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My new friend scurries over to see what has captured my interest. “Ah, forget-me-nots.” She nods with approval. “Self-explanatory. We have a better selection in blue, the more popular color.”
“I think I like the purple. I’ll take that big bunch in the middle.”
She wraps the bouquet in thick lilac-colored paper and gives me detailed care instructions, which I don’t really listen to because now it’s crossed my mind that I’m really going to see two girls. The polite thing to do is to arrive with two sets of flowers.
“Hey, can I also get a dozen of those?”
She squints to see where I’m pointing. “Sunflowers. Excellent. The stems on these are so long. I’ll cut them down.” Her fingers are already flying. The newly cut sunflowers are swaddled in light green paper.
She places the two flower bundles in my arms with maternal tenderness. She seems reluctant to part with them.
“Remember,” she says, “anything of beauty requires care. And the effort is always worthwhile.”
Sounds like a fortune cookie line to me but she’s a nice lady so I smile and thank her before escaping with an armful of flowers.
No detective work is needed to discover the name of the medical facility where Lita lives. I’ve always known it. On the first of every year since I’ve been raking in the NFL bucks, a sizeable check is sent by my accountant to Queen Valley Care. I’ve never found it necessary to advertise this fact. Even Micah and Gage aren’t aware.
By the time I’m cutting my truck engine in front of the place where Lita spends her days, the dashboard clock reads half past two in the afternoon. I scan the parked vehicles in an effort to locate Haven’s car and give up when I can’t guess what the hell she drives. Tucking both flower bundles under my arm, I whistle on the short walk to the glass doors.
The interior is bathed in pastel colors and smells like peppermint. An airy lobby is dominated by a long counter and behind that counter sits a girl with a knot of brassy blonde hair coiled atop her head. The door whispers shut at my back and she tears her eyes from her phone screen with a flicker of annoyance. An employee badge hangs from her neck and I catch the name Ashley.
“Hello.” I lean one hand on the counter and give her a friendly smile. “Hoping you can help me. I’m here to visit a resident.”
Recognition lights up her face, followed by shock. “Wait, you’re…” Her words trail off and her mouth flops.
“Name’s Conner Wiseman,” I finish because sometimes I don’t have patience for all the fuss. “I’m here to see Lita Marchenko.”
Ashley topples right out of her chair. It goes rolling away without her. Then she bangs her head on the desk when she tries to stand up and now she looks like she might cry so I offer to pose with her for a selfie. This instantly cures her of the blues.
“My friend Rena is crazy in love with you and she’s gonne die when I post this to Insta. Wait, I can post it to Insta, right? That’s okay, right?” She seems like she might have a breakdown if it isn’t okay.
“Absolutely. Post anywhere you like.” What do I care if there’s one more goofy social media photo of me out there in the world?
Meanwhile, all the action has drawn some attention. A guy wearing plain grey coveralls pauses in the middle of wheeling a hand truck out the door and runs over to ask me to autograph the back of his hand with a Sharpie. I’ve received far stranger requests so that’s no problem. Then an older couple walks into the building and they’re both excited as they take turns pumping my hand. They are season ticket holders and they’re here visiting the man’s brother, who has been in a persistent vegetative state ever since a horrible car accident. They don’t ask for autographs but the woman hugs me and says I’ve made her day, which is always nice to hear.
Now a man in a white coat emerges from a set of double doors and frowns at the mini circus in the lobby. I’m guessing he’s the boss because Ashley snaps to action and asks for my ID. I’m given a laminated visitor badge after penciling my name in a large book. Three spaces above my signature is Haven’s. Her handwriting, full of dramatic peaks and loops, is far neater than mine. I should have learned how to sign my name more artistically since I’m required to autograph shit like hands and phones but no one has ever complained about my chicken scrawl so I guess it’s all right.
“Room sixteen,” Ashley says. “Through the doors, then take the first left. Her sister is also here.”
“Thanks.” I wink at her.
She faints. Almost. Touches her hand to her heart and kind of wobbles.
While following Ashley’s directions, I pass a lot of doors. Some are closed, most are open. I try not to stare at the sight of frozen people propped up in hospital beds or seated idly in chairs. Sounds echo in the hallway. The chatter of medical staff. The drone of television sets. The soft but unmistakable noise of another human being weeping with despair.
The last sound tugs at my heart. This is a sad place.
Lita’s door is halfway ajar. I see the twins before I get a chance to tap my knuckles on the wood.
My last memory of Lita is from the night of the Emerald Ball. She was laughing on the dance floor moments before a fire swept through the building. The brain aneurysm that led to her collapse moments later had nothing to do with the fire but the two events are forever linked in my mind.
Today Lita is seated in an overstuffed leather recliner. Her head is tilted slightly to the right and her eyes are open. She blinks but nothing registers. No movement, no expression. If she were truly awake there’s no doubt she could see me gawking in the doorway eight feet away.
Her sister, however, sits with her back to the door. Haven is huddled atop an ottoman that matches Lita’s chair. She hugs her knees and her head is bent forward. She’s speaking but the murmured sounds are too low for me to hear. The tight dress she wears is the shade of ripe plums. Her hair, long and black with no hint of her natural blonde, spills over her shoulders, shielding her profile.
The scene is deeply personal. I’m suddenly doubting my choice to come barging in here but it’s too late to back up and leave.
Besides, backing up isn’t my style.
