sit in the rocker and hug the pillow. Allison sits down on the bed. Her closet door is open and I can see her clothes lined up—what there is of them. I remember the boutique and my idea to have her come down. I tell her all about me and Bridget’s volunteer work and how we got the idea of the boutique and how well it’s going and how girls that don’t have really cool clothes get to come and pick out two outfits, complete with belts and everything.
“It’s called Sweet ’n’ Sassy Fashionique,” I say proudly. “Would you like to come down and pick out some outfits?” I hold my breath waiting for her eyes to fill with tears and gratitude. But I have it all wrong. Allison looks at me. Her face is a complete puzzle.
“Why would I need to do that?” she says, and holds her hand out toward her closet.
Can you beat that? She’s perfectly happy with her wardrobe, with her life, with everything. It’s pretty amazing. I sit there feeling very stupid and wonder what it would be like to be perfectly content no matter what life handed you. I’m really embarrassed for making the suggestion and wonder what to say to explain myself.
“Oh, just for some variety,” I say. “I get so tired of my clothes. You know how it is.”
Allison doesn’t say a word. She picks up her scrapbook instead. “Look,” she says. “These are the pictures when I went to the YMCA camp last summer. I got to stay an entire week! And I might get to go again, if my father gets his raise.”
It’s a perfect example of being happy with whatever life hands you. I’d give anything to feel that way. I have so much, but right now, sitting here with Allison, I feel like I don’t really have much at all.
Chapter Thirty-nine
I discovered
this radio station, WYOU. They play all the hits from the 1960s, which you’d think I’d hate, but I don’t. I’m not sure why I like this music. Maybe because lots of them are filled with the problems of love and I’m having plenty of those with Rodney. To begin with, I’ve only received one letter from him and I’ve sent him five. But I read in the paper that twelve countries have sent naval forces to Iraq. And six aircraft-carrier battle groups have arrived as well, which means a lot of new soldiers. Rodney is probably busy getting acquainted. He’s very friendly. I’m convinced he’s doing his best to make them feel at home. Therefore, one letter is understandable under the circumstances. I’ll write him another one tonight and tell him it’s okay to just send a short one back.
WYOU is playing “I Love How You Love Me,” by the Paris Sisters. It’s so whispery, it gives me the shivers. And of course it makes me drool for Rodney. Next comes “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?” by the Shirelles. It has the best beat. I’m making a list of all of them to see if I can find some copies of them or maybe I can order them off one of those TV advertisements, where you join and they send you one every month, whether you want it or not, but then you can send it back if you don’t, so it’s still a pretty good deal.
Beth is home for the weekend from Vassar and Parker Barrett is here. That’s the guy she’s marrying. They’re going over the guest list. They’re having the reception at the Piedmont Driving Club which my mother considers the only place to have a reception. They have to keep the guest list to five hundred people. Two hundred and fifty people each. I didn’t know my parents had that many friends. When Rodney and I get married I think we’ll just elope and ask my parents to give us the money I’ll be saving them. Watching all that Beth and my mother have been going through over this wedding makes me crazy.
Parker is a pretty cool guy, though. He looks a lot like Pierce Brosnan, the movie actor, only much younger of course. But the point is he’s real good-looking and very nice, too. He’s always sincere when he says hello to me.
“How are you, Andi?” he says, but the way he says it makes me feel that he’s really interested in my answer.
Personally, I think he could do a lot better than Beth. She’s very bossy, even with him. She always insists on having everything her way, like what movie they’re going to see, and where they should go to dinner. And she tells him that he’s wearing the wrong colored belt. It doesn’t match his shoes. Which I think is a dead giveaway she is going to try to run his life. She should just let him alone. And for sure she should let him decide on a movie or what belt to wear. But oh no, Beth has to have her way in everything.
Mr. Porter—Henry—our gardener is driving me over to Sunny Meadows. Even though school’s out I have decided to continue being an Angel through the summer months. During the summer you only come on Saturdays. You can choose to take a rest from it if you want. But when I mentioned to Mrs. Sterling that I might not be coming over the summer months, she started crying. That pretty much settled it. I’m going to be there for the summer. But it’s not so bad. Now I’m used to yelling as I read.
When I get to the Sterlings’ room—it’s at the end of the hall—Mr. Sterling is sick. One of the nurse’s aides is taking his temperature and his blood pressure.
“Should I maybe come back later?” I ask.
The nurse’s aide, whose name is Joyce, makes some notes on her clipboard and then says, “No, I’m sure Mrs. Sterling would enjoy some company. Mr. Sterling’s a bit under the weather.” She pats his hand. “You should be feeling better in no time.”
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask. I know he’s eighty-something and I remember how my grandfather died when he got in his eighties.
“He’s got a bit of a cold, is all,” Joyce says and leaves the room.
I figure I could sit quietly and read to Mrs. Sterling and I won’t have to shout, but she turns to me all teary-eyed—she’s been very weepy lately—and asks if I’d mind putting some lotion on her back.
“I keep telling those jerks, but they’re always in a hurry,” she says.
I open the drawer next to her bed. Sure enough, there’s a blue plastic bottle of hospital lotion and it doesn’t look like any of it’s gone. Mrs. Sterling slips her top off and sits there in her bra. She’s very skinny and the bones on her neck stick right out at you and say hello. She’s so thin I’m not even sure she needs a bra anymore. There’s nothing there to fill it. She sits on the edge of the bed while I warm the lotion in my hands. When I feel it’s just right I smooth some on her back.
“Oh, Andi,” she says, “That’s better than heaven.”
Imagine thinking a little lotion on your back is better than heaven. But then her skin is very dry and cracked. The nurse’s aides who bathe her must have noticed. You’d think they would have written on their clipboard: Needs lotion ASAP! I guess they’re too busy to bother.
When I’m finished applying the lotion I help Mrs. Sterling with her blouse. She has trouble with the buttons.
“My daughter gave me this blouse,” she says.
“I didn’t know you had a daughter.” I’ve never seen her visit.
“Oh, yes. We have three of them,” she says proudly. “But they’re very busy, you know. They come visit when they can. One lives too far away. She’s in Maryland.”
I have been coming to read to them every day after school for months and I’ve never seen one of them, not even once. Now my eyes are tearing up.
“Would you like me to read to you?”
Mrs. Sterling glances over at Mr. Sterling. He is sound asleep. His mouth is partly open and some spittle is dripping down his chin. I take a Kleenex from the box on his nightstand and dab at it. Mrs. Sterling smiles at me.
“You are a precious girl, Andi. Did you know that?”
If all it takes for one to be considered precious is to wipe some spittle off a chin, I’m surprised that the entire world isn’t full of precious people. How much work is wiping spittle? Exactly.
Mrs. Sterling says she’s tired and thinks she’d like to take a little nap before lunch. I tuck the sheets around her and place her hands on top. She nods off in no time. I decide it would be nice to visit Nana Louise. My grandmother’s getting very old, too. And you just never know how long old people will be around. I find her out in the dayroom sitting in one of the wicker chairs. It has extra padding in it and nearly swallows her up.
“Hello, Nana Louise,” I say as cheerfully as I can.
She looks at me and smiles, but I can tell she has no idea who I am. I guess those days when she did are over for good, but I keep hoping.
“Hello,” she says. “Is it time for lunch?”
She thinks I’m one of the aides. It must be my Angel badge. I look at my watch. It’s almost noon, which means it is time for lunch. Plus, I can smell it. Cafeteria food here seeps up through the vents and mixes with the all the other odors floating around the corridors, old people sweat, and medicine, and disinfectant. It’s not very appetizing.
I take Nana Louise’s arm and help her up out of the chair.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m here to take you to lunch.”
“What a nice girl you are,” she says.
I gently guide her down the hallway. “Would you like to go for a walk after lunch?” I say.
“I’m not sure,” she says. “I’m expecting Walter, you know.”
I’m not aware of any Walter in her life, past or present. My grandfather’s name was Arthur, like my dad.
“Walter?” I say.
“Yes, dear, I’m sure he’ll be here after lunch,” she says and her eyes light up like stars.
Nana Louise has forgotten every one of us. So, who is this Walter guy? And why does she remember him? I ask the nurses and they say, “That’s our janitor. She’s very fond of him.”
Now I know my grandmother has lost it. She’s gone bonkers over the janitor.
Chapter Forty
Mrs. Hall is visiting with my mother when I get home from Sunny Meadows. She�
�s Rodney’s mother. Rodney still hasn’t written lately and I’m sort of mad at him. Still, I’m very anxious to hear any news. I burst into the room right in the middle of their conversation.
“Where did they take him?” my mother says. Take him? Is he hurt? Is it bad? I want to rattle off questions like it’s an inquisition. Did he lose any of his arms or legs? Is he blind? Can he come home for good?
I stop dead in my tracks and nearly knock a vase off the end table. My mouth is open but nothing is coming out of it.
“Well, first they treated him in the field, but then they quickly transferred him to a hospital aboard one of the navy’s hospital ships.” Mrs. Hall dabs at her eyes with a hankie. Her eyes are big blue lakes. Rodney has those eyes. Oh please let his eyes be okay. Please. Please. Please.
“But he’s going to be alright.” My mother is nodding her head like that will make it so.
“They’re not sure about one hand.” Mrs. Hall looks like she’s about to cry.
“How bad is it?” I yell. “Tell me!”
“Andi, where are your manners?” My mother says. She turns to Mrs. Hall. “Please excuse her rudeness, Pamela. Normally, she’s a perfectly lovely child.”
Mrs. Hall nods her head. My mother takes hold of my arm and pulls me down on the sofa next to her.
“Mrs. Hall’s son has been injured.” No kidding.
“He’s at the Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland for now,” Mrs. Hall adds.
“W—w—will he be alright?” My teeth are rattling worse than a rattlesnake’s tail.
“Hot shrapnel penetrated his hands. He has some pretty severe injuries, so they’re not sure if he’ll regain full use of them.” Now she really starts crying.
My mother goes over to comfort her.
“Of course, he will,” she says. “That’s nonsense. They perform miracles nowadays. Why, they keep babies alive that weigh less than a pound.”
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