Hilltop Nursing Home’s annual field trip fell on the third Sunday of July. The destination: Wrigley Field, home of the Chicago Cubs. After getting the green light from Candy, Mom, and Mary, I’d asked Rose to go, and she’d agreed. Neither of us were huge baseball fans, but that didn’t matter. If all went according to plan, we’d never step foot inside Wrigley Field.
Outside of Hilltop, the bus awaited us. It sat twenty people legally and fifteen comfortably. Final count: thirteen residents, four volunteers, three personal nurses, two turtledoves, and a partridge in a pear tree.
Mary and Blackjack had stayed behind—he’d had a bad couple of weeks, unable to leave his room. Grub roamed the hallways by himself on whatever “top-secret mission” Blackjack had tasked him with. My little brother had become a fixture by then at Hilltop, much as he was in our old Chicago neighborhood. The residents and staff doted on him, plying him with treats and allowing him free rein throughout the nursing home. Grub still steered clear of Missy Stouffer, though, as we all did.
Fortunately, she’d decided to skip the baseball game, too.
Once some of the less physically able residents had been seated, Rose and I climbed aboard. The bus did not have typical rows like a school bus, but cushioned bench seating around the perimeter, facing inward. Rose and I sat next to each other in the middle across from Letty and the Bettys. Next to us, Lucille and George Larsen loudly discussed her missing wedding ring.
“It was on the nightstand,” said Lucille.
George craned his ear toward her. “You had a one-night stand?”
“Night. Stand.”
“Stan? Who’s Stan?”
Lucille held up her hand for her beloved to see.
“Where’s your wedding ring?”
Candy’s bubbly voice came through an intercom system overhead. “Welcome aboard, ladies and gentleman. Our estimated departure time is T minus thirty seconds. It is currently a sunny, eighty-degree day in Chicago. Our cruising speed will be roughly seventy miles per hour, which should have us arriving at our destination at approximately twelve thirty, Central Standard Time. Please fasten your seat belts, and enjoy the ride.”
The diesel engine rumbled, and everyone cheered as the brass intro to Dean Martin’s “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head?” came through the speakers. Letty threw her arms in the air and danced in her seat. She wore a red-and-blue Cubs wind suit and all-white sneakers, and topped the ensemble with matching Cubs earrings and blackout sunglasses fit for viewing an atomic blast.
As we merged onto the interstate, I put my arm around Rose and she leaned into me. We could have been driving to Canada for all I cared. Lucille and George had already fallen asleep next to us, but Letty, the Bettys, and the rest of the Hilltoppers sang and swayed to the music. I rested my head on Rose’s and watched the cornfields fly by. Rose pushed open my free hand and began tracing the lines on my palm.
“That line there,” she said. “I think that means today will be a good day.”
“I think you’re psychic,” I replied.
I shut my eyes and listened to Dean Martin and the steady hum of the engine.
I must have drifted off to sleep, for when I opened my eyes, the Chicago skyline projected from the horizon in the distance. Rose’s head lay under my arm, on my chest. Our hands had become sweaty from holding them together so long.
“Rose,” I whispered. “You asleep?”
“Nope,” she replied, muffled by my shirt. “You were though. I was trapped under your arm. Also, you snore.”
“I do?”
“Like a buzz saw.”
I yawned and stretched my neck. “Sorry about that.” I felt slightly embarrassed, but at the same time I didn’t mind. I didn’t care what she knew about me.
“It’s okay. I like the way you snore,” Rose said, smiling up at me. “You make cute choking sounds.” I tried to give her shoulder a squeeze, but my arm had gone to pins and needles, so I just groped her arm with a lifeless hand. The music was off now and many others had fallen asleep as well.
Across from us, Letty held a Cubs pennant flag in one hand, looking perplexed. “What the hell happened? I’m ready to party,” she said.
Rose and I laughed.
“You know what this bus needs?” I asked Letty.
She cocked her head to the side and raised an eyebrow.
“Tom Jones,” I said.
Letty’s eyes lit up. “If I wasn’t strapped to this seat, I’d come over there and kiss you.” Then, to Candy, who sat behind the bus driver, “You hear that, Candy Apple? My personal volunteer would like some Tom Jones!”
Candy shook her head with a grin, then scrolled through her phone’s playlist. A minute later, “Help Yourself” roared through the speakers, and one by one, the bus revived as Mr. Jones invited us to help ourselves to his heart, arms, lips, and love.
The skyline grew larger on the horizon. Rose had told me she’d only been to Chicago a couple times, and it had been years since her last visit. I was excited to show her the city, but more excited for the other surprise that lay in store for her.
We passed an exit near Midway Airport, and I pointed. “That’s the exit we’d take to get to my old house,” I said.
Rose craned her neck to see out the window. “It must have been so different growing up here compared to Buffalo Falls.”
You can say that again, I thought. Something felt odd though. I figured driving into Chicago would feel like a homecoming of sorts—I hadn’t been back since we’d moved. But it felt different. I felt different. I’d grown used to Buffalo Falls. The sound of insects at night had become a comfort rather than an annoyance, and the slower pace felt more familiar now than this four-lane expressway. As for my old friends, I still texted them now and then, but it wasn’t the same. We’d all moved on, I guess. I’d moved on.
An unsettling feeling came over me as I remembered the possibility of moving back. But then I remembered our new motto: Enjoy today.
The expressway became Lake Shore Drive. Lake Michigan appeared before us, looking as blue and expansive as any ocean. Sailboats cut white wakes through the water beyond a harbor full of yachts, their white hulls shining in the sun. Overhead, a plane flew by with a message trailing behind it too small to read. Turning north, we drove by McCormick Place, then Soldier Field, home of the Chicago Bears. Passing Millennium Park, I told Rose about how Mom used to take me and Grub there for picnics and free music on the weekends.
Farther north, the buildings became smaller and less cramped together. We turned off the Addison exit toward Wrigley Field, and my heart sped up with excitement. As the stadium came into view, Letty led the bus through “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”
“A-one, a-two, a-three . . . Take me out to the ball game, take me out with the crowd!” Letty sang.
A few simply listened, George Larsen snored, but most of the bus joined in and belted out the rest of the song.
“For it’s ONE! TWO! THREE strikes you’re out at the old ball game!” Letty finished with a heroic fist in the air.
“Play ball!” someone shouted.