And when he figures it out, I better be long gone.
ONE
Earlier that day . . .
Lexi
The first thing Grace and I see walking into Sunnyhill Assisted Living home is Sean Connery. Not the ghost of the legendary heartthrob here to charm the residents—rather, a life-sized poster of the classic Connery, sporting a red mankini, iconic mustache, and enough chest hair to upholster a sofa.
“Bet you ten bucks we can guess who put that up,” I mutter to Grace.
We make our way through the beige lounge reeking of Glade plug-ins and meatloaf. Again, I question why this place costs us a liver and leg every month.
No amount of lavender potpourri can mask the depressing reality—this is Mom’s “home.” One we can barely afford thanks to her crap retirement planning and my perpetually broke status. It’s a miracle I’ve kept her here this long, pulling money out of my ass.
I hear her booming voice before I spot her—another miracle given her fight with inflammatory lung disease, COPD. She’s holding court smack in the middle of a group of paintbrush-wielding ladies, like she’s the queen bee here. She’s skin and bones these days, like a scrawny baby bird.
My guts twist with guilt every time I visit Sunnyhell. Guilt that she’s trapped in this place at sixty-five, instead of being home with us. Guilt I can’t earn enough to care for her myself—especially with the high-tech babysitting her oxygen levels need, not to mention the whole nighttime oxygen therapy. Guilt that I harbor resentment for her crap planning dumping this on me. And then there’s the deeper guilt, boiling beneath it all—a simmering anger that a lifetime of smoking has led to this, despite all the warnings she received
“It was fashionable back then,” she likes to tell me, as if that somehow absolves her from all responsibility. Now the damage is done, COPD stealing her freedom.
Mom should be sipping mimosas on a beach, flirting with a Sean Connery cabana boy doppelgänger. Not painting ’staches with Lynda who keeps forgetting her own freaking name.
I plaster on a smile, playing dutiful daughter, and shove my ugly thoughts down deep.
“My fabulous girls are here!” Mom rasps at top volume, grabbing everyone’s attention. She turns to her painting pal. “Move it over, Tricia, darling, make room for my girls!”
She’s telling, not asking, as she shoves Tricia’s wheelchair aside with a noise that makes my teeth grind.
I cringe as Manager Lady Brenda glares across the lounge. Grabbing Grace’s hand, we make a beeline to Mom before she causes a scene. Well, an even bigger one.
“Really, assault and battery today?” I force lightness into my tone.
She waves it off breezily. “Oh please, she’s practically bionic! Right, Tricia?”
I give Tricia a consoling pat, but she just grins. “I’m tougher than I look, kiddo.”
Mom beams, triumphant in her right to mow down rest home residents without consequence. I swallow down familiaremotions and paste on a smile as we exchange kisses. Happy face.
My gaze lands on the amateurish paintings—row after row of deranged half-naked Sean Connerys.
“Since when did art class go Fifty Shades of Connery?” I smirk. Knowing Brenda’s anti-fun rules, I’m shocked she let this fly, especially since Mom hasn’t put any clothes on him.
“I told them no more daffodils, or I’ll riot! How many damn flowers can a woman paint?” She points an accusing finger at the flowers. “I gave Brenda an ultimatum: it’s bare Connery or Josh here gets to model au naturel. Her call.”
Poor Josh, the nurse, doesn’t know where to look.
One day I’ll come in to find Mom leading a “Seniors Demand Orgies Now!” protest, bellowing “What do we want?” with the golden agers chanting “More sex!” while aggressively shuffling their walkers. “When do we want it?” “Right now!”
Mom breaks into another brutal coughing fit. It never gets easier to watch.
She takes a cautious test breath as the coughs subside, waving off my outstretched hand.
“Tell me everything,” she rasps once it passes. “Grace, how’d your presentation go?”
Grace dives into her college presentation story. I try to stay tuned in, but it’s tough. Half my attention’s on Brenda, lurking like a vulture waiting to swoop. I sink into my chair, throat tightening. So not in the headspace for her today.
Meanwhile, Grace sneaks Mom a chocolate bar under the table that I elect to ignore. You’ve got to pick your battles.
