1. Ivy
“I’m hereto see Ms. Palmer.”
The man’s voice is deep, with an authority that makes me wonder why he requested his tour of the assisted living center with me. His suit is expensive but not overly fitted. And the dark gray is a stark contrast to the clear blue of his eyes. The silvery accents in his well-trimmed salt-and-pepper hair give him the air of distinction, with professional charm brimming from behind what seems to be a practiced smile.
It’s not unlike the smiles I’m used to from people clinging to their courtesy as they navigate a world of decisions. How will I care for my loved one? Will they be safe? Is this covered by insurance? How much will it cost?
If money is no object, the ones with the deepest pockets land here. Except for me. It took two years for me to work off my mom’s debt, and it gave me a lifetime’s worth of watching people in return. I remind myself that I’m here to ease them into a relationship of trust and support. Not to pressure them with a hard sell, despite those very words from my boss.
“I’m Ivy,” I say, stepping out from behind the long reception desk. I hold out a hand, meeting his solemn smile with one of my own as he takes my hand for a brief shake. “And you’re Mr.—”
“Sin,” he says, scanning the lobby and halls. I can’t tell if he’s overwhelmed or underwhelmed, but he avoids meeting my eyes as he glances around. “Call me Sin.”
“All right, Sin.”
I’ve already seen the roster, noting that the tour request was made by a Bryce Jacob Sinclair, Esquire. The formal name suits him as equally as the nickname Sin. A gravity and authority harden the lines of his face, hiding whatever’s lurking just below the surface.
The heaviness that drags him down threatens to pull me with it, an occupational hazard to a career dependent on emotional connection and empathy. When his expectant eyes meet mine, I snap back to work.
Handing him a visitor badge, I gesture down the north hall. “This way.”
Along our tour, Sin asks the usual questions: How many occupants are there? What’s the caregiver-to-resident ratio? If the staff live on the premises—which feels more like he’s asking if I live on the premises.
No matter how many times I give this tour, I’m delighted when he asks about the one thing that always connects us, though it never seems to at first. Mr. Whiskers.
The small fluffy toy is weightless in my hand as I tug it from the pocket it’s been peeking out from and hold it up.
I’m not the only one beaming at the sight of him. Even the stone-faced Sin cracks a smile, albeit a very small one. It creases his face enough that I peg him to be about sixty, which makes me wonder if he’s looking at the facility for his mother or possibly his wife.
“This is Mr. Whiskers.”
“Your stuffed animal?” Sin’s studious eyes move from it to me, the intensity of his gaze so much harsher than is warranted by my crazy talk.
Unnerved, I take in a breath. “Mr. Whiskers is so much more than that. He’s a therapy stuffed animal. You can even pop him in the microwave to warm him up.”
I avoid talking about my past or that Mr. Whiskers has been my personal security blanket for nearly twenty years.
Sin nods. “Do all residents get a toy? Or just the bad ones?” His contempt doesn’t bother me. He doesn’t understand, and it’s my job to help him understand.
“Sparrow Wellness and Assisted Living is unlike any facility you may have seen. Our occupants range in age from twenty to eighty-two. Sometimes, a little non-threatening toy is a great way for people to open up. I didn’t have to say a word about him, and you asked.”
His face is stone. No hint as to whether he’s annoyed or amused. His eyes wander through the opening to a vacant room. “Continue.”
“Even if they aren’t interested in a little support from a cuddly friend, he’s a big hit with the children who visit. We keep a small stockpile in the back.”
“Trauma victims?” He mutters the question under his breath in a way that sounds less like distaste and more like hope.
“We cater to a wide range of conditions, trauma being just one of them. Some residents have degenerative conditions that require more care than their families can provide. Others don’t have families, in which case we become their family if their physician recommends us.”
Sin takes several steps into the room, moving his gaze from the warm cream walls and big bay window to me. “Looking for a family, Ms. Palmer?”
His tone is sharp and icy, with enough condescension that I have to remind myself that people in pain tend to inflict pain. He’s just hurting, and I’m the closest target within striking distance. But it’s not directed at me. Even if it is the truth.
“Just looking to help as many people as I can.” I hold my smile as I step away, shooing off a flurry of emotions that I’ll need to deal with later. For now, Sin is in his role of distrustful client. It’s up to me to win him over.
His brisk footsteps close in quickly from behind.
We stop at the courtyard, where a few residents have opted to spend their morning lounging on lawn furniture, enjoying the sun. We walk in silence. He takes an interest in a resident, Angie, lost in the strokes of a painting she’s creating. I use the time to take a closer look at his paperwork, only now noticing he’s left several areas blank.
It’s not uncommon. People tend to be guarded their first time walking through. It’s a long way from nice to meet you to I trust you with my loved one, but it’s a familiar road I’ve traveled many, many times.
“It’s you,” Sin says, and I look up.
Seeing the painting this close, I realize the resemblance is uncanny. I’d almost believe it was me if not for the elegance of the off-the-shoulder gown Angie has painted her in, or the delight in her eyes that could never radiate from mine. It’s how I want to look. Confident. Complete. Happy. Instead, my heart is riddled with so many holes, half the time it feels like it’s about to collapse under all the damage.
Taking a closer look, I see the white curl in her subject’s curly black hair—identical to the one that inexplicably grows at my right temple. Angie nods, beaming with a grin as she silently lets me know it is me.
It’s a version of me that could only happen in Angie’s beautiful imagination.
Grateful, I hug Angie, being gentle to avoid overdoing it. Her muscles are weak. Every word from her lips is a fight, but they’re always worth waiting for. Especially today as she sounds out two words.
“H-h-hap-p-py b-b-b-irth-d-day.”
My heart leaps as she completes the short sentence. It’s the most she’s said in a week, and I find myself speechless, if not a bit teary-eyed.
“Sorry, do you mind if I steal Ivy for a second?”
Derrick interrupts, probably to keep me from outright blubbering. He’s more than my boss, though no one would know it. We’ve been a couple for nearly a year but keeping our relationship under wraps was his idea as much as mine. Sort of.
I keep one eye on Sin, watching as he carries on a one-sided conversation with Angie. He doesn’t seem concerned that she isn’t responding. On the contrary, his smile is genuine, even though he receives nothing more than a few polite nods back. But I’m ready to jump in if he demands any more.
Derrick’s hands stay pocketed, the way they always do when he’s hiding something. Maybe it’s a surprise. Like dinner at a fancy restaurant on the waterfront. Or cuddling together in front of a romantic bonfire on the beach.
Between his work schedule and mine—which is a result of his—it’s been weeks since I’ve had any action. I’m bursting at the seams with sexual frustration, so if my birthday celebration is a beer, a grilled cheese, and twenty solid minutes of hitting it hard during whatever sci-fi show he can’t live without, I’ll take it.
I’m grinning like an idiot when he says low, “I really need you to bring this one home, babe. Seal the deal. The numbers need to look good. I’ve got a big meeting tonight.”
“Tonight? But?—”
His cell phone buzzes, and he takes it, mouthing, “Gotta go,” as he winks and rushes back inside.
“Why are you in this, Ms. Palmer?” Sin asks as he sidles up to me.
“What?” I scoop my jaw up off the ground, realizing he isn’t referring to my conversation with Derrick.
Sin means my work. Of course, he does. His thousand-yard stare roves across the lush grounds, taking it in while not focusing on anything at all.
“The same reason everyone works here. It’s personal. We’ve all been here. Helping family members who need assistance.”
He turns, narrowing his eyes. “Family?” The way he says the word is strained, as if he doesn’t believe me.
It compels me to share more than I normally would. “My mother had a degenerative condition. There was a lot of pain in her last years of life. I did all I could.”
I don’t talk about the specifics. How by the time a doctor diagnosed her liver disease, nothing could be done. That it never stopped her from the drugs or the alcohol. Or that despite the unbearable pain she suffered every second of her last days of life, she pushed me away until she was too weak or too tired to put up a fight. There’s no way I can explain how you can love a person with all your heart when they seem to hate you with all of theirs, so I don’t try.
By the look on Sin’s face, I’ve already given him an uncomfortable amount of information to unpack. So, I wrap it up, quickly finishing. “I did what I could to make her comfortable.”
The hard lines of his face soften. “I’m sorry for what you’ve been through.”
“Thank you.” The practiced smile I use in times like these emerge, and I nod appreciatively, steering our discussion back where it belongs. On him. And not because Derrick wants me to close the deal, but because this man and his family need me. And that’s why I’m here.
“The first steps are never easy,” I say as a gentle reminder. “We have different levels of care and service. Can you tell me more about the person who brought you here today?”
He spends another moment looking me up and down, torment storming behind his eyes as they finally settle on mine.
I don’t know what to make of it, but situations like these can be delicate. With all my encounters, I’m patient as I let the client drive the discussion, deciding for themselves if they’ll tear the bandage off bit by bit, or rip it off all at once.
With an abrupt huff, he steps away, his large, determined strides taking him inside the facility and back toward the lobby. I rush after him, but don’t shout out his name or make a scene, not wanting to draw attention from the residents or staff ... especially Derrick.
Sin wastes no time depositing his visitor badge on the desk, and I nearly break into a jog to catch up to his mile-long stride. When he bolts out the front doors, I’m right behind him, struggling to catch my breath.
“Sin,” I say, winded but compassionate. He stops but doesn’t face me. “If I’ve said anything?—”
“You haven’t.”
His reply is so matter-of-fact, I feel silly for suggesting it. So, I reclaim my smile, if only for my own benefit.
“I know trust takes time. My card,” I say, holding it out and feeling doubly foolish when he doesn’t take it.
Instead, he sneers.
This is the point where others might give up, but I don’t. It’s the people who push you off the most that are in the most pain. At least, that’s the excuse I’ve always given myself.
He eyes the card, then casts an amused glance to the sky. After an awkward second of silent conversation between him and a few puffy white clouds, he faces me. The hand he places on my shoulder feels paternal. “I don’t need your card, Ms. Palmer. The person who brought me here today was you.”
Unbuttoning his blazer, he fishes a thin envelope from the inside pocket and hands it to me as a dark car with tinted windows pulls up beside him. “Someone recently told me the first steps are never easy, Ms. Palmer.”
A well-dressed chauffeur rushes around to open the back door, and as soon as Sin is seated inside, the man returns to the driver’s seat.
The darkened window rolls down, and Sin’s smile widens. “Happy birthday.”
He slides on a pair of sunglasses as the car rolls away.