“I don't usually have anyone to make breakfast for anymore, so when in Rome—”
“Make pancakes?”
“Oh, be quiet,” she shoos me off. “Soooooo? What do you have to tell me?”
“Oh, Mom,” I whine. “I really don't want to talk about it. I want to keep it to myself and daydream about it alone.”
The spatula drops against the counter, and she spins around to face me while gripping the sink behind her. “It went well, didn’t it?” she asks, excitedly.
“Yes, now stop.” I can’t help thinking that at least this is giving Mom something else to focus on besides Grams’s health.
“No, no, no, no, I need more. I need something, please!” she pleads. “Is he looking to settle down and have kids?”
“Come on, Mom. Is this how you snagged Dad?”
“That’s a low blow,” she snaps back, narrowing an eye at me.
“Seriously, though, you think I’m going to ask him if he's looking to settle down and have kids on a first date that neither of us initiated?”
“At thirty-one? Yes, I do think it’s important.”
“You’re delusional,” I tell her.
“And single,” she reminds me.
“See? Maybe if you took it down a few notches, you'd find someone too.”
“You’re annoying,” she tells me.
“I’m you,” I add in.
“That’s for darn sure.” She jogs over to me and wraps her arm around my neck, then plants a wet kiss on my forehead. “Go start the coffee. We need that.”
“I’m going to head down to the hospital after breakfast to check on Grams before I have to plant my butt at Starbucks and get caught up on all my work. I can meet you back at the hospital after you get out of work if you want, and I can bring us dinner or something,” I tell her.
“That would be perfect, sweetie. Thank you.”
Mom plates the pancakes and places them down in the middle of the kitchen table. “So, did he kiss you?”
My head falls into my hands. “Mom, stop.”
“Come on, I need at least a little tidbit of information.”
“No.”
“After everything I've done for you in your life, you won't throw me a small, tiny, little bone to get me through the day. I’m so stressed out about Grams. Just give me something to smile about.”
“Moms don’t usually smile about their daughters kissing men.”
“Moms who want their daughters to settle down and give her grandchildren do.”
“You sound crazy,” I tell her.
“No, I just want the best for my daughter. There's a difference.”
“I just broke up with Mike yesterday; did you forget that? I wasn’t about to jump into bed with someone six hours later.”
“Okay, wait just a minute. I do not expect you to jump into bed with anyone. I just asked if you kissed. Oh goodness, is that why you didn’t come home until three-thirty?”
“Really? You were waiting up until then and didn't call me?”
“You’re welcome,” she says as if she's done me a favor by not stalking her thirty-one-year-old daughter.
“Thanks, Mom. It's nice to know you trust me after all this time.” I roll my eyes just so she knows I'm being sarcastic.
“Do me a favor, though, and make sure he gets tested before you—you do any hanky panky stuff.” Hanky panky. We’re there now. This is fun.
“Yes, Mom.”
“I can’t wait to see him later,” she says, jiggling her eyebrows.
“Okay, now that's weird. You’re not dating him. You shouldn't be excited to see your mother's doctor.”
“He might be my future son-in-law, Emma. Why wouldn’t I be excited to see him?”
I take a bite of my pancakes, letting her words stew for less than a minute before I drop my fork down onto the glass plate. “Mom, I know you're sort of joking right now, but you better not say any of that to him. Seriously, that would scare any guy off.”
“I don't know. He seems like the marrying type. A doctor always wants a nice wife to come home to,” she continues.
“Yes, in your dreams, or soaps…whatever—same thing.”
“It’s important for him to know he’s welcome, though. Some men are scared off by families, and I certainly wouldn't want that to be the case. I would never forgive myself if I thought I could have done more to make him feel welcome.”
“One date. That’s all I've been on. One date, Mom.”
“One date that has you smiling even though you’re completely annoyed by me right now.” I’m not smiling, am I? I feel the need to touch my lips to confirm this, and as it turns out, there isn’t a straight line across my face like there normally is at this time of day.
“Did he kiss you or not?” Mom continues with her badgering.
“No!” I shout. “Feel better?” I smile and force an awkward laugh so she knows I'm not upset about it.
“Oh, honey, I'm so sorry.”
I close my eyes because this woman knows how to push my buttons more than any other person in the entire universe, and right this second, I might just lose it. My brain is already on overload, and I can't handle her drama. “It was a first date, Mom.” How many times have I said that in the past five minutes?
“Maybe you weren't smiling enough? You sometimes have that—what’s it called? A lazy bitch face?”
“God, Mom, what is with you today? First, it’s resting bitch face, and second, I don’t have that.”
“You don’t right now,” she says.
“It’s not resting, it’s purposeful.”
“Oh, honey, relax.”
By the time I’m done being berated by my ticking ovaries—a.k.a Mom, I’ve finished my pancakes, and I'm ready to get this day started. I’m going to be losing clients soon if I don't get some work done, and I’ve already heard my phone buzz at least six times in the last ten minutes.
“I’m going to shower and head to the hospital,” I tell her. “Thank you for breakfast. It was great, minus the table talk.”
I take our dishes, drop them into the dishwasher, then take a mug from the cabinet and fill it up from the fresh pot of coffee. I'll take it black today. It’s definitely going to be black coffee kind of day.
A cold shower too. That always helps. I wash my hair and body quickly, shivering against the frosty water. What is going on? I wrap a towel around myself and open the door. “Mom, what’s wrong with the hot water?”
“Oh, the water heater’s not working. I meant to call someone.”
“Seriously? How have you been showering?”
“I’ve actually heard that cold showers are good for your heart. I read that it prevents some kind of cancer too.”
I cannot live here. Nope. Can't do it. “Okay, well, I’ll call a repairman for you today.”
“Thanks, honey, I guess it's time,” she says.
It takes me until I’m in my Jeep and halfway to the hospital before I stop shivering. My hair dryer didn't even warm me up. It’s bad enough it’s already in the forties in the middle of fall. A cold shower on top of that is a great way to start an already stressful day…or not.
The parking lot is fairly empty this morning, and I can’t stop myself from parking beside the shiny black car that stimulates a rush of heat in my cold veins as I recall moments from my date last night.
I walk through the front doors, quickly concluding that the receptionist is beginning to recognize me as she offers a big smile while I pass her by. “Tell your grammy Paula says hi,” she shouts over.
Oh boy. That's a good thing.
I make my way upstairs and hear laughter echoing down the ICU hall. The laughter isn't familiar, but I can only imagine it's coming from Grams’s room. It takes me less than a second to confirm my thoughts as I walk into her room, finding half of this floor’s nurses laughing at whatever Grams just said. “Oh, and this is my granddaughter, Emma,” she says, introducing me as if she were a game show host.
“Hey, Grams.” I’m slightly uncomfortable as I walk into a roomful of nurses who are all staring at me with questioning looks. “What's all the ruckus in here?” I place my bag down by the side of Grams’s bed and kiss her on the cheek.
“There is no ruckus,” Grams says. “These ladies were just keeping me company.” It seems to me like she was keeping them company.
“Mm-hmm,” one of the nurse’s hums. “Definitely.”
A second nurse hoots and slaps her hands against her thighs. “Yes. This is perfect.”
“So, what am I missing?” I ask, smiling with discomfort.
Without a response to my question, a couple of the nurses leave, giggling like school girls on the way out. “How was your date last night?” Grams asks.
“It was nice,” I say, hesitantly, as I glance around at the others still standing here. Is that what this was about?
“Just nice?” Grams asks.
“I guess you're feeling better today, huh?”
“I'm sore, but laughter is the best medicine,” she says.
“True, so whatcha laughing at, Grams?” I'm giving her a mirroring raised brow to the look she has always given me when I've been up to no good.
“We saw Dr. Beck this morning—Jackson, if you prefer,” she says with a relaxed exhale. “What a breath of fresh air that boy is.”
“Oh, you did, huh? And what did Dr. Beck have to say for himself?” I am so scared to hear this response. I don't know him well enough to assume what he may or may not have said to Grams.
“Let me see if I can quote him correctly.” Grams pushes herself up a bit on her bed and winces at the stiffness before continuing.
“Do you need something?” I ask her, reaching out to help.
“No, no, I’m fine.”
I fluff her pillow anyway, doing what I can to make her more comfortable.
“So, he said, ‘Your granddaughter is the most beautiful woman I think I’ve ever laid eyes on, and it’s very rare that you come across a person who is as equally beautiful inside as they are outside. You are a very lucky woman to have so much beauty and love in your life, Amelia.’”
“That’s exactly what he said,” the nurse, who’s right behind me, agrees. “It was so, so sweet. He’s a winner. Whatever woman ends up with him is going to be one lucky lady.” I see exactly what they’ve been laughing about now—at my expense, of course. I assume Jackson gets a lot of attention from the middle-aged nurses here. “We’ve been trying to set him up with women for months now, but that boy does not bite the bait. Yet, your grandma comes on in and offers you up, and it’s like the clouds have parted their way to heaven’s golden gates for Dr. Beck. He was definitely floating on air this morning.”
I can try and hide the warm blush I feel creeping from my cheeks to my ears, but I'm afraid my reaction has already been noticed by each woman in this room. “You’re welcome,” Grams says.
I groan a little and pull a chair up to the side of her bed. “Grams.”
“Okay, ladies, I think I need to talk to my granddaughter alone, or I’ll never find anything out,” she tells the four nurses who are eagerly waiting for more gossip.
“As you wish, Amelia. We’ll be back to check on you soon, hun.”
“I’m so glad you’re here, sweetie,” Grams says to me.
“Why are you telling the staff about Jackson and me?”
“Oh please, don't even pretend like you didn't have the best night of your life.”
“I’m not saying I didn’t have a great time, but don't you think you’re jumping the gun a little, and that it’s mildly inappropriate to be playing matchmaker with your doctor?”
“It’s not for me,” she says.
“Still, his personal life should probably be left out of the ICU.”
“Life's too short for that, honey,” she argues.
“Speaking of which,” I say, entering unchartered territories. “I still have your diary. You remember asking me to bring it to you, right?”
Grams pats my hand that’s resting beside her leg. “Yes, Emma, I remember asking you to bring the book. My mind is still intact, despite what you all might think.”
“Well, you’ve had us all a little worried because you keep asking for Charlie,” I tell her.
A smile grows across her frail lips. “Oh, Charlie,” she says breathlessly—his name sounds like a quiet lullaby humming from the depths of her throat.
“Grams, you've never mentioned his name before.”
“Not to you, your mother, or you aunt—you're right.” The sternness in her voice defines a reason for hiding her stories, but I’m still not sure what the reason might be.
“I don't understand. Why would you keep your past from us, and who is he?” Not that I don't kind of know who Charlie is, but she doesn't know I've continued reading the diary on my own.
“You have been my granddaughter for thirty-one years. I know you’ve read at least a quarter of my diary by now. Don't play me for a fool, Emma.” Geez, I should have known better than to think she doesn't know everything I’m up to. Just like Mom. The two of them are basically the same person.
“Well, why haven’t you told us?”
“Honey, I married your grandfather, Max. We were married for sixty-one years and raised two girls. There isn’t always space for the past when you're busy planning a future.”
“Then, why now?”
“My future is in the past now, Emma. My days are coming to an end, and you know what I’ve been mostly worried about these last few years?”
I take her hand, wondering what she might say. “What’s that, Grams?”
“When I get up there, you know…to heaven, I've been worrying about what would happen if Charlie and your grandfather are both at the gates waiting for me. Your grandfather didn't know much about Charlie, and Charlie certainly didn't know about your grandfather. In any case, it was just a silly concern, since I thought I would see at least one of them earlier when I flatlined, but neither of them were there waiting for me.” Trying to push away the thought of her dying, It’s hard to wrap my head around the rest of her explanation.
“Charlie died?” I ask.
“You'll see when you finish reading my diary,” she says as she gently closes her eyes, settling into her pillow with a look of relaxation. “I don’t want to spoil it for you.”
“He was a soldier, Grams.” I'm not sure why I feel the need to point this out to her, but I have to know what she has to say about it.
“Yes…and…?” she replies.
“Well, you’re Jewish. You were a prisoner.”
“He was also a prisoner, just in a different way.”
“I don't understand,” I tell her. I read Charlie’s explanation on the matter, but it seems like Grams agrees with his declaration now.
“It’s because you have never felt the desire to give up your life for someone who would give up theirs for you.”
“I just—that's kind of wrong, though, right?”
“Wrong?” she snaps. “Who’s making the rules in your life…you, or the world around you?”
“I suppose I understand, then.” Or, at least I’m trying to.
“You know, I have spent seventy-four years asking myself the questions that so easily fly off the tip of your tongue, but after a long life, full of experiences both good and bad, I've decided that no one can tell me how to feel. I made a mistake, Emma, one that cost me my great love story. I settled for what fit into my life instead of entering the dangerous, uncharted territory of forbidden love. The difference is larger than anything imaginable—one option is scary, and one is easy. The scary choice isn’t for everyone, but I now believe in my heart that if you're daring enough to take the chance, it could be worth every breathless second of making it work.”
My mouth opens and closes at least three times as I try to find words to respond with, but I’m come up short. I'm speechless. “Why didn't you—” I wouldn't be here. Mom wouldn't be here.
“There are s
ome things I can't speak about, Emma. The pain of the past is an emotion I've shut off permanently, and the only way to maintain that promise to myself is by keeping my feelings in the diary—where they belong.”
“Were you not happy with Grandpa?”
“I was happy with Grandpa,” she insists. “He was a good man who worked hard to take care of his family, but Grandpa and I were more like best friends than anything else, and that’s why we made it work for all of those years. Marriages are built on friendships, trust, and loyalty. We had that.” She left out love. “But when you’ve had more, there’s no going back afterwards.”
“So, you were in love with Charlie?”
“Those aren’t the right words to describe what Charlie and I had.”
“Ladies,” Jackson's voice booms from the doorway, and I’m sitting here with my mouth agape, my mind trying to absorb what Grams is telling me. “Everything okay?”
“Everything is just fine,” Grams responds. “Oh, Jackson, be a dear and get my purse over there. I meant to pay you earlier for what you did last night.”
I don't think I've ever stood up so quickly in my life. The chair I was in hit the wall behind me, setting off an alarm which is currently calling for a nurse. “What?” I look between the two of them. “Are you kidding me? This is a joke, right?”
Jackson has his hand splayed on his chest, laughing quietly with his eyes closed, and Grams is smiling like a troublemaking child. “Gotcha,” she says.
Still laughing, Jackson walks up behind me and places his hand on my hip as he reaches behind me to shut the call button off. The touch of his hand feels warm through the thin layer of my yoga pants. That warmth is igniting a fire in my body that I haven’t felt before.
“Okay, now that the pranks are out of the way, it’s time to check the ticker,” Jackson tells Grams. I'm the one clutching my heart now as I put the chair back in its spot. Still embarrassed, I sit down without saying a word and readjust my bag against the bed to busy myself as Jackson checks Grams’s vitals. “Everything is looking good. If your numbers continue improving, we may be able to move you out of ICU soon.”
Last Words: A Diary of Survival Page 13
