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6 - SIMON
She wasn’t drunk last night. She fucking smelled that good all the time. Like candy, and icing, and dessert, and pastries. The second I recognized the smell was just hers, I should have manned up and apologized for my behavior. She didn’t deserve my shitty attitude. The way she’d put away those carbs, and then the conversation that followed told me her morning went as well as mine, but she’d held back. I could see it all over her face, and how she narrowed her eyes and fidgeted.
I tried to distract myself as I zipped down the interstate to my destination, pissed at the urgent text message I’d received, pissed at how the morning went, and pissed at, well, everything.
Eighteen hours since I met her, and this chick had burrowed into my brain like an earworm of that bad Wednesday afternoon middle school dance song you randomly remembered in the shower one morning and ended up singing on repeat for a month. I’d had two interactions with her, the first lasting less than ten minutes and the second lasting less than a half-hour. Both were too short, making me notice stupid, trivial things. Things I had no business noticing because she rolled her eyes five times during our brief conversation. I’d counted. That told me plenty.
The security officer waved me through Nana’s gated community, and I nodded, passing the tiny guardhouse, and slowing down for the first speed bump I’d missed the first dozen times coming here. Seriously, the homeowners’ association decreased the speed limit to fifteen. Were speed-bumps every hundred feet necessary?
I pulled into her driveway, parked, and jogged to the door, trying it before going for my keys. Yep, unlocked. The house smelled familiar, like lemon pledge and scented candles, and I toed my shoes off, taking a deep breath in case of any lingering odors of smoke or burned food. Luckily, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Her urgent texts ranged from needing me to take out the trash, to figuring out why her washing machine was overflowing. Nine times out of ten, I stopped whatever I was doing and came straight over, just in case. Plus, she always had cookies.
Nana had always marched to the beat of her own drum, and when my grandfather died, she sold their estate, put everything into a living trust, and moved into a gated retirement community. Now she spends her days playing pinnacle, taking water aerobics, and puttering around in a golf cart.
“Nana? Is everything okay? What’s going on?” I called out, laying my keys and sunglasses on the table by the door and walking in further.
The kitchen sink had dishes stacked to the brim, but that was the norm with how she baked. The floors were spotless, the carpets had new vacuum lines, and the silverware was stacked on the kitchen table, ready to be polished. I groaned and rolled my eyes, hoping this wasn’t why she’d texted me nine-one-one.
“Oh, Simon. There you are. Something is wrong with my garbage disposal,” she said, walking out from the bedroom, all five-foot-three of her with styled white curls, pearls, and a put-together pantsuit. She opened her arms and motioned me forward. I stooped low to kiss her cheeks, always surprised by the strength of her hugs.
“Did you put anything down there you weren’t supposed to?” I asked, putting my hands on my hips.
“Do you wear anything other than black?” she answered.
That meant yes.
“Nana.”
“Simon.”
“I happen to have a green pocket square today.” I tapped the material, then straightened it, waiting for her rebuttal. “And blue no-show socks. Check these out. I’m a walking fashion faux pas.” I wiggled my toes and she laughed, her entire frame shaking as she looked at my feet.
“Oh, stop that. You sound as pompous as your father. Let’s eat lunch then polish the silverware before you look at the disposal. I need your help with a few things.”
“Sure,” I said, following her to the dining room table. She busied herself in the kitchen while I sat to the left of the head of the table, pulling the silver close and opening the bottom drawer to take out the serving spoons. Each one went neatly on her cloth, with the polish and gloves, ready for after lunch.
Knowing I’d clean up, I didn’t ask to help with lunch, and I turned to see her pushing her small lunch cart to the table. She’d made chicken salad sandwiches on croissants and fresh lemonade. Judging by the dishes in the sink, an iced-lemon pound cake was somewhere close.
“Plate this,” Nana said, gesturing to the sandwiches and raising her eyebrows. “I talked to Beth this morning. She said not to worry.”
“Would you expect her to say anything different?” I served us each a sandwich and poured the lemonade, watching as Nana spread a white linen napkin on her lap. I did the same, waiting for her to take a bite.
“No, I wouldn’t. So we conferenced in Dr. Granger, who went over her results. He reminded us that he suggested surgery after the lumpectomy confirmed her cancer, but Beth wanted to try radiation first. Surgery has an eighty-five percent success rate, and that, plus the treatment afterward, should do the trick.”
“You conferenced in her doctor on a Saturday?” I asked with the chicken salad partway to my lips. “Tu es une force de la nature, mon cœur.” The French slipped out and Nana smirked, probably remembering how much it drove my father crazy that I caught on so quickly and could have entire conversations with my grandparents right under his nose.
“Merci mes étoiles,”she answered flawlessly. “What’s the point of being on the board if you can’t assert your authority? Beth also said to tell you, and I quote, to stop being an asshole to her husband who’s dealing with this in his own way, and to call her and talk instead of giving her the space you think she needs.”
“Assert your authority? Is that what you did, Nana?” I chuckled around a mouthful of sandwich, realizing I should call Beth later. She had freaked the fuck about having a mastectomy, and now it might be the only option.
“Don’t talk with your mouthful, young man,” she said with a snap before taking a dainty bite of her sandwich like she hadn’t threatened or intimidated the chief of surgery at MUSC. “Now tell me if they’ve convinced you to do that charity dance thing yet.”
“How did you know? I only agreed this morning.”
“They mentioned it last week during lunch at the club. Had the nerve to suggest I ask you.” She rolled her eyes and took a sip of lemonade. “Not that I’d meddle, but you have to tell me what happened, since you have all the grace of an elephant wearing ice skates.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Nana.” I snorted, taking a drink to clear my windpipe of any lingering chicken. “There, um, was a picture in the newspaper—”
