Page 6 of Grim
Selma claps her arthritic hands together as she lets out a laugh. The nurses around me smile softly.
I know I’m one of the only visitors these seniors get. They come here because their kids put them here while they’re working—like an elderly daycare. Or, in GG’s situation, he comes because he’s lonely. The problem is that most are lonely, old, tired, and no one wants to engage in conversation. That’s where I come in. I somehow became the social butterfly of Sunset and now come weekly to hang out with the group. Well … I try to. Sometimes, I have to skip a week if I’m too tired. But I’m coming next week for sure. I never miss book club with the 1950s ex-pinup-star Selma. I’ll be honest; I’ve seen the old photos, and she was a solid ten.
“All right, you all try to behave while I’m gone,” Iwarn while grabbing my coat off the back of GG’s chair. “Same time next week, GG?”
He nods. “Bring your A game, girlie. I’m training for this one.”
“Bring your glasses, GG. Would hate for you to not see my victory.” I give him a small kiss on the cheek before heading to the front doors.
I grab my phone and order a rideshare before going to sit on the bench and wait. I miss driving. It’s funny because I actually hated it growing up. I blame it on living with my mom in Chicago and then with my dad in New Orleans when he was home on shore leave. When my doctor told me last year that I couldn’t drive with my new medication, I was honestly happy because it meant no more stressing in traffic. But now I realize it’s just another slice of freedom this illness has stolen from me.
Looking up, I smile at the skies, which threaten rain. I hope it’s a cleansing downpour; this humidity is making it even harder to breathe.
I jump as my phone buzzes in my hand and roll my eyes sarcastically when I see who’s calling—Mom.
I swipe to answer and hold the phone to my ear. “Rue Chamberlain. Reporting for emotional whiplash.”
There is a tired exhale of breath before my mom’s refined voice responds, “Is that how you answer the phone now?”
“It is when the caller ID says Guilt Trip.”
“You named me that?”
“Originally, it was Supreme Overlord of Guilt, but I opted for brevity. Plus, every time I see the name, it really raises the stakes of answering.Guilt Trip. Accept or decline?Hmmm.”
“I’m touched,” she deadpans.
“It was either that or Warden.”
She sighs, but I can hear the smile behind it. “Are you coming straight home?”
“I mean, I was planning to stop for a margarita and a motorcycle tattoo, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“That’sexactlywhat I’m asking. You’ve got that look in your voice again.”
“That’s not how voices work.”
“It is when you’re my daughter. I know yourI’m about to make a bad decisiontone.”
“Relax. I’m coming home. Chess with GG. Sass from Selma. Nothing illegal or remotely dangerous.”
“Yet.”
“You’re very comforting, Mom.”
“That’s what they say in all the parenting books. Be deeply supportive and vaguely threatening.”
I exhale a laugh and glance to see my rideshare has arrived. I place my earbuds in as I head to the back of the white sedan.
“You feeling okay today?” she asks, the softness slipping in like a shadow beneath the sarcasm.
“I’m fine,” I say. Which is mostly true. Or at least true enough for now.
There’s a pause, just long enough to sayI know you’re lying, but I’ll let you have it.
“I’m making soup,” she announces, and I let out a polite sigh.
I’m trying to stay chipper and witty, but I’m actually exhausted.
