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Janey might not have confided in Ace, but he knows a lot and I can appreciate his observant nature. “That does sound like me,” I agree. “But I’m here to fix it.”
He eyes the gas station bag beside me. “Gonna take more than some fizzy water and candy. Where’re the flowers, the sharp suit, the clean-shaven face?” he demands as he scans me head-to-toe with a raised brow, obviously finding my jeans, T-shirt, and scruff lacking.
“I thought of that, but I figured she’s around flowers all day.” Focusing on the one thing I can address, I gesture to the three fresh arrangements in the lobby, presuming there are more scattered throughout the facility. “I wanted to get her something... specific that’d brighten her day. And I’m hoping to take her to lunch, not a five-star restaurant.” I look down the hallway, wishing she were walking this way to get me out of this conversation.
Almost like she heard my prayer, I see Janey coming. Her scrubs are purple today, her hair pulled into a puff of curls on her crown, and her sensible rubber shoes squeak slightly on the linoleum floor. She looks gorgeous, especially when I see her back ramrod straight, her chin jutted out, and her eyes narrowed in on me.
“Mr. Culderon, is this man bothering you?” she asks, ignoring me to gift the old man with a warm smile I’d kill to have aimed in my direction.
“Nah, we were playing a friendly game of chess, weren’t we, Cole? By the way, checkmate.” He moves his queen again, and with a scan of the board, I can see that he’s got me. I’ve got no counters, and he’s good enough that I didn’t even see it coming.
“Good game, Ace,” I reply, laying my king down on the board. “Thank you.”
He stands and holds out his hand. When I take it, I’m surprised at his firm grip again. “Don’t hurt this nice lady’s heart or I’ll tear you up. Ya hear me?” he warns.
“Heard, sir.” I’m not afraid of Ace, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be respectful. His heart’s in the right place, and for all I know, he’s the mafia kingpin of the care center.
Ace shuffles off, leaving Janey and me alone though Jackie is back at her desk, typing something into the computer from a stack of paper. I’m pretty sure that if I could see her screen, she’s typing nothing but gibberish as her ears are tuned in on Janey and me.
“What are you doing here?” Janey hisses, trying to keep her voice down.
It’s ironically the same thing I asked her when she showed up to my workplace, but I don’t point out that particular similarity. Jackie is watching us like a hungry hawk wanting some gossip, so I match Janey’s volume, keeping my voice low as I say, “Hoping to take you to lunch and apologize. I shouldn’t have invaded like that. Your home is a sanctuary and I fucked that up. I’m sorry.”
Apologies are not my strong suit. I can’t actually remember the last time I apologized for anything. Maybe a throw-away ‘I’m sorry’ when I tell a client bad news, but to actually mean it? Not in ages.
“Psst! Show her what’s in the bag!” Jackie advises excitedly from across the room.
Janey looks over her shoulder to her co-worker, then back to me, so I grab the bag and hold it out to her. As she looks inside, I explain, “Those are your favorites, so I figured they’d be welcome, even if I wasn’t.”
She’s holding them to her chest like precious treasure. “You got the peanut butter M&Ms too?”
“Yeah, because you pour those in the trail mix, mix them up, and then there are two kinds of candy in every handful. And no raisins either because they’re gross—squishy and chewy like gum, but you’re supposed to swallow them.” I’m quoting the rant about the ‘perfect trail mix’ Janey made one afternoon when I came back from a stakeout to find her pouring a share-size bag of M&Ms into her trail mix and shaking it up. I’d been distracted by the bouncing of her breasts, but I’d heard what she was saying too.
She looks at the can of Red Bull and mumbles, “It’s the strawberry apricot one too.”
“Yeah.”
Of course it is. That’s the only one she drinks.
Staring at the can, she says, “A couple of summers ago, we had a patient who refused to eat anything but French fries and slushies. It didn’t meet her nutritional needs at all, but she told us that she was old and could eat what she wanted. So, her daughter brought her a strawberry apricot slushie with her fries one day, not realizing it had an energy drink in it.” Janey smiles at the memory, then laughs, “She was like the Energizer Bunny, talking and laughing and sitting up in the den. Then she started demanding one every day, so we made her a deal. For every swallow of protein drink she took, she’d get a drink of the slushie. Maybe it was wrong, and it shouldn’t have worked, but it did.”
She goes quiet, lost in the past, and Jackie adds, “Oh, I loved Mrs. James, and that daughter of hers was as caring as could be.”
Hearing the past tense, I ask, “What happened?”
Janey meets my eyes, and I can read the answer there before she says it. “She passed away. But her last days were better for it. Her daughter came every day to bring her that slushie, and she had enough energy to make those visits matter. And now, I’m addicted to these silly things, which are so bad for me, but they remind me that days are what you make of them.”
I can honestly say that I’ve never given more than two shits about what I’m drinking. Is it cold or hot when it should be? Alcoholic or not? Taste good? But not Janey. A simple drink is an experience to be appreciated, and she can find a way to smile about a beloved patient’s life while mourning their death.
“I’m sorry. It sounds like you did everything you could for her.” I don’t know what to say. Death isn’t part of my daily life the way it is for Janey, but I want her to know that I’m sorry she has to carry that grief.
She nods with a sad smile, then sighs, and the happy mask reappears as she pushes those feelings down.
“Lunch?” I prompt hopefully.
“No,” she answers firmly.
My heart sinks. I really fucked up this time. I fucked up so badly that the kindest woman in the world, the one who makes excuses for the worst of the worst, won’t forgive me. It hurts, but it’s warranted.
