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I go beet red, and mom notices, giving me a crooked smile as if she can see right through me.
“Just a crush,” I admit, “like I said, he’s out of my reach.”
She smiles again, “Joy,there’s no such thing as ‘out of my league’ when love is real. If you didn’t already, make your intentions clear and let him decide if he’s interested or not.”
I sigh, feeling uneasy. “The worst part is…” I stall for a second, biting my lip, “I don’t really think he’d be interested. Like I said, it feels impossible.”
Mom raises one of her eyebrows and says, “You’re not involved with your boss, are you, Joyce?”
“Whoa,no!” I move my hands in front of my chest in self-defense.
“Joy,” she reaches for my hand, her eyes full of love and compassion. “Nobody is out of your league if what you feel is genuine. Do you really like this man?”
I tense my shoulders, soul-searching for an answer that’s truthful.
“I do. It’s early to say how deeply, but I do,” I confirm. “I’ve known him for so little time.”
“Then I say he’s worth the chase!” she says, with a gentle slap on my shoulder.
There is a knock at the door. The person behind it is Nurse Roberts again, now carrying a cart of food. “Dinner is served!” she says, cheerful.
I look at the food, meant for mom — mine comes after hers — and it’s basically an odorless pale puree.
“Do you need anything, Mrs. Andrews?” the nurse asks, hands on her knees as if speaking to a child.
“No, Miss Roberts,” mom frowns, “I’m fine.”
“That’s okay, then,” Nurse Roberts smiles, “I’ll bring your dinner soon, Joyce.”
I smile back at her, and she leaves. I fix everything up to properly feed mom, and when I’m ready, with a spoonful of hot nothing-puree in my hand, she twists up her nose and turns her face away.
“It smells so bad,” she complains.
I bring the spoon close to my nose, and sniff it again, just to be sure.
“It doesn’t smell like anything, mom!” I complain back. “I doubt there’s anything more taste-free than this! Please try it.”
I insist with the spoon, and she does try to eat a little, but starts to gag right after swallowing it.
“Maybe nausea pills will help?” I suggest, feeling defeated.
“Maybe,” she says, recovering from the gags. “Go find Roberts, I’ll be fine in here.”
“Don’t try to eat alone, okay? You might choke!” I warn her, then reluctantly leave the room.
I scour the floor from top to bottom for Roberts, but she must be in the kitchen at this hour, getting food for the patients. Not finding her, I stop when I see a doctor, a woman so tiny I almost mistake her for a high school student.
“Hi! My mom is having difficulty eating because of her nausea. Can she get some pills to help?” I ask, as polite as I can.
“Of course, who’s the patient?” she gets her clipboard and the pen hanging from a lanyard around her neck.
“Cora Andrews, room 504.”
“Noted!” the doctor says, full of energy. “I’ll have the nurse bring them to you in just a moment.”
“Thank you!” I say, grateful.
I head back to mom’s room, where to my dismay, I find her eating alone.
