Perhaps she’s right. But what about when the ice melts and it’s all watered down? Lemonade seems a drink that’s best consumed quickly.
Chris opens the sliding glass door and motions Lola inside. She holds up one finger to me to indicate she’ll be right back.
I sit there feeling like a crazy person wearing a hat made out of candles, not even caring that the wax is dripping in my hair.
◆ ◆ ◆
Chris has been called back to LA for a reshoot, so I let him have Lola to himself before he has to fly away.
Still looking for answers, I drop by the nursing home because I know Oliver isn’t there. That’s not why I’m here today. I slip past the nurses’ desk where they have all but forgotten me. They look at me, and I see that they are trying to place me. Am I the daughter of the lady in room 301? No, I’m the niece of the new Alzheimer’s patient. No, am I someone who used to work here? They don’t figure it out and give up, nodding and smiling and turning back to their charts so they won’t have to pretend to know me.
The door to Cricket’s room is already open, and I can see that he’s in his wheelchair and dressed for the day, but it seems polite to ask for admission. I knock on the frame, and he looks up at me. I can see in his expression that he expected a nurse or someone else to bother him with some ritual of daily living.
“Hi, there,” he says and smiles. “Come on in. I’ve just had my meds, so pardon me if I say something crazy.”
“Hello, Cricket.” I lean down to hug him.
“You can sit on that bed,” he says. “If those turtles bother you, just put them in the bathtub.”
“I like turtles,” I say and sit on the edge of the turtle-free bed.
“I know they’re not there,” Cricket says, “but I still see them. Never mind me—what’s got you spending time with an old man today?”
I sigh a bit too deeply, and he guesses the reason for my visit.
“Roller coaster got you down,” he says with quick wit and too much memory.
“You got it.”
“Well,” he says and winks, “it’ll do that.”
I was hoping for something more. Some sort of advice or special lever to pull to make it all come to a halt.
“I see you have a new roommate.” I gesture to the bed by the window. There are new articles on the dresser, new clothes peeking from the small closet. The pictures on the nightstand are of a handsome young man and a pretty, young girl. The man wears an army uniform, and the girl is dressed in a smart, crisp frock that the fading black-and-white image doesn’t do justice.
“Oh, good,” Cricket says. “I was wondering if he was a hallucination too.”
Cricket laughs, and I understand that he’s joking.
“So, where you got Nate these days?” he asks a question I don’t see coming.
“Six feet under,” I say without regard for tact.
“He’s probably not happy with that.”
“Mom thought it would be a waste of his burial plot not to put him in it,” I say.
“That’s a darn shame,” Cricket says. “She couldn’t have just thrown an old jar of pickles in there?”
I can’t help but fall in love with his outlook. The television is tuned to a program I figure the nurses’ aides like to watch. It’s after lunch, and I can tell that Cricket is getting a bit sleepy.
“So, tell me about this ride that’s got you in a fuss,” he says, not letting his sleepy eyes have their way.
“Oh,” I say and shrug my shoulders as if he’s asking about something that I didn’t drive clear across town just to talk to him about, “you know, just wondering if I got on the right coaster is all.”
“Well, now,” he says, “there’s a question to which there is no answer.”
I was afraid of that.
“See, there is no right or wrong to that one. Maybe some bad timing if you just ate a big lunch, but the thing is”—he pauses, taking a few deep breaths, and I’m very aware of how hard every second must be for him—“once that bar comes across you and the ride starts, it doesn’t really matter if you shouldn’t have gotten on. You’re on.”
I was afraid of that too.
“I guess you’re right,” I say. I glance at the daytime program that Cricket didn’t choose.
Had I not run into Jack that day on the street, would I even be doubting my feelings about Oliver? And do I really doubt my feelings or just the appropriateness of them, and who’s making up the rules of what’s appropriate anyway? I’m starting to sound like the voice-over guy.
“He talks about you,” Cricket says, startling me.
“Who?”
“The boy,” Cricket says and winks at me. “Oliver.”
If only there was a way for people to refer to him without the words “boy” or “kid.”
“What does he say?” I ask, and my heart beats thick and fast.
“You know the answer to that,” Cricket says. “The important parts are between what he says.”
I need to know what Oliver says to other people. I want to see his thoughts about this thing through the telescope of someone else’s perception. I want to know why he keeps his distance from me.
“I can always tell when he’s planning to see you after work,” Cricket says. “He’s lit up. Makes me remember my younger days. You know, I only knew my wife for a week before we got married. When you know, you know.”
“I suppose you do,” I say, then I take a risk. “He seems resistant sometimes. Is he coming out of a bad relationship or something?”
I know it’s none of my business to ask Cricket these things, but I can’t help it.
“The boy’s
