18 Cate
Cate
Ten months later . . .
“Cate?” the receptionist calls from the front desk.
I look up from Mr. Rosen’s back and lower my stethoscope. “I’ll be right there, Misty.” With a quick nod, she returns to answering other calls.
Coming around Mr. Rosen, I sit down. “What were the changes you wanted to make this past week?”
“I was cutting out sodas.”
“How did that go?” I can already tell by his expression that things went off the rails. My life can relate.
His face, from his spikey gray brows to his jowls, hang with his frown. “I drank two more than usual and snuck one into my room after dinner service.”
“There’s something to be said about your honesty.” I pat his shoulder. “These are lifestyle changes. Maybe instead of cutting them out, you start with drinking a few less this week.”
“I’ll try. Anything else, doc?”
“Nurse.” I make a note in his file about what we discussed. “Yes. I’d like you to join the walking club.”
He stands up like he’s ready to take off. “I hate running.” He could have fooled me.
“That’s okay,” I say, standing as well. “It’s the walking club, not the running club.
They do four laps on the track across the street four times a week and walk the parking lot twice in the morning and after dinner.
You don’t have to do both, but I would like you to build exercise into your daily routine. ”
“I have no choice if it’s the doctor’s orders,” he groans.
“Nurse’s orders.” The white coat and stethoscope throw everybody off.
Walking away, he tugs his pants up by the belt. That leather decided a long time ago that it wasn’t doing any heavy lifting, especially since he missed the loops when he threaded it this morning. “I better get out of here before you tell me to cut down on the fries.”
“We do need to discuss the fries.”
He waves me off without even looking back. “Next time.”
He’s ornery on his good days. On his bad, he’s in one terrible mood. “Baby steps.”
I head to the front desk and rest against the counter. “Hi, what’s up?”
Misty looks up. “Mrs. Callender is taking meals in her room today.”
“Do I have her scheduled this afternoon? I don’t think I do.” I glance back at my e-pad as if I can read it from here to verify.
“Nurse Lucy said she’s not up for it and to reschedule for next week.”
“Should I check on her?”
Leaning forward, she looks around conspiratorially, and whispers, “Mr. Rosen yelled at her for turning the TV channel last night after dinner. She’s had her feelings hurt ever since. We’ve been working with him to apologize but haven’t been successful yet.”
I glance over at Mr. Rosen sitting on the beige couch staring at the twenty-four-hour news channel.
I’ve thrown out a lot of beige in my life this past year.
It wasn’t serving me anymore. I’ve decided to stick to more color.
Not playing it as safe has been a nice change, though like my advice to Mr. Rosen, baby steps.
“Have we thought about putting something more uplifting on TV? Maybe have a movie day to break up the news cycle?”
Comparatively, my job is easy. I do the checkups and write progress and regressions if they need to follow up with their doctor or if all is well. The full-time nurses working in the homes deserve medals for handling their moods and personalities.
“Lucy plans to sit with him over lunch to discuss his moods.”
“Let me know if she needs support or if he does.”
“Will do.”
I return to the desk in the corner they assigned me, sitting down to make more notes. I never quite settled in here at Dally Point. Maybe it was the timing of when it was added to my schedule or because every time I leave from my visits, I don’t feel any difference has been made.
As a private facility, they need to hire a full-time patient advocate so I can do my job more effectively. I’m not a doctor, as they all assume, but I do think one needs to come more than once a month. I love the residents, but there’s more than I can take on, and no small raise changes the facts.
My phone vibrates in the bag, the buzzing enough to catch my attention. I have a few minutes before my next patient, so I reach down to grab it and do a quick check to see who’s texting.
I hate that my heart reacts so easily to something I should have seen coming since last August. Ten months is a long time, but not long enough by how my chest squeezes from the reminder. Everything still feels raw, exposed emotions left to wilt in the bad weather of winter months.
But the text isn’t from Shane. It’s from my attorney.
Attorney Whittier:
We received divorce papers today.
I’d almost forgotten about the papers that were coming, but time plays tricks on the mind and the heart, if I’m being honest. I’d fooled myself into thinking it could wait, so I never bothered filing.
There wasn’t a rush on my side. Is there on his?
Did he meet someone? Fall in lust with another notch on his post?
Neither my head nor my heart is tricked by the facts. He moved on while I rebuilt my life after his storm.
Another message appears:
I didn’t know you got married. I would have advised a meeting prior to the ceremony.
I laugh, but I shouldn’t. It keeps me from crying, so I’ll take the ridiculous reaction over the other, and type:
It was a mistake.
No need to go into details about who made the first error and the whirlwind that led to this outcome.
Me:
What happens now?
Attorney Whittier:
Mr. Faris’s attorney requested a meeting to work through the details.
Me:
There’s nothing to work through. I’ll sign. When do I come in?
Attorney Whittier:
May 17th at four p.m.
Next week. I look up my schedule. I’ll be at River Elms that day. It’s not too far from his office, so that works out.
Me:
I’ll be there.
Attorney Whittier:
Divorce law is not my specialty, so I’m pulling in a colleague I work with at the office. They’ll review everything before the meeting and consult if needed.
Me:
Thank you.
I dread the bill I’m about to be hit with, but Shane and I should have done this last year. He’s making it clear he’s moving on. I’ve tried, but maybe this is the one thing that will force me to do it. Anyway, this is no big deal. I knew it was coming.
“Men are the worst,” I sob, blowing my nose into the last tissue from the box.
Patting my back, Luna hugs me to her shoulder. “Let it all out.”
“Was I delusional? Why’d I let my guard down?
He’s a freaking rock star!” I point at the TV as Faris Wheel takes the stage of a late-night talk show to promote their upcoming album.
“What did I possibly expect? Him to fall in love with a geriatric nurse from the Valley?” I blow my nose again, too stuffed up to say anything more.
Brokenhearted.
Mad.
Full of regret.
I’m all the things all over again.
I thought I was over him. I guess avoiding the topic of Shane Faris only put off the inevitable.
It didn’t help me to recover. I say, “I regret opening myself up to be hurt.” Covering my face with my hands, I sink lower into the couch, embarrassed.
“I hate that I was nothing but a groupie to him in the end.” I peek over at her.
There’s no judgment on Luna’s face. She’s been where I am now.
“I thought college was for dating bad boys. I’m thirty-one.
Shouldn’t I have outgrown that bad habit? ”
“To give a little credit, you were only thirty when you met him.”
“Seventeen. I was in eleventh grade.” I toss the gross tissue to the floor with the rest of them, even more frustrated with my poor choices.
My grandmother wouldn’t be proud of my behavior.
“I was thirty when I decided dating someone who literally told me he doesn’t do relationships was a good idea.
” I roll to the side, wanting to hide under a pillow, but I can’t escape myself, my harshest critic.
“Now he’s getting married to someone else,” I spout, sniffling between the tears he caused last August and the ones that fall because the end is near. This part of our lives will be put to bed with a simple signature. “Why?” I ask, watching Shane on drums kick off the song.
Luna rubs my blanket-covered leg from the other side of the couch. “Why what, hon?”
“Why would I let myself fall for someone who doesn’t give a damn about . . . about . . .” I grab the remote and turn up the volume. “He’s moved on. Maybe it’s time for me to date again?” I glance at her, wanting permission, backup, anything that tells me this is how it’s supposed to be.
“Um,” she says, eyeing me and waffling her head. “Mmm . . . no, you’re not ready. But when you are truly open to love, you’ll find the love of your life.”
Staring at the TV, unable to take my eyes off Shane, I ask, “You think?”
“Yes. I know.” She settles in on the other side of the couch and watches with me.
“Why does he have to look so good?” Squinting my eyes, I study the inside of his left forearm. “Is that a new tattoo?”
Did he get it for her? His soon-to-be wife? Or is it to commemorate something special from his life?
Do I want to know? Probably not.
“I hate to tell you this,” she says, watching the band perform, her eyes glued to the screen when I peek up at her.
“Is this a ‘kick me when I’m down’ comment, or an ‘aren’t you glad you got out of it’ type deal?”
Her foot nudges my leg. “I’ll never kick you when you’re down.”
“You literally just kicked me,” I deadpan while smiling.
“It wasn’t a kick. It was an I love you, you will get through, but I’m also loving this song, please don’t hate me nudge.”
I raise the volume a little louder. I was already tapping to the beat because it’s catchy. “The song is really good, but is it awful of me to want to dwell in my feels a little longer?”
“Not at all. Dwell away.”
I nudge her this time. “Thanks for coming over, Luna.”
“Everything is going to be exactly how it’s intended. I promise. Your soulmate awaits you.” Soulmate is nothing I’ve given much credence to before, but it feels hopeful to have it enter the conversation at this time.
Until I find my soulmate, why does it hurt so much in the meantime?