Chapter 3
Caitlin is my one real friend at work. It’s not that I don't like the rest of my coworkers, it's just that Caitlin and I hit it off in a different way.
She shares my same sarcastic, biting sense of humor.
I don't know if it's a result of everything I went through as a kid or because of the career I chose, but sometimes my jokes can be a bit dark. Not everybody appreciates my specific brand of gallows humor, but Caitlin thinks I’m hilarious.
We probably look like an odd couple--she’s tall and blonde, with swimmer’s shoulders and long legs.
She keeps her hair cut in a slick bob and pulls it out of her face with an adorable assortment of barrettes that she coordinates with her scrub tops.
I'm a bit shorter, with more boobs and a bigger butt, and long dark hair that I’m forever pulling up in a messy ponytail knot thing.
I say she looks like Julianne Hough. She claims I’m a dead ringer for Ana de Armas.
She and I try and sync up our break times whenever we can, but ever since Marjorie went out on maternity leave--again--our schedules haven't matched up. Today is a rare treat, and we aim to make the most of it. We grab coffees from the self-serve kiosk in the lobby.
It's not Starbucks, but it's still pretty good. There are a bunch of those pump syrup dispensers, a huge jug of cold brew coffee, an ice maker, and a plugged in coffee pot for the old people who drink their coffee hot no matter the temperature outside.
Caitlin and I meet up at our usual spot--a dilapidated picnic table half-hidden beneath a tree.
I guess technically anybody could come out here--it's not a special designated employee spot or anything.
But there are way nicer places to sit closer to the building, with chairs that actually have backs, so this spot has become ours by default.
“You still need to switch lunch breaks today?” she asks.
“If that still works. The parole officer is visiting today.” I try to keep my voice light, try to keep the tightness in my chest from coming through in my words.
“Are you sure you want to be there?” Her eyes narrow, and I can guess what she’s thinking.
I shrug. “I have to.”
Caitlin nods and sort of changes the subject--she knows I don't want to talk about that. “How's it going with Alex, anyway?”
She swirls her iced coffee around in a circle. Even in the morning, if you don't keep your coffee moving, a layer of ice water quickly forms on the top.
I shrug, because I really don't know how to answer that question honestly. “Fine, I guess. Weird to have him home, if I'm being honest.” I scrunch my nose. “Does that make me a bad person?”
“Not in my eyes.” She snorts a laugh. “If either of my brothers needed a place to live after prison, I'd tell them to pound sand.”
Understandable, considering Louisa's family makes Alex and I look like we grew up in an Andy Griffith special.
“Has he learned how to do his laundry yet?”
“Not really, and he still hates Midnight.”
“I'm not a big fan of cats either, so I kind of get him on that one.”
“A cat is preferable to a dog,” I say. At least for this phase of my life. “Besides, it's not like I could have just left him out there.”
She shrugs. “A lot of people would have.”
I found Midnight on the side of the road a couple years ago. He was wet, bedraggled, and obviously hungry. I took him in and tried to pawn him off on the local no-kill shelter, but they were full to the brim.
So now Midnight and I are roommates the same way Alex and I are. Though to be honest, Midnight and I have come to an understanding faster. Once Midnight got over the indignance of having his testicles removed and crapping in a litter box, that is.
“I love him, but he's a pain in the ass sometimes,” I admit.
She grins at me. “Are we still talking about the cat?”
I have to laugh. “I know it's just his way, but part of me wants to get mad at how ungrateful he is. It's like he's not even sorry for what he put me through, for what he put our grandma through.”
She tilts her head to the side. “Maybe he's not. I mean, have you ever told him?”
I wrinkle my nose again, because of course I haven't.
Alex and I barely talk, it feels like--let alone about deep things like that. Besides, I think before I even realize it, this is just something he should know.
I frown at the thought. Maybe that's expecting too much of him. He's never been the poster child for empathy, even before he got sent to prison.
“Maybe I should tell him,” I admit. “But it's also hard to admit something so vulnerable to him, when I know it probably won't sink in at all.”
“I think you're still mad at him,” she says, swirling her plastic cup again. The ice cubes slush together as they go round and round. “I think that on some level, you blame him for what happened with your grandma.”
I press my lips together, because she's not wrong. There have been several times where the thought crossed my mind--that maybe if Alex hadn't gone to prison, my grandma wouldn't have been as stressed.
That maybe him going to prison was partly to blame for her heart attack.
“It's impossible to know,” I say.
“Of course we'll never know,” she says, like she thinks I'm an idiot. “But that doesn't mean it doesn't affect you. That's what I'm talking about here. How you think, how you feel. You're allowed to have feelings about it, you know. You're his sister, not his mom.”
I wince. “This is the problem with having smart friends,” I finally say.
She laughs. “All right, I'll let you off the hook for now. Just think about it. Besides, I have something far more interesting to talk about. Did you hear what happened last Friday when you were off?”
I shake my head because I want to hear it from her, even if it's a story I've heard before. She's one of those people that can make something more interesting in the retelling, even if I was there for the initial event.
She leans forward, her eyes glittering with laughter. “So you know, Chatty Cathy set up the normal dance.”
I nod and ignore the nickname. Caitlin doesn't like Cathy very much. But I think Cathy’s just enthusiastic at her job. It'll probably tone down a little bit if she ever gets married or stays here for another five years. But until then, her events make the old people happy, and I'm all for it.
“So it was supposed to be seventies night,” Caitlin says. “And you know how lately it's become kind of a costume affair.”
I nod. Mrs. Wolinski in cabin four had apparently kept every piece of clothing she'd ever bought. She always had an era-appropriate outfit for these theme nights.
“Well anyways, everybody's dressing up. Except Mr. Scofield arrives, and he's not wearing anything.”
“What?” My brow furrows.
I know Mr. Scofield, and he's not one of the people that I privately call ‘on the cusp’. Meaning that they're going to need to be moved to the memory care division soon.
She nods and leans forward. “He was only wearing his tighty-whities and a pair of Oxfords with socks. Knobby knees out and everything.”
“Why on earth?”
“Well apparently, Mr. Gordon had told him that since it was 70s night, they were going to recreate the nudist colony. He was trying to get the poor man to show up fully naked. You should have seen it. Mr. Gordon laughed so hard, I thought he was going to have an ischemic attack.”
I shake my head. “That's terrible.”
“Are you kidding? It was the highlight of my week.”
“Sounds like a pretty boring week then.”
She shrugs. “I've had worse. Besides, you shouldn't feel too bad for Mr. Scofield. He’s been the big man on campus ever since those ladies saw what he was packing in his tighty-whities.”
“Yuck.”