Page 2 of Sing it, Sam

“How can I help? Are you a part of the new maintenance group?”Is this the guy Kathleen was meeting?

“No, I’m here to pick up Sam Marshall. Can you tell him the sheriff is here to take him out for a bit?”

The sheriff? Well, arrest me, officer.

“Sure thing. First, could I see some ID and have you sign Mr Marshall out?” I slide the visitor book through the stainless-steel slot between us and search for a pen.

It’s so sweet that he’s picking up his grandpa, giving him some time out.Not just a handsome face.

“New here?” he probes as I fumble around in the top drawer.

I tilt my head to the side and regard him as I pass him a pen. “That obvious?”

He leans his tanned muscular forearms on the counter and lowers himself so I can see his face without the reflection of glass. Good lord, those forearms are fantastic. And just like that, the nickname Mr Fantastic Forearms is born.

“You’ll be fine. You should know, though, that Sam can be a bit of a handful. Don’t take any rubbish from him.”

Surely his grandpa has mellowed with age. How much trouble could he be?“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to have a visitor.”

“Ha,” he scoffs. “You’d think.” The blond Adonis produces a worn brown wallet. He takes out a plastic card and hands it to me. My eyes cast over a small indent on his left ring finger, his skin bearing a pale band of skin at the base.Was he married?

I sweep up the ID card.

Ben Marshall

His hair is much shorter in the photo.

I check the laminated list fixed on the wall beside my computer and confirm that Ben is the only person approved to visit Mr Marshall. Most other residents have several approved visitors. Why does he only have one? Is it because he’s difficult or has he been ostracised from his family?

Ben signs the book and pokes it back through the slit.

“Thanks, Ben,” I say, and return the laminated card.

He tucks it into his wallet and swings a set of keys around his index finger. “Would you mind bringing him out to the foyer while I drive my car out front?”

“Of course. I’m here to help. I’ll have your grandfather out in just a minute.”

“Appreciate it, ma’am,” he says, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he moves towards the entrance doors.

Ma’am?Is he in law enforcement? Not many people say that around here. And that’s twice in so many minutes.

I check the room chart in the administration folder, noting Mr Marshall is in room number ten.Shit.Why did it have to be Nan’s old room?

I spy the walkie-talkies on my way through to the hall but keep moving. I’ll only be a minute and besides, Kathleen is outside anyway. As I make my way down the familiar hall, I gulp down the rising bile. It was only going to be a matter of time before I had to visit her old room.

When my black Mary Janes reach his door, I find it ajar. I knock on the timber and pry it open. A cold eeriness washes over me, transporting me back many years ago. But her presence is long gone. Her musky perfume doesn’t tease at my nostrils, and the many oil paintings of Australian landscapes that once brought every wall to life have been removed, four blank walls left in their place. It’s stark in here, more like a hospital room than a place someone spends the majority of their days.

“Mr Marshall? It’s Jane from the front office. Can I come in?”

A “yeah” comes softly from the corner.

I step farther into the room and spy a wheelchair facing the open window and a light brown mop of messy hair. “You have a visitor? The sheriff?”

“Oh great,” Mr Marshall mumbles.

The chair slowly turns. Oh my god! He doesn’t look that much older than me. I step back. “Oh, you’re a baby! Crap! I mean, you’re young.”

A knitted grey blanket covers him from the waist down, and a slim-fitting black T-shirt hugs his lean chest.

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