CHAPTER 7 DELILAH
DELILAH
Jackson was not exaggerating.
As soon as we enter the building, it’s like his soul departs his body. He stares unseeingly at some mysterious spot in front of him, only offering one-word answers to the questions I continuously lob in his direction in an attempt to distract him.
That had finally garnered a reaction. Jackson turned halfway toward me. “Are you asking if I’ve been to the strip club?”
“No. I’m asking if you’ve been to Chaps. That specific Chaps. The one in the parking lot of the strip club.”
“Ah,” he said, reaching up to squeeze at the back of his neck as he led us through the radio station hallways. “No.”
“You should go sometime.”
That was seven minutes ago and the very last thing we said to each other before a pretty woman with dip-dyed box braids handed us each a pair of headphones and ushered us into a window-lined booth.
Now, Aiden is at the long table in the middle of the room, hastily trying to clear various cookie boxes, chocolate mint wrappers, and half-empty mugs of coffee.
Lucie spins herself around in Aiden’s chair, tossing tiny paper airplanes in the middle of the mess, her feet tucked up underneath her and one of Aiden’s sweatshirts draped around her shoulders.
He stops her mid-spin with his hand against the armrest and ducks down for a firm kiss against her smiling mouth.
My chest squeezes.
They’re happy here, at the radio station. Everyone I’ve seen. People greet each other by name and ask about weekend plans and talk about kids’ birthdays. At the news station, I’m constantly walking on eggshells, trying not to anger Keith, trying not to be a nuisance.
But here, everyone revolves around one another in a perfectly choreographed dance of productivity. It’s a humming hive of activity as everyone sets up for the show, laughing and shouting and tossing boxes and cables back and forth.
And Jackson floats through the middle of it, straight into the booth where he sits down in a beanbag chair in the corner, his knees practically to his chest. He scoops up a heart-shaped pillow and holds it in his arms.
I’m not entirely confident he’s breathing.
“Delilah. Hey. Thank you again for doing this.”
Maggie appears at my side, her phone in her hand and a white earbud wedged in one ear. She’s just as sleek and professional as she was at the news station, while I’m wearing a purple sparkly parka I dug out of a lost-and-found bin.
A short man wearing suspenders appears at her side, his chin tucked to his chest as he runs his finger down a list on his clipboard.
He has a headpiece that looks like a Britney Spears concert replica and a cellophane-wrapped box of chocolate mints.
He startles when he looks up, then grins so wide his earpiece jostles.
I like him immediately.
“This is Hughie,” Maggie offers, grabbing his clipboard and jotting a note down in the margin. “He helps out around the station.”
“I take care of what needs taking care of,” he says with a nod.
“You can start by taking her jacket, Hughie. Thank you.”
The small, strange man takes my coat and disappears without another word.
Maggie heaves a long-suffering sigh. “He asked to do a college rotation credit here and I haven’t been able to get rid of him since.
” She bends and picks up the box of mints.
“Though I suppose he does serve his purpose well.” She angles her chin toward the booth. “How’s Jackson doing?”
“He’s, um. Well.” I scratch at my neck. “He’s not doing great.”
Maggie’s mouth twists.
“Is it always this bad?” I ask.
Through the glass, Aiden tosses a small foam football at Jackson. It hits him in the middle of his forehead. He doesn’t react. Aiden and Lucie exchange a concerned look.
“Not this bad, usually, no. When he has to do something outside of his forecasting, he rambles a bit, but he doesn’t usually shut down,” Maggie says. “I didn’t give him much time to adjust, which is my fault. I know Jackson is a creature of habit.”
I rub my lips together. “He thinks Keith agreed to this assignment to embarrass us both. That his anxiety is being . . . weaponized, I guess.”
“Keith isn’t that diabolical,” Maggie says with a snort. “You have to possess at least two brain cells to be diabolical.” She cuts a look in my direction. “Sorry.”
“Please,” I laugh. “I’m not loyal to Keith. Speak freely.”
“Oh, thank god. I thought I was going to have to launch a side quest to convince you that he sucks.” Maggie shifts her body, dropping one shoulder against the glass wall of the booth and crossing her legs at the ankles.
Her hazel eyes are penetrating. “It’s why I suggested the partnership.
You’re better than what he has you doing. ”
“What? You’re like my . . . broadcast fairy godmother?”
A sharp smile curls the corners of her mouth.
“I’d look ridiculous in tulle. My main goal is, and always will be, the station.
” She eases a lock of dark hair behind her ear.
“This is an opportunity to give the station serious exposure, and Jackson is brilliant.” We turn in unison and look at him through the glass.
He’s gripping his headphones to his chest like they are an emotional support teddy bear.
Maggie frowns. “When he’s not having an existential crisis. ”
“You think he can pull it together in time?”
Maggie’s phone rings and she glances down at the ID. “I know he can,” she says, distracted. She silences her phone and regards me with cool, assessing eyes. “What about you? Can you hold it together?”
“I can. I will.”
“Good.”
Her phone rings again. She rolls her eyes to the ceiling and taps the green answer button. “How did you get this number?” she snaps.
I’m close enough to hear the low rumble of a man’s voice in response.
Maggie huffs. “Stop bothering me. I have work to do.”
She taps End Call. Another immediately rolls in. She scrolls up with her thumb and blocks it without hesitation, but another rolls in. And then another.
Maggie’s fist clenches around the edge of her phone, knuckles white.
“I need to deal with this,” she says.
“Don’t let me stop you.”
“You’re on in seven minutes,” she offers.
Her phone is still ringing in her hand. An angry buzz that’s somehow picking up speed and intensity.
“The bathrooms are down the hall. There’s a vending machine stocked with snacks.
Aiden keeps the good coffee hidden, but feel free to bribe him with these.
” She hands me the box of chocolates that came from Hughie and taps the headphone in her ear. “I’ll be listening. Good luck.”
She’s off without another word, raising her phone to her ear and hissing out a string of what I can only assume are creative and spectacular threats. Maggie seems the sort to wield her words as weapons, and I have no doubt they’re deadly.
I’m just turning toward the booth when my phone starts to ring, a picture of my grandpa flashing across the screen.
I remember the day I took the picture. A baseball game. The first truly warm day of spring. The sky so blue it made my eyes hurt to look at and Grandpa’s wide and toothy smile, the seats of Camden Yards stretching out behind him like an ocean of green.
That had been a good day. We haven’t had a lot of good days lately.
I answer his call with a quick swipe of my thumb.
“Grandpa, hi.” I turn toward the wall. Tuck myself against it and make myself as small as possible. “Everything okay?”
There’s a pause and then a rough, agitated sound and my heart knows before my head does.
“It’s four thirty,” he says and his voice sounds wrong. Short and tired and confused.
I glance at the clock right above the door of the booth. “A few minutes until, yes.”
“You were supposed to be home from school an hour ago. You know I don’t like it when you go over to your friends’ houses without asking.”
I saw my teeth over my bottom lip and suck in a deep breath through my nose. It doesn’t matter how many times it happens, it feels like a punch to the gut every time.
“I know,” I rasp, rubbing at the bridge of my nose, trying to press that burning, aching feeling away.
The doctors say I shouldn’t argue with him when he’s like this.
That it’ll only make him more agitated. More confused.
“I’m sorry. I got a new assignment that I’m excited about.
Time got away from me.” There. A bit of the truth, without disrupting wherever he’s slipped off to.
For me the hardest part of these episodes has always been the lies I have to tell.
It feels wrong, when Grandpa has always asked for the truth.
When he’s always given it to me in return.
I glance at the clock again. Three minutes until we’re on. “I’ll be home soon, okay? We can have lemon cookies and tea and watch General Hospital. Just like always.”
Comfort. Routines. All the things that make his Alzheimer’s more manageable. He grumbles some more, but it lacks the low hum of frustration he had when I answered the phone. “I suppose that’s okay,” he finally says.
“Okay. Good.” I force a smile I don’t feel. “I’ll see you soon.”
“You will,” he agrees. “I love you, darling.”
“Love you too,” I manage, my voice pitched slightly too high. I drop my forehead against the cold wall and wait until I hear him hang up the phone, then close my eyes and breathe deep.
It’s okay, I tell myself. He’s okay.
You said the right things.
You didn’t make it worse.
I allow myself another minute and then pack it all away. I’ll deal with this later, with lemon cookies and tea, just as I promised.
But when I turn toward the booth, I feel my resolve buckle.
Jackson isn’t staring at the wall anymore. He’s looking right at me.