Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It takes a week and a half to get the podcast idea organized enough for me to even think about recording.
This will be a totally different style of episode. Whereas Elle on the L is unscripted and raw, I want this one to be more thought out. Especially since, as Adam so carefully pointed out, it’s personal.
I’ve got episodes outlined, hooks cast to industry professionals, and a blurb for the show notes. I’ve vetted charities to partner with and toyed around with logo artwork. But the buck stops there, because I cannot for the life of me decide what to call it.
In all that time, Lovie hits me twice with her shoehorn and once with her fist. That’s not counting when she “accidentally” swings at me with the cane Adam insisted she started using earlier this week after she lost her balance and nearly cracked her head on the countertop.
It nauseates me to see her so vulnerable. I don’t know what the worst-case scenario is with her anymore—they’re all the worst case. Every day I’m more and more thankful for Adam, that I’m not on my own in this.
My heart hurts for everyone who can’t afford this service, and it makes me hopeful for all the good this podcast will do.
Adam’s still wary of the whole thing, and he hasn’t said one way or another if he’ll appear on an episode.
He worked again this weekend. I haven’t asked why he needs two jobs. Is AngelCare undercutting him? He puts up with far too much of Lovie’s shit to be underpaid—literally. She had an accident this morning. It’s not the first.
What is surprising, though, is when Adam presents me with a grocery list, adult diapers on top.
Before now, it was only theoretical that Lovie and I would switch roles. She bought and changed my diapers.
Now, it seems, I will buy hers.
I’m not opposed to going, mostly. Adam’s been doing the shopping for the weeks I’ve been here, without fail, every Wednesday. It’s my turn. The “mostly” comes into play when I consider driving to the store.
“I think my license expired,” I say, handing the list back.
He pushes it to me again with a wide palm. “Not until May. You’re good.”
Of course he would remember from my license. “I don’t like driving Lovie’s car.”
“Take mine,” he says nonchalantly.
The one thing I didn’t want him to offer. “You don’t want me to do that.”
“Are you”—Adam’s eyes turn playful and pensive all at once—“Elle, are you scared of driving?”
I’m already turning for the door, away from him, sliding into my trainers. “Nope. Not at all.”
“I don’t think I believe you.”
“See for yourself, then.” I spin on my sock, my other foot jammed in my shoe. “Let’s go on a field trip.”
“Lovie shouldn’t ‘go on a field trip.’ ” He redirects his air quotes through his short hair, then scratches his ear. “You know how she is.”
His eyes trail from mine to my shoulder, my hip, my thigh, my shin. All the places I’ve hidden bruises. His attention there makes the skin throb like the hits are fresh.
I squirm away from the feeling and wrestle with my other shoe. “When’s the last time she left the house? Got fresh air. Stopped for a milkshake.” All the things I used to do when I was little, with the grandmother who let me skip school and drove us an hour to Pullman Park in Michigan City. Who ignored calls from said school about where I was as we licked ice cream in freezing weather on the shore of the beach across the street. Who would give me five more minutes five times, even though my nose was a faucet and my fingers were blue.
His mouth opens. “She shouldn’t—”
“Eat a ton of high fats or sweets, I know. So she’ll skip the milkshake today.” I make sure not to say “we’ll” skip the milkshakes. I’m PMSing. I’m not skipping anything. “But I think it would be good for her. As long as it won’t risk another bad day. I don’t want company that desperately.”
Adam purses his lips in contemplation, but before I can truly win him over, Lovie shuffles in, oversized purse in hand and slippers on the wrong feet.
“I hear we’re getting milkshakes.” She rattles her keys at me. I’m only slightly terrified. Those were supposed to be hidden.
It’s something that, at its core, is so Lovie , for a moment I almost forget. Where I am and why. A smile stretches across my face before I can help it.
Lovie jingles the keys again, and I giggle.
Clearly outnumbered, Adam just groans.
It takes him approximately four minutes to regret this outing—or maybe it’s my chauffeuring he’s regretting. Between Lovie’s complaining from the passenger seat that it’s too cold, then too hot, then back to an icebox, and my jerky turns and rolling stops, he’s a little green in the rearview mirror.
Considering it’s only a seven-minute drive, he got off easy. I could have gone to the store across town. Nestled within those seven minutes are three questionable driving decisions, two of which include running yellow lights.
I approach a third light that also turns yellow, and I grit my teeth as I slam the brakes. Tires squeal behind us and I flinch, bracing for impact.
When none comes, Adam huffs. “ Seriously ? You choose that one to stop?”
“Never run the third yellow,” Lovie and I say in sync. And while the look I give her is a happy one, full of unexpected connection and excitement, the one she gives me drips with contempt. It’s Lovie’s Hard Love Rule Number Three.
Our toe-stepping continues after Adam convinces Lovie to use a motorized scooter inside the grocery. She accidentally backs into me while getting herself situated.
The final straw is when Lovie comments on my speed. “It’s all those extra pounds on your thighs that’s slowing you down, girl.”
For a second, all I do is blink. She’ll snap out of it now, laugh, say she was teasing or kidding the way she did when we were younger.
But she never teased me about this back then, and I don’t think she’s kidding now.
Adam’s expression is cloudy through my tears. He gives me a sympathetic frown. I’m not even sure he realizes he’s doing it.
Embarrassment heats my cheeks. Beyond my mortification, something hot and acidic gurgles in my stomach, and to avoid tipping her scooter over or leaving her stranded, I head toward the personal care items. We’re not strangers to prank wars; I can just embarrass her back, and we’ll be even. I’ve got my arms full of adult diapers to do just that when she rounds the corner on her scooter.
Or she tries. She doesn’t have the hang of steering and she bumps into the endcap. Dozens of shampoos and conditioners spill onto the floor, and three of them burst open, goop flying everywhere.
Adam places a hand on her shoulder as she bends to clean it up. He’s squatting in front of her, the way I’ve seen him do so many times at home. They’re too far away, his voice too low for me to hear what he says.
Lovie’s wrinkled cheeks go pink, her hands coming together so she can twist at her wedding ring.
I don’t need to embarrass her after all. She just embarrassed herself. My limbs are heavy, my insides going slimy with shame.
I still have an armful of adult diapers when Adam looks up.
Though I haven’t seen this particular expression of his, I know instantly what pulls his eyebrows into one angry jagged line: disappointment. In me. He saw straight to my intentions and found them lacking. It’s unnerving and uncomfortable.
Unraveling.
A worker scurries past me toward the commotion, and it knocks air back into my lungs. I set the packages back on the shelf and move to help, but Adam’s glare stops me in my tracks.
There’s an entire aisle stretching between us, but I feel cornered. I swing around so he can’t see my eyes water.
And since I’m already going this direction, I make sure to grab some heavy-duty tampons. This period is going to be a doozy.
When Adam and Lovie still haven’t found me after I’ve decided I need new razor heads, extra deodorant, and dry shampoo, I swing back by the adult diapers and grab one package of overnights.
“… happens all the time,” the worker is saying to Adam, who, judging by having his wallet out, is trying to pay for the two shampoos and one conditioner currently being scooped into the garbage. “Corporate has space in the budget for it. I swear. You’re good, man.”
Lovie’s not next to him. I spot her down the main aisle, near the gardening supplies. From his position, Adam has full view of her. Which is more than I can say for myself.
Humiliation and guilt seem to be my only two states of being these days.
I don’t meet Adam’s eyes, just move past him and the WET FLOOR sign, heading in her direction. I’m not sure what I’m going to say when I reach her. I’d run me over if I were her. I cautiously lower my items into her basket.
She’s perusing a carousel of seeds. It’s far too late in the year to plant anything, but try telling that to a woman whose weeks consist only of Mondays. She’s probably already in 2042.
“Hand me those,” she says, pointing with a trembling hand at a packet of seeds with blue flowers on the label. She drops them in the cart, already reversing away from me.
I back up so she can’t roll over my feet. “Do you want anything else while we’re out, Lovie?”
She grunts a soft, “Milkshake.”
She can’t remember my name but can remember a malted chocolate drink.
Girl after my own heart.
We make it home by the skin of our teeth. Lovie’s car has a guardian angel pinned to the sun visor, and it must have had to call in reinforcements.
“Isn’t home that way?” Adam said as I turned in a different direction than how we came to the store. I’d thought I might drive better with Lovie in the back seat and Adam riding passenger, so I could be farther away from the woman who makes me so nervous. Turns out it’s not them. It is firmly on me.
I said, “We’re getting milkshakes,” squeezing the leather steering wheel so hard my knuckles popped as I merged into traffic. I was taking back control, dammit.
Adam didn’t comment again until I passed two McDonald’s, a Burger King, and a frozen yogurt shop painted bright pink and blue. “Where are we getting milkshakes, Cleveland?”
“It’s an Elkhart staple,” I insisted, and Adam shut up.
Until he looked at the speedometer. “The speed limit is forty-five.”
“That’s just a suggestion,” I insisted again.
The sound he made was equal parts shock and defeat. “I’m going to die today.”
Spine tingling, I slowed down. I was expecting the worst from Adam when we pulled up to the aforementioned Elkhart staple.
“It’s a Dairy Queen,” he said.
“The best Dairy Queen,” I corrected as I got in the drive-through. “In the world.”
“Two for two,” Lovie said. She was almost smiling in the rearview.
I got her a kid’s size chocolate shake, ordered a large peanut butter, chocolate, and banana for myself, then turned to Adam.
“I’m good,” he said.
I got him a Dilly bar.
All I’m saying is, for a man who said he was good, that DQ Dilly bar disappeared PDQ.
By the time we made it home, me avoiding routes that would have driven us past two Dairy Queens closer to Lovie’s, she was overdue for her afternoon nap, and Adam was back to a weird mixture of gray and green.
I thought he was going to kiss the ground when we got out of the car. “From now on—”
“You’re driving,” I agreed, two steps ahead of him.
Now, while Adam gets Lovie settled for a nap, I put away the cold stuff from the grocery bags and try to remind my muscles I’m not behind the wheel anymore. When I come to the diapers, I pause. I don’t know whether they’d do better in the bathroom or Lovie’s room. Maybe some in each location?
That’s a Nurse Adam question. I leave it for him.
I grab my recording equipment from my room, desperate to get out some of these big feelings after the Walmart fiasco. This idea is burning so bright in my head, I can already hear how the episode will sound.
But Lovie’s tone, her hateful words, ricochet in my heart and drown out the noise, and I’m tearing up by the time I’ve got everything arranged on the table.
Adam enters the kitchen, scrubbing a hand over his face. When he sees me wiping my own, he pauses midstep. “Are you okay?”
I can’t seem to get my emotions in check today. “Just—” I wave a hand in the direction of Lovie’s bedroom. “That.”
When he sees that I’ve already put away the cold things, he frowns at the empty bags, then me.
“Exactly,” I say at his expression. “I feel exactly like that inside.”
Adam’s face softens, and he comes around the island, leaning against it. “I’m sorry.”
A laugh of disbelief flies past my lips as I hook a hand over the back of my chair, resting my chin on it so I can look at him. “I don’t think you’re the one who owes me an apology. And something tells me I shouldn’t hold my breath waiting for the person who does.” More tears burn behind my eyes, up in my nose. But before I can brush them away again, he shifts.
Indecision flashes across his face before he reaches out, rests his hand on mine. “I don’t like the way she talks to you.”
“That,” I say, “makes two of us.”
His hand flexes like he might squeeze mine. Tangle our fingers together. “I just—” He shakes his head violently, pulls his hand away and shakes that out too before knotting it into a fist. “I don’t think that’s who she really is. Or who you are.”
His words, the worry on his face, send honey through my veins, warm and slow.
“Adam, are you … are you being kind to me right now?”
He scoffs, breaking eye contact as he turns to the counter. “You wish.”
Sometimes I do.
Although it’s not the first time I’ve let my mind wander down this path, the frequency is becoming cause for concern.
I need to focus my thoughts on something beneficial—something that will help more than just myself. Exploring this weird tension with Adam … that won’t get me anywhere.
I turn back to my computer, getting everything set up while Adam continues to put away groceries.
“Hey, everyone,” I say into the microphone. “This is Elle, host of beloved Elle on the L .” I press pause and turn around. “Can you call something you made beloved? Or is that too pretentious?”
He reaches for the last bag of dry goods. “I don’t think it’s cocky if it’s true. People love your show, and for good reason.”
The ancient chair creaks under the weight of me ( yes, Lovie, and my thighs ). “You listened?” I knew he made an Instagram account to troll the trolls, but I thought that was the extent of his involvement.
“To a few,” he says, continuing to root in the bags. There can’t be much left for how long he’s been putting things away. “I started with the “Where Are They Now,” but then I wanted to listen to the original episodes, so I went and found them. It was helpful that you put the episode numbers in the show notes. That was a good idea.”
I clamp down on my smile. “Did you listen to any others?”
He pulls out my tampons like they are literally anything else in the world. They may as well be loaves of bread.
Adam nods. “Yeah, so after those, I went back to the beginning. I’m on episode …” He looks at the ceiling, calculating. “Twelve, I think?”
“Ew, no. They were so rough back then. The production quality is horrible.” Much like this new podcast is about to be, with the subpar acoustics and Lovie coughing every five minutes.
“I disagree. The meat of them was there. Your personality still shines through, even with cruddy equipment.” He lifts a shoulder, holding my gaze. “You’re really good at what you do, Elle.” His deep, strong voice resounds off the cabinetry, hitting my entire body at once.
It’s not the first direct compliment he’s paid me, but my heart doesn’t recognize that. It grows wings, sinking a few inches and nudging the walls of my stomach. When’s the last time a guy gave me butterflies ? Grady sure as shit didn’t.
“When did you listen?” I ask.
Although that wasn’t what I was going to say originally, I want to know that too. While we’ve been around each other long enough for me to know how he takes his coffee—exactly one tablespoon of milk, one-half teaspoon of sugar—his personal opinions are still a mystery to me.
“On my way to work last weekend, and a few hours on shift when things were slow.”
“What do you do?”
He chuckles, waving a hand down his body to gesture at his scrubs. A playful gleam shines as he rests on his forearms, stretching over the island in my direction. “Really?” His laugh is lighter, but somehow it makes the butterflies in my stomach get stronger, ramming against the sides like hippos. There’s a whole zoo in there. “I’m a nurse, Elle. I work in a long-term acute care hospital.”
I dissect through each of the words. “So, rehab?”
“Yes and no. It’s long-term care for patients who can’t afford to stay in a regular hospital for as long as their treatment takes. Or for patients who need specialized care. Burn victims, dialysis or intensive respiratory therapy. Chemo patients, sometimes, if they have a rigorous treatment plan.”
Oh, so AngelCare really does employ bona fide angels. “That sounds … tough.”
“Sure. But it gives me a chance to bond with the patients, which is the best part of what I do.”
I chew my lip. “Isn’t it easier to just see them for a day or two and send them on their merry way? How do you avoid getting attached?”
“I don’t.” A dry laugh. “That’s the whole point.”
I love, love, love my job, but I don’t think I’d love it as much if I had to emotionally invest in every person I talked to. If their lives were in my hands—if it truly were life or death—it would make it exponentially more difficult.
“Why do you have two jobs?” I ask instead, unable to stop myself. Sugar makes me kind of blurty, and after the milkshake I’ve got enough to make, like, a dozen of Liss’s orgasmic cakes.
Adam’s eyes shutter, a hard wall coming down and snuffing out the shine there, and he gathers the miscellaneous paper products into his hands. There’s a line, and I’ve unknowingly crossed it. “Do you need me to go somewhere else while you record?”
“Um.” I shake my head to snap out of the trance he’s clearly snagged me in. “No. I think it will sound lived in. I’m not hiding this arrangement. Listeners can deal. Just try not to start any hair metal bands and I think we’ll be good.”
He suppresses a smile. Not as bright as before but just as impactful on my pulse, which acts like it’s in one of those hair metal bands. Adam holds up the tampons. “You want these in the bathroom?”
“Um,” I say again. “Under the sink. Thanks.”
It’s oddly domestic, us in the kitchen, working separately but together.
Pretending, but not.
“Lovie got flower seeds,” he notes.
I wave my hand dismissively. “It’s too late to plant anything. It frosted last night.”
“It can’t—” His voice catches at the end like he choked on it.
“What?” By the time I turn back to him, he’s already holding up the packet for me to see. To read.
Forget-me-nots.
He tugs the corner of his lip with his teeth. “Did you know,” he says, his eyes wide, “that forget-me-nots are the Alzheimer’s awareness flower?”
My heart races so fast it might explode. “Adam,” I breathe. I stumble out of the chair, bracing on the island.
“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair, lets off a light chuckle of disbelief.
“No.” I grip his shoulders as he clutches the two packets of flower seeds, dwarfed in his hand, but that’s not enough either. I grab his face. The stubble tickles my palms, his eyes searching mine for something.
“You don’t understand,” I say. A quick inhale floods my brain with his summer-sunshine scent and—maybe I don’t understand everything either.
He lists toward me as his gaze drops to my mouth. “Elle, I think—”
I force the words out, cut off whatever he’s about to say. “I think Lovie just named her own damn podcast.”