Carla texted me last night, giving me the go-ahead to visit Alice, but I realized I didn’t want to go by myself. Plus, I needed a car.
I hope it’s okay that I’m here. What if Johnny answers the door? What if Finn’s too busy? What if he’s tired of bailing me out whenever I need a car?
But then the door opens and he’s there, wearing an Alice in Chains T-shirt and his usual cargo shorts, feet bare, hair tousled, like he just woke up.
He gives me a small smile.
It’s natural and easy, a smile that shows the gap between his two front teeth, and right then it moves over me like the sudden introduction of light into a dark room, everything making itself known in the new brightness.
Being with Finn is about more than needing a car.
When I’m with Finn, I can be myself.
It’s like talking with Ruby or being at Carla’s. No one’s expecting the valedictorian, the healthy sister, the responsible daughter, the future doctor.
They’re just expecting me.
The simple realization makes me want to cry with relief.
“Parker?” He steps outside, shutting the door behind him, shoving his fists in his pockets. “How’d you know where I live?”
“Internet. Hey, can you drive me somewhere right now?”
He waits a second, to see if I’m going to say more, then nods. “Just a minute.” The door shuts behind him.
I hug myself and look around. The lawn is overgrown. Finn’s truck is in the driveway, along with Johnny’s Datsun, its hood open, insides exposed to the elements. The woods behind their house are encroaching onto the edges of the backyard, as if in another five years, the trees and roots might just swallow the whole house. From the corner of my eye, I see a hand nudge aside bent window blinds, then drop them back just as quickly.
There’s no way I want to run into Johnny.
I go over to Finn’s truck and open the passenger side, climb in, jiggling my leg, the change in the cup holder rattling with the movement, and watch a squirrel dart across a phone line and leap onto a tree.
I leave the ballerina where she is.
Finn slides in a few minutes later, smelling like soap and minty toothpaste. “Where to?” he asks.
I don’t say much on the way to Wild Meadows, and Finn doesn’t either, which I appreciate. I haven’t been to Wild Meadows since Grandma McCullough died when I was in second grade, and I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.
“Here,” I finally say, motioning him to the visitors parking.
As soon as I take in my surroundings in the lobby, I feel like I’ve jumped into a time machine and gone back to when Grandma McCullough was sick. The faux-homey decor is exactly the same: a maroon and pine-green flowered print, innocuous art, a grandfather clock, even a glass aviary with small finches hopping around.
Charlie and I used to wheel Grandma to the aviary while Mom and Dad talked with the doctors. We’d sit with her there, watching the birds, while she told us stories about the cowboy music society and helium people and George Bush offering her a cream puff.
It was a few years before I realized her chemo made her confused, that she hadn’t really met George Bush.
“Parker?” Finn asks, his hand light on my elbow, and I shake my head.
“Sorry.” At the desk, a perky blond-haired woman with a name tag that says PAM looks brightly up at me. “I’m here to see Alice Roell,” I say.
“Oh, are you her niece?” the woman asks. “I’m so excited you finally made it!”
“No. I work at the place where Alice comes for her ceramics classes.”
Pam smiles and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, of course.”
“Alice has a niece?” I ask, signing my name and Finn’s in the visitor log.
“Yep. Her name’s Lily,” Pam says. “Come on. I’ll show you to Alice’s room.”
As we follow Pam down the hall, she keeps mindlessly chatting, clearly glad for the company.
“I help Alice FaceTime with Lily and her son, Jack, every week. He is just the cutest thing! I’m not sure how much of it Alice actually takes in, but she’s always calmer after hearing Lily’s voice.”
“FaceTime?” I ask. “Why doesn’t Lily visit?”
“She lives in Texas. She’s a single mom, and I don’t know that she can afford a ticket up. But she makes sure to call every Tuesday and Thursday at six thirty p.m., right after Alice has dinner.”
I nod as Pam points us down a hall. “Room 116,” she says. “I’ll buzz you through. Have a good visit!”
When we enter Alice’s section, my breath catches.
This section doesn’t remind me of my grandma.
It reminds me of Charlie.
Of hospitals.
Of sickness and generic cleaning supplies and vanilla pudding cups.
The hallway is spotted with residents sitting in wheelchairs. Some of them are sleeping. One older man has his mouth open and is breathing heavily, and another older man is muttering under his breath about bacon.
Without thinking, I reach my hand out toward Finn, and he takes it, holds tight.
“Alice?” I say as I knock on the open door of 116.
She’s lying in the bed, awake, but her eyes are glazed over, and I’m not sure she sees us or even knows we’re there. She looks so small and flat against the sheets.
I motion Finn to the chair near the window and pull another up next to her.
“It’s Parker, from Carla’s Ceramics. I’m here with my friend Finn.”
She doesn’t respond or move, but I continue talking.
“We’ve missed seeing you. I’m sure you know already, but there’s a new guy, Henry? And Miss Peggy and Harriet both have a bit of a crush on him. Oh, and we made something for you.”
I dig through my bag until I find the brightly colored vase we all painted for her, round-robin style. There’s a plastic pitcher filled with daisies on the bedside table next to her, and without asking, Finn takes the vase from me and grabs the pitcher of daisies, heading to the bathroom. I hear him pouring out the water from the pitcher, filling the vase.
I take in the picture next to Alice’s bed—one of a couple on their wedding day, the woman tiny and birdlike, the man dapper, with a sparkle in his eye, a man and woman standing at each of their sides, the best man and maid of honor.
I realize the bride must be Alice.
“Your husband was so handsome, Alice! And look at how beautiful you are,” I say, leaning over and taking the picture, studying it more closely. “This bridesmaid has to be related to you, yes?”
I take in the two women, each with meticulously curled hair, the same button noses, careful posture, high cheekbones. The bridesmaid is breaking the pose and squeezing Alice’s elbow, just as excited as Alice is.
Even though I don’t know for certain, I feel like she has to be Alice’s sister, Lily’s mom.
I look back at Alice, her eyes gazing vacantly at a spot on the wall, and I wish her sister were still alive now, holding her hand, or that Lily and Jack could be here.
A fierce wave of missing Charlie comes over me then, and I remember running after him and losing him, how he came back for me.
I’m not sure he would do that for me anymore.
Finn returns with the flowers in our vase, placing it where Alice can see it. He grabs his chair and scoots it closer to mine, and I pick up Alice’s hand, her skin tissue-paper thin.
“Alice, did you know my friend Finn is an artist? He paints amazing messages to people all over the city. You’d like them. They make you think outside of what’s around you. They take you to other places. And he has a secret tunnel, too. It’s like a superhero hideout but with art. It’s the most magical place I’ve ever been, but I’m not supposed to tell anyone about it, I don’t think.”
I sneak a glance at Finn. He’s leaning forward, head in hands, looking at the floor, and blushing something fierce.
I gently turn over Alice’s hand, holding the palm open.
“What’s your message to the world today?” I ask Finn.