“I can understand that,” I say, fiddling with my napkin, looking at my bare ring finger. I’m still getting used to it. Thankfully, being with Oliver is comfortable and things are moving pretty slowly.
“Have you ever wondered if you were worthy enough for the thing you want?” His eyes are as serious as I’ve ever seen them. “Like maybe you’re kidding yourself that you’d be good at it, or right for it?”
I think about Ray. Everything he’s done since Lola’s accident has been a reflection of him thinking that he’s not worthy of forgiveness. His hesitation now with his son is not that he doesn’t want to be a father, it’s that he doesn’t think he deserves it, and he surely doesn’t think he’ll be any good at it.
“I know what you mean,” I say, which isn’t really an answer, so I return to more solid ground. “Were you close to graduating?”
“Yeah,” he says and bites his perfect bottom lip. “Pretty close. Big-time cold feet.”
“Sounds like you were headed into a serious field.” I push the menu in front of me to the side. “Doctor?”
“Not really,” he says, opening his menu—and taking his eyes from mine.
We enter into the accustomed moments of quiet while we each decide on our order. The waitress comes and writes down what we want, leaving us in need of more conversation.
“So, if not a doctor, then how did you end up in a nursing field?” I ask again.
“Fell into it,” Oliver says, moving his flatware around and turning his cup up so the waitress could pour coffee for our wait. “I started looking after my landlord’s father. He has Parkinson’s disease and his wife had recently died. He needed some help around the house.”
We wait for our food, and I listen to Oliver talk about helping his landlord and her father and there’s something in his face and voice that moves me. Such a sense of peace in his decision to turn his time over to someone else. Such love and admiration in the carrying out of everyday tasks.
“I started by taking him to doctor’s appointments and stuff,” he continues. “I took a job in town as well, but then his health went downhill fast, so I started caring for him full-time. I did that for about six months.” Oliver pauses, and I see that he’s lost in the memory of it. “After a while, he got a lot worse, and his family had to put him in a home.”
Dad becomes a white elephant the size of the entire café. I can feel the breath from his trunk and the gentle nudging as he shifts his weight, trying to make room for himself. People come and go, and I wonder how they squeeze by him and whether they feel the need to duck under his belly.
I’m blindsided for a second by the memory of my father and Lola and Ray and me in a Chinese restaurant. Mom was in the hospital recovering from alcohol poisoning, although everyone said it was a bad case of the flu. Dad had balled up little pieces of the paper place settings with the Chinese astrological signs, and we played baseball at the table with the paper wads and chopsticks.
“I wasn’t in school anymore,” Oliver continues, “so I just applied at a local facility and started working. I had to take a course and pass a test—not much to it, really, when you consider the responsibility you end up with.”
The waitress brings our food, and we rearrange again.
“So, you decided to go into that field?” I ask, admiring the conviction. “Just like that?”
“Well, it was more that I couldn’t really decide what I wanted to do.” Oliver takes a taste of his sandwich and continues after swallowing. “I just like helping people. Sounds like some corny line, but it’s true.”
“Elm Village is lucky to have you, then,” I say. “I guess you found your calling.”
Oliver looks up at me and then shifts his gaze somewhere off to the side.
“Sometimes I feel a little like I’m in limbo,” Oliver says. “I don’t mean to, but I do.”
“Yeah,” I say and reach across the table to touch his arm.
The rest of our time is easy and passes by too quickly. We linger in the café after we’re done eating, but I really do have to work, so we head out onto the street. Outside, summer is coming into its own, and the tourist season has begun. We walk a few blocks and end up in front of my office building to say our good-byes.
“Limbo or not, I like this.” Oliver puts his arms around me. “I think I’ve made the right decision. This is good.”
He lingers over the word “think,” but I let it go.
I see someone approaching us and realize too late that it’s Jack. I pull away quickly, and Oliver seems confused.
“Nina.” Jack greets me, but he looks at Oliver.
I know Jack well enough to see his surprise, but he’s a good showman.
“Oliver,” I say and take hold of his hand, mad at myself for having pulled away. “This is Jack.”
Jack shoots his hand out for Oliver to shake, forcing him to release mine. Oliver does so and then puts his arm around me. A bubble seems to form around us, some bizarre snow globe effect of three people on the street, caught in an inescapable moment. I imagine us each miming our hands around the inside of the glass, feeling for a way out.
“Oliver,” Jack repeats. “Nina has mentioned you. You’ll have to forgive my surprise at being face-to-face with you.”
Jack has a way of being honest without seeming worse for the wear—as if it’s the other person who should feel awkward.
“Likewise,” Oliver says casually, and I love that Jack’s desired effect on him falls flat.
“What are you doing here, Jack?” I ask bluntly.
“Nice to see you, too,” Jack says with a curt little laugh. “I
