“Yes.”
Looking at me, he asks, “Do you need help standing up?”
While I nod, I suspect I might have been able to stand on my own, but it would have taken much longer without his help. Placing one hand on my elbow, he helps me up, and then he puts another arm around my back as if to steady me.
Once more, I feel safe.
Sharon has already started wheeling her chair toward the rec room. The way my feet shuffle slowly, she’s actually way ahead of us. All the activity this morning has used most of my reserves, and I’d really like to sleep.
By the time we rejoin her, she’s pointing to the stack of magazines. Joe helps me to one of the chairs beside the end table and then he asks Sharon, “Do you want me to hand you those?”
“Yes.”
Once they’re on her lap, she moves slowly as she sifts through them one at a time, but she seems faster than I feel. Lying my head back, I allow my eyes to close. I can hear Joe saying something to her, just making conversation, because he’s like that, a friendly guy. I can remember my dad saying about my grandpa once that no one was a stranger to him. He loved everybody and would talk to anyone. Joe’s like that.
Wait. That’s a memory.
Holy crap.
If I weren’t so tired, I’d open my eyes and tell Joe.
I can’t see my grandpa’s face nor my father’s, but I remember those words, that sentiment, and I think maybe all is not lost.
Then I hear Joe. “Anna. Anna!”
My eyelids feel like they have weights on them, but I persist until I’m able to move them and I get a view of the world again. Joe seems unusually close, taking up my entire line of vision.
He says, “You gotta see this.” As he helps me sit up, I see Sharon again, and she looks almost like she’s smiling. Then Joe places a news magazine on my lap. First, I notice red letters and then I focus on the words:New Fed on the Block.
Finally, what jumps out at me is, perhaps, what’s most important: the photo on the cover.
To the left is the man I visited with yesterday, the man who said he was my husband. Standing with him…isme.
I look younger there. As I’m examining the picture, having a hard time making sense of it all, Joe says, “It’s almost six years old, Anna, but that’s you, isn’t it?”
I give a short nod, continuing to look. Like the photo the man showed me yesterday, I look beautiful, business-like, wealthy, attractive.
I can hardly relate to her, my old self.
But in the photo I’m smiling. Was I in love with him then? He looks a little younger there as well. His hair is almost black in the picture and there seem to be no lines in his face.
My eyes finally move to the other words on the bottom of the cover.Family man Donald Clawson shakes up D.C.
“We gotta read this article, Anna,” he says to me as another wave of overwhelming sleepiness washes over me. “It’ll tell you so much about yourself.”
My eyes are already closing, but I continue to hear his voice. “Thank you, Sharon. This was so helpful.”
“Welcome.”
But right now, all I can do is give in to dreamless slumber.
*
Dinner. How did I get here? I’m pretty sure I’ve slept all day—in my bed—but I have no recollection of it. Here I am now, though, with Joe at a table and Sharon of all people.
I remember that, talking to her—and I feel bad that I dismissed her all those times before. I was a little frightened by her when, really, all she wanted to do was help.
Joe is talking as I feel like I’m coming out of a haze. It’s rude, but I interrupt him just the same. “I’m sorry, Joe. I missed everything you’ve said.”