The cut on Sam’s head is throbbing, and his legs are itching inside his casts. He wants to go out to dinner with Annie and have a hot shower. He wants to understand what this guy wants, so he can give it to him and get out of here.
Oh, I get it. Annie’s voice pops into his head as he hears the rattle of Albert’s cart down the hall. You’re going to charm him and then screw him, the way you did with all those unsuspecting girls in high school. Good thinking, Sam, use your superpower.
“Whatever it takes to see you again,” he whispers as the key enters the lock and the door opens. “Good morning, Albert,” Sam says, fixing on a smile. “How nice to see you.”
Chapter 35
“Oh fudge, you’re awake,” I say to Sam, disappointed. “I wanted to see your reaction.” I push the cart into the room and set the brake. “Well?”
“You took the wallpaper down,” he says. He’s sitting up in bed, color back in his cheeks.
“As best I could.” I smooth my palm along a gluey patch. “What do you think?”
“I think it looks great,” Sam says. “The room has a much calmer feel now.”
“Oh, good. That’s what I was hoping you’d say. Studies show that homebound patients heal faster in a pleasing environment, and you were right, that wallpaper was a little much.”
“How’d you do it?” Sam says, downing the cup of water I’ve poured for him.
“A box of four-inch putty knives, scalding hot water, and some good old-fashioned elbow grease. Gave you something to sleep through it—I wanted it to be a surprise. And that’s not all,” I say. “Close your eyes.”
I return to the hall for the chair and push it into the room. “Okay, open.”
“No way.” He looks genuinely stunned. “Is that my Eames chair from downstairs?”
“Well, not your exact Eames chair,” I say, wheeling it toward him. That one needed to stay downstairs in case your wife decides to come back and snoop around. “A brand-new one. I had it shipped overnight.”
“Wow, Albert,” he says. “Why’d you do that?”
“Because you need to get out of that bed or you’ll develop decubitus ulcers, and I couldn’t think of a more comfortable option.” I caress the soft leather, remembering the first time I sat in this chair. I watched from the window upstairs as two men carried a large box down the steps and into his office. I couldn’t resist. Later that night I used the extra key I’d asked Gary Unger from Gary Unger Locksmiths to make and I spent a half hour in the silence of the room, cradled in the most comfortable chair in the world. Italian leather, hand-crafted chrome frame, and locking wheels.
I park it next to his bed now. “You want me to . . .”
“Get me out of this bed and into this chair? Yes indeed,” he says. I fold back the sheets. “Scoot to the edge,” I instruct, hooking one arm under his casts, the other at his midlumbar, and then use my knees to lift.
“Well done,” Sam says after I set him gently into his chair.
“A lifetime of moving people in and out of beds,” I say, pausing to stretch my back before retrieving the ottoman I took from the living room. I drag it inside and hoist his legs on top, one at a time. I then return to the hall for the table, also like the one he kept in his office, and set it next to the chair, then arrange his things on top: the yellow Kleenex box next to an academic paper on Anna Freud and the October issue of In Touch, with a cover story on Kris Jenner’s secret Mexican wedding. The final touch is the small clock, placed on the floor across the room from him.
“Just as I’d left it,” Sam says.
“That’s right.” I step back, spread my palms. “How does it feel?”
“Like I’m back at work,” he says, gripping the armrests. “In other words: like heaven.”
“I’m glad,” I say, barely able to contain my excitement. “Now let’s take a look at those stitches.” I snap on a pair of latex gloves and pull back the bandage on his forehead. “This contusion is healing nicely,” I say.
“You seem to know a lot about medicine,” Sam says.
“Twenty-five years in the health-care field,” I say, taking a folded sweatshirt from the bottom of the cart, LOYOLA GREYHOUNDS printed across the front. “Put this on. It’s chilly in here.”
“Were you a doctor?” Sam asks, slipping it over his head.
I laugh loudly. “From your mouth to my estranged father’s ears,” I say. “No, home health aide, recently retired. ‘Home Health Angels, helping people age in place while providing peace of mind to the whole family.’”
“What kind of things did the job entail?” Sam asks.
“Whatever the client needed,” I say, taking a tube of ointment and a fresh bandage from my apron pocket. “Bathing and meal prep. Companionship.” I dab ointment onto Sam’s cut. “Wound care.”
“I bet you were good at it.”
I pause mid-dab. “What makes you say that?”
“You have a calming presence,” Sam says.
“Well, I’m not one to brag, but I was employee of the month three times,” I say, my cheeks burning. I finish with the bandage and return to the cart.
“Mind if I ask what happened between you and your father?” Sam asks. I fidget with the plastic container of cotton swabs and keep my back to him. “You said you and he are estranged. I’m curious why.”