When the song is finished, Old Man Linder says, “Thanks for coming to the Wednesday Afternoon Old-Time Sing-Along with The Red Coats—Albert Linder and Eddie Thompson. Until next week, when we will be singing more of the songs you remember and love—make sure you stay alive at least seven more days! Because you won’t want to miss what we have in store for you! Reminisce, people. Reminisce!”
All of the old people clap for a few minutes while The Red Coats bow, and then resuming once again is the endless talk of grandchildren, jigsaw puzzles, who died last week, the weather over the past eight decades, and—of course—the many family members who never visit.
I leave BBB curled up in a pile of Knitting Carol’s yarn and step out into the hallway with Old Man Linder.
“You were really good up there,” I tell him. “You had everyone into it. True.”
“Listen, I was mad at you for a week or so, kid. I could have died climbing those damn steps, and then the way you treated me,” Old Man Linder says—oxygen tubes running out of his nostrils. “But then, I thought, you know what—the girl’s got a point. I’m not dead yet, and I have to do something to keep myself alive. I can’t always depend on others. So I thought up the sing-along with Eddie, who carries me up there with his golden voice—if you didn’t notice. I’m the ham. He’s the voice. But I always loved to sing. And the old chippies favor men who sing in public. Can’t keep them off me lately.”
The old man winks at me.
I smile at Old Man Linder.
“Are you okay, Amber?”
“Truthfully, no. But I enjoyed your singing very much—and I’m out of my room, at least.”
“That’s a start.”
“It’s something.”
“So?”
“I would like to visit Joan of Old,” I say.
“You sure? I haven’t been to see her yet, but I hear she’s in bad shape.”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I say.
I follow Old Man Linder through a bunch of depressing hallways full of mauve wallpaper and mauve carpets—finally, we arrive at the hospital wing, which is just another mauve hallway with special hospital-looking rooms.
When a nurse pops out of one of the rooms, Old Man Linder says, “Excuse me, but do you know which room is Joan Osmond’s?”
The nurse doesn’t answer, but points to a door down the hall, so we walk toward it.
Joan of Old is a tiny mountain range under a sky-blue blanket—her sunken pink wrinkled face sticking out, her small head resting on a pillow.
“Can I get a few minutes alone with Joan?” I ask Old Man Linder.
My manager says, “Sure. I’ll wait out here for you.”
I walk into the room and close the door behind me.
I pull up a chair next to the bed.
“Joan?” I say.
Joan of Old doesn’t move.
I can hear her struggling to breathe.
Her mouth is open slightly.
I reach under the blanket and hold her hand.
It’s freezing cold.
“Squeeze if you can hear me,” I say.
Nothing.
“I guess you heard all about my mom and my depression. I’ve been in a room for months, pretty much being a bitch to everyone. I’ve been crying a lot too. True. But what you probably don’t realize is that I cried a whole bunch before my mother was killed too. The Amber you saw during our battles—that was all an act. I’m not very strong. I’m not very hopeful. I’m not very much of anything. I’m just a stupid girl who can tell a few good jokes at pivotal moments and knows how to work a crowd. If you only knew how much I internalized all of your insults. Word. You really have me thinking I have a dinosaur face, which freaks me out a lot. True.”
Joan of Old doesn’t squeeze my hand at all.
I can still hear her breathing.
“I’m starting to think that you are right about life, Joan. Maybe it’s all meaningless? I mean—I still dig JC and all. I still pray, and I still believe in certain people. But that guy who killed my mom—he’s not human, and he scares me, because he is human, and yet he did what he did, which will never make sense, no matter how long I think about it. It’s so random. So vile. It makes me get why you are so mean and cranky. I bet you weren’t like that before your husband died, right?”
Suddenly, Joan of Old squeezes my hand and scares the hell out of me.
“Why are you telling me these things?” Joan asks.
“Were you awake that whole time?”
“Yes.”
“You rotten old lady! Why didn’t you say so?”
“Because I’m gathering information for our last battle—when I will finally make you cry.”
“You can’t be that evil,” I say.
Joan of Old smiles up at me from her pillow, and her wrinkly pink eyelids bore through my forehead.
I shiver.
“Why’d you really come in here, Amber?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. Are you going to die?”
“We all die eventually,” Joan of Old says. “That’s just about the only thing God got right.”
“Okay,” I say, “I think I’m going to leave now.”
“When do we battle next? My doctors say I could die any day now.”
“Sorry, I’m retired,” I say.
“You have to give me one last shot at the title.”
Suddenly, Joan of Old just seems too absurd for me to handle, so I walk out of the room.
“Amber? Amber? Amber?” Joan of Old says as I walk down the hall with Old Man Linder.