Authors: Sarah Monzon
7
Rebekah
POPPY AND I sat hand in hand on the tufted Victorian style sofa in the front room at Grandview. The sun shone through the large picture window behind us, casting a horrible glare on the television as we watched the 49ers game. I couldn’t remember how many Sundays I’d spent this way, just Poppy, me, and eleven men in gold spandex leggings and red jerseys running across 120 yards of green turf, throwing spirals and tackling the other team.
Sometimes after the game, especially the ones we lost, Poppy would get a faraway look in his eye and reminisce about the ‘49er dynasty when the team won five Super Bowl championships in only fourteen years. He would go on and on about the prowess and athleticism of Joe Montana and Jerry Rice. We even went to a few games when I was younger. He would splurge and buy me nachos and one of those ridiculously obnoxious foam fingers. I loved every minute of it.
Although I wished I’d had one of those fingers right then to poke Mrs. Turlock along. She shuffled at a tortoise pace across the space between us and the television, pushing her walker with the two bright-green tennis balls on the bottom. If she didn’t hurry I was going to miss a crucial play of the game.
“Can I help you, Mrs. Turlock?”
She stopped—actually stopped—right in front of the TV! She looked at me, her head wobbling back and forth. I knew it was disrespectful, but I couldn’t help thinking she reminded me of a bobble-head doll.
“Oh, no, dear. I can manage just fine.”
Oh good. Manage faster, please. A strained smile stretched my lips. I leaned to the right and tried to get a glimpse of the game around Mrs. Turlock. The good thing was the volume had been turned up, so Mr. Peddlemyer could hear the game. If I missed a play while Mrs. Turlock toddled out of the way, then at least I’d be able to hear the announcer’s commentaries.
Pphhtt.
I looked at Mr. Peddlemyer.
Please tell me that wasn’t what I think it was.
My nose wrinkled against the stench assailing it. I wanted to gag, to bury the bottom half of my face in my shirt and take in filtered oxygen. What was the kitchen staff feeding these people?
Poppy tapped my leg and pointed to the television. Mrs. Turlock had finally made it far enough that she was no longer blocking our view. Just in time for commercials. At least I hadn’t missed a game-changing play by my beloved Niners.
Poppy had instilled a lot in me growing up—a love for the game, and the Niners especially, was one of them. Anyone could see I was just as much of a fan as he was. Every Sunday during football season, whether the Niners were playing or not, I would tug on my number seven Colin Kaepernick jersey, pull my hair up in a ponytail, and tie it with a red-and-gold Niners ribbon. Lisa used to tease me about it, but I thought she was coming to accept this side of me.
Embedded in sports, or the fans at least, is a hint of superstition. Now I didn’t
really
think that if I didn’t wear my Kaepernick jersey and tie my hair with this specific ribbon that the 49ers would lose. But, then again, I didn’t want to take that chance.
Eyes glued to the television screen, I scooted all the way to the edge of the couch and leaned forward in anticipation. Colin Kaepernick had just released a perfect spiral, throwing it deep down the field in a Hail Mary attempt to take over and win the game in the last few minutes. My heart pounded against my ribs, and I resisted the urge to bite my nails as my eyes followed the ball on the screen. Whispering “go, go, go” under my breath, willing the intended receiver, Randy Moss, to catch it in-bounds for the touchdown. As the ball descended from its final arch, Moss caught the ball and cradled it safely in his arms as if it were his firstborn child just handed to him in the delivery room.
I jumped to my feet, hands raised over my head to signal a touchdown, mimicking the two referees on the screen. Spinning around, I grinned in triumph.
“Did you see that—” The words died on my lips. Poppy’s head slumped forward, slightly angled. His chin rested on his chest. A rivulet of drool pooled in the corner of his mouth.
My heart plummeted. The victory I’d felt moments earlier vanished. Randy Moss could’ve fumbled the ball, and it still wouldn’t have felt worse. Poppy was slipping away from me, and there wasn’t anything I could do to stop it.
Swallowing a lump the size of California in my throat, I leaned over my grandfather and pressed a light kiss on his forehead. I tried not to notice the new bruises scattered across his paper-thin skin as I tucked an afghan around his legs.
I turned off the TV and meandered down the wallpapered halls in search of Dr. Henshaw. Maybe he could give me an update on Poppy’s condition. Goodness knows I wasn’t getting straight answers from Poppy.
Rita pushed a cart with dirty dishes down the hall toward me. One wheel of the cart squeaked. The plates and cups rattled together even over the smooth carpeted floor. As I came closer, I noticed some of the food had barely been touched.
Aha!
Rita spent more time with the patients of Grandview than anyone, even more than Dr. Henshaw. She probably would know as much about the particulars with Poppy than the good doctor. Oh, he might have known Poppy’s latest white blood cell count, but Rita knew the important things. At least what I considered important. Like how he was eating or how he was sleeping or how well he was maintaining his mobility.
“Hi, Rita, how’s it going?”
She gave me one of her shy smiles, managed a “fine, thank you,” and looked straight ahead again, all the while pushing her cart.
“How’s your family?” I tried again to engage her in conversation.
She stopped pushing her cart and looked at me, a question in her eyes. We’d never really conversed more than a casual greeting. She seemed a bit curious, if not suspicious, as to why this moment was any different than the dozens that had come before.
“They are fine too,” she answered with a slight accent.
“Rita, I was wondering…”
“Yes, Miss Sawyer?” she prompted.
“I was wondering if you could tell me how my grandfather is doing.”
“Me, Miss Sawyer?” Her voice raised at least an octave in her surprise, and her accent grew a tad thicker.
“Yes, Rita, of course you.” I smiled and gestured toward her cart. “Who else gives as much time and attention to the patients as you? Who else knows all the details of their everyday lives?”
I let that sink in a moment and continued, touching her arm lightly to try and calm her. She seemed as skittish as a young colt ever since I’d stopped her to have this little chat.
“I know we haven’t talked much, you and me, but I’ve seen you work, and you are diligent and caring. My grandfather speaks very highly of you as well.”
“Thank you, Miss Sawyer,” she whispered, eyes averted.
I opened my mouth but closed it as my gaze caught sight of the portrait of Susana Beachworth hanging behind Rita. The founder of Grandview, with her beehive hairstyle and cat-eye glasses, stared at me with contempt. As if the picture could talk, I could hear her shrill words in my head.
Way to go, Becky. Of all the times you’ve come to Grandview, you’ve never once even said thank you to this poor sweet girl. You should be ashamed of yourself.
Great. I shook my head. Maybe I really was going crazy, and not just because I was letting Lisa find me a husband. Now pictures were talking to me.
I swallowed my humiliation. Somehow I’d make it up to Rita. She deserved better than how I’d treated her
Rita’s gaze darted between me and some unknown location down the corridor.
Right. Back to why I was standing here in the first place.
“Now,” I continued, letting my lips form a smile to try and ease Rita’s obvious discomfort, “how is Mr. Sawyer doing? Is he eating well? Drinking enough? Sleeping more than usual? How are his spirits? Is he cheerful or depressed?”
“Mr. Sawyer, he a very nice man,” she began. “He always smiling, and he say nice thing to me.”
She hesitated, and I urged her to continue.
“He no finish his food no more. Say not hungry. He sleep lot more too.”
I nodded but continued to pry her with questions. With each answer, my heart fell a bit more. It seemed the leukemia wasn’t satisfied with taking Poppy from me slowly. It was moving faster than a Triple Crown winner on race day. Nausea rolled in my stomach. I might as well lay down on the track and let the thoroughbreds stampede over me. A hoof to the heart couldn’t possibly hurt any worse.
I shouldn’t have been so dazed by Rita’s news, but being tackled by a three-hundred-pound linebacker couldn’t have shocked me more. The squeak of the cart’s wheels snapped me out of my stupor, and I managed to thank Rita for her help.
“Yes, Miss Sawyer.” Rita ducked her head, her response a mere whisper.
She was halfway down the corridor before I’d worked up enough saliva to moisten my dry mouth and call out to her once more. The clatter of dishes stopped as she turned back toward me.
“You can call me Becky, and…maybe we could be friends?”
A faint blush tinged her olive skin, and she smiled. The first real smile I’d seen on her lips. Not a shy, quiet smile, but one that lit her whole face.
“
Clara que si.
”
Did that mean yes?
8
Luke
PIVOTING, WE RUSHED back into the bedroom where we’d found the young man. There was a window, but Baxtor hadn’t made it to this side of the house yet to break it for ventilation. A halligan tool would’ve been handy right about then.
I readjusted the body on my shoulder and got a better grip on his legs. Lopez eased around me and grabbed the lamp on the nightstand. With a throw rivaling a Detroit Tigers pitcher, he heaved the wrought iron light toward the single pane of glass. A small hole appeared in its wake, fissures spreading out from its nucleus.
Thwack
!
Lopez’s elbow clubbed away the jagged shards.
Lopez climbed out the window and reached back to grab the boy’s shoulders. We navigated the teen’s body through the glass-toothed gap. Once his legs were clear, Lopez hoisted the boy onto his shoulders and jogged toward the horde of emergency vehicles. I planted my palms on the frame of the window, thankful for the gloves protecting my hands, and heaved myself through the opening.
By the time I ran to the ambulance, the boy already lay on a stretcher. An oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth. A paramedic pointed a latex-gloved finger toward the bruise already purpling across the teen’s jaw. “What happened here?”
“Look, we had two options. A little bump, or he left that house in a body bag. The bump seemed like the better option, okay?” Lopez ground out before trotting over to the chief.
By this time, we had a fairly large audience, as families who called this neighborhood home stood outside their doors, their bodies and their houses alternately turning red and blue with the rotation of the lights from the fire trucks, police cars, and ambulance. The members of our team were at their appointed stations, each soldier doing his or her part in this war against the destruction and danger of the all-consuming flames.
Feet were spread and braced by those manning the hoses, the pressure of the water threatening to beat them back. The water arched and fell, the blaze sizzling, and the smoke rising. We continued to fight the fire until all that was left were the black, charred remains of what used to be a home.
I coiled one of the hoses when a shrill voice pierced the air.
“My son! Where’s my son? Adam! Adam!”
Looking in the direction of the voice, I noted a middle-aged, heavyset woman was being restrained by a uniformed police officer. She screamed and struggled, clearly going into hysterics.
I dropped the hose and rushed over to the crying woman.
“Ma’am,” I said, trying to get her to focus on me instead of her overbaked home now in ruins. “Your son is okay.”
She looked at me and vaulted herself past the officer’s detaining arm. She grabbed my jacket in fistfuls, clinging to me.
“Where is he?” With each word, she pounded my chest, taking my jacket still clutched in her hands back and forth with each strike. She must’ve put her weight behind her rocking motion because I nearly lost my balance with the movement.
I placed a hand on each of her shoulders to steady her as well as myself. “Ma’am, your son is fine. He was taken to Lakeland Hospital so a doctor could take a look at him.”
Without a word she pushed off my chest and waddled quickly back to her minivan. Returning to the truck, I picked the hose back up and finished packing.
Thank you, Jesus,
I prayed as I slammed the door to the storage compartment. Praise and gratitude weighed heavily on my heart as I thanked God that everything had worked. The fire hadn’t spread to any other buildings, and no lives were lost. There was considerable property damage, but when faced with what could have been, that seemed a small price to pay.
***
I opened the front door enough to peep my head through. “Hello? Aunt Margaret?”
“In the kitchen.” Her familiar low alto voice drifted from around the corner. Uncle David called Aunt Margaret’s voice sultry. To me it always sounded like honey on a warm piece of toast. Sweet, inviting, and earthy.
I bent down and planted a kiss on her upturned cheek, depositing a bouquet of carnations next to the cutting board where an onion and a knife sat.
“You’re going to make some lady really happy one day.” She buried her nose in the soft petals before retrieving a vase from the cupboard and placing the flowers in water.
“You mean I didn’t make a lady happy today?”
“Oh, you big tease.” She swatted my arm and then turned back to food preparations.
Knowing my duty, I picked up the onion and turned it on its side, sliding the knife through its juicy layers and feeling the sting of its pungent scent in my eyes. I repeated the process until the entire vegetable had been chopped into fine pieces.