Chapter 8
Summer
Tate and I are standing at the cash register at the grocery store, arguing about letting him pay the bill, when my phone rings. The name of the nursing home flashes on the screen and I grab it, giving him a dirty look.
“Would you stop already? I have to take this!” I put the phone to my ear, absently trying to bat his hands away as he gently but firmly pushes two hundred-dollar bills at the cashier.
“Her money is no good here,” he tells the cashier as I answer the call.
“Hey, Tony, what’s up?”
“Hey, Summer. Your mom is super agitated today. I know this is your day off—any chance you could come by? She almost fell trying to leave and she’s upsetting the other residents.”
I sigh. “Yeah, give me ten minutes.”
“Everything okay?” Tate asks, pushing the cart filled with a week’s worth of groceries and supplies to make pies.
“Mom is having a bad morning, so I need to stop by the nursing home, help settle her down again. Should only take about fifteen minutes. Then she’ll relax and we can head home. You can wait in the car if you want.”
“Why would I do that?” he asks in confusion. “I’m an adult—I know how to behave in front of people. You’re not embarrassed to be seen with me, are you?”
I know he means it as a joke, because he’s chuckling, but I sense a hint of insecurity, like there are people in his life who are ashamed of him.
“Of course not!” I say, shaking my head. “It’s just…a lot. Meeting my mom scared off the last guy I introduced her to.”
“Then he was an idiot,” he says, putting the bags into my trunk. “What does your mom being sick have to do with anything?”
“Well, it’s a responsibility that extends to anyone in my life. Interruptions like this happen a lot. That’s why I work nights, so I’m around during the day if Mom needs me. She takes medication to help her sleep at night so she rarely has issues then.”
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” he says, “but your mom doesn’t scare me and she certainly wouldn’t scare me away if I was here.”
If I was here.
Because he’s not going to be here.
I know that, but somewhere in the depths of my romantic heart, I’ve been holding out hope that he would somehow be able to stay.
“I appreciate you saying so,” I whisper, getting behind the wheel.
We drive in silence and I glance back at the trunk as I park at the nursing home where Mom lives.
“I hope this doesn’t take too long—I have milk, cream and butter back there.”
“If we’re more than twenty minutes, I’ll come out and start the car,” he says.
God, he’s sweet.
“Thanks.” We head inside and the attendant at the desk recognizes me.
“Hey, Summer.” She gives me a tired smile. “Mom is up in her room. They were trying to convince her to take a shower, but she wasn’t having it.”
“I’ll go up.” I look to Tate. “Why don’t you wait in the solarium? People are in there playing cards, games, it’s pretty relaxed. Just watch out for Irma Beth—she’ll beat the pants off of you at poker.”
He laughs. “I’ll be careful. Go take care of your mom.”
We exchange a look I can’t quite decipher, as if he’s letting me know he has my back, and I don’t know why I suddenly want to cry.
Probably because I’ve mostly borne this burden alone since Mom’s diagnosis.
My college boyfriend and I were planning to move to Philadelphia because he got a good job and I had some prospects too. Once Mom got the official diagnosis, I couldn’t leave her because she was already showing signs of not being able to take care of herself.
When the disease progressed, I discovered that the places that cater to memory care are way out of our budget and the only reason they took her at this local nursing home is because it wasn’t too bad in the beginning, and because I’m close enough to come by on the days when it is.
Patrick, my ex, broke up with me after three months of doing the long-distance thing. And every guy I’ve dated since either got annoyed by my responsibilities or walked away because it was too much for a new relationship.
I know Tate has to go back on the road.
I know this isn’t his circus and I’m not his monkey, yet he’s more supportive than almost anyone has been since I had to move her here four years ago.
Dolly is great about it if I have to leave occasionally to deal with Mom, but that’s not the same thing as having someone to help me shoulder the burden.
Tate just reminds me of what my life might have been like if this hadn’t happened.
It’s not my mother’s fault—she can’t help being sick—but it’s so hard to deal with sometimes.
“Hi, Mom.” I smile as patiently as I can when I get to her room. There’s a nurse with her, who looks relieved to see me.
“Hey, Summer.”
“Summer, where is your father?” Mom demands, hands on her hips. “And why does this woman keep trying to touch me?”
“You had an accident,” I say gently, putting my hand on her shoulder. “You’re in the hospital and the nurse is trying to help you take a shower.”
“An accident?” That always seems to make sense to her, and she immediately relaxes. “Oh. I guess I need a shower?”
“Yeah. You want me to help you?”
“Yes. That would be good. Do you have school today?”
I never know what era Mom thinks we’re in when I arrive, so I always go with the flow.
“Nope. It’s summer vacation. Remember?”
“Oh, yes. Right.” She sighs, her brows knitted together. I can tell she’s trying so hard to remember things her brain refuses to allow her access to. And I truly hate watching her struggle.
“It’s okay, let’s just take a shower.” I help her undress while the nurse gathers her bathrobe and toiletries. It’s a shared bathroom so we keep Mom’s things in a plastic basket and her robe on a hook on the door.
It only takes a few minutes for Mom to wash up—she’s still pretty good about hygiene as long as someone is with her—and I blow dry her thinning hair.
She was a beautiful woman just five years ago.
Now she’s aged exponentially and it makes me so angry that there’s nothing I—or even modern medicine—can do.
She was only forty-eight when she was diagnosed, so it was frustrating for all of us.
There were a lot of tears in the beginning, from both of us, but eventually it got to the point where she doesn’t even realize she’s sick and I’m simply determined to make sure she’s okay for as long as she’s around.
Once in a while, the mom I knew finds her way back to me and we talk.
She asks how long she’s been sick, how bad it is, and apologizes for becoming a burden.
And that’s just it—she’s not. Obviously, there are elements of this that are burdensome.
Like losing Patrick and giving up my photography dreams, but how can I blame her?
She did everything for me to have a good life after my dad left, so this is the least I can do.
It would be better if I could put her somewhere that specializes in memory care but there isn’t one for a hundred miles in any direction, and we couldn’t afford it anyway. The ones I looked into are beyond expensive, so I’ve accepted my lot in life. God knows, I have it better than she does.
“How about a nap?” I ask once she’s settled and dressed in clean clothes.
“Yes, I could probably rest a little,” she says, squeezing my hand. “Thank you for coming, sweetheart.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Now go back so you don’t miss a whole day of school.”
“All right.” I kiss her forehead, smile at the nurse, and make my way to the solarium.
As I come around the corner, I hear music and my step falters for a moment.
Then I see Tate.
He’s in a chair by the window, an acoustic guitar in his hands, and he’s singing “Me and Bobby McGee.”
His voice is beautiful.
I thought maybe it was a fluke when he sang that one line from the Kris Kristofferson song but no—he really has a great voice. And the guitar seems to be part of him as he plays.
I’m a little mesmerized watching. Listening. Taking in how all the residents are as engrossed as I am. How magnetic he is.
Now I’m starting to understand his rock star side—and it’s enthralling. I’ve never met a bona fide rock star before and I’m a little swept up as I watch everyone, even the nurses and orderlies, captivated by his performance.
“Play ‘Living on the Edge,’” one of the nurses calls out. “We play it here all the time.”
They do?
I’m so confused.
How am I the only one who’d never heard of Crimson Edge? I don’t listen to rock but I know who Maroon Five and Nickelback are—hell, I’ve even seen Nickelback in concert.
“Yeah, ‘Living on the Edge’!” One of the residents, a guy named Ernie who’s eighty-five if he’s a day, puts his fist up in the air.
Tate just chuckles, clears his throat, and then starts a wild melody that’s much faster than the previous song.
Living on the edge
Breaking all the rules
Gonna find some answers
I never went to school.
Baby, you’re my heartbeat
You’re everything I need
But when you turn your back
You’re gonna make me bleed.
Come on, pretty girl, there’s a star in the sky
You know you want me, I see it in your eyes
There’s nothing I won’t do, we’ll take right to the ledge
Take my hand, pretty lady, we’re living on the edge
It’s not normally my thing, but my foot is tapping anyway, and I’m genuinely enjoying seeing the man I’ve been getting to know—doing what he does.
It’s exciting.
Sexy.
“How do you know Tate Jeffries?” Tanya, who works at the front desk, asks me as the song comes to an end and everyone starts to clap.
“Uh, we met at the diner,” I reply.
Her eyes widen. “Oh my God—you’re dating Tate Jeffries? Is he just as dreamy in bed as he is performing?”
Heat floods my face but I’m spared from having to answer as I feel a hand on my arm.
“Why didn’t you tell me we were having a concert?” Mom asks indignantly.
“What are you doing here?” I counter. “I thought you were going to take a nap.”
“She heard the music,” her nurse says with a smile. “You know how she loves rock.”
That’s true—Mom always loved rock music. I’ve always been a disappointment to her when it comes to my musical tastes. Luckily, we both love Waylon Jennings.
Tate plays another song I don’t recognize, and then he looks to me before he breaks into “Loving Her.”
“Your favorite song,” Mom murmurs, leaning against me.
I slide my arm around her waist and we join the others in singing along.
And by the time he’s done, I’m half in love with him.
The residents appear to be as well, because they clap and cheer like he’s playing at the Meadowlands or something. And he just smiles, puts the guitar in the corner, gets up and walks right over to me.
“Hey. Mom doing okay?”
“Tate, this is my mother, Tricia. Mom, this is—”
“Tate Jeffries!” I haven’t heard my mother be this excited—or lucid—in a long time. “Summer, why didn’t you tell me you were dating Tate Jeffries?”
“Well, I—”
“It’s new,” Tate says easily, giving my mom a hug. “And I’m really glad to meet you.”
“I love your music,” Mom gushes like a teenage girl, her eyes bright, twinkling with delight. “I think the new single is awesome.”
“’Rough Around the Edges’?” Tate asks.
Mom frowns. “No—‘Touch You.’ Isn’t that the new one?”
Tate looks surprised. “Yes, it is. I just didn’t realize you’d heard it. It’s not on the album.”
“I listen whenever I can!” Mom rambles on about the album, songs I know nothing about, and even tells him about the last time she saw Nickelback live—right before I graduated from college.
“Can we take a picture?” Mom asks me. “Do you have your camera?”
“Oh. No.” I shake my head. “But I can take it with my phone.”
My eyes get a little misty as my mother puts an arm around Tate’s waist and he puts his around her shoulders, drawing her close.
She may not remember this moment ten minutes from now but it’s one I don’t think I’ll ever forget.