“Again!” Stella calls out when the song ends and I oblige her.
Opal looks up from sorting roses, zinnias, and dahlias to mouth, “How many times?”
I smile and hold up seven fingers. When Stella is lucid, she puts on a playlist of all Roy Orbison’s songs, and the unspoken rule is we have to listen to the whole thing straight through. When she has lapses, she fixates on one song. For a while it was “Pretty Woman.” Lately, it’s this one over and over again.
We finish by putting the sprigs of greenery into a pile and work in tandem, snipping all the stems short before inviting Stella to join us for some floral arranging. She opens one eye and looks at the supplies lined up and ready to go. “You two will definitely need these hands”—she holds hers up and waves them—“and my aptitude for beauty. I’m afraid I’ve seen Maxford attempt this before and it’s quite pitiful.”
“I’ve got other talents, Stella,” I remind her, not offended by her rebuke.
She snorts and pushes herself up, shuffling over and carefully assessing her options. We watch her select a zinnia and a rose, giving each a big whiff. Her hips sweep back and forth to the beat as the song begins again, and together the three of us start in on my grandmother’s favorite way to unwind. Stella thought herself above a lot of tasks but not floral arranging.
“Did you know I met your grandfather the night I sang at Melvyn’s?” Stella asks me as I grab a rose. I want to confirm that yes, Opal and I have the story memorized, but I shake my head and let her share it again. “Mother and Daddy used to meet Frank and Dean at the restaurant, and when I was lucky, they’d take me too. You know who I’m talking about, right?”
“Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin?” I pretend to guess.
“Such a smart boy. Anyway, Daddy was good friends with the owner of Melvyn’s and on Valentine’s Day 1961, the scheduled entertainment came down with the flu. Mother and Daddy had reservations there that evening and the owner called an hour before the dinner rush to ask if I could fill in. He had heard me sing in my high school production ofBye Bye Birdiea few years earlier and he knew I was the woman for the job.
“Long story short, I was singing Roy Orbison’s hit ‘Only the Lonely,’ and your grandfather—an apprentice plumber at the time—was there that night fixing a water pressure issue in the hotel somewhere and heard me in the restaurant. We were married a year later on the same property. He went on to become Palm Springs’ most sought-after plumber, you know. We built quite a life together. I let the Hollywood part of me slip away and built the family name locally.”
Her stories continue until the forty-five vases are arranged to Stella’s satisfaction, and I call the activities coordinator, who comes in with the rolling cart. Opal and I help load it with all the vases and then the coordinator leaves to put one in each resident’s room. In a few days, she’ll go collect all the vases and we’ll store them until the next time this happens.
“You’re lucky you were blessed with athletic prowess.” Stella pats me on the arm when I finish putting away the folding chairs and tables. “You really are not a born florist. My goodness, Opal. Did you see him mix yellow roses with purple zinnias?”
“Alright, you’ve had a long day.” I kiss the top of her head and head toward the door. “Opal, you’re good?”
Opal nods and hooks her arm through Stella’s. “We’regood. Come on, Stella. They’re serving roast tonight. And I saw them making pumpkin pies earlier today.”
“Ooh, I do love pie.” She brightens. “Maxford, are you not staying for dinner? It’s almost five.”
I’m grateful she’s back to her old self, so Opal and I can breathe a little easier, but I wasn’t planning on staying tonight. The post-incident discussions with the assigned caregiver at the facility, Stella’s physician, then Jacqueline and my sisters, will take up at least an hour, and I really want nothing more than to crash on my couch and regroup.
Opal is a saint. My brain doesn’t comprehend how she can watch her best friend of half a century have episodes and instead of going into an internal panic like me, she swoops in and knows just how to help her regulate again. It’s like it doesn’t faze her. She will end up spending the rest of the evening by Stella’s side, no questions asked, and I’m the jerk whose emotional tank is at capacity. Every time Stella slips, I’m that much closer to losing her forever. It’s that much more real. I’m scared and exhausted.
“If you don’t eat here, you will end up going home and eating garbage.”Stella’s guilt trip brings me back to the present.
This draws out a singular laugh from me. I’ve traded out my teenage days of consuming fast food and sugar like most respectable adults, but she’ll never see me through that lens. “You know I’ve changed my ways since living with you, Stella.” I pause and think of my strong peanut butter M&M obsession. “When I played ball, the team’s dietician kept us focused and it’s mostly stuck. Turns out I’m on the path to living forever.”
“Pfft,” she scoffs. “Hey, wait a minute.”
“What is it?” Opal asks. “Do you need to grab something before we go?”
Stella’s peering at her large calendar by the door to the resident’s hall. “No, I think I was supposed to meet with Nola today. Was she already here when . . . Did she see me . . .”
“Yes,” I say softly. “You walked into the dining room and she was already seated with Jacqueline.”
“Oh, well, that’s too bad.” Stella’s voice is quiet and reflective. “Did I say anything embarrassing?”
“No,” I assure her. One thing Madelyn, Violet, and I agreed to when we got Stella’s diagnosis was to never make her worry about something she said or did when she was having a moment. She can’t control her slips and thanks to being a prideful woman, we determined it would only depress her to learn of her behaviors once she was lucid again. Whatever time she has left, aware of her surroundings, we want to keep it positive.
Nola hadn’t reacted to Stella’s question back in the dining room. She treated it as if she hadn’t heard it at all, but there wasn’t a person in that room who didn’t hear it. It was delivered for a stage audience.Are you two in love?If anything, I’m embarrassed for myself. For Stella to even ask that could lead Nola to assume I’ve talked to my grandmother about her and shared feelings I don’t have for the woman. That’s something future Max will deal with. Right now there’s a roast dinner to share with two of my favorite women and a list of people waiting to hear from me.
Madelyn: What’s the update? I’m headed to a dinner with my publicist, which is a whole story for another day.
Max: Stella’s back to baseline. The confusion lasted two hours and then she pulled herself from it. Dr. Mayberry thinks she got dehydrated, so I had her drink a bunch of fizzy lemonade at dinner. When I left her and Opal tonight, they were planning to watch When Harry Met Sally.
Madelyn: Thanks, Max. Sorry you had to deal with that. What song did she pick today?
Max: You Got It.
