Chapter 9
Rory
It’s been a hell of a fucking day. No—two days. I’ve been here since Saturday morning when I got the call that Grandma wasn’t feeling well.
The community Grandma lives in has medical facilities in addition to the assisted living, hospice area, and independent living, where Grandma lives.
For now.
She’s got a fever. The doctors have run a few tests and they think it’s viral, which means there’s not much to do other than treat the symptoms and let her body take care of it.
I’m sitting in one of the chairs next to Grandma’s hospital bed, reading, while she sleeps. It’s five forty in the evening. On a Sunday. If this was a regular Sunday visit, I’d be speeding toward Morgan’s bar right now.
On the bed, Grandma shifts and her eyes blink open. “Deborah?” Her voice is muffled through the mask.
Deborah’s my mom, Grandma’s daughter. She’s mistaken me for her twice since she’s been sick, and the doctor says that happens. It scares the shit out of me though—Grandma with a sharp mind is a force of nature. Grandma with dementia or Alzheimer’s would be a nightmare.
“It’s me, Grandma.” I lean in closer so she can see me. I’m wearing a mask, too, just in case, so I make sure she can see my eyes. “Rory.”
“Rory?” There’s a pause, and then her voice gets more confident. “Rory.”
“Are you feeling any better?”
“I’m not dying yet.” The snap is weak, but it’s there. I bite back a smile. Attitude is good.
This morning when Grandma woke up confused, it lingered longer and she cried. It scared the shit out of me. “We only have each other. I don’t want to leave you,” she’d said between tears.
Once I’d gotten her back to sleep, I’d cried too. My eyes are still puffy and it doesn’t help that I hear her voice telling me she doesn’t want to leave me every time I close them.
Grandma closes her eyes again. “What time is it?”
I check my watch, even though I don’t need to. “Five forty-five.”
“You should go,” she mumbles. “I can feel your boredom even when I’m asleep.”
God, the snark of this woman. I’m not that bad, am I?
“I’m fine.”
She cracks an eye open. “Alone is what you are. Don’t you have some handsome bartender to go visit?”
“It’s fine, Grandma.”
“I’m not going to die in the next few hours. Go take a break,” she insists.
“I’m fine.” I can out-stubborn her any day.
Grandma’s eyes snap open and she grabs the handles of the bed, trying to push herself up to sitting.
I jump to my feet and hover. “Grandma! Stop.”
“I will not.” She’s sitting up but she’s wheezing, and the beeps on the heart rate monitor are getting faster.
“You’re going to go to that bar and by god you are going to flirt with that bartender until he asks you out for the umpteenth time and you’re going to say yes tonight or so help me god, I will die on you! ”
“Grandma,” I scold, appalled. “You shouldn’t talk like that.”
“What, threaten you with my death? Buckle up, missy. I’m driving this bus.”
“I know you believe in God,” I huff. “And I know he’s going to smite you after that speech.”
“He smote me . . . long ago.” Grandma breathes hard for a few moments. “Now are you . . . going or not?”
“Arghhhh!” I run a hand through my hair, which is loose around my shoulders since I washed it last night and haven’t ridden my bike today. “You are infuriating.” I point a finger at her. “Fine. I’m going.”
“Ha,” she says, and then collapses back into the bed.
“If you die while I’m gone, I’m cremating you,” I threaten. “And the service will be in the gymnasium instead of the chapel. I’ll tell them that was your last wish.”
“Eh,” she says. Her heart rate is getting back to normal and her breathing is easier. “No one’s coming to my service anyway.”
It takes me some time to get her settled back down and I procrastinate until I’m pretty sure Grandma fakes being asleep.
I step out into the hallway and one of the nurses at the station looks up and smiles.
“How’s she doing?”
“Bitchy.”
She laughs. “Is she sleeping?”
“Faking it, probably.” I sigh and walk toward the door. A few paces away, I stop.
And sigh again.
Grandma says she’s not going to die, and as much as I’d like to think she’s made a deal with the devil, she’s just a woman. An old woman, who’s so scared of dying alone, she’s pushing me to find someone so the same thing doesn’t happen to me.
I turn around. The nurse glances up and shakes a finger at me. “Go,” she says. “We’ll take good care of her and you need a break. I know there’s no one else to call, but you’ve got to take care of yourself first. She’ll be happy to see you tomorrow and we’ll call if there are any changes.”
Even I don’t backtalk a nurse, so I turn around and make my way outside. I’m going to be later than usual, and even though we don’t have anything as formal as a date, Morgan will probably worry about me. I strap my helmet on, ignoring my loose hair, and fire my bike up.
I ease out onto the street and head toward Here. Grandma’s living community is another thirty or so miles northwest, away from the city. It’s for rich New Yorkers—like my grandmother—who want to spend their retirement enjoying the scenic beauty and small-town charm of the Catskills.
It’s all small country roads, and it’ll be a dream to ride my bike through in the fall.
Right now though, it’s late August and summer was having its last gasp today.
The wind whipping past feels good, but my leather jacket is too hot when I stop at lights and signs.
My favorites sights are the bright yellow ones, trees that change suddenly, like someone’s come through and sucked all the blue out by the roots and changed the green to yellow.
In thirty-five minutes, I’m at the bar. The cowbell clangs overhead and this time I pause to look around. Everything’s back to normal, the somber mood from two weeks ago gone. The music’s loud and upbeat, the old ladies are in the corner booth, and I spot a few buckets of beers on the tables.
And then my eyes meet Morgan’s. His smile goes nuclear and my shoulders drop in relief. No more kicked-puppy look. We’re back to happy-go-lucky Morgan and all feels right in the world again.
By the time I sit down he’s got a bottle of my favorite beer waiting. I take a big swig, finishing nearly half the bottle before I set it down.
“How are you today, my queen?”
“Better now,” I answer.
His eyes twinkle, and he walks down the bar, probably to put my order in. I take another sip, and then the music gets turned down.
“Excuse me, everyone!” Morgan shouts. He holds his hands up. “Excuse me!”
The din slowly fades and all the faces in the bar turn toward him. He starts walking back toward me, a massive smile on his face. What is he up to?
“Everyone, thank you for your attention. I’ve got something I want to say here to Rory.”
Uh-oh. He’s standing in front of me now, and the bar is dead quiet. Nerves flutter in my stomach. Grandma’s words are loud in my head.
. . . you’re going to say yes tonight or so help me god, I will die on you!
Oh my god. I’m finally going to say yes.
“Rory . . .” he announces. Then his brows draw together and his voice returns to a normal level. “Rory . . . uhh . . . what’s your last name?”
“Morgan, what are you doing?” I hiss.
“What’s your last name?” he whispers.
“Fox. Why—”
“Rory Fox!” He’s back to speaking loudly again. Morgan reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. It catches the light, flashing as he holds it between two fingers and offers it to me. I have a split second to realize it’s a diamond ring before he blows my mind. “Rory Fox, will you marry me?”