Chapter 3
“HI, GRAMPS, HOW ARE YOU doing?”
Sam Davis already knew what was coming. His grandson only called on the days he was canceling. He adjusted the receiver against his ear—lately he’d had trouble hearing as clearly as he liked. “Doing about the same as yesterday.”
“Oh, that’s great to hear,” Wyatt said in a rush. “Really great. Hey, uh, look, I’ve had some things come up, and I’m afraid I won’t make it this afternoon. But I can stop by tomorrow, if that’s all right?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Sam said. And he wasn’t. He’d been banished to this assisted living place a few months ago, and so far, he hated it. You’ll meet new friends, they’d said. You’ll love having all your meals prepared for you, they’d said. There are so many activities, they’d said. You’ll enjoy reminiscing with the others, they’d said.
It was all hogwash, and he didn’t really need to be here. So what if he’d fallen a couple of times. He’d been able to get up—eventually—and he refused to use a wheelchair. No matter how long it took him to make his way to the dining room or the other activities, a walker was better than a wheelchair. His body was turning against him, choosing the good days and bad days without his input. This morning had been good, but with the news of Wyatt’s cancellation, Sam might as well just stay in his room for the rest of the day. Do some reading, which would probably turn into napping. So be it.
He reached for the book on the coffee table in front of him and turned to his bookmark. He adjusted his glasses and read a half page of the large-type print, then realized he couldn’t remember what was going on in the story, so he restarted the chapter. How far he got, he didn’t know, because the next thing he knew, he was being awakened from a nice nap.
“Mr. Davis?” a young female voice said from his partially open doorway. “It’s time for our activity. Do you want me to help you into the wheelchair?”
Sam blinked at the dark-haired woman, trying to clear his mind from the dream he’d been having about Susan...again. This time, she hadn’t moved with her family. She’d decided to stay in Seattle and attend the community college. She’d been worried about a place to stay since room and board at the college was expensive. Sam had just been about to suggest they talk to his parents’ neighbors when he’d been awakened.
“I’m skipping the activity,” he said in a rasp. He cleared his throat. “My grandson’s not coming today.”
The woman named Ginny tilted her head, and her brown eyes went soft. “Oh, sorry to hear that. But I’m happy to take you anyway. You’ll enjoy yourself, and I’d hate for you to stay cooped up in your room.”
The whole place was like living in a coop.
Before Sam could protest, Ginny pulled the wheelchair out of the corner and grasped his arm. The woman was strong, he’d give her that—or maybe he’d weakened. Both were likely true.
“There you are,” she said after she’d strong-armed him into the chair. “Now, would you like a lap quilt?”
“No, I don’t want a lap quilt.” What was he? An old man? He tried to keep the bite out of his tone, but he doubted he’d been successful.
Ginny, to her credit, didn’t flinch or become upset. “We have lemon bars for dessert tonight. Do you like lemon bars?”
“I don’t like getting powdered sugar all over me.”
She laughed as she rotated the wheelchair toward the door. “I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Davis.” She began to push, then stopped rather abruptly. “Oh, were you in the Air Force?”
She must have spotted the row of framed photos that Wyatt and Paula had insisted on setting up.
“It was called the Army Air Corps back then,” he said.
Ginny reached for a photo and picked up the frame. He was standing in front of the B-29 Superfortress with his co-pilot Jeffrey. The man hadn’t made it through the war.
“Is this World War II?” she asked, awe in her voice.
“Yes.”
“Oh boy, did you fly in Europe?”
“I did.”
Ginny angled the picture as if to get a better spot of light on it. “What was that like?”
“What was it like dropping bombs on cities?” Sam asked. “Hell.”
She set the picture down carefully. “I’m sorry, Mr. Davis, I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”
He was already feeling guilty about his sharp retort. It had been honest, yes, but Ginny didn’t need to be the target of his bad mood. He drew in a breath and decided he’d explain, but then she wheeled him right out of the room. The hallway was filled with a few other wheelchair-bound residents, also on their way to the activity. Whatever that would be.
Ginny was a brisk walker, and they overtook a couple of the residents. They reached the dining room, which apparently had been converted into a game room. Each table had two to three game boxes in the middle like a decorative centerpiece. Visitors were scattered among the residents.
“Here you are,” Ginny said cheerfully. “These visitors don’t have family here, and they’re happy to spend time with you.”
Before Sam could tell her to take him back to his room, she’d wheeled him to a table with a woman and a teenager—likely her daughter, if their similar looks of honey-brown hair and blue eyes were any indication. The woman gave him a faint smile, but the teenager’s eyes had shuttered. She looked about as happy to be here as he was.
“Hello, sir, what’s your name?” the woman asked.
“This is Sam Davis,” Ginny interjected, setting the brakes on his wheelchair. She stood next to him. “This is Anita Gifford and her daughter, Carly. They’re here all afternoon. Now, does anyone want some punch?”
“Sure, that would be great,” Anita said. “What about you, Carly?”
Carly looked down at her hands, folded atop the table. “Okay.”
As Ginny bustled away, Sam got right to the point. “I don’t need company, if that’s what you’re here for. My grandson, who’s an accountant, is too busy to visit. I was taking a perfectly good nap in my room before Ginny woke me up. So if you’d rather do something else with your Saturday, don’t give me a second thought.”
Carly lifted her chin and eyed him.
Sam unlocked the wheelchair brakes, then pushed back from the table. Maybe he’d get one of the other aides to wheel him back since Ginny wouldn’t take no for an answer. He’d just managed to rotate his wheelchair when the girl said, “Mr. Davis, we’d like to play at least one game with you. If that’s all right?”
Surely, she’d been prompted by her mother. Sam might be a grump, but he wasn’t rude. He looked over at the teenager. Her hands were clasped together so tightly that her knuckles had gone white.
“Are you on a mother-daughter outing? Maybe passing off something for the Girl Scouts?”
Carly’s cheeks pinked. “Not really. I...” She gave a side glance toward her mother. “I was suspended from school yesterday, and I have to put in service hours before I can go back.”
Well, this was interesting. “You were suspended? Did you change your grades or something?”
The girl had the decency to look mortified. Another glance at her mother, then, “No, my friends and I were dumb and raided the kitchen.”
Sam didn’t even hesitate. “What did you take? Something good?”
Carly’s mouth quirked. “Not really. We grabbed a bag of carrot sticks and another one of green apples.”
Sam didn’t mean to laugh—it just came out. And it was his full belly laugh. The one that hadn’t made an appearance in quite some time. The other residents looked over, of course, and Ginny arrived at the table just then with a tray of punch.
“Mr. Davis, are you all right?”
Sam drew in a breath, nodded, wheezed, then laughed again.
Across the table, Carly’s mouth opened in surprise, as if she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to laugh or not. And her mother...her expression could put a thundercloud to shame.
Sam grasped one of the cups and downed the punch as if he’d been crossing a desert until this very moment. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said to the girl’s mother. He used the edge of his sleeve to dab at his eyes. “Getting suspended is no lighthearted matter, but at least when you raid the kitchen, go for the dessert.”
Ginny looked confused, as she should, but Anita Gifford’s expression cleared. And Carla’s lips twitched.
Sam raised a hand. “Not that I’m encouraging you to go back anytime soon, young lady. The best way to get through school and life in general is to follow most rules.”
“Most rules?” Carly said, her voice less timid.
Ah, she’d caught that. Smart girl. “Some rules are absolutely necessary,” Sam qualified. “But sometimes a rule has to be broken to save a life.”
Both mother’s and daughter’s eyes widened.
Laughing had put Sam too much at ease around these ladies. “Now,” he said, sliding over one of the game boxes. “What are we playing? Scrabble or Life?”
“Scrabble,” Carly said immediately.
This surprised him. “Good choice.” He pushed the game box toward her. “Get us set up, and your mother can keep score. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
Carly eagerly opened the box and set up the game.
“Tell us about yourself, Mr. Davis,” Anita said in a polite tone. “Are you from Seattle originally?”
“I was born and raised here,” Sam said. “Joined the Air Service out of high school to put myself through college.”
Carly actually looked interested. He was impressed. He gave them the shortened version of his life. “Married, had a daughter, served a tour in the war, ran a furniture business after I retired from the Air Force, then I sold my business, and here I am in my golden years.”
“How old are you?” Carly asked, her eyes wide again.
“Carly, that’s not polite to ask,” her mother cut in.
Sam lifted a hand. “I just turned eighty-three. Seems I have a balance problem, and my eyes are losing some vision. Can’t be trusted on my own.”
“Oh, that’s terrible,” Carly said.
It was probably the most accurate and sincere thing that had been said to him in a long time. “It is terrible. I have to read books with large print.”
Carly wrinkled her nose.
“And they make me use a wheelchair in here,” he complained. “Makes me feel like I’m eighty-four.”
Carly laughed.
Sam chuckled.
Anita smiled.
Maybe game night with some strangers wasn’t so bad.
Over the next couple of hours, they took turns beating each other in Scrabble. Carly came up with a few clever words too. “You must be a proud mom,” Sam told Anita at one point. “You’ve got a smart daughter who’s easy to talk to.”
Anita’s brows lifted, and Sam didn’t miss the pleased look in her eyes.
“I assume she takes after you, unless there’s a spelling-whiz Mr. Gifford?” he asked.
“My dad’s a bad speller,” Carly said. “I once got a birthday card from him, and he spelled ‘sincerely’ wrong. Turns out it was the last time I heard from him.”
Sam blinked. “What?” Then his mind clicked. “Oh, are your parents...”
Carly filled it in for him. “They’re divorced.” She shrugged as if it were the most natural thing to tell a near-stranger. “Dad has another family now.”
Sam was almost afraid to look at Anita—was this line of conversation upsetting her? He took a peek, and her expression was completely neutral. She caught him looking at her, though.
“Carly’s dad and I were high school sweethearts,” she said, “and I honestly don’t remember if he was a good speller. He got okay grades.” She looked at her daughter and said in a quieter tone, “I hadn’t noticed the misspelling on that birthday card.”
“You’re a smart girl to notice those kinds of details,” Sam continued. “I think it’s safe to say your talent comes from your mother.”
Both mother and daughter shared a smile, then Anita did an extraordinary thing. She looked at Sam and mouthed, “Thank you.”