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16
I don't have to work. When Nana passed, she left me a very large amount of money in her life insurance policy that ensured that I'd be set for a very long time. But sometimes it's boring doing nothing all of the time. So twice a month, I go to the Rivercrest retirement home and help with an arts and crafts class that they have. I'm sure I stick out like a sore thumb there, but I like it. It reminds me of the many times I spent with my Nana painting stained glass. Dropping my armful of supplies on the front table, I start spreading out different colored paper in various shapes and textures. Today, we're doing origami.
Trisha, a CNA who often helps with the crafts, comes into the room, wheeling one of my favorite residents into the room with her. She smiles at me, pushing him to another table. He scowls at me. "How are you doing today, Larry?"
"I'd be better if they'd let me have another fruit cup with lunch." His shaky wrinkled hands cross over his chest.
"You know we need to watch your blood sugar, Larry." Trisha gives me side-eye, smirking at me as she comes to stand by the table. "Now, what color do you want? We're going to be making origami today."
"Ori-what? Just give me blue."
She chuckles, putting a square of blue paper in front of him. The other residents are starting to file into the room, a few others being wheeled by CNA's like Larry was. It doesn't take long for everyone to settle, and Trisha takes over since she knows I don't like to.
"We're making origami hearts today! Hadley brought a bunch of different kinds of paper for us to use and you guys can come pick what you'd like."
After everyone has picked their paper and I've done a demonstration on how to fold the paper to make a heart, I walk around the room, making sure no one needs help. Most of the ladies here are crafty themselves and already know how to do most of what we do in these classes, but others, like Larry, struggle a bit. I move to stand near his table, watching as stares at the triangle he's made.
"That doesn't look like a heart, Larry."
He frowns at me, showing me the paper in his hand. "No. It looks like shit."
I laugh, taking it from his palm. Unfolding it, I smooth it out, starting to refold it in the correct way for him. I hold it where he can see, so he can watch the steps. When it's a cute little heart, I set it back into his palm. "Here."
His fingers close around the little heart, "My granddaughter used to paint." He shifts in his wheelchair, and I wait for him to continue, "She did watercolor."
"I bet it was really pretty."
"It was shit." I laugh again, and he smiles, putting the paper heart in the pocket of his flannel shirt. "But she loved doing it, and that's all that mattered."
"You said she used to. Does she not paint anymore?" He shakes his head, the look on his face stopping my heart in my chest and immediately making we wish I could take the words back and pretend I never asked.
"No. We lost Tracy this summer."
I swallow hard. "Tracy? Tracy Mucket?"
"Yes. She took her stepfather's name. Did you know her?"
I suddenly feel sick to my stomach, vomit burning up my esophagus that I have to fight down. "I'm so sorry, Larry. Excuse me, I have to use the restroom." Spinning from the table, I walk as fast as I can from the room without drawing attention to myself. My lungs are on fire as I try to keep my breathing under control. Palm on the doorframe to steady myself, I push into the bathroom and close the door behind me.
I don't understand what's happening, I don't know why the mention of Tracy, someone I don't think I've ever even met, is triggering such a response. Falling forward, I grip onto the sides of the sink, head bowed as I try to get my breathing under control. My chest is tight, making each breath hard to pull in, my heart beating so hard I can feel it vibrating my ribs.
"....ing News. Tracy Mucket, a senior at Rivercrest University, was found murdered in her own home. Detectives say she appears to be another victim of the Butterfly serial killer. RLQ News anchor, Robert Yunder, is currently on the scene..."
Turning the cold water on, I splash my face. It doesn't help, I feel like I'm on fire, my skin burning in hot flashes. My vision is blurring out of focus, black dots dancing when I blink.
Focus!
Focus Hadley!
Hadley!
“Am I weird, Nana?”
Nana frowns at me over her magazine, curling the edge down with her hand so she can see me properly. “What are you talking about?”
“Am I weird? Brandon Moore said he wouldn’t go to the dance with me because I’m weird.”
“Yes.” She lifts her magazine back up, ignoring my gasp. “What? You asked, and I answered.”
“That’s rude, Nana. You were supposed to make me feel better, not rub it in.”
She drops her magazine in her lap, lips pursed. “Honey, you should know by now that you’re weird. It’s okay to be weird. If anything, it makes you unique. Can you imagine how boring the world would be if everyone living in it was normal?” She lifts her magazine back up, ending our conversation. “Now leave me alone weirdo, I’m trying to read.”
Trisha grabs my arm, lightly shaking me, so I look at her. "Don't you hear the siren? Someone pulled the fire alarm; we have to evacuate."
Now that she's said it, I notice the white and red lights blinking on the ceiling and hear the loud wailing. "Yea, sorry, I was just in the bathroom."
"Well, you're out now. Let’s go."
