She makes humming noise in the back of her throat, and Jesus, I have to remind myself that this isn’t bed, either. “I did one callback yesterday, my first one. It was a client whose father just got diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.”
“Ah.” We’ve got a few regulars at Sunset Terrace with Alzheimer’s. Even with good care they’re sometimes a liability to themselves, with us getting called in for self-inflicted injuries that require our help.
“Anyways, I had to do some work before I called back. I had to refresh myself on a few things, durable versus springing power of attorney, how you name more than one agent, that kind of thing. That was a branch of the law I hadn’t done much of when—well, you know.”
“Sure,” I say, and wait for some answering plane of distance to open up between us at the mention of her last job. But it doesn’t come. That plane doesn’t even exist anymore most days. I’m still thinking about holding her hand, after all.
“But I did well, or at least according to Marisela I did well—she runs the place—and I think I really helped this woman. When we got off the phone, she sounded like she knew what shewanted to do.”
“That sounds good. Doesn’t sound strange at all.”
We split, steering around a woman walking a small white dog that’s barking persistently at a leaf skittering across the sidewalk. She waits until the sound won’t drown her out to speak again. “But then when I looked down at the log list, where all the calls are waiting, there was—there was atonof stuff. Debt relief, foreclosure assistance, two more power of attorney requests, an identity theft case. And you know what I felt, looking at all that?”
I look over at her and she breaks stride for a few seconds, looking up at the sky and taking a deep breath before breathing out: “I feltexcited.” Then she marches forward, and I hustle to catch up to her. This time, I ignore every reasonable cell in my brain and take her hand in mine, keeping my head down and my eyes on our feet, which move hypnotically in step.
“Seems like it’s been good for you, starting this,” I say, to cover the strangeness of this moment, of us walking down the city street as if we’re a couple, as if it’s Take Your Boyfriend to Work Day.
“But—I just wonder, is it that way for you?” she asks, and I think my hand may jerk in hers, because now I know where she’s going with this. “It’s weird, knowing that every single thing on that log list is causing someone on the other end a lot of stress and hardship, while I’m—I don’t know. I’m almostgratefulto have them to call back. I’m glad to have the chance to solve a problem. I ought to make another—” she cuts herself off, shakes her head before continuing. “Do you feel that way? You see people at their worst moments, you know? Do you ever feel glad to be there, glad youcan fix them?”
I swallow back what feels a whole fucking lot like tears, and I’m glad it’s so cold out here, in case I need some weather event to pass my stinging eyes off on. “I can’t always,” I say, and she stops. A woman behind her clucks in annoyance, brushing past us with a murmured, “People are tryingtowalkhere.”
She tugs my hand, pulling me so we’re tight against one of the granite pillars that flanks a bank entrance, out of the way of pedestrians. She takes her hand from mine and pushes up her sunglasses, looking up at me. “Is that what happened, then?”
I offer a quick nod. “Overdose.”
I wait for her to say something soft, pitying—maybe anOh, Aiden, with breathy sympathy and sad eyes. Maybe she’ll do like Ahmed, a gentler version of his shoulder pat. I’m braced for it, I guess, knowing that when she does, it’ll break the spell of this morning. I didn’t want her pity. I only wantedher, only wanted tobe around her.
But she doesn’t say anything, not for maybe a full minute. She just watches me, her eyes searching back and forth between mine, her lips set in a firm line, that strong set of her jaw slightly upturned. “Who was it?” she asks, finally, and it’s not at all what I expected, but it’s the right thing, the exact right thing.
I look away, look at the sun gleaming off one of the windows of an office building across the way. We must be pretty close to wherever her new office is, I figure. “I can’t say much,” I tell her, knowing it won’t hurt her feelings. Zoe knows all about HIPAA, patient privacy, my legal obligations as a provider. But I can tell her the things that are sticking with me: how young the patient looked to me. How her face looked pained, no matter what drugs she was taking to manage pain in the first place. How narrow her wrists had been. How she’d reminded me of my brother, and how I’d fucked up and saidso, in the rig.
It only takes me a couple of minutes to say what I can say, but it still feels like I’ve set down some of the weight I’ve been carrying. I watch Zoe’s gloved hand while I talk, the one clutched around her bag. When I’m finished, she doesn’t say anything at all, and that’s the right thing too. It’s like the two of us have agreed to a moment of silence for what’s happened. We’ve agreed that there’s nothingat all to say.
But when we start walking again, it’s Zoe who talks first. “What’s the statusof your story?”
“Uh. What?”
Her glasses are down over her eyes again, her posture still straight and elegant as we walk.
“Your story,” she repeats. “The presentation. Basically it’s three days away,” she says, and she obviously doesn’t have one shred of regret for busting my balls about it; that’s clear as day. What’s more surprising is that I’m pretty sure I’m enjoying it.
“Right, three days.” I clear my throat. “It’s rough,” I tell her, because that’s the truth. I’ve been working on it every day since that party Kit threw, and it’s gotten easier since I’ve made one major change that’s required a good deal more logistics but a lot less staring at the computer with a sick feeling in my stomach. But it’s not all that polished, not yet. It’s going to need a lot of work to look as refined as what Val had done, or as authentic as what Sheree andTom had put up.
“Aiden,” she says, stopping again, and this time, when another irritated pedestrian clucks in displeasure, she offers a curt, “Oh, cut the shit,” at his back. I’ll bet he feels that verbal slap all day. Then she looks at me again, lifting a hand to further block the sun that’s shining right on her. “Do you still, really, want to do this? The camp?”
I take a deep breath, look down the street, wait until the noise of a city bus passes. “This is for my brother.”
“It’s going to be every day, Aiden. Every day, you’ll have people at that camp who are suffering. Who you may not be able to save. You’ve got to be prepared for that.”
I swallow, thick and uncomfortable. I don’t know if you ever get prepared for that. I think I must understand that better than she does. “I’m all in,” I tell her. “I’ve got to be all in.” I look back at her, wish she’d lift those glasses up again, so I could look in her eyes and see what she’s telling me with them. But she doesn’t make a move. She stays still, those tiny parentheses at the corners of her mouth.
“Okay,” she says, finally. “Tonight we’re going to get drunk and do a puzzle.”
I blink after her, confused, as she starts walking again. “That sounds…” I trail off, not knowing how to finish that sentence. It sounds fucking weird; that’show it sounds.
“Here’s the thing, Aiden,” she says, her voice in that bossy, no-bullshit register she’s got. “One way or another, you’re giving that tour on Saturday, and you’ll hate yourself from here to eternity if you don’t get it right. You know it,and I know it.”
“Right,” I say, oddly buoyed again. I feel like I’m a boxer on the ropes, getting shouted out by my cornerman while he slathers Vaseline all overmy fresh cuts.
