“My name is Park Bradshaw.”
She rolls her gums together, thinking it through. Then something about her softens. She reaches up, placing her aged hand on my cheek. “Peter?”
Oh.
We’re no longer in 1981. I don’t know where we’re at.
Now she really does think I’m her son. There’s so much love behind her tear-filled eyes that I instantly feel guilty for including her in my schemes.
“You came to see me?” Her lips curl upward.
I smile back at her. “Yeah, I came to see you.”
Her mouth quivers, and the guilt that I just felt turns to pity as I realize how much avisit—from even a poser like me—means to Mary.
“It’s been so long.” A single tear rolls down her cheek. “I don’t want to spend Christmas alone.”
“No one should be alone.” I’m overcome with empathy, and I have a hard time keeping my voice steady. “Especially at Christmas.” My words tear open old wounds I thought no longer existed, and I’m surprised by my rising emotion. I was trained years ago never to feel anything. Yet, here I am,feelingall sorts of things in a room where the majority of people are wearing adult diapers.
Mary’s eyes roam to Lacee. “Did you come for me too?”
“I did.” Lacee perks. “You’re the main event.”
“I haven’t had any visitors since I came here. I’ve been so lonely.”
Lacee kneels beside me, gently placing her hand on Mary’s knee. “Well, we’re here now.”
“Are you Peter’s wife?”
“I…” Lacee hesitates as if she’s caught in the middle of a lie but also doesn’t want to ruin the moment. “Absolutely. I’m Peter’s wife.” She nods with exaggeration. “Yep, we’re married.” She nods again. “We have three kids, two dogs, and four cats. Peter coaches the kids in water polo, and he’s great at it.” She slaps me on the shoulder. “He’s got a real talent for talking to ten-year-olds and polo-ing with them.”
“Polo-ing?” I mouth as I eye her.
“Just go with it,” Lacee says, mimicking a ventriloquist again.
“Good for you.” She pats the top of Lacee’s hand. “I’ve always said Peter’s a good-looking young man.”
“Almost as good-looking as Bono from U2.” Lacee smiles.
“You two?” She points to both of us. “What about you two?”
Lacee’s brows drop. “No,U2. Your favorite band.”
“Never heard of them,” Mary blurts.
Lacee’s eyes drift to me. “That’s really a shame.”
There goes my pretend, thoughtful Christmas present of the vinyl U2 War album.
Mary leans into Lacee like they have a private matter to discuss. “Peter used to pick his nose and wipe his boogers on the walls.”
“Did he?” Lacee tilts her head to me, fully amused.
I definitelydidn’tdo that because I’m not Peter.
“That wasn’t me.” I shake my head.
“Oh, yes, it was. I used to get so mad at him. Those things would dry up, and when I’d go to clean them, they’d be so stuck they’d take the paint off the walls with them.”
