Chapter 8
Two days later, I’m rolling my carry-on suitcase down the hall when I stop in front of my blue-haired neighbor’s door. I listen for a moment and hear them bustling around in the kitchen, probably making breakfast. I hesitate, gather all my courage, and knock.
They answer the door without a word, their face scrunched in confusion.
“Hi.” I give a wave that’s too big, considering that we’re standing a foot apart. “I live next door.”
“Yeah.” Their mouth twitches in amusement. “The reluctant landlord.”
“Uh… Right. Anyway, I’m going to be out of town for a couple days, and I was wondering, if you see any packages by my door, could you grab them? And I’ll get them from you when I’m back.”
“Sure. How many are you expecting?”
“I… I’m not sure.”
They stare.
“I shop a lot.” I laugh weakly and shift my tote bag higher up on my shoulder. “I lose track.”
“Okay… Do you have any, like, plants that need to be watered?”
“No, no plants.”
Their face drops just enough for me to notice. Great, now they’re judging me for not being a plant person.
“Got it. Will do.”
“Thank you so much.”
“What’s your name?” It feels painfully awkward for them to ask this question now, after a full conversation, not to mention after living next door for two years. And it feels even more awkward that it didn’t occur to me to ask their name first.
“Mallory. You?”
“Sam.”
“Okay, thanks, Sam, I really appreciate it. I owe you one.”
I start to walk away when Sam says, “What’s your number? Just in case.”
“Oh, right. Why didn’t I think of that?” I give a little snort laugh that makes me wonder, for the thousandth time, why I am the way that I am.
We exchange numbers, and I silently hope that Sam won’t actually text or call me. And then I feel bad, because they are doing me a favor. I thank them again before heading to the bus stop.
Arriving in Tampa at four P.M. was a mistake.
Both the sun and the snarling traffic are giving me an inhospitable welcome.
Even with the rental car’s AC blasting, I’m sweating by the time I get to Sandy Shores Retirement Village an hour later.
I find the visitor parking, and start hoofing toward Gramps’s building.
This place is a compound with multiple buildings sprawled across a campus dotted with palm trees.
I know the way by heart. The sticky heat is oh so familiar to me, and it’s kind of nice after a long Seattle winter.
It sinks into my bones in a comforting way, although I know I’ll be sick of it soon enough.
In the center of the campus is a grassy area with a large white gazebo. A bunch of seniors are milling around in workout clothes, chatting and mopping their faces with white towels. They probably just finished tai chi or something.
“Maeve?”
I do a double take. One of the women is approaching me, beaming.
“Uh, no, I’m Mallory. Her younger sister. Hi…” I know I should know her name. She’s petite with a cloud of blondish hair, light-blue eyes rimmed with black mascara, and an incredibly white smile. She’s also kind of hot for an octogenarian. Underneath her lilac Lycra, she looks strong.
“Angela!” She spreads her hands. “I was friends with your grandmother.” She has a lyrical Southern accent.
“Yes, of course. Hi, Angela.” I feel disheveled, and I probably smell like airplane. I plunk my tote bag down on my suitcase.
“Here to visit Leonard?” she asks, her voice sympathetic.
“Yeah, I am. Just for a few days.”
“It’s good that you’re here.” The way she says it makes me pause.
“Have you seen him lately? How’s he doing?” I ask.
“Oh yes, I see him at meals here and there. And at the pool.”
“He’s been swimming?”
“No, no, he brings his newspaper down in the mornings.” Angela bites her lip and looks away for a second. “Lottie used to swim laps, you know. In the mornings.”
“Oh…” My breath catches at the sadness of this revelation. Gramps still goes down to the pool like he used to with Lottie. Only now he does it alone.
“He hasn’t been coming to poker night or the weekly breakfast with the guys. You know, he used to always join those. The men have been wondering where he’s gotten to.”
“He’s still grieving,” I say uncertainly.
“Of course, of course.” Angela flips her towel over one shoulder. “But you know, Mallory, Patrick Zhang lost his wife last month and he’s been coming to everything. Every breakfast, every bingo night, every event.”
“Has he?” This information is the opposite of comforting.
If Patrick Zhang is throwing himself into social activities in the wake of his grief, does that mean Gramps should be doing that, too?
It’s one thing to be an introvert, a trait Gramps and I apparently share, but what’s the right way to get over losing your spouse?
Is that even something you can get over?
I am so very unqualified. I should go home immediately. Gramps doesn’t need someone like me bumbling around, asking awkward questions. He needs someone with more life experience, someone who can understand him.
“Angela,” I begin haltingly, “I’m supposed to help Gramps, somehow, like make him feel better, I think. It’s what Lottie wanted. But I have no idea how I’m supposed to do that.”
She blinks her bright eyes at me, and I fear I’ve just completely overshared. But then she laughs.
“Sweetheart. When it comes to grandchildren, your mere presence is what lifts us up. You don’t have to do anything.
Being around young folks invigorates us.
” She gives my shoulder a firm squeeze, and I catch a waft of a powdery perfume smell.
“You have a good heart, coming here to be with Leonard. Just be yourself.”
Wow. Embarrassingly, tears spring to my eyes.
“Okay. Thanks. I guess I needed a pep talk.”
She makes a shoo motion with her hands. “Get on up there. I’ll see you and Leonard around, I’m sure.”
I give a little wave, and she trots back to her friends.
Gramps’s condo is on the sixth floor of building C. I knock and hitch a smile onto my face.
“Hi, Gramps!”
“Mallory, hello, welcome.” He grins back and reaches for my bags.
“Don’t worry, I got these,” I say, trying to scoot past him through the doorway.
He wrests the bags from me anyway and shuffles down the hall toward the guest room.
I kick off my Birkenstocks and pause, the white tile floor cool under my feet.
It’s a little dark in here; he has half of the blinds drawn, shutting out the gulf view.
I feel the lack of Lottie so distinctly.
When she was alive, their home was bright and full of energy, with fresh flowers in a blue vase on the table, and jars full of pretzel sticks and Fig Newtons.
With a jolt, I notice that the snack jars are still on the counter.
The pretzel jar is a quarter full. The Fig Newton jar is empty apart from crumbs.
“Did you get lost?” Gramps calls.
I follow him toward the room I’ll be staying in.
Impulsively, I throw my arms around him.
He chuckles and pats both of my shoulders lightly.
He smells like the shaving cream they used to let us play with when I was three or four.
I take that as a good sign—he’s been shaving and, I assume, showering. Keeping up his personal hygiene.
“Thank you,” he says.
“You’re welcome,” I say stoutly, my arms swinging back to my sides. I feel like I’m four again.
“So, here’s your room.” He gestures to the bed—a queen with the same seashell-patterned comforter that’s been there my entire life.
There’s also a beachy white dresser, decorated with a bowl of sand dollars and an oval-shaped wicker picture frame.
It contains a picture of a young Lottie, pregnant with Trish, sitting on the beach with my mom as a toddler.
They’re both beaming and squinting their eyes against the sun.
“You can put your things away in these drawers, if you like. I know you’re only here for a few days, but best to be comfortable, isn’t it?”
I nod. I should ask him how he’s feeling or something.
But it doesn’t feel like the right time.
We look at each other for a long moment, both of us smiling placidly.
It is an exceedingly awkward moment. That’s when I realize I’ve never really been alone with Gramps.
Usually, we’re surrounded by family. What have I gotten myself into?
I blurt out, “Gramps, I’m really sorry about that therapy appointment. I should have asked you first, I…”
He gives a tiny shrug. “Pfft. No need to apologize.”
“But…”
“You probably want something to eat,” he says.
“Uh. Sure.” That went well. Not. “Do you want to go have dinner downstairs with Angela and the others?”
“No, no,” he says. “I usually just eat here.”
“Oh. Okay. Do you want me to cook something?”
“Please, don’t trouble yourself. I have a beef casserole in the freezer. People keep bringing me food. I’ll heat that up.”
“Right.”
I sit at the kitchen table, feeling useless, as he slowly turns on the oven, sets the table, puts the casserole dish in the oven, and sets the kitchen timer.
“It’ll be about half an hour.” Gramps sits across from me and picks up his newspaper. The timer ticks loudly.
I hesitate, then grab my book and take it outside to the balcony. I stand at the railing for a moment, closing my eyes and drinking in the sultry air. The gulf sparkles under the clear blue sky, crashing gently against the white sand. I plop onto a lounge chair, stretch out my legs, and read.
After dinner—beef casserole served with Lipton iced tea with lemon—I ask Gramps what he wants to do next.
“I usually watch the news, then read for a while before I turn in.”
I glance at the microwave clock. It’s seven P.M.
“Okay.”
“You’re welcome to watch the news with me. I probably have some ice cream in the freezer I could dig up for you.”
“That’s nice of you.” I consider it for half a second, but I’m filled with restless energy. I don’t want to stay cooped up here all night. “But I think I’ll go see my house.” That sounded weird. “The house, you know, Pebble Cottage.”
Gramps nods. “That’s a good idea. Go take stock of the place. Take the key from the hook there—it’s yours now.” He clicks on the TV—the volume blares. “I’ll be in bed by the time you get back. The door will be open. Good night, Mallory.”
I watch him, his face illuminated by the glow of MSNBC.
“Night, Gramps.”
I take the house key, which is connected to a key chain that looks like Barack Obama on a surfboard, grab my bag, and shut the door quietly behind me.