Letty must have noticed my concern.
“Trust me, kiddo, half this place will be snoozing before the credits roll. It’ll be like no one’s here.”
“Sold.”
SEVENTEEN
THURSDAY EVENING ROSE AND I ARRIVED AT HILLTOP TWENTY MINUTES before show time. Mom had loaned me the Lego so I could pick up Rose. During the short drive to Hilltop, Rose teased me about taking her on a date to the nursing home—clearly not the smoothest move—but I could tell by her smile that she felt the same way I did.
As long as we were together, it didn’t matter what we did.
Or where.
The common room looked better than I’d expected. The furniture had been rearranged to face the wall, upon which the title screen of Pixar’s Up was projected. The drapes had been drawn over the tall windows to block out the evening sun. The recessed ceiling lights glowed bright. After the past few weeks, the big room, with its high ceiling and oversized couches, now felt familiar to me, like an old pair of jeans.
Rose and I stood at the back of the gathering, looking for two open seats.
“There, next to the Larsens on the red couch.” Rose pointed to a spot in the back of the crowd, where one of Hilltop’s few married couples sat together. The majority of the residents had been widowed, but a few who were lucky and able enough shared rooms with their spouses.
George and Lucille Larsen greeted us with big smiles, as if nothing could have pleased them more than to share a couch with us. Lucille sported a white George Washington–meets–Dutch Boy hairdo and glasses so thick they magnified her eyes to the size of the lenses. Her counterpart, George, not a day under eighty-five, had a full head of bushy gray hair, argyle socks hiked up to his knees, and khaki shorts belted high across his belly, further supported by suspenders as a secondary safety measure.
“Make yourselves comfortable!” yelled Lucille at a volume indicating substantial hearing loss. “You see that, George? We have a new guest.”
George, who hadn’t heard a word, replied, “Where’s the ice cream?”
“New. Guests.” Lucille pointed to us, speaking slow and loud, right into George’s ear.
George pointed at his mouth. “Ice. Cream.”
Whether or not they ever did hear each other remained unclear, which was perhaps the secret to their sixty years of marriage.
Just then Candy wheeled in the cart of ice cream cups.
Rose and I hopped up to help—a small price to pay for free entertainment.
“You don’t know how much I appreciate you two volunteering for this,” Candy said, flashing us a grateful smile. “We’re making friendship bracelets tomorrow for craft time and I’ve got a thousand beads to sort out before then. I’ll be cross-eyed by the time I’m done.”
“Happy to help,” I said, taking the cart from her.
“Super! I brought you extra napkins. The ice cream can get messy at times,” Candy said, handing me a large sheaf of napkins and a roll of paper towels. “Holler if you need anything!” she added with a wave, then double-timed it down the hallway in her neon-pink Crocs.
I looked at Rose. “Is it just me, or did Candy seem especially eager to get the hell out of here?” I asked.
Rose grinned and took the napkins from me. “Maybe she’s just really excited to sort beads.”
“Right.”
And so, one tray at a time, Rose and I distributed ice cream cups to the Hilltop residents. The ice cream was the same as I remembered from grade school—ribbed, plastic cups filled with vanilla ice cream and a swirl of strawberry or chocolate that looked like a five-pointed star. Each came with a small wooden paddle for scooping.
Once we got everyone situated with their ice cream, paddles, napkins, and a few makeshift paper towel bibs, I dimmed the lights and Rose pushed play. A short Pixar film about storks delivering babies began to roll.
Rose and I had just settled back into our seats when she nudged me and motioned to her right. A woman in white poodle curls and wire-frame glasses had been parked next to us in a wheelchair. A lace collar poked out of her oversized beige cardigan, the sleeves rolled up to reveal two whisper-thin hands that shook so badly she could barely feed herself.
“Come on, let’s help,” Rose whispered.
We ducked, so as not to block anyone’s view, and scooted over to the woman, crouching on either side of her.
“Here, Vera, we’ll give you a hand,” said Rose.
I guess I’d expected Rose to help, while I supplied the moral support, but when Rose picked up the ice cream and handed me the wooden paddle, my role became clear. I didn’t mind.
“You’re very kind,” said Vera. “I never used to shake like this, but now, well, you see . . .”
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “We don’t mind.”
And to my surprise, I really didn’t. Sure, I’d first volunteered at Hilltop purely to be around Rose. But that night, right then, I had a realization, one that had been sneaking up on me for days, subtle and slow, the way dusk turns to night.
I truly cared about the Hilltop residents.
They weren’t kooky old people, as I’d originally seen them, but real people. Real people who were once young and independent. Real people who had dreams and fears, who had lived and loved and suffered.
Still suffered, some of them. Like Vera.
They couldn’t help the circumstances of their age any more than I could help mine.
And so I fed Vera her strawberry ice cream while Rose dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. It felt awkward at first, but as it went on, all three of us were giggling like little kids. When we were finished, I grabbed the blanket hanging from the back of Vera’s wheelchair and tucked it over her legs.
“Thank you, dear,” she said, placing a warm hand on my arm.
I made a mental note to spend more time with her in the future.
Rose and I settled back into our spot on the couch next to Lucille and George, who had already fallen asleep, just as Letty had predicted. George’s ice cream cup lay empty upon his belly, slowly rising up and down with each breath. I smiled to myself.
The movie, Up, which Rose had already seen, had reached a montage scene of a couple falling in love, getting married, and growing old together. Rose leaned over and warned me, “It’s going to get sad,” to which I, as a red-blooded American male said, “No problem.” I never cried at movies.
Five minutes later, tears were rolling down my face.
“I told you,” said Rose, dabbing at her eyes.
I discreetly tried to wipe my face with a napkin. “It’s from all the Lysol,” I explained, wondering who the hell had picked this movie for a bunch of old people anyway.