Page 16 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
“Yes, of course. Hi, Angela.” I feel disheveled, and I probably smell like airplane. I plunk my tote bag down on my suitcase.
“Here to visit Leonard?” she asks, her voice sympathetic.
“Yeah, I am. Just for a few days.”
“It’s good that you’re here.” The way she says it makes me pause.
“Have you seen him lately? How’s he doing?” I ask.
“Oh yes, I see him at meals here and there. And at the pool.”
“He’s been swimming?”
“No, no, he brings his newspaper down in the mornings.” Angela bites her lip and looks away for a second. “Lottie used to swim laps, you know. In the mornings.”
“Oh…” My breath catches at the sadness of this revelation. Gramps still goes down to the pool like he used to with Lottie. Only now he does it alone.
“He hasn’t been coming to poker night or the weekly breakfast with the guys. You know, he used to always join those. The men have been wondering where he’s gotten to.”
“He’s still grieving,” I say uncertainly.
“Of course, of course.” Angela flips her towel over one shoulder. “But you know, Mallory, Patrick Zhang lost his wife last month andhe’s been coming to everything. Every breakfast, every bingo night, every event.”
“Has he?” This information is the opposite of comforting. If Patrick Zhang is throwing himself into social activities in the wake of his grief, does that mean Gramps should be doing that, too? It’s one thing to be an introvert, a trait Gramps and I apparently share, but what’s the right way to get over losing your spouse? Is that even something youcanget over?
I am so very unqualified. I should go home immediately. Gramps doesn’t need someone like me bumbling around, asking awkward questions. He needs someone with more life experience, someone who can understand him.
“Angela,” I begin haltingly, “I’m supposed to help Gramps, somehow, like make him feel better, I think. It’s what Lottie wanted. But I have no idea how I’m supposed to do that.”
She blinks her bright eyes at me, and I fear I’ve just completely overshared. But then she laughs.
“Sweetheart. When it comes to grandchildren, your mere presence is what lifts us up. You don’t have todoanything. Being around young folks invigorates us.” She gives my shoulder a firm squeeze, and I catch a waft of a powdery perfume smell. “You have a good heart, coming here to be with Leonard. Just be yourself.”
Wow.Embarrassingly, tears spring to my eyes.
“Okay. Thanks. I guess I needed a pep talk.”
She makes ashoomotion with her hands. “Get on up there. I’ll see you and Leonard around, I’m sure.”
I give a little wave, and she trots back to her friends.
Gramps’s condo is on the sixth floor of building C. I knock and hitch a smile onto my face.
“Hi, Gramps!”
“Mallory, hello, welcome.” He grins back and reaches for my bags.
“Don’t worry, I got these,” I say, trying to scoot past him through the doorway. He wrests the bags from me anyway and shuffles down the hall toward the guest room. I kick off my Birkenstocks and pause, the white tile floor cool under my feet. It’s a little dark in here; he has half of the blinds drawn, shutting out the gulf view. I feel the lack of Lottie so distinctly. When she was alive, their home was bright and full of energy, with fresh flowers in a blue vase on the table, and jars full of pretzel sticks and Fig Newtons. With a jolt, I notice that the snack jars are still on the counter. The pretzel jar is a quarter full. The Fig Newton jar is empty apart from crumbs.
“Did you get lost?” Gramps calls.
I follow him toward the room I’ll be staying in. Impulsively, I throw my arms around him. He chuckles and pats both of my shoulders lightly. He smells like the shaving cream they used to let us play with when I was three or four. I take that as a good sign—he’s been shaving and, I assume, showering. Keeping up his personal hygiene.
“Thank you,” he says.
“You’re welcome,” I say stoutly, my arms swinging back to my sides. I feel like I’m four again.
“So, here’s your room.” He gestures to the bed—a queen with the same seashell-patterned comforter that’s been there my entire life. There’s also a beachy white dresser, decorated with a bowl of sand dollars and an oval-shaped wicker picture frame. It contains a picture of a young Lottie, pregnant with Trish, sitting on the beach with my mom as a toddler. They’re both beaming and squinting their eyes against the sun.
