Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
I figure the best way to go about the rest of my day is to say and do as little as possible. And to avoid Adam like my life depends on it.
He was right earlier: most of Lovie’s day has been occupied with gardening, puzzle books, and early-afternoon local access television. I keep a watchful eye on her. She tries to dismiss me on four separate occasions. I’m having none of that.
Adam’s always there too, on the fringes, plying my grandmother with snacks and unsweetened iced tea he must have made at some point. He hasn’t offered me a glass.
After leaving Lovie on the couch with a(nother) word search book, I move toward the kitchen. During some downtime earlier, wherein Lovie continued to ignore my existence like she’s not responsible for it, I researched foods that help fight Alzheimer’s. Leafy greens, vegetables like broccoli, and certain spices are all good options.
Adam’s already at the stove, though, a warm and earthy scent filling the air.
His exhale is so close to a chuckle, I want to clean my ears, just to make sure I’m hearing him right. “If you’re looking to make dinner, you’re too late.”
He sounds … nice. Definite yes on the ear cleaning. I add Q-tips to my mental Walmart list.
“It’s not even that late,” I say. “It’s only five.”
“She goes to bed right at eight. After Jeopardy! ” Adam says, shrugging. He pulls a few plates down from the cabinet and starts scooping food onto one: roasted chicken, leafy greens, chickpeas, and cauliflower. Most of it looks disgusting, but it smells amazing. And it’s Alzheimer’s friendly.
I cross my arms, then think better of it when sweat starts to build under the thick fabric. My sweater was more to cover up than fight the cold, and it’s excessive in this tiny kitchen, especially with the stove on.
Adam slides past me, grabbing forks from the silverware drawer on his way to the table. The only made plate goes in front of Lovie’s usual seat. He looks like he’s done this a hundred times before. He doesn’t second-guess himself as he pulls a glass from the drinkware cabinet. Even the way he lets his hip rest on the island as he pours another glass of tea screams familiarity with these surroundings.
My brows gather as I lose the fight, tugging off my cardigan. “And you just started yesterday?”
My question gives him pause, and his eyes go tight before he looks away. The line of his jaw hardens. “I’ve done a few rotations here, when she had her weekly check-ins, then the daily ones.”
Lovie was the one who chose AngelCare a year and a half ago, when there were more good days than bad. It was around the time she gave me her power of attorney and the deed to the house. She wanted to make this “easy” on me, as if this were a thing that could ever be easy. As if, with all the boxes checked (minus the health insurance, apparently), it wouldn’t carve out my heart to see her this way, to have her see me without knowing me.
“You can make your plate next if you want,” Adam says, pulling my focus back to him.
I’m still full from lunch—he also cooked that—but I’m pretty sure this is a one-time offer, so I don’t argue. I’m seated with my plate and a glass of water before Lovie makes it into the kitchen, Adam just behind her, arms extended. Waiting to catch her if she falls.
As she’s nearly seated, she loses her balance and tips sideways.
I jump to action so quickly I nearly fall myself, but Adam is faster, calm and collected as he steadies her with a gentle hand to her elbow. Less intimate than the way he grabbed me earlier as we fell from the closet, but just as grounding.
I wait for Lovie to bless the food. It’s been ingrained in me since I could talk. Instead of counting sheep when I can’t fall asleep, I say our family mealtime prayer: Dear God, thank You for all that You give us. Thank You for our food, family, and friends. Please let everyone we know be happy, healthy, and safe. Amen.
But instead, she grabs her fork and starts in on her greens.
Adam settles next to me, his portion size almost identical to mine despite him weighing an estimated fifty pounds more. Did he not think I’d be joining them for dinner? Some guilt-like thing tugs at my stomach.
Or I’m extremely hungry and my stomach has started eating itself, and that just mimics guilt.
Throughout dinner, I glance at Adam to see whether we’re going to be cordial, have a civil conversation of some sort, but he doesn’t return any of them, his own eyes focused either on his plate or Lovie’s. I’m not sure how to interact with him when we aren’t jumping down each other’s throats. The silence barrels past comfortable and straight into awkward, and I reach my breaking point somewhere around my fifth mouthful of cauliflower. I don’t even like cauliflower.
I clear my throat. “Lovie, would it be all right if I watched your shows with you after dinner?”
If the chicken weren’t already dead, her glare would have done the trick. “Only if you don’t yell the answers. It’s no fun for everybody else.”
I poke my tongue into my cheek to avoid frowning. I hate having the right answer and not saying it until it’s too late. I’m always worried people won’t believe me when I say I knew in my head.
Adam takes a hefty sip of water—in contrast to me, I think he’s trying not to smile—and when he’s finished, his glass is nearly empty. Not only is he a bed thief; he’s a camel too.
The rest of the meal is eaten in awkward, stretching quiet. It’s so warm that at one point I get up to make sure the oven’s not on, and my last bite isn’t completely chewed before I offer to do dishes.
“You don’t need to do that,” Adam says. He brings his plate over and sets it next to mine.
“You cooked,” I say, muscling the plate from him. I need to do something . I didn’t come here for a vacation, dammit, and today I’ve felt about as useless as an empty aluminum can.
A contented sigh pings my ears, and when I turn, Lovie’s watching us with hearts in her eyes. “You should do them together. The load is lighter when you have someone to help carry it.”
If that isn’t one of Lovie’s Hard Love Rules, it should be.
I must have been eleven or twelve the first time she said something so poignant, so revolutionary, I stopped what I was doing to write it down. I knew even then how lucky I was to be brought up by a person who understood the value of her life and her time and instilled those same values in me. She would only ever use my screw-ups as opportunities to remind me of something I would have already learned had I been listening to her in the first place. It took me too long to start listening, so I vowed to never stop.
On her seventieth birthday, I gave her a list of my most favorites, with fancy font at the top that read Lovie’s Hard Love Rules . There was no way I could ever have captured them all, but I tried.
For the first time I came home after curfew: If you want to take the scenic route, make sure your destination will still be open when you get there.
After she and Grandpa Bobby found out about that Aruba vacation I booked on their card to avoid responsibilities that felt too much, too hard, too fast: Sweeping something under the rug doesn’t make it go away. It just puts your dirt in a different place.
When I called and told her about my wild adventures my first month at college, because I told her everything, and because I missed her, and because I thought I was making too many mistakes too soon: Wear the lipstick. Kiss the guy. Make the mistakes. Especially the fun ones.
Some were sillier, more lighthearted: Never keep a secret for someone who wouldn’t keep one of yours. Always wear clean underwear.
Some were … not. Being treated like a queen sounds fun until you remember all the heads that have had to roll to make it happen.
It was somewhere in all those rules, those little throwaways I thought nothing of at the time, that she taught me how to live. How to become my own version of the person I always emulated—her.
“Go ahead, Bobby,” Lovie says now, gesturing to the waffle-knit dishrag hanging from the oven handle. I mentally add her latest Hard Love Rule to my list. “Get to drying.”
There’s something unfamiliar in Adam’s gaze. His lips purse and flatten a few times. “I’ll wash, if you want to dry.” He turns on the faucet.
We’re really pushing the limits of this truce. I’m not sure I can be this close to both Adam and running water without shoving his head under the stream.
I glance over my shoulder, where Lovie’s trying to leave the room undetected. “What if she tries escaping Alcatraz again?”
“That would imply she tried escaping the first time.” He tests the temperature and adjusts the knobs. “But she won’t. She loves her shows too much.”
So we settle into something … well, not relaxed, but easy. Without anything else to do, I study Adam’s hands as he sudses the dirty dishes. His nails are blunt and neat, his knuckles prominent and wide, turning red under the hot water. Veins and tendons crisscross up toward his wrists and forearms.
Why is it always the forearms?
I shove the thought away as he hands me clean, wet dishes and I dry and put them away.
Everything is exactly as it’s been for my whole life. Except that the woman in the other room inexplicably believes me in love with the man at my side.
That’s new.