Jolene, the store manager, waves from her perch behind the register, where she’s reading a late-in-life romance about a ship captain and a fisherwoman. A bowl of rose quartz sits on the counter in front of her. The crystals may not be magic, but their vibrations are wholly welcome here.
“Good luck today, Nolan. You’re going to do great!” Jolene says.
A regular customer, Bart, comes over to the register with his purchases, a tall stack of titles from our Staff Picks section. One of them isI Wish You Wellnessby R. U. Low—a buzzy romance title about two men who fall in love thanks to time-traveling crystals. I have absolutely no idea where he could’ve come up with such a concept.
“What’s the occasion?” Bart asks.
“I’m filming my stand-up special today,” I tell him with a knowing smile before we bid everyone goodbye and duck into the SUV waiting for us at the curb.
Drew gets into the passenger seat since there won’t be room for him in the back.
“Uncle Nolan!” Imogen shouts from her booster seat as soon as I open the door.
“Hey there, cupcake,” I say, giving her a little tickle. It’s not a private car with a hired driver, but the company is definitely better.
CeeCee, shining with a pregnant glow, smiles warmly from the other side of the car. “Buckle up. We’re going to be late.”
Doop shuttered a few years after the wedding. Turns out marketing a lavish, unattainable event to the masses does not churn out as many sales for body scrubs as one would hope, especially when that blushing bride puts in her letter of resignation a few months after the all-expenses-paid honeymoon.
CeeCee and James never moved to Colorado. Instead, they moved into a two-bedroom apartment in Jersey City to make space for Imogen, and now with kid number two on the way, they’re eyeing a second move to the suburbs, not far from Mom and Dad. That works out fine for CeeCee because she flipped her degree and pivoted back toward her passion. She now works remotely as an outreach coordinator for a dance nonprofit.
I’m happy for her and even more happy to be a part of the life she built.
We speed out of the city and make it to New Jersey in a little under an hour and a half. By the time we step inside, Mom and Dad’s living room has been rearranged to make way for professional lighting and a single camera. A man we hired holds a boom mic in one hand, his phone in the other. The couch has been pushed flush against the wall, and mismatched chairs are set out in curved rows.
Jessie, Wanda, and Harry all greet me with hugs and pats of encouragement.
“Okay, the crew is set. We’ll need to do a lighting check, and then of course vet everyone’s wardrobe choices,” Jessie says, acting the partof the friend/manager I always wanted them to be. “Last thing we need is wavy stripes or distracting polka dots in the audience reaction shots.”
“You’ll never take away my polka dots!” Imogen harrumphs, appearing suddenly beneath us. Then, she runs off screaming, arms overhead. That girl is a natural clown, and I love it.
“We’ll put a blanket over her or something,” Jessie says with a laugh.
Harry steps forward. “We threw around the idea of doing a rehearsal, but we want genuine reactions for you to play off, and we only have the crew for the few hours we could fund for, so if you flub or go up on anything, take a beat and restart. We’ll edit around it.”
To my delighted surprise, Harry took me up on the offer of a face-to-face apology over coffee seven years ago, and we’ve been casual friends ever since. As he’s built up his directing résumé, it only made sense I’d hire him for this job.
“And, Maggot…” Wanda says with audible pride.
“Yeah?”
“Time to fly.” Her support and generous financial contribution mean the world to me. She may no longer be my boss, but I know she’s my friend and mentor for life. She winks at me before moving out of the way for Mom, who pushes Dad in a wheelchair, a home aide not far behind.
Positing it as preventive, I slipped into conversation over one Sunday brunch that I’d read a recent study about Alzheimer’s screenings and cognitive testing.
“Have either of you gotten one?” I asked, adding pepper to my scrambled eggs.
A few weeks later, we had Dad’s diagnosis. An early catch won’t cure him. I know that. But it got him into a clinical trial that seems to be prolonging his mental functions and slowing the overall progression.
All I can ask for is time. Sweet, untamable time.
“This is quite the production,” Mom says, inspecting the circus that is her living room.
“We’ll be sure to put everything back where it belongs,” I say while hugging her.
Shepshesme and then goes to find a seat by Imogen, James, and CeeCee.
Jessie takes me up to my childhood bedroom, which has been rebranded “Dressing Room” with a golden paper star on the door. It’s not extravagant. There’s no Lovesac or fridge of top-shelf alcohol, but it’s perfect.
