Chapter Twenty-Nine
Liam is the first person I see when I walk through the nursing home the next day, so instead of cutting through the lobby like I usually do, I take a hard right and cut through the chapel to get to the back of the nursing home.
I have a gift for dissociation that helped me cope with an absentee father, but it’s served me in other aspects of life too, including with men. I’ve always had the ability to keep things light, to enjoy the physical aspects of being with them without developing feelings if I didn’t want to. Men have loved me for it. We both get what we want, with no pressure that feelings won’t align.
With Liam, it was so different, and I knew it would be. I wasn’t thinking. I don’t think he was either. He was there, on my doorstep, looking handsome in his interview attire, and every logical thought I’ve ever had disappeared the moment our lips touched. I couldn’t have stopped the forward progression of it. I wouldn’t have wanted to.
I take the back hallway and work my way to the main nurse’s station. If I were to allow Liam to touch me again, I fear that would be it for me. This aching crush would tip the scale into something else entirely. My feelings would be tied to the choices and actions of what he does next, and I can’t allow that. I know what is next for Liam, and it doesn’t involve being here.
“Hi, Abigail.” I walk into her room, and she’s lying on her side. “How are you feeling today?”
“Not good,” she says, and I help her sit up. Everything hurts, and my legs are weak. I could barely get into my wheelchair by myself for breakfast.”
“When did this start?” I put several pills in her hand and give her a cup of water.
“I wasn’t great yesterday, but today is worse.”
Her skin color has continued to deteriorate since she’s been here. The permanent tan from the liver damage has now turned into jaundice. Even the whites of her eyes have discolored.
I move Abigail to her chair and sit beside her. “You haven’t told me a story in a while. Are you up for one?”
Her eyes soften, and she nods. “It’s about one of my most perfect days.”
“Good.” I smile. “Because I’d love to hear it.”
“This may be my favorite of all the days.”
Abigail leans back in the chair and weaves her fingers together.
“When my girls were four and six, George, my ex-husband, was traveling for work, and it was just me and the girls. We lived out in the country, and there was a terrible snowstorm. We woke up that morning, and it was already snowing, and then it continued throughout the day.”
“By noon, I could tell that we weren’t going anywhere for a few days. The road to our house had snow drifts taller than me. I wanted to take my mind off how scared I was to be stranded, so I decided to create a day of games.”
Abigail laughs, which turns into a deep, dry cough. I hand her more water.
“All day long, we played one game after another. The girls must have known I was nervous because they were extra sweet. I made spaghetti with meatballs. And then I made hot chocolate and put colorful marshmallows on top. We bundled up, went outside, and caught snowflakes on our lips.”
“I’ll never forget their happy, carefree giggles as they bounced around in their snowsuits, or the snowflakes that stuck to their long lashes. After we came inside, I made a fire, and we cuddled up and watched a movie. The funny thing is, I don’t even remember what movie we watched. They couldn’t get close enough to me. Acted like I was a superstar that they idolized. And I just stared at the dimples in their small hands, knowing that they’d never be as young as they were at that moment, and feeling so sad about it.”
Abigail reaches for my hand, and I hold it tightly. Her face falls, and her eyes well up with tears.
“Sometimes I wonder if they remember that.” Abigail shakes her head. “Of course they don’t.”
“They might,” I say.
“There’s only so much capacity to hold onto things,” Abigail says. “We had so many happy times, but all of them have been erased by the bad ones. When I die, I want to think about that perfect day as I fade away from this world.”
Abigail covers her mouth with the back of her hand and takes a slow, deep breath.
“When they find out I’m gone, all they’ll remember is the night I got arrested for driving drunk, and the police officer putting me in the back of one car, and them in the other, as they screamed and sobbed for me.”
“Abigail—”
“Birdie.” She waves me away. “I know it’s none of my business what anyone thinks of me.”
“Actually”—I grab both of her hands in mine— “I think they do remember that most perfect day. They mourn that mom they knew and loved. Their sadness and anger are because they knew what it could be. They lived it once.”
“Maybe.” Abigail rests her head on the chair. “I’m going to rest my eyes for a few minutes, Birdie.”
I grab a blanket and wrap her in it. “Sleep well, Abigail.”
When I walk out of her room, Liam stands near the bird sanctuary with my mom. They both see me. My mom smiles, but then she sees my face and looks between me and Liam. She studies us knowingly. Liam tilts his head. His gaze pierces into mine. I rush off in the opposite direction, not wanting to see Liam.
“Hey, Marilyn.” I pop into her room.
She sits in a chair, looking out the window, as two boys ride by on a bike, laughing.
“How are you?” She turns at the sound of my voice.
“Birdie.” Her lips turn up ever so slightly. “Have you had a chance to look things over from my latest doctor’s appointment?”
I lean against the wall. “I have. How are you feeling about everything?”
“Tina thinks we should call in hospice.” Marilyn folds her hands together. “But I don’t want to die.”
“Marilyn.” I kneel beside her. “Having hospice doesn’t mean you’re giving up. But they are the best ones to support you through this, to make sure you don’t feel pain.”
“It feels like admitting that I can’t fight this cancer anymore.” She lies her head back on the chair. “Tommy doesn’t think I should go with hospice. He wants me to fight.”
I grab her hand. “What do you want?”
“I’m so tired, Miss Birdie,” she says. “But I don’t feel done.”
“I’m going to put together a family meeting for tomorrow. There are so many updates; we should all discuss them together.”
“Miss Birdie.” She reaches for my hand as I stand. “In case I forget to tell you later, thanks for seeing me. When old people reach a certain age, we seem to become invisible to the rest of society. But you’ve seen me through all of this, and I can’t say thank you enough.”
Her eyes fall back, and her eyelids become slits before they close entirely. I grab a blanket and pull it over her.
When I finally have a chance to glance at my phone later in the day, I have missed calls and texts from Liam. Why does it feel like he’s not going to go away easily?
“Birdie.” I turn at the sound of Lucy’s voice and smile.
“Hey,” I say.
“Liam has stopped at the nurse’s desk at least five times looking for you.” She glances over her shoulder and comes closer. “What did you do to that guy?”
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“The last time he stopped, he asked me to relay to you that there is a lot to discuss in the world of fundraising, and that he and your mom are going to meet at your house after work to continue the conversation.”
I glance at my watch, and our shift is nearly up. “Do you have Gavin tonight? What do you say we go to that winery outside of town and have a couple of glasses?”
Lucy grabs my arm. “Gavin is at my parents’ house tonight. You don’t have to ask me twice. I just want to run home and change.”
“No need,” I say. “I’m wearing my scrubs. You may as well, too.”
The winery is about a fifteen-minute drive, and we get situated at a table outside. Rolling hills surround us as we look out at the vines in perfect rows. We both opt for a crisp summer white.
“This is so fun,” Lucy says, clapping her hands together. “You never initiate hangouts.”
She leans forward. “Even if you did only ask me to hang out because you’re avoiding a certain someone.”
“Lu—”
“It’s okay,” she interrupts me. “If you let me, I could be your best friend. I get the sense that you choose to keep your circle pretty tight.”
I stare across the table at Lucy. She’s probably about ten years older than me, but age doesn’t matter to me. She’s a very pretty woman, with dark brown hair and olive skin. She’s been nothing but a good friend to me.
“Tight inner circle,” I say. “How about no inner circle at all?” I smile, and Lucy laughs.
“Well,” she says, “I won’t force anything, but I’m a good listener, have a million opinions on all sorts of things, and all you need to do is say the word.”
My phone buzzes, and Liam’s name appears. I turn it off.
“Should we get another glass?” I say, and Lucy smiles.
There is potential here.