Page 45 of Delay of Game
“There’s bingo and shows. We went to Las Vegas last week. Horrible place.” Aunt Mercy reached across the table for another dessert. She grabbed two and handed me one. “And there’s the man that steals from me at night.”
“I think that’s one of the nurses, Aunt Mercy,” Astrid whispered, untangling our fingers to wipe the tear off her face. She managed a tight smile.
“He’s trying to take my jewels,” Mercy snapped, her voice high and shrill. Several heads turned toward us.
A staff member stopped by our table. Her brow furrowed in concern. “Everything okay here?”
“We’re fine. Mercy is just concerned that someone is breaking into her room to steal her jewelry at night,” I said.
Astrid grew rigid, eyes wide, but the staff member nodded. “Oh, that’s unacceptable.”
“It really is. Would it be possible to have a staff member stop by her room more frequently to make sure no one is breaking in?” I asked.
She nodded. “Of course. We’ll take care of that right away.”
Mercy beamed at me, grabbing my hand and pulling it to her cheek. “Oh, Jimmy. I knew you’d take care of everything. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me, too. And I’m glad Astrid agreed to join us. Astrid was telling me she started school this week.”
“You look a little old to go to school,” Mercy said with a frown.
“I teach kindergarten and classes started two weeks ago.” Her voice came out tight, but the tension left her shoulders.
“It’s awful late in the year for classes to start, don’t you think, Jimmy?” Mercy said. “It was just Christmas last week.”
“Aren’t most of the schools year-round nowadays?” I grinned across the table toward Astrid, determined to draw her into conversation even if Mercy made it difficult. “You look so familiar. Are you from Norwalk? Where do you live?”
“I grew up out of state, but I live on Rose Street now,” Astrid said tentatively.
“Rose Street?” Mercy gasped. “That’s where I live! Where on Rose Street?”
“One hundred ninety…seven.” She ad-libbed the last digit, but her aunt didn’t seem to notice.
“I live in one-ninety-one. We’re practically neighbors!” Her face twisted into a frown. “Don’t the Kensington’s live in one-ninety-seven, though?”
“I heard they moved to Florida last year. After he retired.” I’d never attempted acting before, but damn, could I ad lib.
“Hm,” Mercy said. “If you say so.”
The heat set in by the time we left Aunt Mercy. I kept the conversation going, hoping that maybe she’d recognize Astrid, but she remained convinced that I was Jimmy and Astrid was an interloper. Astrid spent the rest of the visit on the verge of tears, back growing straighter with each snub.
I reached for her hand under the table, but she pulled it away, grimly taking the stony silence from her aunt in stride. Finally, I couldn’t take the tension and called the visit to a close. I stepped away while Astrid said goodbye to her aunt and talked to the nurse for a few minutes, busying myself by flipping through the stacked pamphlets at the entrance. A Family’s Guide to Memory Loss, Tips for Managing Agitation, Aggression and Sundowning, Memory Books for Dementia.
I pocketed a handful before Astrid walked past on her way to the car.
“That went well,” Astrid said, teeth gritted and eyes locked on the passenger door, waiting for me to unlock the car.
“You think that went well?” I asked, unable to keep the disbelief from my voice. “Does it usually go worse?”
She pulled on the handle experimentally, and I unlocked the door. She slid inside without answering.
“Did I fuck that up?” I asked as I shut the driver’s side door behind me.
She raked a hand down her face, body shifted toward the window. “No. It’s fine. She has a disease, and it’s hard to tell day-to-day what I’ll walk into. At least she was nice to you.”
“That doesn’t mean it was fine.” I held out a hand to rub her back and dropped it again, trying to think up a way to makeeverything better. I might have an innate talent for ad-libbing but I couldn’t comfort worth shit.
“I really appreciate you playing along. Thank you.” She pressed her forehead against the window, her entire body deflating.
