One thing that’s evident is how each and every one of the people here, gets a smile on their face from the little things. Not everyone feels comfortable making an effort to socialise, but when the opportunity arises to participate in something, it’s as if they put their worries aside. Mr Thompson sure felt comfortable.
This is their last place on Earth—their final stretch of highway. I hope more than anything I help make it a great place to be, for however long they might be here.
***
When it’s nearing five-thirty, I barge into Sam’s room. “Oh my god,” I bark out, and close the door and dump my bag on his bed.
“How’d you go with the crazy cat woman?” Sam chuckles from his cosy spot snuggled beneath the sheets. He pats the covers beside him.
I give him a stern look of warning. “Don’t even.” Mrs Cassidy was the last to leave. I had to practically drag her away, which meant clean-up took way longer than it should have.
“Tried to tell ya,” he says and grins.
A loud rush of air spills from my mouth as I park myself on his bed, wriggling my bum back so my feet no longer touch the floor.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, and poke him in the chest. “The afternoon was just craaaaazy! And what about Mr Thompson?”
“And you wonder why I don’t like it out there. For once, though, I’m glad I went out. Your face, babe, was priceless.” He chuckles and holds up his hand just like I did. “Please, stop,” he taunts in a feminine voice.
“Okay, that’s enough,” I say and laugh.
Sam diverts his attention to the wall beside his bed. My eyes follow the direction of his gaze.
His work of art from this afternoon is fixed to the wall. Sam has managed to stick the photo corners on reasonably straight and has placed the photo in the middle of a piece of decorative red card, bringing out the red in my costume. I would’ve loved to have helped him with it, watch him craft it, but a certain cat-crazed lady demanded my full attention.
The picture of Sam and I is the only personal item on display in his whole room. My heart booms at the realisation. I place my hand on my chest as if the pressure will stop it from pounding.
Sam juts his chin towards the photo. “You reckon the bad boy did good?”
“I love it,” I say, and then look back to him. His face is flushed. It wasn’t when I walked in. Awwwww.
I trace my finger down his cheek and touch his lips. He kisses the pad of my finger and then groans.
“Oh!” I gasp.
His brows bunch up. “What?”
I draw in a sharp breath. “Wait!” I say, remembering the surprise in my bag. “I have something for you. For us.”
“Something more important than what my lips have in store?”
I look up to the ceiling. “Um, not really, but just humour me, ’kay?”
“Sure,” he says through an exhale.
I reach into my bag and pull out the cool stainless-steel vessel. “Did bad girl do good?” I tip the hip flask from side to side. The slosh of the sweet liquid inside causes Sam’s eyes to light up like the giant Christmas tree in town square in December.
His tongue darts out and coats his bottom lip with moisture. “Oh, Janie,” he says, his voice hoarse. “You bad, bad girl.”
I hand him the bottle. Mischief dances in his eyes as he unscrews the cap. Wait. Should I really be doing this?
I tilt my head and regard him. Sam doesn’t look like he belongs here. But he’s in a nursing home, which says something about his health.
“You reckon you’ll be okay to have some? I mean—” I stop short and let out a heavy sigh.
Sam smirks. “Panicking?” he teases.
I play-punch him in the shoulder. “I’m not, I just … I worry about you. What about your meds?” Is he still taking them?
He plants a soft, almost featherlight kiss to my lips. “I promise you a couple of swigs can only help.” Sam points the neck of the bottle towards me. “Ladies first.”
I take a sip. The sweetness zaps my tastebuds to life. As it trickles down my throat, I’m warmed from the inside. I hum in appreciation and hand it to Sam. “I hope you like Kahlua. It was the only strong stuff I had.”
“Totally not fussy.” He gulps down the liquid, holding his head back as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down.
He coughs and sinks back into his pillow. “Man, I drink like a girl.” He rubs his flattened hand over the base of his neck.
“So that means you drink awesome?” I tease.
“Yeah. Totally.”
We take turns in sipping from the flask and settle into each other’s arms. It’s the perfect end to a hectic day. The only thing that would make it more perfect would be a change of location. Snuggling with Sam on my couch, or in my bed ... that would be the ultimate. When will that become a reality?
“You good to chill for a bit?” Sam kisses my forehead. His arms hold me tight, as if he’s trying to keep me captive. As if he needs to.
“Yup. I shouldn’t drive right now, anyway. I’d be over the limit.” By the flop in my body and the heat in my cheeks, I know it. I’ll just have to wait it out. And what great company to do it in.
“Ha. I doubt it. Isn’t there like only one cop in town? He’s probably hanging out by the doughnut van anyway. You’d be fine. Not that I want you to go, or anything.”
“You’re such a bad influence.” I tilt my head back and look into his dreamy eyes. “On one hand, you’re encouraging me to drink and drive, and on the other hand, you’re a budding master scrapbooker. You have me so confused, Sam Marshall.”
Sam makes crazy eyes at me and does an Elvis snigger with his top lip. When he kisses me, making Elvis ‘ah-huh, ah-huh’s’ against my mouth, I burst out laughing.
“Sam, you realise you’re just as crazy as everyone else here, yeah?”
“You included?” he asks, smoothing my hair from my forehead and tucking it behind my ear.
“Sure. Just look at me. I’m prepared to risk getting my arse fired by sneaking in alcohol and snuggling with a resident. You best keep that bit of information under your hat, otherwise they’ll all be lining up with their orders for booze.”
“My lips are sealed,” he says. His brows draw tight.
“What?” I ask.
“Oh, just thinking about some stuff that one of the guys was talking about today. Do you know the guy with the bald head?”
“Um, can you be more specific?”
“The one in love with the Mustang.”
“Oh,” I say and sigh. “Mr Blandford. Bob, I think.” What in heaven’s name did Mr Blandford say to him? He seems to blurt out whatever he’s thinking. He’s probably spent too many years in the company of corpses. They don’t tend to tell you when you’ve crossed the line.
“Yeah, Bob. That’s him. He’s kind of creepy. Like a decent guy, but he knows some really weird shit about the human body.”
“Did he tell you what he did for a job?” I ask.
“No. Why?”
“He was an undertaker.”
Sam’s jaw drops. “Well, doesn’t that explain a hell of a lot.”
“Nice guy, but you can see why I didn’t introduce you to him on your first little outing into the dining hall.”
“Yeah. I might not’ve come back out.”
For a while, we talk about Superhero Day, and Sam’s first taste of art and craft since he left primary school.
“This was a really shitty place before you,” Sam says and kisses my forehead, his warm lips heating my skin.
“Oh, don’t say that.”
“Just speakin’ the truth,” he says on an exhale.
“You’re just saying that because you never ventured out of your room. You never gave people the chance to get to know you.”
“And I have to say, before you, Kathleen could be such a tyrant. She’s changed, and I reckon it’s because she has this enthusiastic young thing working for her. A prodigy. Someone who can take the reins when she decides she’
s too old for this shit. I can totally see you doing it, too.”
“Pfft. I don’t think so.” I’m too young, and besides, I’m sure Kathleen isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. She’d be fifty, at the most, and she’s fit and healthy.
“Take a compliment, Janie. For me, you’re the only thing that makes this place feel like home. That’s why your photo is on the wall, and nothing else.”
“Okay, well, I appreciate you saying that. Thank you.”
Before too long I have to say goodbye to attend to my hangry sidekick.
Leaving Sam gets harder each time.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The next morning as I’m getting dressed for work, my phone buzzes on the bedside table.
The Sheriff: I found Ed. The owner’s name is Kim Marsden.
Further down in the text, a mobile number is listed. It’s just after eight, so hopefully it’s not too early to call. I squeal to myself as I dial the number. Please, please let her still have him.
“Hello?” a female voice says.
“Hi Kim. Um, my name is Jane Rhynehart. I work at the Willow Creek Nursing home.”
“Hi Jane. What can I do for you?” the lady says in a sweet voice.
“I know this is a really random thing, but do you still have the Golden Retriever that you adopted a while back?”
“Eddie? Yeah, we do. I’m about to take him for a walk, funnily enough.”
Over the course of the next ten minutes or so, I tell Kim all about Sam and my grand plan to bring him back in contact with Ed. I choke on my own saliva when she suggests tomorrow afternoon.
I swear I walk about ten feet tall into the kitchen after the conversation has ended. I’d make a great cupid. Except not with people. Reuniting owners and their dogs. Surely that could be a thing?
I slather Nutella on two pieces of rye toast and eat it as I sip at my coffee. To really make my plan shine, I need more help. Which means I need to call on the sheriff. Smiling to myself, I send him a text.
Me: I need help with Sam
About ten seconds later, my phone dings with a message.
The Sheriff: What’s he done now?
As I type out my reply of ‘nothing’, my phone rings. Ben.
“No seriously, what’s he done?” he says before I even get a chance to answer with hello.
“He hasn’t done anything. I just need help with a surprise for him.”
“O-kay,” Ben drawls.
“What are some of his favourite foods? Something he wouldn’t eat at the home?”
“Hmm. Lemme see.” The sound of heavy traffic drones in the background as I wait for his response. “As a kid, he used to froth at the mouth over cinnamon doughnuts. Couldn’t get enough of ’em.”
I love it. I mean, you’d have to be a freak not to like fresh, hot, cinnamon-sugared doughnuts. And I know just the place to get them: the doughnut and ice-cream van on the outskirts of town. It’s only a couple of kilometres from the home, so I won’t have to travel far. From there, it’s only a few blocks to the dog park. Perfect.
“Thanks, Ben. Oh, and I’ve found Ed, thanks to you. Kim, his owner, is just lovely.”
There’s a long pause, which has me wondering if Ben’s still on the line.
“Hello? You there?”
“Why are you so good to my brother?” he asks.
I shrug to myself before answering. “Because I like him? Because I can? I’d like to think that if I was in Sam’s position, someone would do this kind of thing for me.”
“Sammy’s got you under his spell, doesn’t he?”
“His spell?” I challenge.
“Pretty sure you know what I’m talkin’ about. Even trapped in a nursing home, being the biggest pain in the arse, he still has a way with the ladies.”
“I’m good to him because he deserves it.” And because I have a raging crush on him, but I feel weird saying that to you.
“You’re right, little lady. He does.”
When the call ends, I wonder about the Marshall boys and their childhood. How old were they when they lost their mother? With a father in the military, did Ben have to take on parenting responsibilities when it came to Sam? Did they have other family around for support? Given the limited visitors on Sam’s list, I guess not.
Maybe they’re just missing a woman’s touch.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I love Fridays. Today, my love for this day is compounded because Operation Dog Reunion is ready to roll. The company car is packed with two jumbo blue pillows, a picnic rug, and an Esky with cold water and fresh fruit.
I scoop up my bag and make my way to the nurses’ station. Kathleen is waiting there, arms crossed beneath her chest. She chews at her bottom lip.
“Paige said he’s good to go, so, um …” She rubs at her chin.
I raise my eyebrows expectantly. “Drive safe?” I offer, to fill in the silence.
“Yes, drive safe. Just one thing.”
“Sure.”
“As you know, Sam’s had some practice with the walker. Paige is happy with his progress and his stability, but having said that, don’t have him walk too far. Perhaps take the wheelchair as it’s still quite taxing on him. And ring me if you need anything. Please.”
“I will. Promise.”
The spring in my step on the way to room ten can’t be denied. But what if he says no? What if he doesn’t want to leave? What if he’s not feeling up to it?
Who am I kidding? There’s no doubt he’ll wanna escape from this place. Don’t second guess yourself.
“Okay,” I boom as I enter his room.
“Jesus!” Sam shouts from his seat at the edge of the bed. “Tryin’ to give a man a heart attack?” The walker is beside him, within arm’s reach, the wheelchair tucked in the corner.
“You and I have a date,” I declare.
“A date?” He folds his arms. A grin grows over his lips. “I don’t know anything about a date.”
I clasp my hands in front of my chest. “Sam Marshall, will you go out with me?”
He shakes his head from side to side and tuts.
I place my hand over my heart and frown. “What?” I feign hurt.
“Nuh-uh. That’s not the way this is gonna work, Janie,” he says, waving his hand between us.
My hands move to my hips of their own volition. “I disagree. My way involves cinnamon doughnuts. Hot. Fresh. Mouth-wateringly delicious sugary doughnuts.” I lick at my lips, eliminating imaginary sugar crystals from them.
Sam’s upper body jerks in silent laughter. “Have you been talkin’ to my brother?”
“Maaaaaybeeee?”
“Fine then,” he says, and claps his hands. It doesn’t seem to pain him quite as much as it did a few weeks ago. My heart swells with the thought that Sam is on the road to recovery. It’s happening; I can see it. I’ve witnessed it happening slowly since I met him. Or am I imagining it because I want it so bad?
“Do you forgive me?”
He sighs. “Yeah. You had me at doughnut, Janie. It’s my stomach’s Achilles heel.”
Thank you, big brother.
With quick steps I rush over to the wheelchair. We need to get moving. Not that we’re running late or anything. I’m just busting to spend time with Sam outside.
“Don’t need it,” Sam blurts out. “I’m taking the walker.”
I turn to him and offer an encouraging smile. Then I remember what Kathleen said about taking it easy on him. My expression turns serious. “Are you sure? It’s a bit of a walk to reception.”
“I’m good. Just be prepared to catch me,” he says with a wink.
I position the walker in front of him. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you,” I say, and offer an exaggerated wink and a cluck of my tongue.
I hover beside him as he takes cautionary steps all the way to reception.
“How many doughnuts are we talkin’ about exactly?” he asks, almost breathless as I swipe my pass to open the secure doors and wave to Kathleen.
“I’m no mathematician, but that doesn’t add up. If anything, it should be the other way around. I’ve been denied the simple deep-fried pleasure for far too long. Four in my favour would be on the money.”
“I make no promises,” I say, as I open the back door of the car for him.
He stills, his knuckles white as they grip the walker. “Why do I have to sit in the back?” Disappointment is splashed across his face.
I shrug one shoulder. “I dunno. You don’t have to.”
Sam nods towards the front passenger door. “I’m moving up in the world, Janie. Besides, you don’t wanna experience my back-seat driving. Just ask the sheriff.”
Oh, how I admire that spirit.
“Yeah, no one likes a backseat driver. Even a cute one. Front seat it is,” I say, rushing around to open the door for him like a chauffeur. I help him into the seat.
He swats my hand away when I try to strap him in. He scoffs. “The cute ones know how to put on a seat belt, you know.”
I poke out my tongue at him, close the door and then collapse his walker and secure it in the back.
Our first stop is the much-anticipated doughnut van. I rush out and purchase six of the best, and two cappuccinos. I grab a handful of sugars because I figure if he’s into doughnuts, he probably has a sweet tooth and takes a few in his coffee.
Five minutes later, treats in hand, I pull the vehicle up to the park. Luckily, there’s a disabled parking spot free about ten metres from the tree I planned on setting up at. And there’s a concrete footpath which gets me within a metre or so of it.
I pull the vehicle into the car park, cut the engine, and pull on the handbrake. “Stay here,” I order with a wave of a threatening finger.
Sing it, Sam Page 14
