Page 80 of Really Truly Yours
“This is it.” I set the bag with the discharge paperwork, some prescription bottles, and his right shoe onto one of the four chairs at the breakfast table. Fresh paint and recently installed carpet permeate the air. Morning sun streams into the fully-furnished room through open blinds on a glass door that looks onto a private patio. The living space is decked out as if some decorator perfectly appointed a model unit.
Ahem.
Donny turns. “Places like this have waiting lists. How’d you swing this, Tuff?”
I’m running behind on sleep this week, and Donny’s health and my conversation with Tripp loom, so the name prickles. I swallow the irritation. “Got lucky, I guess.” My keys clank onto the table beside the bag.
I feel his perusal as I swing open the handicap-wide French door and peek onto the pocket-size porch furnished with a round table and two cushioned chairs.
“Come see.” I turn, but my—Donny—is rooted.
His badly-in-need-of-a-razor face puckers. “Lucky?”
“Yeah.” And let me just say, luck comes at a steep cost these days.
His eyes say he knows it, too. “I sure hope you didn’t boot some poor old geezer who’s been waiting for months?”
“I didn’t boot anyone.” I hope. Made an offer for the model unit the powers that be couldn’t refuse.
The moment drags to the point of discomfort. Finally, he limps my way, head shaking. “I can’t even imagine.”
Right, well, let’s just say coming six months out of pocket for a care facility was not a line item in my budget two short weeks ago. Good news is, I had the happy fortune of stumbling across the world’s best agent at the start of my career, so, return to the mound or no, I’m in fine shape for the foreseeable future.
Idyllic October air lifts a yawn from my mouth. I could sure use some coffee. Better yet, a few minutes of shuteye on the tranquil porch.
Speaking of coffee. “Look, make me a list, and I’ll run to the store. You’ll need snacks and stuff, coffee maybe. Otherwise, meals are provided.”
His fingers wrap onto the doorframe. “I don’t drink coffee.”
I knew that. “Well, I do, and I’ll be around.”
“Fine. Just don’t wear out your welcome.”
“Uh-huh.” Hey, I didn’t ask for this. “I’ll get out to your place as soon as I can for the rest of your clothes and anything else you want, but right now, I got to get going.”
The doorbell rings. I slide past Donny and open the front door. The facility director—yes, the director—flashes me a smile. Does she make personal calls on all the brand new residents? The tall woman is thin and pretty, fortyish, and dressed professionally in a suit and heels.
In the process of her welcome spiel, she smiles and touches a lot—me that is. If she puts her hand on my arm one more time, I’ll have a dent in the spot. Donny is an afterthought. The cougar vibes are jarring.
Once I reciprocate enough no thanks vibes to send the woman packing, Donny barely gets off a snarky smirk before the bell rings a second time. It’s the social director I was told existed, here to introduce herself. She’s my mom’s age, short, round, and with a contagious smile. Her full focus on Donny has me breathing easier, though she gets a goofy grin on her chubby cheeks every so often when she glances my way.
She runs through a list of activity and entertainment opportunities available, including old-people field trips I’m happy to not be a part of. Wrapping up, she squeezes my arm…giggling…when she says she has to go to a meeting.
She earns a point the first chick missed by patting Donny’s shoulder and smiling sincerely on her way out the door, insisting she’ll return at five sharp to escort him to the dining hall.
When the door clicks, the old coot shakes his head, his face wrinkled up like somebody ripped one. He sinks, breathless, into the nearest chair. “You’re pathetic.”
“Me? What’d I do?”
His head wags side to side. “I don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“How any kid of mine ended up with a charmed life.”
Charmed? Oh, I wouldn’t call it…
Huh. I do have much to be grateful for. But charmed?