With that, Georgia closed her eyes, and her chest began to rise and fall with slow, deep breaths. Boop watched her friend the way she had watched a sleeping newborn Stuart in 1952 and their fifteen-year-old dog, Lizzie, in the seventies.
Once Boop was satisfied the breathing would continue, she lifted her tote onto her lap and peered into the abyss. Wallet, a comb, a deck of cards, tissues, Tic Tacs, Life Savers, a compact, a comb. She set the tote onto the nightstand, then dug her hand in and around to the bottom and pulled out two abandoned lipsticks. She fiddled with them, waiting for Georgia to wake up.
Minutes later, Georgia opened her eyes. “You’re still here.”
“You bet I am.” Boop held out the lipsticks to Georgia. “Pick one.”
She placed the closed cases on the bed and Georgia opened each and examined the colors. One, a neutral mauve. The other, a glittery peach. Boop didn’t care which one Georgia chose. That wasn’t the point. “If you look good, you’ll feel good—or at least you’ll feel better.” Boop believed that. “By the way, when was the last time you had a manicure?”
At first, Boop’s daily visits to Lighthouse Rehab were all about Georgia. Boop sat in on consultations with the therapists and doctors. They walked the hallway, and Boop brought in blueberry muffins to share with the staff. Another day she ordered in Delightful Buddha to give Georgia a break from rehab food.
“You’ve already done so much for me. But could you do me a favor?” Georgia asked after winning yet another hand of gin rummy.
Boop was prone to sarcasm at serious moments, and I just did rushed through her thoughts. She resisted in deference to the circumstances. “Of course.”
“I’m pretty sure that Charlotte in 209 could use a little Mauve Luster. And maybe a friend.”
Georgia had always been good with people and names, but now she was citing lipstick colors too. Just the way to Boop’s heart.
“That’s the favor?”
“Yes. She was here before me and she doesn’t get many visitors. I met her in the PT room. A nice lady. A little pale, perhaps. You know just what to do to lift her spirits, I’m sure of it.”
“Knock, knock,” Boop said through the open door of 209. She peeked in.
A woman sat in bed with a beige waffle-knit blanket draped over her legs. Hannah had brought a lightweight floral comforter with matching pillowcases for Georgia’s bed to spruce her room up a bit. No beige waffle-knit for Georgia.
“Come in, come in,” the woman said. “I’m Charlotte Levy, meniscus tear.”
“I’m Boop Peck—”
“The one with the lipstick, yes, I know. Any chance I could have a look?” Charlotte motioned to her face like she was Carol Merrill from Let’s Make a Deal.
“I just brought my own lipsticks to make Georgia feel better,” Boop said.
“I should have my niece bring me something nicer to wear.”
“It’ll make you feel better.”
Boop realized this was what Charlotte was asking for, a way to feel better as she healed. No one here considered the woman herself in 209, just the patient. Boop pulled a zippered case out of her tote bag.
“I cleaned them with alcohol before I came. Try what you like.” Boop set a small magnifying mirror on the bed tray.
“Really?” Charlotte pulled the cover off each lipstick bullet and examined it. Then she went in for round two before applying, as Georgia had predicted, Mauve Luster.
“That color on your lips makes your cheeks look rosy,” Boop said.
“Which is so important here.”
“If how you feel is important, and you feel good wearing this, then you’re right. Keep it. It’s not my color.” It definitely was Boop’s color. “So, how has your day been? Had any visitors?”
Charlotte smiled. “Yes. You.”
The day after she met Charlotte, and then every day for the next two weeks, Boop showed up at Lighthouse Rehab with as magical a bag as Mary Poppins. She went on her own rendition of rounds, ducking out of the way of nurses, therapists, doctors, nutritionists, visitors, and uninterested patients.
One day, as soon as Georgia headed to physical therapy, Boop loaned a hand-painted silk scarf to Poppy Miller in 226 and showed her how to tie it into a perfect droopy bow around her neck and as a bohemian head covering, and to drape it like a shawl, but one that wouldn’t fall off.
For Charlotte, Boop unfolded a cotton throw and draped it over the footboard. It was blue with sunflowers. Definitely better than beige waffle.
In room 202, Maureen Turner’s catawampus wisps of gray at her hairline behaved like Stuart’s cowlick had when he was a boy. Catawampus was not a word Boop fancied associating with seventy-nine-year-old Maureen and her hip fracture. Luckily, Boop discovered a set of delicate floral barrettes that served as the solution.
That particular day, Boop learned she and Maureen had more in common than a fondness for L’Oréal Peach Fuzz. (The color suited Georgia best, but Boop knew she wouldn’t mind sharing “the look.”) Maureen had been an army nurse and a war widow; she’d grown up in Detroit and then moved to the suburbs when she married—and, like Boop, had moved to Skokie.
Growing up in Detroit in the thirties and forties wasn’t an unusual origin story for a Michigander. It was the biggest city, with the most jobs. Or that’s how it once had been.
If things had been different, Boop might have ended up in Detroit with Abe. Though New York had been their plan, Boop possessed the wisdom of hindsight. She understood that had they been together, their lives might have been different than expected. What if was the only question for which there was never a sufficient answer, because no one knew. No one could know. But maybe she could get closer to knowing.
“Did you ever hear of a store owned by a family named Barsky?” she asked.
“Barksy? No, can’t say
