Good enough.“Hello, fancy seeing you here!” I smile with all my teeth.Second chances falling out of the sky? Don’t mind if I do!
“Fancy that,” she grumbles, straightening her kaftan, keeping one hand on her walker.
“Seeing your oncologist?” I ask brightly. This is good. This is common ground I can work with.
“No,” she says. Well, there goes that.
“You can’t keep running off!” Alma appears out of nowhere, breathing heavy, putting a hand on Louise’s walker to catch her breath. I glance in the direction they came from, seeing only Cardiac Imaging and Palliative Care. “What’s the rush?” they ask, exasperated, before catching sight of me. “Oh, hi, Ruby.”
“I don’t like it here,” Louise says sharply. “I shouldn’t even have to come here anymore. I want a hot dog.”
“You’re not supposed to eat processed meat—” Alma appears to be gaining gray hairs from this hospital visit.
I’ve clearly caught Louise on a bad day. This is a private moment. Best to say a polite goodbye, gently remind her of my name, and try to convince her about the dance-floor ceiling in neutral territory, another day, after a good night’s sleep.
“You.” Louise turns to me. “You’re going to take me out for a hot dog.”
“Me?” I look around. Maybe she’s speaking to the Korean grandmother sitting behind me, or the emotional support shih tzu in the lap of a man dozing against a plastic fern.
“Who else?” Louise throws up an agitated hand. “Now!” she adds, seeing my further descent into panic. And she’s off, flinging her ticket at the valet. I smooth down my awkward-length, poofing-like-a-chia-pet-in-the-humidity hair, and follow her hot-pink shroud outside.Second chance, I remind myself.
Alma driveswhile Louise sulks in the front seat, neither speaking to each other. I attempt to make conversation from the back, like an only child on a road trip with two parents in the middle of a fight.
“So, Louise.” I swallow down my nerves, my seatbelt almost choking me. “How’s your day going?” I know the current answer isbad, but how else am I supposed to strike up a conversationwith someone I know this little? I do recall one thing we talked about: “Any new bucket list items?” I ask lightly.
“Bucket lists are for chumps,” Louise grumbles. Alrighty, then.
“She wants to see the Northern Lights,” Alma says under her breath.
I almost squeal—finallya topic I can talk about. “I saw the Northern Lights as a kid! My family went to Alaska to see them when I was ten.”
“It’s pointless. I won’t be able to travel anytime soon,” Louise says from the front seat. Grumpy would be a criminal understatement.
“Sometimes you can see them here, right?” I’m pretty sure I heard that somewhere.
“Only once every ten years or so,” Alma says. I sit back in my seat, defeated, and look out the window, praying that this mythical hot dog improves Louise’s mood. Otherwise bringing up the florist may actually cause more damage.Pen can kiss the chuppahandthe dance-floor ceiling goodbye!I imagine Louise saying in her scratchy voice.How about that!
Alma pulls us into an island in the middle of a three-way intersection in Winnetka. The hut sitting on this patch of pavement is fittingly called The Sunny Island, with a geometric palm tree on the sign. The Sunny Island has clay tile, a flickering backlit sign with hand-placed letters spelling out the menu items, and a pimpled teenager in a visor working the register.
“What can I get you?” he asks, through braces.
“One Chicago-style dog, extra mustard, extra relish, and two pickles,” Louise barks. “Two, you hear me?” She holds up two fingers menacingly at the poor hot dog associate. He gulps and swallows. Nods. As promised, Louise steps out of the way for me to order, assuming I will pay.
The menu is rather dismal for a vegetarian. “I’ll have…” I need to decide between a soy burger, a veggie dog, and a basket of french fries. “A veggie dog.” Louise gives me a stern look that I can feel in my toes. “Chicago style,” I clarify. “And fries.” When in The Sunny Island, right?
Alma elbows me out of the way when I try to take out my wallet. “She’s far too rich for you to buy her food,” they explain, ordering herself a double hamburger and fishing out a crisp twenty-dollar bill.
We perch at the window counter, Louise in a hot pink kaftan, Alma in a denim maxi skirt and blue eye makeup, and me in sweatpants. Three strange and utterly mismatched birds.
The cashier sets two plastic trays down overflowing with fast food. My veggie dog is waterboarded with toppings, but the fries look mouth-watering. Handcut, freshly fried, perfectly seasoned.
Louise takes a large, mustardy bite of her hot dog. “Don’t even think about mentioning the wedding. I’m off duty.”
There goes any lingering wisp of that plan.
“Understood.” I swallow my disappointment, along with the first bite of my own dog. Immediately, I need to fan my eyes. They’re watering from the amount of mustard it’s slathered in. The hot dog itself is only mildly plastic-tasting, and the relish adds a much needed sweetness. I’ll admit, Chicago style may be onto something.
“Feeling better?” I risk asking.
